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

‘It was so hot, and so pungent in there, I thought I would faint,’ says Mother loudly to Lady Merione. ‘Come, you will break fast with us, if you may.’

Father glares at Mother, clearly not wanting his meal disturbed by Nydie’s dissecting of Knox’s words. Lady Merione, however, takes little persuading to eat before starting the ride back to Nydie lands. Soon they are gathered at the board with Agnes huffing and puffing at having to stretch the meal to feed more people, and the quality forby, Grissel getting into a guddle offering water and towels to the guests to wash their hands, and Mother determined neither Agnes nor Grissel will sit down with them to share the meal.

Bethia sits quietly while those around her chew, poking her knife at the stringy old goat meat Agnes has acquired, despite the shortage of food at this time of year, made worse by the depredations of the Castilians. She wonders if she could flee to Antwerp as Elspeth did. Now summer will soon be upon them there are more ships in the harbour – perhaps she can find one that will take her. She knows it’s nonsense to even consider such an escape. She cannot travel unattended and without funds, and her duty is to help her family in whatever way Father commands. Anyway, she is certain now that Mainard is not interested. The hurt is still there, but not so sharp. She sighs again and then realises everyone at the board is staring at her.

‘Well, my child, what say you?’ says Lady Merione.

‘I do not know,’ she says, bowing her head and mumbling, for indeed she does not know, either what she can do to save herself, or of what Lady Merione has been speaking.

There’s a crash as John upsets his trencher spilling the watered-down ale he drinks. The beaker rolls across the uneven floorboards and comes to rest against the door. He winks at her as Father’s hand reaches over to cuff him.

‘Leave us,’ Father says. Normally he would roar, but he’s mindful of Hugh of Nydie’s eyes upon him.

John needs no further invitation and goes, and Bethia, after a nod from Father, follows. As she closes the door she hears the Earl of Nydie inquire if she’s to be wed soon. She lingers to hear Father’s answer. It had been agreed with the Wardlaws that all will be done quietly, but, no doubt, Mother has shared the information with Lady Merione.

Before Father can speak, Nydie does.

‘She may do for my son.’

Her heart lifts. Is he suggesting what she hopes?

There’s a pause.

‘Young James?’ Father sounds surprised but there’s a trill of delight from Mother.

The door latch lifts and she scurries away. She has met James of Nydie a few times, most recently in the castle. He seems courteous and is certainly better to look upon than Fat Norman – and yet, there’s something missing. There is no tug to her heart, not in the way she had with Mainard and sometimes recently with Gilbert Logie, when she’s near him. Nevertheless she would far rather marry James than Norman, and surely he is the better match. Mother will certainly agree, but she’s less certain of Father. He’ll suspect Hugh of Nydie’s motives, for she is a step down for his family. She will have a generous dowry though, Mother will make sure of it.

She sighs, all she can do is wait while others decide her fate.

Bethia stands by the West Port watching Father. He’s riding towards the ridge above the Kinness Burn, which is the road to Cupar, where he often has trade. But it is also the road to Hugh of Nydie’s lands, where she suspects, and hopes, he is going. There has been much discussion between her parents about whether she should marry Norman Wardlaw or James of Nydie.

‘James is by far the better match,’ says Mother, ‘and one day will be an earl too, as was my father. It is most suitable.’

Father sighs long and loud. ‘And being the wife of an earl is of small account if he has no Earldom.’

Mother tosses her head, ‘Hugh of Nydie is too well connected to suffer because of his support for the siege.’

‘God’s blood woman, his connections will not save him from punishment. Most of his closest allies are among the garrison, and will likely forfeit their lands themselves. Anywise he has not yet formally offered his son for Bethia, whereas Norman Wardlaw has offered – and, more to the point, been accepted. We should not even be discussing James, for I have shaken Norman’s hand and given my word.’

Mother grows pale. ‘At least speak to Nydie so we may know his intentions.’

Bethia clasps her hands together and mutters a prayer. A tear runs down her cheek. It is June, and the fierce weather long past, yet there has still been no word from Mainard. He could at least have sent her one message, even if it was to tell her he would not be returning, but then few ships have come this year, and even fewer pilgrims. The tale of the holy city of St Andrews at war with itself will no doubt have been carried over the sea, spread through France and across the Holy Roman Empire.

She stands at the gate watching Father’s retreating back. She watches for a long time as he grows smaller and smaller. She becomes aware that the workers on the nearby rigg are lifting their heads to stare at her, and she’s being buzzed by flies from the dung they’re spreading.

Retreating back through the port, the acrid smell of burning catches in the back of her throat, as she walks up Southgait. The Dominican Friary still has wisps of smoke drifting skywards from the fire which partially destroyed it a few days ago. The talk in the streets is that Norman Leslie and his Castilians torched it. She stands gazing at it; half the roof and one wall has collapsed, leaving the solid stone arches exposed.

A soft hand touches her arm. ‘You s-s-should not be w-w-wandering the s-s-streets alone.’

She turns to look up into Norman’s puffy face, the spider web of red lines across his nose and cheeks vivid in the daylight.

‘The destruction is sad to see.’ She waves her hand at the ruin of Blackfriars.

‘And in our ane street,’ he says, devoid of stutter, his voice harsh in a way she has never heard before. ‘We are nowhere near the Bishop’s Palace and yet they’re arrogant enough to attack here.’

She looks at him with respect, can almost see the man that Father has described as a fierce trader. He takes her hand, tucking it under his arm, and she allows it as they stroll towards her home. It’s easier, she thinks, to be with Norman when she is by his side and doesn’t have to look at him, although the wheezing each time he takes a step is hard to ignore.

She hears the drone of bagpipes and looks for its source. A piper is leading a wedding procession: the bride head bent, the groom red-faced, the parents smiling, the priest carrying the vial of holy water to bless the bed, the watching crowd shouting out, smirking, nudging one another.

Bethia tugs her hand out, mumbling, ‘I will go home now, you need not escort me further.’ She doesn’t look at Norman. She scurries away, pushing through the watching crowd, past Agnes and Grissel who are calling out as loud as anyone, and into her home. She slams the door shut behind her and leans against it, praying to the Virgin that Father and Hugh of Nydie have come to an agreement.

Father soon returns, saying he hasn’t got time to discuss where he’s been when she asks. He sends her into the strong-room, which adjoins his workroom, to fetch some papers, while he reads a letter just come. She turns as she opens the strong-room door, and sees him crumple a paper and toss it into the fire burning in the grate.

She is kneeling in front of the iron bound kist when she hears Mother.

‘When did you return, Thomas?’ There’s a crash, as the door Mother must have flung wide, bangs off the wall. ‘Why did you not seek me out? I have been most anxious.’