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

‘If you tie the blanket and your skirt together, they can be a rope to help pull you out. You need only climb the first few feet unaided.’

It’s difficult to see anything in the gloom, but she runs the skirt through her hands and ties it to the blanket. Will ties it around his waist and starts to climb. She can hear his breath grow loud with effort and hopes no one is nearby. Then she can see the white of his face as he kneels on the lip of the pit, peering down. She climbs quickly; unhampered by her skirt it’s easy. She feels shame at the fuss she made about being hid down there. She can get out by herself, if she’d only remembered what an impediment long skirts are. She’s already forgotten her terror at being alone in a confined space, for now the pit seems a safe haven in comparison to escaping the castle unseen. She takes one last look down into the black dark and steps away from the edge.

Will is fiddling with the knot tying her skirt to the blanket and she reaches out to take the bundle from him, barely able to see in the murky gloom. Her deft fingers quickly loosen it. They are both concentrating, neither attending to their surroundings, when he topples sideways, taking her down with him.

‘Got you, you protesting bastard,’ a voice hisses.

She gets onto her hands and knees, crawling away to avoid kicking feet and flailing arms. They roll in a fighting frenzy while she fumbles for a rock, the largest she can find. But she cannot tell which is Will and which is his assailant in this tangle of limbs. She’s afraid they will fall into the pit, but they roll closer to the doorway, where the dawn light is beginning to seep in. She crawls after them; she hesitates, crouching with the stone raised high, ready to smash it down on the back of the assailant’s head. But is it Will’s or his attacker? Then she sees Will’s face looking up at her, eyes bulging, the attacker’s hands around his throat. She steadies herself, indeed has begun the downward motion when Will kicks hard and rolls again, so the attacker is under him. She crawls forward and grabs the attacker’s hair, banging his head off the stone floor. Will is astride him, punching his face. The body goes limp. They scramble to their feet, breathing heavily.

‘Did we kill him?’ she whispers.

‘I don’t know.’

They stare down at the inert body.

She grabs Will’s hand, ‘we have to go.’

‘Wait, we must hide him.’

They haul the man by the legs, deep into the guard-room and roll him, as gently as they can, into the pit.

As they leave she treads on something soft; her skirt, thanks be to Mary. She snatches it up, bundling it under her arm. They creep to the doorway and peer out. It’s later than they expect – the dimness caused by a mist creeping in from the sea and smothering the castle. She gives thanks again to the blessed Virgin for her care in summoning a haar which is so dense in the early morning light that they can only see a few steps in front of them. Then she realises they may be hid from their potential captors but any soldiers are equally well hidden from them, and all sound is muffled.

They had talked of the best way to escape while they were in the pit, but now they’re not so sure the plan is a good one. They cannot go out by the main gateway; it will surely be well guarded. They can try to escape by sea through the sea gate, but they’ll have to cross the courtyard. Their plan is to slip out by the closest postern which leads into the castle gardens. Will fumbles in the gun emplacement, where the key is normally tucked under a stone, as Bethia slips on her skirt.

‘It’s not here,’ he hisses.

She pushes him out of the way. ‘My hands are smaller, let me.’

‘Quickly!’

‘No, it is gone.’

‘They must’ve handed it over when they surrendered.’

They stand staring at one another. Will shrugs and turns leading the way, his hand touching the courtyard wall; she follows closely. She can hear voices from above, someone is coming down the wooden staircase from what is left of the private apartments. She tugs on Will’s clothing, jerking him into the cellar beneath it.

‘All gates must be locked and if no key found then closely guarded. I am by no means certain all have given themselves up. The merchant Seton claims his daughter was abducted and is somewhere within the castle. We have yet to find her.’

Her heart bumps and thumps like dough being kneaded and stretched. Father must be desperate – and she need not have hidden; she feels utterly weary.

‘Father tried to save you by claiming an abduction,’ whispers Will, and then says what she has just thought. ‘We need not have hidden.’ His tone sounds accusatory.

‘It’s too late now, I will not reveal myself.’ She shivers. ‘There is no surety they’ll release me undamaged, and who knows what they might do to you.’

Will is silent for a moment. ‘I agree.’

‘And this way you too can escape; you will not be held prisoner and can come home.’

He stiffens. ‘I would never willingly leave my fellows.’

She strokes his arm, ‘I know, you are loyal.’

‘If we don’t get under cover now we shall be found anyway. Let’s go.’

She grabs him as he turns to the North. ‘Not that way. Did you not hear, they will have the postern well guarded.’

‘Where else can we escape, beyond walking out through the main gate and bidding them good morn as we leave?’ hisses Will.

‘Let’s try this way.’ She tugs on his arm.

There are more soldiers coming, they can hear them talking and laughing. They flee along the portico towards the great hall, tripping over stones until suddenly they can go no further.

The voices follow them along the walkway and now their path is blocked by a huge mound of rubble where the east block house once stood. They turn to head across the bailey towards the kitchens and the sea gate, but there are voices coming from that direction too. They look to one another, knowing they have no choice. She tucks her skirts up once more, and they scramble over the rubble, climbing as fast as they can, into the sheltering haar, while the two groups of men meet below.

They are trapped. The mist is beginning to lift and Will can see to where ducks and seagulls bob on a restful sea; it is a long way down. The tide, as far in as it gets, is lapping against the base of the cliff. He looks up to what remains of the ramparts to their left. The top is still obscured, but, as soon as the haar clears, anyone looking out will be able to see them if they attempt to climb down the cliff.

‘We must hide until dark – and until the tide is out.’

‘Where?’ Bethia asks.

‘We’ll make a burrow in amongst the rubble.’

And they pass the daylight hours, dug in, with stones piercing them on all sides, hungry and thirsty, yet distracted by the fear of discovery. As the sun reaches the zenith of its high summer arc he falls asleep. It is a hot, uncomfortable doze but at least it’s a temporary oblivion. He awakes puzzled; he’s wet. Opening his mouth he lets the rain drip down his parched throat. The relief is indescribable.

The sky grows dark. There is a crash so loud it sounds as though the cannons have started up again, and then an eerie flash of light illuminates the clouds. The thunder growls and is answered again by a dazzle of light. The world is washed in a sinister grey; all sound is muffled, apart from the storm, and it is all around them: God’s wrath. In this moment Will does not care if the Lord is angry; he knows he did right to stay by his sister. Bethia is shivering next to him, and he holds her hand as the thunder rumbles out to sea.

The rain settles in, relentlessly, and soon they’re soaked. It rinses the worst of the dirt off their faces and stinking clothes, but the pleasure of that soon passes, and the rain becomes an additional misery.