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

‘Come on,’ Bethia, she whispers, over and over. She sits up slowly and tucks her skirt into her waistband as best she can. Turning, she grips with her fingers and searches with a flailing foot for the ledge she spied just below her. Finding it she edges along, it’s wider the further she goes. She kneels and drops down to the next long ledge and crawls along it; the sandstone is still warm from the heat of the sun earlier. In this way she descends until it’s not far to go. But now she’s stuck, where the cliff juts out over the sea, its base worn away by the waves. She lies along the ledge and peers over it. She can’t see any hand-holds, nothing to climb down with. She must lower herself, let go and trust that the water is not too deep. She crosses herself, sends a plea to the Virgin Mary and scrambles over the edge. She hangs until her fingers slip, nails tearing over stone, and then she is falling. She hits the water and sinks but there’s rocks below her; pushing up with her feet she gets her head out of the water, coughing and spluttering. The water is chest high, and, once she gets her breath, she moves forward, one step at a time over slippery stones. The sea-bed slopes upwards, and soon she is able to clamber onto another shoal of rock. She can hear the sound of water, trickling over the cliff behind her, above the susurration of the waves. She wants to stop and rest, but she knows she must keep moving. She slides into the next gulley but the water is deep here and she cannot feel the bottom. She’s shivering, and has lost all feeling in her clawed fingers – she tries but hasn’t the strength to pull herself up onto the rocks again.

Fighting to keep her head above water, coughing and choking, she’s sinking under when a rowing boat, following the narrow sliver of moonlight, appears. Perhaps it is Saint Andrew himself come to save her – but he’s too late; she slips under once more and does not come back up. A hand grasps her hair, then the back of her dress. She can hear his laboured breath as he tries to pull her into the boat. Do saints breathe, she wonders.

‘Kick, Bethia, kick hard or you’ll have us both in.’

Perhaps Saint Andrew is there, pushing from below, for somehow she finds the strength to give an almighty kick and suddenly she’s half in the boat, the man tumbling her legs in after. She rolls onto her back, coughing between taking in great gulps of air. When she finally stops choking and gets her breath she stares up at the scarred, red-bearded face staring down at her.

‘Gilbert Logie,’ she murmurs.

He leans on the oars, shaking his head slowly. ‘You are some lass.‘

‘How did you know where I was?’

‘I didn’t know for certain, but guessed you were likely to climb down when it got dark.’

‘You saw me hiding?’ She is confused. Surely if Gilbert saw her, then others will have too. She hauls herself upright and onto the plank seat. He takes off his jerkin and passes it to her and she wraps herself in it, the scent of male sweat comforting.

‘I’m sorry I was so late, nearly too late. I was unavoidably delayed by Arran.’

She can’t breathe again at the mention of the Regent.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To the harbour, unless you want me to tip you out here and you can try your luck in the sea once more.’

She shakes her head emphatically. She’d rather go to prison than get back into the cold, briny water.

‘What happens when we get to the harbour, what will you do with me?’

Gilbert doesn’t answer. He’s concentrating on manoeuvring around rocks.

She’s shivering violently still and slides off the seat and back onto the foot of the boat, finding herself sitting in a puddle of water; it’s preferable to being exposed to the breeze off the sea.

They reach the harbour entrance in silence. The French fleet is moored out in the bay some distance away, but there are a few ships at the quayside. He hesitates, unsure where to tie up. She is more and more baffled. She’s expecting to be handed over to a guard, and yet he seems to be trying to land unseen.

The quayside is quiet, although there’s activity at one ship where men move back and forth unloading barrels, and reloading others from one of the warehouses, torches lighting their way. They will be hurrying to sail as soon as the sun rises and catch the tide.

He rows gently, barely causing a ripple in the still water and they creep along the back of the ship. He’s taking her deep into the far corner of the harbour, away from torch-light and moonlight. They draw close to the quayside, he ships the oars and they glide alongside, where he catches the bottom of a ladder.

‘Stand up slowly,’ he says but she doesn’t move.

‘How did you know where I was? I am sure I was well hid.’

‘You were, I looked and could not see you.’

‘Will told you.’

‘Aye, your brother begged me rescue you.’

She nods, grateful to know that Will didn’t leave her entirely without help. She’s still baffled as to why he so impetuously joined his fellows, but she’s never understood his passion for Church reform, and why he would risk his own life to achieve it, however much it might be needed.

Gilbert holds the rowing boat tight against the metal ladder, while she rises unsteadily; but her hands are so cold she cannot grip the rungs. He is unable to help, all his energy on keeping the boat steady. Finally she gets a hold on the ladder, but with knees stiffly resistant to bending, she’s struggling to climb. Suddenly a face appears above and Gilbert is fumbling for the pistol tucked into his waistband.

‘Bethia…,’ the voice whispers, ‘is it you?’

‘Mainard?’ She collapses onto the seat and Gilbert lowers his pistol. ‘By God’s good grace, where have you come from?’

‘What do you do here, Bethia? Why the hiding?’

‘I will tell you all later, just please get me out of here – quickly and quietly.’

‘Wait,’ Mainard says, and disappears.

‘Who is he?’

‘He was a pilgrim from Antwerp, who once helped me.’

‘I don’t know what help he’s planning on giving now, but we must get out of this boat before we’re discovered, and by someone more dangerous.’

She’s positioning herself for the climb once more, when a rope comes uncoiling down. Gilbert grabs the end, ties it around her waist and then she’s climbing, with Mainard supporting her from above, her soaking skirts clinging tight making it even harder to lift each leg and wet hair plastered across her face making it difficult to see .

Gilbert quickly follows. Mainard has already removed his cloak, wrapping it tight around her, and hands Gilbert back his soaking jerkin. The two men jostle over who will see her safely home. She wants to tell Mainard he’s too late, she’s promised and about to be wed, but her teeth are chattering so much she can’t form the words.

In the end it is Gilbert who takes her through the postern, striding past the guards, to her home. Light is creeping over the roof tops as he knocks softly on the door. It opens and she’s handed over to Agnes, who exclaims loudly then as quickly covers her mouth. He nods and departs. Father’s head appears around the workroom door. He looks tired, as though he hasn’t slept all night. For a moment he cannot speak. He pulls Bethia into his arms and hugs her, even though she’s sodden.

‘Oh lass, my lass,’ he whispers. Then he holds her at arm’s length and a more familiar expression of annoyed weariness replaces the tenderness. ‘But what were you thinking, to go into the castle, of all places, and at such a time?’

She stares at the ground. She cannot speak for shivering.

‘Wheesht,’ says Agnes, ‘can ye no see the lassie’s dead on her feet?’ She guides her into the kitchen where Grissel is sat upon a stool topping and tailing blackcurrants. Grissel pauses hands raised above the bowl and shrieks in delight as she leaps to her feet, sending the bowl crashing and blackcurrants rolling across the floor. ‘Thank our blessed Virgin you are safe – but how did ye escape, how did ye get out?’