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

She nods slowly.

‘Come it is too cold to stand.’ He tucks her arm in his once more and they walk in silence. As they draw close to home he says, ‘You will not meet with Elspeth Niven again.’ He squeezes her upper arm, pinching the soft flesh. ‘Give me your word.’

‘But Father…’

‘Your word.’

‘I promise,’ she says, tucking her other hand behind her back, crossing her fingers and sending up a prayer to the blessed Virgin.

But some weeks later, when she finally escapes Father’s watchful eye, and creeps out to Elspeth’s home, Elspeth is already gone.

Bethia and her family are at Holy Trinity to hear the preacher, John Knox. Father says he doesn’t know what the guilds were thinking to invite this reformer to speak in their kirk, but she’s curious to see this man of whom she’s heard more and more talk, especially of how like he is to George Wishart. She hopes he’s more inspiring than their usual priest, also come from the castle, John Rough. She studies Knox, head tilted, as she sits in their pew. He may be like Wishart in faith but he’s not a bonny man to look upon with stocky build, long nose and protruding lower lip.

Knox says he’s been prevailed upon to preach and, although ’tis said he cried noisily and then spent several days in the sanctuary of his room to consider his calling, he clearly embraces his role as a religious leader. He lacks Wishart’s humility, and the dull Rough’s honesty, and she doubts him.

He stands in the pulpit raised above the crowd so all can see, and talks and talks and talks. She has never known a man who has so much to say and with such belief in the rightness of his words. He lifts his arms often, waving them expansively, the dark patches of sweat beneath his oxters spreading across his voluminous robes, his long beard waggling when he turns his head. The occasional shafts of sunlight piercing the windows, illuminate the spray of spittle flying from his mouth as his voice thunders, ever louder, reaching to the rafters above. She can see this priest truly believes he is a channel through which the voice of God may be heard on Earth. And yet he claims again and again that no mortal man can be head of the Church.

‘The Pope,’ he shouts, leaning over the pulpit, ‘is an Antichrist, hear me all, an Antichrist and can never be a member of Christ’s mythical body.’

She’s not sure what he means; what she does know is that she’s listening to heresy. She wonders that the Lord does not strike Knox down, but if he keeps preaching sedition the Queen’s troops most certainly will – and it won’t be a quick strike, it’ll be another slow burning.

She herself doesn’t know what to think. This exhortation is not what’s supposed to happen in her church. True, on feast days, she has heard a sermon, but it’s usually a story from the bible to illuminate her life and not such unforgiving doctrine. Where is the Mass, the slow meditative rhythm of the Latin, the comfort of a familiar, and much shorter, service? She jumps; it’s as though Knox has seen inside her head. He begins to instruct on a new order in which Mass no longer has a place.

‘Mass is an abominable idolatry, blasphemous to the death of Christ and a profanation of the Lord’s supper.’ Knox hammers a beat with his fist upon the pulpit as he declaims his next lines. ‘The sacraments of the New Testament must be ministered as they were instituted by Christ Jesus and practised by the apostles; nothing ought to be added unto them and nothing ought to be diminished from them.’

A shudder of shock runs through the congregation. People shift and look to one another. Some push forward so they can see and hear more clearly, others ease their way to the back, ready to escape if need be. But no one leaves. There is something about the power of Knox’s belief which holds them all here, whether they agree or not.

‘Stand ye still and listen to the word that comes from the mouth of God, lest ye submit to Satan in error. It is not enough that man invents a ceremony and then gives it significance according to his pleasure, as the Papists do. We must follow the scripture and keep the religion that is received from God without alteration. Romans 10 verse 7, “faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of God,” and lest we forget, “whatsover is not of faith is of sin,” Romans 14, verse 23.’

She looks to Mother sitting next to her, Father beyond Mother and John tucked between them: John is asleep head rolled back and mouth open; Mother is holding a pomander to her nose, and she does not blame her, for the smell arising from the crush of the standing mass pressed close is suffocating. Father however is looking quietly thoughtful. She has seen that look often, it usually means he’s considering an opportunity but she cannot imagine how he plans to turn the preachings of Knox to his advantage.

She is also puzzled as to why Knox is permitted to speak. Since the truce it’s as though Arran has washed his hands of the siege and allows the protestors their place: perhaps he’s not unsympathetic to the cause; or perhaps he’s rewarding them for ridding him of his rival the Cardinal; or perhaps he simply does not want to do anything more to antagonise the men who hold his son hostage. And Gilbert Logie is faraway, with Arran, so can provide no insight.

Knox is leaning over the pulpit now, his spittle raining freely down upon the faithful. ‘The great Martin Luther, who was so recently gathered unto the bosom of Christ, taught that there is no Purgatory in which the souls of men can be purged after death. Ye either live a life of true faith and enter the Kingdom of Heaven, as Luther did, or ye suffer damnation, burning in the fires of hell for all eternity. To pray for the dead, and especially to pay indulgences for prayers to be said in their memory, is a vain abomination. Heaven opens only for the faithful.’

She is stunned by his passion. His voice never drops below a shout and he speaks for over four hours, even calling into question the right of the Queen to rule. ‘Where a woman reigns and papists bear authority we have a council headed by Satan,’ he bellows. The longer he speaks, the hoarser his voice becomes and now there’s a plug of mucus, stretching between his lips. She waits for it to break, but it never does. On and on he goes until she leans forward, resting her face in her hands, made dizzy to the point of collapse by his vehemence.

When the congregation finally emerges, blinking in the sunlight, they are unwilling to disperse but stand talking to their neighbours, quietly in the beginning, then louder and louder as people argue the points Knox has made. He follows them out, looking pleased that his discourse has resulted in such debate.

Hugh of Nydie is there with his wife Lady Merione. ‘These are solemn and true words spoken by John Knox,’ he says, his voice booming out over the crowd.

She can see Father is surprised by the passion in Nydie’s voice, indeed does not know how to respond. No wonder young Nydie stormed the castle with Norman Leslie, if his father holds such views. Bethia only wants a quiet life, and wonders why men must make such a to-do about doctrine. She thinks of how careful they all need be to not offend some person of power, or break any laws, spiritual or temporal, without the increased danger to their lives that this new thinking brings.

‘Knox is permitted free access. He comes and goes between town and castle as he pleases, and takes our sons the true word,’ Nydie says.

‘ My son is in Edinburgh, with his aunt,’ says Father.

‘Aye, may be wise to stick to that story.’

Bethia feels sick, wishes Hugh of Nydie at the bottom of the mill lade, or anywhere other than here. Now Father will be insisting that her marriage go quickly ahead.