V Masters - The Castilians - A Story of the Siege of St Andrews Castle

He decides to fetch his bedding and lie in the great hall. He’ll be amongst servants and foot soldiers, but at least he won’t be alone, for Nydie has been bid to stay with Young Arran. He bends to light a stub of candle in the fire and places it in a lantern. The flame isn’t strong, but if he holds the lantern high it’ll light his way enough to keep evil spirits at bay while he walks the dark passages.

The wind shrieks up the turnpike as he descends, and his candle flickers wildly like demons are dancing in its flame. He must walk down the outside stairs, cross the courtyard and climb the stairs above the dungeon to fetch his bedding; the dungeon where the Cardinal’s body lies yet, despite the many pleas made by his concubine to release it.

He huddles in the doorway looking out on the wind-blasted yard, and his heart fails him. The midden heap is being blown into all four corners. He’ll have to walk through a swirl of shite, and his lantern will surely get blown out. He’d rather the discomfort of sitting on a stool all night than crossing this space.

A figure looms out of the darkness. He bangs his head off the wall and drops the lantern. The man bends to pick it up, miraculously still alight.

‘It’s you, Morrison,’ Will says, trying to still his shaking, as young Morrison’s features are revealed.

‘Aye, I lost out tonight.’

‘Well your watch should be uneventful, we’re unlikely to be attacked in this weather.’

‘All attention is on what the wind throws at us,’ says Morrison, ducking as a long splinter of wood whirls passed his head. ‘Although we are here as much to keep our fellows in, as Arran’s troops out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’re leaching men; two went last night and one the night before. We know not how they escape the castle, for the posterns are all closed and Carmichael holds the keys. He thinks they may be climbing out the sea tower windows and down the cliff, but it’s a risky route for the waves reach high to catch the unwary.’

Will is silent, pondering. Many came to join them last summer, when food was plentiful and they were strutting around the countryside like kings. Then more joined when Henry sent money and supplies, but that is all gone. Now is the time of the true believers, those who have faith in the teachings of Luther and George Wishart.

‘Let them go. It is better we have only those who follow Christ’s true path among us.’

‘I fear we may need the numbers if we’re to continue to repel our besiegers,’ says Morrison. ‘But you, who could be sitting warm by the great fire, where are you going?’

‘To collect blankets from my cell above the dungeon.’

Morrison laughs, although Will did not intend humour. Then he grows sombre. ‘’Tis curious that the Cardinal is still in the dungeon below, tucked up tight in his coffin.’

Will doesn’t think it curious at all. The Cardinal will haunt them for all time for what’s been done to him, both in life and death.

They leave the sheltering doorway and set out down the wooden stairs and across the courtyard together. The lantern is blown out immediately but the moon peeps through, briefly lighting the fast moving clouds above, and the dark shapes of debris dancing around like fiends at play, below. He can hear the waves crashing onto the rocks; the spray leaps high enough to clear the castle walls as they both lean into the wind, pushing their way through to the doorway opposite.

‘I will leave you here and continue my rounds,’ says Morrison.

He feels bereft when Morrison, with his cool steadiness, trudges away. He runs up the outside stairs and into the dark doorway. He climbs, feeling his way, for it is black as a ghost’s lair. Half way up he freezes. Demons are close, he can feel their touch. They’re stroking him, calling him to them and he cannot resist, for he is cursed. The wind howls louder. He’s sure it carries the cries of Beaton as he pleads for his life, and he stood by and did nothing. The noise rises to a crescendo of shrieks. There is a loud bang as something heavy thuds against the doorway below. His legs give way; sinking to his knees, he crawls up feeling the unquiet spirit of Beaton following close behind, its stinking breath blowing upon his neck.

He blinks. Around him he sees a fluttering; they’re small and white and dance over his head. There’s another loud crash, this time from above. The noise frees him from the grip of unquiet spirits. He turns and stumbles down the stairs, falls into the courtyard, the dried shit coating his body with a layer of dust, and flees to the doorway opposite, back up the stairs to the great hall, where he huddles by the dim light of the dying fire. He wonders if he’ll ever have a quiet heart again. The Cardinal’s soul has invaded his and the Pope has cursed him. He is damned.

When he awakes it is broad daylight; the storm has dropped to a steady blast of wind and his co-conspirators are complaining about how much he stinks.

Leslie and several others, including Richard Lee who considers his work at the castle done, leave for the court of King Henry early in December. Will watches as they are rowed around the coast to a waiting ship – Arran’s fleet have disappeared, they know not where. He feels Leslie is deserting them to seek spiritual, as well as physical, protection from King Henry, who styles himself Defender of the Faith.

‘By God’s good blood, may they be kept safe on these wintry seas,’ says Morrison, as the boat disappears from sight.

Will hawks and spits. ‘Aye, and by God’s good grace they’ll be better fed, warmer and more comfortable than will be our lot over this winter.

Yet, before Yule, Regent Arran sends a deputation to stand in front of the castle with a proposal which lifts their spirits. The Castilians watch the group of three from the castle windows until eventually Melville determines to go out and speak with them. Nydie and Will are ordered to accompany him, but Will clutches at his belly pleading the thraw, for the one thing he’s promised himself he must do for his family is to continue to stay out of sight. Morrison goes instead.

Will positions himself, half-hid at a window above, as the three stroll out to stand before Arran’s deputation. They bow to one another, and he sees Nydie nod to his opposite number. The man looks familiar – it’s Logie of Clatto from the lands above Garrbridge. Will sniffs; Gilbert Logie is loyal to Arran!

He sees Logie nod back, holding onto his cap which the blustery wind is tugging; his lips move but Will cannot hear the words. It’s not long before Melville shakes his head, and the two groups part, Nydie chasing his cap back to the gate while the others hold tight onto theirs.

Will leaps down the stairs to speak to Nydie. ‘What happened?’

‘They are proposing a truce, but Melville is affecting little interest.’

‘Why?’ Will covers his mouth, he didn’t mean to hit such a high note.

‘I think he’s reluctant to agree terms with our leaders absent.’

The discussions go back and forth over the next few days.

‘Now Regent Arran proposes to seek absolution from the Pope on our behalf,’ Nydie tells Will.

He straightens up, his body feels lighter – as though the gloom which has sat heavy upon him since the Great Cursing is lifting.

‘While we await the absolution, should the Holy Father be willing to grant it, we have agreed to negotiate the terms of a surrender, which will be favourable to both sides.’

‘What does that mean?’

Nydie shrugs, ‘I think they do not know – it is what the negotiation will determine, once Leslie, Kirkcaldy and Balnaves return from England. We do have to keep within the castle; they don’t want us roaming at will.’