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

Bethia rests the book on her lap, its weight heavy across her knee. Head bent, she follows each line with her finger, lips moving, stumbling occasionally over a word as she translates. A thick lock of hair falls forward and she tucks it back into the ribbon, then tilts the book to catch the brief shaft of early spring sunshine seeping through the thick glass. A door slams, echoing through the house and her hand jerks, tearing the paper. She stares at the small rip, face flushing and then smooths it with shaking fingers. Perhaps Father won’t notice.

Standing on the settle she opens the window and leans out in time to catch a glimpse of her brother disappearing around the corner. John’s supposed to be studying his Latin, not allowing her the indulgence of reading alone, and Father ordered them to stay indoors. She’s the eldest and he’ll be angry with her – but it’s John who’ll get the thrashing.

She slips down the stairs, the smell of boiled cabbage stronger the lower she goes. The front door sticks, screeching over small stones and scraping white streaks across the flagstones.

‘Bethia, come and give your obedience to Lady Merione,’ Mother calls.

She flees instead, the freed door banging shut behind her. Lifting her skirts she hurries along the street, ridges of mud hard beneath her soft slippers – foolish to forget to put on her pattens, but thanks be the ground is dry.

She doesn’t look back in case Mother has come to the door, but turns down the pend towards the harbour. John is most likely headed there. He’s forever clamouring to watch the ships come in, talk to the sailors and hear tales of mountainous seas and distant lands.

Mother doesn’t like it when he goes there. ‘An eight year old is the perfect age to be taken as a cabin boy.’

‘They’re welcome to him,’ says Father, ‘but any fool can see John is of good family.’

‘That’s all fine and well, as long as John’s with you, but alone he can easily be spirited away and no one will know until the ship is long sailed.

Bethia lifts her skirts higher, thankful Mother can’t see her, and runs lightly down the hill. The wind blows chill off the grey sea, whipping across the water with a promise of snow. Shivering, she drops her skirts, tugging the shawl over her head. There’s only one ship tied up harbourside amidst the cluster of small fishing boats.

‘Where are ye going, my pretty blue-eyed lass?’

She jumps, turning around, skirts tangling, to find the source of the words. A sailor sitting astride the bow of the quayside ship, bare feet swinging, beckons. ‘Come awa here and keep me warm.’

When he sees her startled face he grins, the few remaining teeth rotten stubs in his open mouth. She dips her head and hurries past, his laughter following her.

The harbour is deserted; no fishwives selling today’s catch, nor any of their half-starved bairns either. There was plague recently in nearby Dundee when hundreds died; people didn’t go about much then, but that has passed. Where is everyone, and where is John?

She looks over her shoulder; the sailor’s still watching her. Reaching the end of the quayside, she clambers breathlessly up the steep steps to St Mary’s on the Rock, the stones on the path sharp through her thin soled slippers. She touches the chapel wall with her fingertips and brings them to her lips; Mary, mother of Jesu protect and watch over John, indeed over both her brothers.

Her instinct is to hurry and find people, but she makes herself go slowly for she must tread the path with care as it narrows. The cliff edge is close; she can hear the low rumble of waves below. On her other side is the high wall which encircles the cathedral, built to venerate the bones it holds from the blessed body of Saint Andrew. She thinks of all the pilgrims who come to her city seeking comfort; and feels comfort herself to live in such a holy town as St Andrews.

There’s a murmur of voices ahead as she passes through the postern and draws nearer to the castle. The sound grows harsher like the cawing of crows, and the smell assails her; a familiar stink of dirt and latrine that aye accompanies a crowd. They’re in front of the castle; so many people, as if on a fair day or a street performance of the mystery plays, but this is no joyous gathering. People are muttering to one another as they stare at something. She stands on tiptoe, shifting from one foot to the other, but she cannot see.

They fall silent and she clutches her shawl with clammy fingers. There’s a flare of light and the soft whuff of explosive. The crowd shifts with a collective sigh and a gap opens. She glimpses a pyre of wood with a man upon it, a rope around his neck and a chain wrapped tight around his chest, binding him to the stake at its centre. She touches hand to mouth, eyes wide as the flames flicker, unhurriedly creeping towards him. He stands tall, yet cannot help but flinch – and the fire so paltry that it will take many hours for him to die.

Bethia’s seen hangings before at the Mercat Cross, the bodies swinging in the wind for days, and the occasional ear or tip of the nose sliced off. Although they are quick, a just punishment for thieves and vagabonds, she always looks away, sickened by the blood and fear – and the watching crowd’s excitement. She stares at this man, gripping and loosening her fingers, a rushing noise in her ears and her bones gone soft as calf-foot jelly.

She’s about to creep away when she glimpses John’s yellow-red hair and small freckled face beyond the fire. His eyes are wide as he peeps out from between two of the town burghers; a couple of fat sentinels, arms folded, observing the scene with expressions of satisfaction.

Making her way through the crowd towards him, she’s jostled as people push and shove to see, and finds herself funnelled towards the fire. The heat is puny as it smoulders and smokes, but a sudden gust of wind fans the flames setting them leaping. She’s uncomfortably close now and afraid of being burned herself.

The man at the stake looks down upon her; there’s an innocence about him, despite his black beard. This must be George Wishart; her brother Will has heard him preach. Father was very angry, but Will said Wishart spoke the true word and is a man full of God’s grace. That made Father even angrier. She wonders why Wishart returned to Scotland instead of staying safely abroad like a sensible man – perhaps he’s chosen a martyr’s death. He may regret it now: the rope binding his neck to the pole is twisted tight so that he strains against it, a slow throttling – and the skin on his legs is sizzling, like roasting pig.

Pushing blindly she stumbles to the edge of the crowd and leans over, hands resting on her knees as the bile rises. She swallows it, bitter and stinging down her throat, only standing up when she can breathe again. There are soldiers in front of her, faces grim and weapons at the ready. They guard the gateway to the castle, but are also pinioning the townsfolk around the fire, no doubt to make sure everyone stays to watch the burning – and takes heed. It will be difficult for her to escape home, even if she can get hold of John. Standing, uncertain, she’s biting down on her lip when someone grabs her shoulder. She flinches, heart thumping, and twists to get free, but the hand grips all the tighter.