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

‘Saints preserve us,’ says Mother, grabbing her arm. ‘England has sent its fleet to attack us.’

Grissel screams and Agnes, unusually, draws her daughter close.

‘They have come to relieve the garrison; they will take the Castilians and leave the townsfolk alone surely,’ says Bethia, but she knows that is unlikely even as the words leave her mouth. Indeed the garrison themselves are likely to pillage before departing.

‘I think not,’ says Norman gazing at the ships. ‘Having come this far Henry’s soldiers will loot and burn as he did in Haddington and Edinburgh, Dunbar and St Monans these past two years.’

‘And I think that is not at all helpful,’ says Mother glaring at him.

Norman ignores her, eyes on the ships which are lowering their sails as they draw close to the land and the long oars come into use. ‘I am by no means certain this is the English fleet,’ he says. He squints against the brightness of the day. ‘My eyes are not so good, my dear, what colours are they flying?’

She shields her eyes once more, the sun is high and the light dazzling, ‘Red I think, with some white.’

‘It is the English,’ says mother, scowling.

‘Not necessarily. England would be white with some red.’

‘And I think you will find I am correct.’ Mother turns on her heel and marches towards the house.

Bethia would laugh, if her teeth weren’t chattering.

‘Let us watch and wait,’ Norman says to her. ‘We are safer up here anyway.’ He looks to Agnes and Grissel, eyes huge and faces white as they cling to one another. ‘Fetch us the settle and some food.’ He turns to Bethia. ‘We may as well be comfortable as we wait; and I had supplies brought up, as I thought we might have need of sustenance.’

‘That is thoughtful,’ she says. She realises that Norman is no longer stuttering, is quite the man in charge.

Agnes and Grissel appear around the corner of the house, struggling to carry the heavy oak settle.

‘Put it down there,’ Norman points.

They sit and watch as the galleys slow and the anchors are tossed into the sea. A boat comes out from the harbour, the men being rowed holding onto their bonnets, as Grissel returns balancing a heavy tray in her arms. Bethia stands up to allow her to place it on the settle.

‘As I thought, it is the French fleet,’ says Norman. He looks up at Grissel. ‘Fetch a stool for the tray, girl.’

‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ says Grissel, quite recovered now she knows they are no longer in imminent danger.

‘I think you must teach your servant better manners,’ he says to Bethia as Grissel disappears around the corner. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he flushes and gazes at his hands.

‘Grissel is a hard worker and most loyal.’

‘I u-u-understand, my dear.’ He sits up straight as his rolls of flesh will allow. ‘But still, she will not s-s-speak to me as s-s-he does to you.’

Bethia feels a weariness. Norman is perhaps not as malleable as she thought, but he is also correct; Grissel must treat him with deference, as befits a servant to her master.

He rocks from side to side to ease himself as he chomps on a slice of hare pie. She realises his size makes it difficult for him to get comfortable. Even the settle is too small to rest his spreading bulk upon and he’s probably only at ease when he’s lying down. She clutches at her skirt and shakes her head – she doesn’t want to picture Norman in bed – she will not think of it, not until the very last minute when it is inescapably before her.

She wonders where Mother is, probably inside looking out from a window. She cannot but smile to herself – Mother must wait until she, Bethia, is ready to leave, and Norman, of course. They watch the activity as small boats go to and fro between the galleys and the harbour.

‘They have brought many soldiers with them,’ says Norman rubbing his hands. ‘Finally we will see some action.’

Bethia points at the castle and the small dots of men running around the top. Plumes of smoke spiral high, purple against the blue of the sky, no doubt come from braziers lit ready, and more cannons are being turned from the land side to point at the sea.

‘I think there’s unlikely to be an attack today, when they are but newly arrived,’ says Norman; but he’s soon proved wrong.

The anchors of half a dozen ships are heaved up and the oars begin to dip in and out of the water. She can see them working in rhythm and hear the occasional shouted command drifting on the wind, although the rowers wielding the oars are hidden from view. The gusting wind makes it hard for them to hold position as they near the castle, and requires much work for the galley slaves. She pities them, for their task is relentless.

There’s a boom, the sound reverberating around them. The swallows nesting in the eaves swirl high above, and the gulls take to the skies screaming. Then a burst of smoke is followed by another boom, the French ships are firing on the castle and the Castilians have replied. Their shot lands harmlessly in the sea, but the ships have been more successful and hit land, although they’ve missed the castle. Dust rises from a house in Swallowgait and, as it clears, they see the roof has collapsed and Norman points to the yellow-red lick of flame.

Bethia covers her mouth with her hand and there’s a gasp from Agnes watching behind. Norman pushes himself up off the bench as Mother comes around the corner.

‘We must leave immediately and do what we can to protect our properties from damage,’ Norman says, hirpling towards the stable yard.

Mother grabs Bethia, pinching the flesh as Bethia tries to tug her arm away.

‘You are not your own mistress, not yet, and I will tolerate no more cheek.’

Bethia squirms but Mother leans in, hissing in her ear, ‘and we can delay no longer; the siege is about to be broke and you must marry now .’

They both stare at Norman’s back, the pap, pap, pap of a slow release fart escaping as he lumbers through the archway into the yard.

The church bells are ringing in the town in between the thunder of cannon fire. One of the galleys skews round and they see there’s a hole in its side. Another comes to its rescue, although they only take the free men off and the galley slaves are left to row the stricken ship back to harbour, as best they can.

‘Come,’ shouts Norman from the cart, and the driver assists them up, leaps on himself and spurs the horses down the hill.

The firing goes back and forward over the next day few days and more houses are hit, but at least the fires are put out before they get a hold and spread through the town. The French fleet takes more hits than the castle does, and they withdraw, out of firing range. One ship has sunk, another run aground and the ones which are damaged come into the harbour for repair. There are French soldiers and sailors in the street, swelling the number of troops already in the town returned from Langholme. The activity to end the siege grows more intense. Rumours abound of the man in charge sent by the new King of France.

Leon Strozzi is said to be a military genius. He is also a Knight of Malta, Prior of Capua, Captain General of the French galleys and cousin to Henri’s Queen, Catherine de Medici. It seems Strozzi knows what he is about and will flush the Castilians out with all possible speed. Arran himself is now regularly seen strutting around the streets deep in discussion with Strozzi.

‘Whit are they doing?’ asks Grissel, when she and Bethia are at the Mercat to purchase what food they can for her wedding feast, before all is gone to feed the soldiers.