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

Will sits up; this treaty is new information.

‘Unfortunately, our taking of the castle is not considered new occasion enough; if he wants the treaty to hold, Henry cannot act directly to relieve us. He has created a diversion by drawing Arran’s attention away, to the Borders, with the siege at Langholm. Nevertheless, having feted the French in London last August, when the treaty was signed, he’s now reluctant to stir things up, especially with our Dowager Queen looking for any excuse to get aid from her French relations to end the siege. So you can see our chances of rescue were never great, although we did not know it. Perhaps, if we had known, we wouldn’t have taken the castle.’

Leslie stands up. ‘I must go down, but one final thought, young Seton. It would be treason for me to say it, were I in England, but Henry Tudor is dying, Indeed, when I was briefly in his presence, the stench of rotting flesh was,’ he swallows, ‘unavoidable. As the inevitable draws closer the king is much preoccupied with the next world and matters of the faith, and, no doubt, anxious to be secure that he may easily enter the gates of heaven. There are some fundamental differences in belief between England and us, and it is my opinion that these differences have also held his hand where relieving us is concerned.’

Will purses his lips and nods. ‘Transubstantiation: we, unlike England, rightly do not believe that the substance of the bread and wine blessed during the Eucharist become the blood and body of Christ’s real presence, for it is all a Popish invention.’

‘Aye, I see you are well versed in the doctrine. You are a bright lad and I thank you for your loyal support.’

Will blushes and shifts on his stool. It is the first kind words anyone has said to him in a long time, and, in this moment, he understands why men follow Leslie.

‘I hope this gives sufficient explanation. And I most fervently hope that we may negotiate our departure with honour from here, I do very much hope.’

He sits pondering as Leslie leaves. He’s never heard Leslie so considered, usually it is Kirkcaldy, and even Melville, who provide the calm and rational. He rubs his face and rises. He may as well go and join the celebrations, while they last, but he stands taller, holding Leslie’s few words of praise close, like a warm blanket.

It is February now and yet the darkness barely seems to lift, and then hard frosts begin, which at least give bright days and a fresh vigour in spite of the biting chill. One morning Will watches from his post on the battlements as a ship appears, in an unusually calm sea, sailing wide of the peninsula at the Boar Hills. It seems to be aiming for the castle, not the nearby harbour. He calls down to the courtyard and others come running to look.

‘Provisions from Henry,’ says Morrison, and soon it is being passed from man to man that there are fresh supplies.

‘And look how low it sits in the water,’ says Nydie.

‘Perhaps they bring us ammunition,’ says Morrison. ‘Or maybe men – a relief force finally come.’

They watch, all eagerness, as the ship tacks in the light winds. It is headed for the castle, they are certain. It tacks again, the turn taking many minutes. Surely the helmsman is adjusting course to come to them…, but he is not. There is a collective sigh of disappointment as the sails are lowered and the ship is guided into harbour.

They watch it unloading, and Will puzzles as to what the cargo is. They were right, it is indeed something heavy, with men bent double under the weight. Norman Leslie, come to see, is standing companionably beside Will. Peter Carmichael appears on his other side and Will has to force himself to hold steady.

‘‘Tis lead, to make cannon balls,’ Norman says. ‘They must be desperate for there is a tale in St Andrews that the Queen’s men stripped it from the roof of the Great Hall at Holyrood, or so my informant tells me.’ He grins at Will as he speaks, inviting him to join in his pleasure at the Great Hall with its rafters and battens exposed to the sky.

Will manages only a grimace in return, for he’s thinking about how many cannon balls all this lead can be turned into. Leslie pushes himself up and departs, leaving Will wondering who the informant is.

‘Your pretty sister has been helpful,’ smirks Carmichael. ‘Very helpful indeed…’

Will doesn’t know he’s going to do it until it happens – he swings his arm and hits Carmichael. Taken by surprise, Carmichael neither takes evasive action nor defends himself. Will is able to land the punch full on his face, feeling cheek bone crunch beneath his fist.

Carmichael staggers, shaking his head.

Will stands fists clenched, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, as he waits. His knuckles are stinging and he clenches his fists more tightly. Carmichael, face flushed, charges at him like an angry goat. Will steps to one side, sticking his foot out as Carmichael passes. Carmichael trips, and, arms flailing, runs into the parapet.

Will sees, from the corner of his eye, the circle of faces watching, men nudging one another and grinning. He blocks them out and concentrates. Carmichael has his fists up as he moves closer. Will holds his ground. He sees Carmichael swing for his belly and, at the last moment, steps back. The punch lands but not as forcefully as it might, and Carmichael is stumbling, off balance again.

Christ’s blood it hurts, but Will shuts out the pain. Carmichael turns to come at him but before he can land a punch, Will hits him again in the face. Carmichael’s head snaps and bangs off the wall to his right. Later Will’s half sorry that he didn’t angle the punch to knock Carmichael over the parapet and down to the sea below. Although a mortal sin, it would probably have been worth it to rid himself of that sneering face forever.

Carmichael staggers away from the wall, eyes unfocused, the blood pouring from his nose spattering his clothes, and the stones, a bright crimson. Morrison catches Carmichael, pressing his head back to stem the bleeding. Will stands watching until Morrison gestures him away.

He leaves the roof top, rubbing his knuckles, conscious of sore ribs – he’ll no doubt be all bruises around his belly tomorrow. He doesn’t believe Bethia is their spy. He knows she gave Richard Lee information about the position of the siege tunnel, but that was only the once, and Leslie will have plenty of sources of information. He’s sure Carmichael was only saying it to rile him, as usual.

As he descends he can hear Carmichael shouting after him. ‘I’ll make you sorry you were ever born, you lickspittle, you, you…fopdoodle!’

Will sniffs and then smiles, stroking his bruised knuckles. He’s not a fool, knows if he hadn’t caught Carmichael off-guard things may have gone differently. Carmichael will no doubt exact his revenge later. And yet it cannot take away from the most satisfying moment of Will’s life so far – the sight of Carmichael, head hanging and blood dripping, like a stuck pig.

It is more than a year since George Wishart met his cruel end, and now another end has come. Henry Tudor is dead, although the news wasn’t unexpected. Word is that he’s been dead since the end of January and they crowned the young King Edward quick, and now Edward’s Uncle Seymour is Regent. Leslie says it makes little difference, for England supports them still, and will continue to render assistance. Indeed they have recently borne witness to a pledge of loyalty to King Edward made by Lord Gray, Sherriff of Angus, a doughty reformer who’s visited while the truce holds. Will, although he’s always hoped for rescue by England, is uncomfortable at the prospect of ever declaring allegiance to that country, even for a generous pension, – he is a Scotsman, after all – and he left the great hall before the Sherriff had finished speaking his oath.