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

Gilbert’s at the front door, tugging it open. She catches his sleeve, saying softly, ‘please wait.’

He lets go of the door and turns to look down upon her. The light is dim and she cannot see his face properly.

‘Will you come into the kitchen?’ she asks. He follows her along the passage and stands waiting, head to one side. There’s a smell of burning from an unattended pot over the fire, but she ignores it.

‘I want to thank you for saving me. I would be dead in the sea now, if it were not for you. You have been a good friend, and especially when I most needed one.’

He bows. ‘It has been my pleasure, mistress.’

She twists a strand of hair with her finger, round and around. What can she say? And he is looking so kindly at her.

The silence grows and yet again he rescues her. ‘I will always wish you well, Bethia.’ He takes her hand, kisses it and leaves.

There is an empty space where he’s been. She stands doubting herself. Agnes bustles into the kitchen and shrieks when she sees the burning pot. Bethia goes slowly back along the passageway. John looks out piteously from his corner and she crouches down in front of him.

‘Don’t go, Bethia. Stay with us.’

‘I am sorry, John, I think I must.’

His lip quivers and he knocks her out the way, charging into the kitchen. There’s a shriek from Agnes and the crash of breaking crockery.

That evening Agnes and Grissel pack and fuss, fuss and pack while Bethia sits numb. John returns and leans against her legs, asking to go with her. She hugs him and he squirms away, kicking out, his face wet with tears.

When she’s finally tucked up in bed, bolster propped under her head and shoulders, Mother snoring softly at her side, she cannot sleep. Is she doing right?

She thinks of Gilbert’s scarred face, his soft red beard, his kind eyes and his sturdy body. She thinks of Mainard, young, tall and strong, and gives thanks she’s both willing and curious for a marriage bed shared with him.

Finally, she drifts off to a warm sleep.

Will is taking a look at his home. He can only see it by bending over the oar and laying across his knees to peer through between the oar locks. From this position he also sees red raw flesh spreading around his ankles already, from the chafing of the manacles.

He glimpses his nemesis, the Cardinal’s palace, thrusting out from the cliffs. When he thinks of what Beaton did to poor Wishart, the knot of anger still fills tight his empty belly. He knows they were right to kill Beaton, and he knows they were right to occupy the castle and defend the true word of Christ from the corruption of the clergy. He looks to Nydie sitting next to him, the shared oar resting in his lap, next to him John Knox, his long beard flung over his shoulder. Beyond Knox three others work the oar including that horse penis Carmichael. He reflects that being chained to the same oar as Peter Carmichael is the least of his worries.

His bare feet rest in a mix of sea water, piss and shit for they must defecate where they sit. Nydie is so close that neither can bend their arms fully and, as they are chained to the oars, it is impossible to lie down. Nevertheless he derives comfort from Nydie’s presence and great friendship.

The captain shouts in French and the captives look to one another, checking understanding. A sailor gestures. It is clear they are to begin rowing and, as they pick up speed, the waves splash over the sides soaking them – but so hot are they from the exertion, they scarce feel it.

How long is he to be chained here? Is it for months, years or the rest of his life? He does not know, for no sentence was given. Perhaps he has lost the Lord’s favour. Then Knox speaks and all becomes clear.

‘Let us remember we are fulfilling God’s great purpose.’

Will straightens up, as much as he is able.

‘The Lord punishes to provoke us to repentance. Suffering is an honour, not a trial – being a galley slave is as nothing to what George Wishart endured willingly. Our affliction is a communion with the passion of Christ, and a test of all the Castilians’ resolve.’

And I, for one, thinks Will, shall not be found wanting. He bends himself to the task Christ Jesus has set, and soon he can think of nothing else.

The sun is rising as Bethia leaves home, accompanied by Father. She has clung to Agnes, and said her farewells to Mother, who, much to Bethia’s surprise, congratulated her on making this match. John cannot be found, but Grissel dances behind, her face wreathed in smiles. The early morning sky is a purest cobalt blue of a hue no dye can perfectly achieve; the rays of sun reach towards her dazzling, and she has to half-close her eyes to pick her way over the cobbles. A halo of light surrounds her, as though the blessed Virgin approves her, and the choice she has made. The cathedral bells ring out, followed by the deeper tones of Holy Trinity and the more distant call from Greyfriars.

Mainard is waiting at St Mary’s on the Rock and they stand before the chapel door to make their promises to each other, in front of a priest. Father takes her arm to walk down the hill; reaching the quay, he nods to Mainard, gives her bags to a sailor and stands before her, while Grissel is helped on board.

Much to her surprise, Father presses a fat purse into her hand. ‘May God bless you, child.’ He rests his hand briefly upon her head, and turns quickly to leave, but not before she can see him blinking furiously.

The ship has already dropped below the quay as the tide flows out, and they will be grounded if they do not leave immediately. Mainard holds out his hand and they go on board.

The ship is rowed out, skirting the French fleet at anchor in the bay. There is a jolt as the sails are unfurled and they begin to pick up speed. She’s never seen her town from so far out to sea before. She feels a lump in her throat as she looks at the tall spires and tower of the cathedral pointing heavenward, the solid tower of St Rules with its wide spire, the stumpy tower of Holy Trinity and, reaching behind them all, the square turret of St Salvators. She can see small figures working atop St Salvators, no doubt removing the cannon which were hauled up there, with such effort, and wonders if the university will replace the spire that was taken down. She will write to Father and ask. She fingers the coin purse from him; curious that he gave the funds to her and not to Mainard.

The French galleys are raising anchor with much shouted instruction. Her brother will be on board and she hopes Arran is honouring his side of the agreement – safe transportation to France, and fair treatment once he’s there. No doubt Father, after much grumbling, will pay a ransom for Will’s release. If he does not then she will find a way.

There isn’t much left standing of this side of the castle, the damage worse than she realised and many of the nearby houses are in ruins. There’s the mound of rubble in which she hid for so many hours – it already seems a long time ago. Then, up by St Mary’s on the Rock, she spies a figure waving his cap. Quickly she unwraps her shawl and it streams out a farewell to her small brother. May God’s good heart watch over him.

A taller figure has come to stand next to him, placing his arm around John’s shoulders as they watch the departing ship together. She wishes Gilbert well, for he is a good man, and loyal with it. She looks to Mainard beside her, and hopes she has made the right choice. She knows so little of him and his family, and the life she’s going to; cannot even speak their language. What if his family do not like her? Thoughts flutter around her head like trapped butterflies and her heart flutters with them. She might never see her father again, or John, or Agnes – even Mother. Her chest feels tight, like she cannot get enough air. Be calm, Bethia, she mumbles to herself, you must be brave.