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

March blows itself out and tips into April. Henry Balnaves returns, much to Will’s surprise, for he expected him to stay safe in England while he could, but at least the bailey is clean once more. Will grows more gaunt and miserable as day follows day. And now the Scottish fleet are back in the bay, blockading the castle so they can neither be easily rescued, nor supplies easily brought from south of the border. The last victualling ships England sent were captured, so all depends on what they can take from the depleted town and countryside. What is more, there’s word that the French King Francis has now died, and his son Henri is already speaking to the Scots ambassador about how they may help to expel the Castilians.

‘You were aye a dour bugger,’ Nydie says, as Will slouches in his corner.

He stares up at James standing in front of him, legs wide apart, as though he is some great lord instead of the son of a local laird who happens to be knighted; as though he is somehow much older, better, stronger than Will. He jumps to his feet and shoves Nydie, hard. How dare he speak thus, as though Will hadn’t seen him puking after Beaton’s murder, as though Will hadn’t wiped his arse when he was too sick to move.

‘That’s better,’ says Nydie regaining his balance. ‘Come.’ He slings his arm around Will’s shoulder and leans into him.

He nudges Nydie away, but James doesn’t seem to notice, and after a moment he relaxes into James’s easy comfort.

‘John Knox is here.’

‘Here? They’ve allowed him entry?’

‘While the truce still holds, and he claims to be our confessor, he’s permitted to come and go. He’s brought three young pupils with him, saying he’s safer inside St Andrews Castle than on the outside.’

Will’s face lights up. Knox is a great orator and a sound defender of both Luther and Wishart, as well as being a much better preacher than John Rough. He walks eagerly along the portico and up to the great hall.

Knox discourses and Will listens.

‘Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God,’ he begins.

He can feel the spectre of the Cardinal retreating and the rightness of their actions advancing. It is Arran and all his men who are damned, not the Castilians.

‘We are the sword bearers in this violent struggle against good and evil as the apocalypse draws near. Where there is sin we must root it out, for to see sin and do nothing is the worst sin of all. It is our task, set by God, to convince men of the error of their ways.’

But before he can get fully fired up, Morrison comes seeking Norman Leslie, Kirkcaldy or Balnaves, and Knox is interrupted. ‘There is a procession come to the gate,’ Morrison calls several times, voice growing louder to be heard over Knox’s oratory.

What now, thinks Will, slumping against the wall.

They hurry down to the courtyard to hear the news. A document has been handed over and Kirkcaldy of Grange unrolls and studies it.

The Pope has granted the Castilians absolution. Will’s heart sings. All will be well.

Kirkcaldy reads aloud the absolution. The pardon contains the phrase, remittimus crimen irremissible . Will scrabbles around inside his woolly head for the translation but there’s no need, it’s already being muttered among them. The Pope has said he “pardons that which is unpardonable”. How can that be? Nevertheless it is still a pardon – the Great Curse has been lifted. He feels a smile spread over his face; it is wiped away as quick as it came.

Knox is roaring in outrage. ‘To avenge the death of the martyr George Wishart was no sin, and to say our righteous actions are unpardonable is of itself unpardonable. We will not accept an absolution such as this.’

Will looks around, some of the garrison are nodding agreement, others are looking to one another.

‘The Pope is the whore of Babylon and his church the synagogue of Satan,’ bellows Knox. ‘We want no absolution from the Antichrist.’

Kirkcaldy and Norman Leslie are conferring. Will watches them, holding his breath. They nod in agreement and Will staggers, losing all strength – as if the marrow is being sucked from his bones.

Knox demands a torch lit and, taking the pardon from Kirkcaldy’s hand, holds it to the flame. Will watches the parchment flare, curl and burn. The charred remains flutter across the courtyard, while the Castilians howl their derision. The siege will continue.

It is bitter cold, the streets rough with rutted mud and icy puddles. The few soldiers which were left in St Andrews have withdrawn, Bethia knows not where, probably to find warmth if they can – and escape the pestilence which has run rife among them since December.

Now there is the truce, and Arran’s soldiers are mostly gone, the Castilians have again been wandering freely to steal, destroy and ravage. The townsfolk and those in the wider countryside are angry that they’ve been left with little protection. Even the Provost, Sir James Learmonth, ever the Castilians’ champion, albeit on the sly, said it is enough after he came under attack on his way home to his castle at Osnaburgh.

When Father meets Walter Wardlaw in the street, they, for once, are united in their frustration. Father splutters out his anger. ‘Their arrogance knows no bounds, and where is Arran? He took Dumbarton Castle quickly enough and ’tis said it has stronger fortifications than St Andrews?

‘This is very true. It seems that the siege will be allowed to run until the garrison have emptied the town of food and animals, and ravished all our womenfolk.’ Wardlaw’s eyes slide towards Bethia as he speaks and she shuffles her feet, staring at the ground. ‘Can your new friend not give any intelligence?’

‘What new friend?’

‘Arran’s aide,’ Wardlaw inclines his head towards Bethia. ‘You know who I mean, the younger son from Clatto.’

‘Clearly, as Arran’s aide, Gilbert Logie is with Arran at Linlithgow,’ says Father.

Bethia thinks of Gilbert. She misses his calm counsel, as she suspects Father does too. The last time they saw him he said Arran hoped to get the Castilians out by negotiation, after this truce was brokered – although Gilbert also admitted the truce was influenced by Henry of England, before his death, even showing them a copy of the letter King Henry had sent to Arran and his Council:

If you can be content to withdraw the siege which you have laid at the castle of St Andrews, for our sake and until the matter of displeasure against them were further debated, we would take it for a token of love and kindness towards us and think you esteemed our friendship…otherwise we shall be forced to relieve them .

‘The Tudor King hid his threats under honeyed words,’ Father had said, and Gilbert nodded in agreement.

She shifts from foot to foot, wishing the conversation over and Father picks up on it. ‘We must away home, Wardlaw. It is too cold to stand and blether.’

‘Aye, it is bitter, even for March. I will visit soon, with my brother.’ He nods towards Bethia. ‘For it is high time we got this marriage agreed and hand-fasted.’

Father stares at Wardlaw, who licks his lips.

‘There will be more than a hand-fasting – I would not leave my daughter so unprotected. It will be a properly notarised marriage settlement, and a blessing by a priest, or nothing.’

Wardlaw hesitates, staring at Father from under lowered brows. ‘Aye well, she’d better do her duty and deliver sons.’

Father takes Bethia’s arm. She’s shivering as they walk home, and it’s not only with cold. While the truce holds, Father agreed to a delay and Norman was sympathetic, saying that she should not be rushed and promising that he would take good care of her – but the marriage has not gone away.