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

There is activity below. He wipes his eyes with wet hands, trying to work out what’s happening. The view into the courtyard is obscured by the mound of rubble, but they can see the forecourt from here; there are people gathering outside the castle. The rain slows to a drizzle and then stops, as a group of men on horseback ride up, bright in their plumed hats and cloaks.

‘That’s Gilbert Logie, next to Arran in the centre,’ she whispers. ‘Sometimes he comes to visit Father.’

‘Oh aye.’ He nudges her. ‘I’ve seen him before. And I take it that’s the great Earl of Arran himself beside Logie. First time I’ve seen him.’

‘If you’d come out of the castle you’d have seen him often enough, but only recently.’

He snorts. ‘The boy next to Arran is his son, you remember meeting him – a good-natured lad.’ He tugs on Bethia’s arm for her head is sticking up swivelling like a little bird’s. ‘Take care they don’t see us.’

She ducks down as he lies low, studying Arran; curious about this Regent of Scotland who took his time breaking the siege. Arran’s eyebrows sit unnaturally high, giving him a perpetual look of surprise; the lips protrude fleshy pink from his thick beard, which already shows streaks of white through the sandy red – much like Father’s. Arran purses those pink lips as he stares at the gate, which is being opened wide as a troop of soldiers march out. He spits then hauls on the reins, forcing his horse to step back and turn, leaving his son glancing between his father’s retreating back and Gilbert Logie. Will is glad to see Logie reach over and pat the boy’s shoulder, smiling down on him.

Behind the soldiers come a ragged group of beggars. Will’s mouth falls open. Led by Kirkcaldy of Grange and Norman Leslie, they straighten up as they cross the fosse, heads held high. He can see John Knox, his beard sweeping over his chest, James of Nydie next to him and there’s Carmichael swaggering as ever; he cannot but feel admiration at Carmichael’s refusal to be bowed.

His heart thumps hard in his chest. They must be taking the Castilians away – to France, as agreed.

He touches Bethia on the shoulder. ‘Stay hidden until dark and the tide is out,’ he hisses. ‘Then climb down to the rocks. You can do it.’

Before she can reply, or stop him, he arises from their hiding place, leaping and sliding down the face of the rubble. They grab him as soon as he reaches the bottom, but he gesticulates towards his friends, his fellows. ‘I am one of them, I am a Castilian too – I must go with them.’

The soldiers look to Logie, watching from horseback. He nods his assent and the they let Will step into line.

James pats him on the shoulder and John Knox nods to him. They are marched down the hill to the harbour, the path lined by the citizens of St Andrews, come out to watch the prisoners leave. Will sees little sympathy on their faces, and they chant a Popish rhyme.

He supposes he can hardly blame them. The Castilians did little to endear themselves to the town, which he knows from Bethia, was much put upon during the siege.

‘Where is Bethia?’ whispers James.

‘She is still hid.’

‘You left her in the pit?’

‘Of course not. She was by me, in the rubble.’

‘Ahh.’ James nods.

‘She will easily escape once it is dark,’ he asserts, hoping saying it will make it so.

‘I am glad you are by my side,’ says James. ‘It shows great loyalty to our group, especially when you might have escaped.’

‘Aye, either that or great foolishness,’ says Will. He’s glad James can explain it, because already he cannot understand what strange impulse had him leap down the rock face – and yet it felt a betrayal not to join his fellows.

It is only when they reach the quayside, and the hammersmith comes to fit their fetters, that he understands they are to be galley slaves. Carmichael is shouting; they’re being cheated, the terms of the agreement have been broke. He thinks, no they haven’t. We were promised transportation to France, but no one thought to agree what form the transportation would take. He feels a great weariness. What a fool he has been; he’s made all the wrong choices from start to finish.

He notices Gilbert Logie standing to one side, watching. The man has an angry scar pulling down one side of his face, lucky the sword missed the eye. He stares at him and Logie stares back, no doubt also wondering what idiocy made Will re-join the group. Logie straightens his shoulders and comes towards Will. The tone in Bethia’s voice when she spoke of him was warm, and his sister, unlike him, is no fool. Will makes up his mind, he must trust to Logie’s honour.

‘I am Will Seton, brother to Bethia,’ he says in a low voice, before Logie can speak.

Logie leans forward to whisper in his ear. ‘I know who you are. I am sorry, but I can do nothing to help you.’

‘No, no, ’tis not help for me I seek.’

‘Where is your sister?’

‘She’s hiding, and I fear for her safety.’

Logie’s eyes widen. ‘You left her!’

Will leans in to explain, conscious that Logie is shaking his head as he listens.

‘I will do my best,’ Logie promises.

‘You won’t imprison her, she was never one of us – did not support us, ever.’ Will hopes the Lord will excuse a small falsehood, surely telling the location of the mine barely counted as support.

‘Have no fear, I will protect her,’ says Logie.

Will stares at the ground as Logie walks away. Then he lets out a sigh of relief, by God’s good heart Bethia should soon be safe.

Bethia lies hid in the rubble, caught between the soldiers patrolling on one side, and on the other, the long drop to the rocks below. Soon it’s so dark she can only see the soldiers by flickering torchlight. There is a breeze now; she’s shaking with cold and her instinct is to burrow deeper into the rubble for shelter. She shifts to escape a sharp edge pressing painfully into her cheek and sets small stones rattling down the slope. There are calls from below and torches waved. Someone starts to climb; her breath is so loud in her own ears she’s sure he must hear it. Then she can hear him breathing heavily as he comes closer, and closer. Another few steps and he’ll be upon her. There is a rumble, and he grunts as an avalanche of stones underfoot carries him away from her.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he calls to his fellows, but she lies rigid, for a long time.

The moon rises, a fingernail moon, giving a little light in a black sky, That’s good, Bethia, she tells herself, they won’t be able to see you. She doesn’t tell herself that she won’t be able to see her way. But although it is dark now, she knows the sun will soon return. She tucks her knees under her, resting on her forearms. It’s agony to move, and when she does fresh stones find new places to dig in. Slowly, stiffly, she crawls to the top and looks over. She can see the water, black and glistening below; is the tide on its way in or out? She can’t stay to find out; she must move or she’ll be here for another day: that or discovered.

She sits, whispering to herself, ‘the Virgin is with you, Our Mary loves and keeps you. Be brave Bethia, be strong.’ She says the last, and moves. She moves too vigorously and she’s sliding down the back of the rubble mound unable to find purchase. She’s at the edge of the cliff and about to go over. Somehow she digs in her heels, bracing to halt the slide before she tumbles onto the shoals way below. She lies on her back, clutching at the stones by her side, waves of fear pulsing through her, biting on her lower lip to stop herself from screaming, and then she can taste blood. She doesn’t think she can move.