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

‘Enough,’ says Kirkcaldy. ‘Nydie, you will get in there and, when we have surrendered, you will wait for dark and you will climb out, taking the lassie with you. That is an order.’

James nods.

Morrison takes the torch out of its sconce and peers over the edge of the pit. ‘It’s difficult to make out, but it should be possible for you to climb out. Fortunately our miners did not make the sides ower smooth.’

Nydie grasps the ladder and climbs down. She can see the white of his face in the gloom shining up at her as he searches for hand-holds checking they can climb out. He calls up. ‘There’s the start of a passageway here which we can tuck ourselves in. We will manage, Bethia is a stout lass.’

‘Fine,’ says Kirkcaldy. ‘I wish you well.’

She doesn’t feel much like a stout lass as she crawls backwards to the edge of the hole, and searches with a flailing foot for the first rung of the ladder, but then she’s got both feet on and is descending. She shrieks as the ladder slides sideways, but James steadies it, guiding her down one foot at a time – just as Geordie once did. It seems so long ago. Thankfully, she reaches the bottom and they stand unsteadily, looking up at Morrison’s face backlit by flickering torch light.

She cannot stop shivering and James strokes her arm. ‘Never fear, the Lord looks after his own true and faithful subjects,’ he whispers.

Her shivering slows.

They crouch amongst the rubble as another cannon ball crashes into the castle walls. Morrison tosses a blanket down and Bethia calls up a thank you. As they crawl into the culvert, she sees the bottom of the ladder disappearing. Now they are trapped. Perhaps it would’ve been better to surrender with the rest of the garrison rather than be stuck like a rat in a half-excavated mine – not like a rat, for a rat would find a way out.

They hear Morrison smashing the ladder to pieces, then all is quiet, apart from the vibration of cannon ball hitting castle. The sound is muffled from so far beneath the ground and soon it stops. It must be raining again, or perhaps the surrender has begun. She shifts trying to find the least uncomfortable position and rolls off a particularly jagged stone. They wait.

Then there is movement above them; someone running across the rubble. They huddle down together, but a voice is shouting for James…

Norman Leslie is running around the courtyard like a lost dog when Will charges out of the guardroom, blinking in the light and pushing away the thought of his sister’s distraught face.

Leslie wants the Cardinal’s body brought out of the dungeon and laid to rest somewhere more fitting. Will thinks it’s a little late for such concern, but submits anyway. He, and a dozen others, are herded through the narrow entrance below Will’s sleeping quarters. It is a place he has avoided since he first discovered it the day they stormed the castle, when he was sent running for embers to smoke the Cardinal out. He shakes his head, remembering how scared he was – even the laddie cowering last winter, convinced he was being haunted by the Cardinal’s ghost, seems long gone now.

Ropes are flung down and three men slide into the dungeon. They stand back as a lit torch is tossed in after them. Will, leaning over the rim, sees the deep hollow of carved-out rock worn smooth by its many occupants, and thinks that it is accurately named “the bottle dungeon” with its wide bowl and long narrow opening – from which escape is impossible.

He hauls his head out of the bottle neck; the smell is bad: dank, airless and putrid. Surely the Cardinal can’t still be rotting after more than a year pickled in salt. The men below shout up; they need help. Will sighs, grasps a rope and slides down to join them. No doubt they will soon be imprisoned here themselves, and he would prefer it if the Cardinal was first removed.

He’s surprised to find Melville standing opposite ready to lift the coffin; does he feel any remorse? Three men each side and still they struggle to raise it – it must be lead lined. Others come to assist, and they balance awkwardly on the curve of the hollowed-out floor. The coffin slips and crashes to the ground. The ill-fitting lid slides open.

He looks down upon the tightly packed body and the Cardinal’s face stares up at him. He steps back with a sharp intake of breath, and he’s not the only one. He rubs his eyes hard, God’s blood, he would swear on his life he saw Beaton’s unquiet spirit escape.

The Cardinal’s body is lying half on its side crushed into the too-small coffin with the knees bent and head twisted, so his face looks out at the world. The naked corpse is stained and unwashed and Will feels shame that any person, however reviled, should have their remains so ill-treated. Then he remembers George Wishart’s body, half roasted and blown asunder so that the crowd were collecting what pieces they could find. He, himself, had carried a mangled finger to place in Wishart’s coffin.

They ram the lid back on and get the coffin tied up, and hauled to the surface without any further mishap. He climbs back up the rope and the group, staggering under the weight as they slip and slither in the muck, take it in turns to carry it across the rain-soaked, cannon-blasted courtyard and up the stairs. Will notices that Norman Leslie takes no further part in proceedings; he has vanished, just as he did on the day Beaton was killed.

The coffin is placed in the Cardinal’s old chambers, which are undamaged, so far. There’s some mumbling about washing the body although Will doubts it would hold together if moved for cleaning. Anyway, Kirkcaldy and Balnaves have returned and the negotiations are finished. The terms they sought are agreed; they are indeed to be transported to France. The planks are already laid across the fosse – he can see them through the archway of what is left of the main gate. Will looks around. He and his fellows are a sorry looking group: scrawny, sick and filthy. He thinks of his sister left inside the castle; James will look after her, she’ll be fine.

John Knox comes to stand before them, his rain-sodden robes clinging to his legs as tightly as an importuning miscreant. At least he has stayed, unlike his fellow preacher John Rough, who found reason to leave for England some time ago.

‘The Word is the beginning of the life spiritual without which all flesh is dead in God’s presence,’ says Knox, and the Castilians stand and listen. Knox’s voice grows loud as he continues. ‘In this time of our great need, we will converse with our Lord and say a prayer together.’

Will realises Knox wants the soldiers waiting outside to hear the prayer and know it is being spoken in English; the words of the Bible available to all.

‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,’ Knox begins.

Will bows his head and the text of Matthew rolls over him as Knox calls it out in sonorous tones.

‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.’

In that moment he knows he is among right-thinking people. It was right to protest, even to kill the Cardinal was right – in the eyes of the Lord. He feels the power of God like a jolt through his body; they are not finished here, this is not their end.

‘Forgive us our trespasses,’ Knox intones, his voice echoing around the silent courtyard.

Everyone must stand before God, and be answerable for their own failings. There should be no priests paid an indulgence to intercede on a transgressor’s behalf. And what of his own failings. He is to be safely transported to France and he has left his sister here, in danger – made her his friend’s responsibility. He flushes with the shame of it. Then he’s running across the courtyard; he is not too late to correct this transgression.