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

There’s lots of activity on the tower of St Salvators, which rises behind the houses in this street. They hurry down the vennel, into Northgait and straight into Gilbert Logie, who is calling up instructions to the men above.

‘Ah, my lady Bethia,’ he says bowing, ‘ever in the midst of danger. And I hear I must congratulate you.’ He looks down at his feet, then lifts his head and stares into her eyes. ‘When is the happy event to take place?’

She bites hard on her lip. ‘It is to be tomorrow.’

‘In the midst of chaos?’

She stares at the ground shuffling her feet.

‘The groom is eager to claim you…which is as it should be.’

‘Have you met him?’ The words burst from her.

He jerks his head back. ‘Ah, no. I do not think I’ve had that pleasure.’

She doesn’t want to speak of Fat Norman. ‘What is happening here?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you anything, for I understand your brother to be amongst the garrison.’ He frowns. ‘That is something you, and your Father, hid from me.’

She bows her head both to acknowledge that he was ill-used, and in a final acceptance that her marriage must take place. Gilbert is right that he was ill-used by them, but of more import is that it’s of common knowledge her brother is within the castle. She wonders how Gilbert knows – and if her whole family are suspect. Her belly constricts at the danger they are in, yet she gives a bold response.

‘You need have little fear I can, or ever would, pass information to my brother, for our Father has disowned him. In any case the garrison can see for themselves, they have no need of informants.’

Gilbert is staring as though he cannot drag his eyes from her face. Then there’s an almighty crash, as the first planks of the wooden tower fall to the ground. They leap back, narrowly avoiding flying splinters.

‘This is not a safe place to be,’ he says, taking her arm.

‘Why are you pulling the steeple down?’

He drops her arm. ‘I see Signor Strozzi. I must go.’

She watches among the crowd as he directs the operation and Strozzi shouts impatiently whenever he’s unhappy with progress, which is often. Gilbert does not re-join her, nor does he introduce Strozzi. She studies the Florentine; he looks a little like a much older Mainard with his dark eyes and brown face, and the tight curls of his hair. But he is a man who exudes great authority, and word is that he has successfully broken sieges elsewhere.

The steeple is soon all down, with the fishwives dashing in to grab the wood, which will give them a goodly supply for cooking upon. A group of soldiers strain to turn a windlass and pull a large cannon along the street, then work quickly to disassemble the cannon while ropes are lowered and the cannon sections tied on. They begin to heave from the top of St Salvator’s tower, the men below steadying the cannon from swinging widely while those above haul with all their might. She watches hand covering her mouth; if the rope breaks, then the men on the ground will be injured, or killed.

It is as though Satan has listened in to her thoughts. There’s a cry from above and suddenly the cannon comes hurtling down, chipping and dislodging the stones of the tower as it falls – but the men are well practised and leap out of the way in time. Strozzi roars at their clumsiness and sends for more men. Grissel nudges her, and she knows they must away, for they have to take some supplies up the hill to her new home, along with the kist full of her clothes and two further kists of bedding, dishes, knives, linen and anything else that Mother doesn’t require, ready for tomorrow.

She sits high up on the cart beside the carter, gripping the staff Mainard had made for her. She thought it might comfort her to have something of him in her new home, but she only feels sadness. She will burn it, she thinks, tightening her grasp. Grissel perches on a chest behind, blethering to the stout man clutching a pistol who Walter Wardlaw has sent to guard her. She wonders at this – it is not like Wardlaw to be thoughtful, but then she is soon to be the property of the Wardlaw family.

The men lift the kists off the cart and carry two up the stairs, panting and heaving, sweating and swearing as they go. She shows where she wants them placed but then decides on a more convenient spot.

‘Mak up yer mind, woman,’ Wardlaw’s man mutters.

Grissel comes upstairs carrying a chamber pot. ‘Where do you want this?’, she smirks.

Bethia laughs, although it sounds false, even to her own ears. ‘Out of sight; tuck it under the bed.’

Together they make up the bed, ready for tomorrow. The sheets smell of the lavender which Agnes has laid between them – it is an invigorating scent and yet soothing. Norman will need invigorating, she suspects, and likely by tomorrow night she will need soothing. She shudders.

Grissel ties the bed curtains back neatly. ‘My mother says it is no sae bad after the first time, and it is better not to fight it,’ she says smoothing the blankets.

‘There is still the kist to unpack in the kitchen,’ Bethia snaps and Grissel hurries away.

She stands by the window, which looks down on the kailyard, listening to the ‘klee, klee, killy,’ call of a kestrel circling above. The bird circles grow wider, its cries grow fainter and fade away. It is so very quiet.

Then there are voices below and she sees Walter Wardlaw climbing down off his horse and wonders why he’s here.

She is kneeling by her kist shaking out her other dress to hang on the pegs set handily along the wall, when he comes into her chamber. She’s surprised she didn’t hear him clomping up the stairs, but sees he’s in his stocking soles. Why would he take his boots off… she cannot imagine it’s out of consideration for her housewifery. He closes the door, leering at her as he draws the bolt.

She stands up, holding her dress to her and backs away. He advances.

‘We’ll just make it easy for Norman,’ he says, ‘especially as I’m no sure he’s up to the job.’

She’s backed up against the bed, sure she’s somehow misunderstanding but he’s coming towards her, still with that strange look on his face.

She straightens up and speaks loudly, although her voice is shaking. ‘Get out of my room.’

He pushes her back on the bed and she screams. It sounds odd in her ears, but she screams again as he clambers on top of her, pressing his hand over her mouth and shouting in her ear. ‘Scream all you want; it’s my man on guard downstairs.’

She twists under him but his weight is heavy on her, and she can’t breathe. Then he kneels to tug up her dress, pushing her legs apart and she can draw in air again. She claws at him leaving long scratch marks down either side of his cheeks. He slaps her, the sound ringing loud in her ears, but she barely feels it.

He’s fumbling at his breeches now and she reaches down the side of the bed, searching. Where is it? He’s leaning over her and she screams again, her hand frantically searching under the bed; and then she has it. She swings out and hits him as hard as she can, with the chamber pot. He’s shaking his head, dazed. She swings again, the crack as the pot hits his head echoing around the room. The pot shatters, showering shards of china over her, its handle still tight in her grip.

Wardlaw’s eyes glaze over and, as he collapses, she rolls to one side so his weight only partially falls on her. She pushes and kicks to free herself and scrambles off the bed, unbolting the door and escaping down the stairs. Wardlaw’s man is at the bottom barring the way, preventing Grissel from coming up. Over his shoulder Bethia can see her staff, tucked behind the front door. She charges into him, but cannot reach it.