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

‘And I’ll have to soak myself in herbs as well or else carry the stench of privy with me, till I get the time to wash my only skirt,’ Agnes says, glowering at Grissel.

Grissel, face red from the heat and effort of wringing out clothes, grins at Bethia, behind Agnes’s back.

Bethia returns to the kitchen. The fire here has been neglected in the washing frenzy and she crouches in front of it, blowing on the embers to encourage the firewood to catch. She can see now why Agnes complained about the woodman’s recent delivery; these logs are too fresh cut to burn well. She digs around in the woodshed and finds a tumble of gorse in the corner. Wrapping her hands in her shawl she carries the prickly bundle inside and, holding it wide from her body, feeds the fire. The gorse is well-seasoned and the fire takes. Before she knows it the pot of oatmeal is engulfed in leaping flames. There’s a shriek from behind and Agnes rushes in.

‘By God’s bones, lassie, what are ye doing?’ Agnes picks up the poker and knocks the fiery bush to the side of the hearth. ‘All my good whin that I was saving to get the fires going.’

Bethia stands up and backs away, arms behind her and head down. ‘I was only trying to help.’

‘You’ve got a curious way of helping.’

‘Agnes,’ says Mother as she glides into the room, ‘what is all the fuffle about?’

There is a pause. ‘Sorry, mistress,’ says Agnes and bobs a small curtsy.

Mother stares at Agnes and goes to speak, but as she opens her mouth Father strides in.

‘What is yon smell?’

Agnes rushes to stir the porridge, burnt and sticking to the bottom of the pot.

John and Will clatter in and slide onto the settle to eat. They both gaze at the meagre board. John opens his mouth to complain but Bethia, next to him, gives a sharp pinch.

‘Ow,’ says John, jumping.‘Why did you do that?’

She stares at him, opens her eyes wide and shakes her head fractionally so Mother won’t notice.

Will gazes into his bowl of charred porridge. Mother studies her own plate of food and bemoans, yet again, what poor servants are to be had in their town, not what she’s been brought up to expect. Bethia blushes, knowing Agnes can hear, indeed is meant to hear, every word.

‘What’s eating you, son?’ asks Father.

Bethia looks at Will’s sullen face.

‘As if you dinna ken,’ says Will and the arguments begin again. Father doesn’t want to hear what he has to say and she can see Will understands this, but he cannot stop himself. John twitches on his stool, keen to be excused, but she grows more curious about Will’s ideas the more he talks.

Father however is not to be swayed by Will’s opinions. ‘I hear all that protesting nonsense when I’m trading in the Low Countries, making money so you may have the leisure to indulge your ideas rather than putting in a hard day’s work. ’Tis a great pity Martin Luther wasn’t drowned at birth, Scotland is like to become infested with his pestilential heresies.’ He wags his finger at Will. ‘There’s nae place for monks and preachers in our family. You are for business, my lad, and dinna forget it.’

‘You’re not listening Father. I don’t want to be a priest. They’re an unnecessary block between Our Lord and his flock; the supreme authority is Scripture, and not some man in faraway Rome. If the Bible was translated into our own Scots tongue so all could read it, we wouldn’t need priests at all.’

‘And what of they who canna read?’

She sees Will hasn’t considered this, but he soon recovers.

‘We can teach people to read and, in the meantime, they’ll hear the word in the kirk so they can still answer to God themselves and not have a priest speaking for them.’

‘And where are all these bibles to come from – we’re no exactly flooded with printing presses in Scotland – and, more to the point, who is to pay for them?’

‘We will find a way.’ Will’s voice tails off into a squeak.

She watches as they go back and forth. John’s eyes too shift from Father to brother and brother to Father. It is like the game of caitch Father told of, that they play on the caitchpule at Falkland. King James himself, who died not three years since in that very palace, was fond of the game. Only, instead of a ball, it is ideas being hit between them.

‘Enough of your blasphemous talk, enough, enough!’ roars Father

The veins stand out on his face like to burst, and she fears for him.

‘In my ane house I will have no more.’

‘Then I’ll leave.’ Will slams out of the room and John seizes the opportunity to follow.

‘I sent him to the university to learn Latin and Greek, not to debate religious tracts. He wants to be his own man, but riding the horse and wearing the clothes paid for by the trade which he’s too grand to engage in. It’s all your doing,’ he says to Mother.

Mother glares back, but Father isn’t finished.

‘If you didn’t encourage him to think he’s better than a merchant’s son, he’d be far ower busy to have time to play the lord of leisure and mix with the lairds and their sons talking sedition.’ Father pauses. ‘But it was a terrible thing done to George Wishart, I hear he was more roasted than burned.’

A shudder runs through Bethia. The smell of burning flesh is still acrid in her nose and she cannot seem to rid herself of it, even when she buries her face in dried rose petals. By night she manages barely any sleep: dancing flames; the innocent face of the preacher; and the story of the poor drowned woman of Perth haunt her dreams. She does not want to hear of it by day.

Father tugs on his beard. She goes to him, laying her hand upon his shoulder and wondering if he knows he has a bald spot at his crown.

‘Father, can I do aught to help?’

He reaches up and pats her hand. ‘It’s a great pity you’re but a lass. You’ve the mind and spirit of a son to make any father proud, all wasted in a woman’s body.’

She’s glad Will is gone out. It’s not the first time Father has told her she’s as quick-thinking as a man, but she doubts Will would’ve winked about it today.

‘You cannot go about the stores or the ships; it’s neither safe nor fitting. But…,’ he inclines his head, ‘…the ledgers, now that would be a fine thing. I aye hoped your mother would be my helpmeet but she has nae interest, and as for Will… anywise there is no harm in teaching you as well as him.’

Mother sniffs. ‘Never mind your accounts, it’s time we find her a husband.’

Bethia goes rigid by father’s side.

‘You want her wed? She’s naught but a bairn.’

She relaxes her shoulders, but Mother’s next words set her heart to thumping.

‘I was married at sixteen and had a child soon after, and I didn’t notice you being overly concerned about my youth.’

‘Aye, you were a bonny lass.’ Father smiles at Mother and, after a moment, she smiles back.

Bethia remembers how beautiful Mother once was, before the pox left the skin of her face as pitted as pick-hacked stone.

‘We’ll wait a wee whilie yet, Mary. There’s nae rush.’ His face brightens. ‘And if she learns book keeping, it’ll make of her a useful wife.’

Mother shakes her head. ‘Bethia is not marrying one of your fellow merchants. She can do better.’

‘Aye and that’s no what you thought when you married me, and glad enough your father was too, with no dowry to give.’

‘And glad enough you were to get the daughter of an earl.’

Bethia slides out of the room. It might not be so bad to be married and have her own home, rather than listening to an endless repetition of the same arguments. But if Father is thinking of marrying her off to a local merchant, she’s not so willing, for there are none under forty years of age. No, better to stay where she is; he’ll not send her away if she doesn’t want it.