John Leslie, Peter Carmichael and James Melville draw back. There’s much whispering, then the hammerman and Carmichael leave, pushing past Will as they hurry down the turnpike of steps. They soon return carrying armfuls of straw and wood. It seems the Cardinal is to be imprisoned within a smokehouse, much like the haddock landed from the fishing boats. Will shudders. Nydie hisses that it’s justice for the Cardinal to burn, or it would be if only someone had remembered a means of lighting the fire.
‘You at the back,’ shouts John Leslie.
Everyone turns, including Will, but there’s no one behind him.
‘Yes, you, you glaikit lump,’ Carmichael roars.
He can feel his face flushing.
‘Get to the kitchens and fetch some embers.’
He opens his mouth to complain that he doesn’t know the location of the kitchens, or indeed any room in this great bishop’s palace, but thinks better of it. He runs down the winding stairs so fast he’s dizzy. He can’t think why Peter Carmichael has taken so agin him, roaring at him in front of his fellows? He’s done his part in the taking of the castle. He would have shed blood if it’d been necessary, although he is not entirely confident he could deliberately stab another of God’s creatures.
He steps out into the portico, hoping to quickly find the kitchens or indeed any room which might have a fire burning. The Cardinal will probably have one in his chamber, but he’s hardly likely to respond to a request for hot coals. He can see some of his fellows standing guard near the main gate, but otherwise the bailey is empty.
The courtyard is cobbled with a large well in the centre and is clearly regularly swept, since Will sees a broom lying, where the servant must have dropped it when he fled. To his right is the great hall, obvious by its long windows, to his left more high walls with stabling below them for horses, and a few hens perched upon its roof. The kitchens will be on the far side, away from any living quarters and the danger of setting them alight. He heads towards them.
He can hear shouting coming from the great hall, Norman Leslie and Kirkcaldy of Grange must be inside taking control. He slides through a narrow doorway, below an outer flight of wooden stairs, and twists down two or three stone steps. He can dimly see a hole in the floor with the trap door raised behind it, and peers over the edge. It’s a dark space, deep and dank smelling. He shivers and retreats. It’s most probably the infamous dungeon dug out of the rock and shaped like a bottle, where they’ll likely imprison Cardinal Beaton – once they’ve captured him.
In the corner tower, beneath the flight of wooden outer stairs, a door stands wide, and Will steps down onto the rough floor; no smooth flagstones here. It’s also dark, lit only by the small unglazed embrasures along the sea wall. A broad trestle runs the length of the arched cellar and Will can see signs of hasty departure – oatmeal spilt, a broken egg upon the table and a pot hung in the huge fire pit. He pokes at the heap of ashes uncovering a soft orange glow. Snatching up the scuttle, he shovels hot coals onto it. He moves quick as he can to return to his waiting fellows, arm outstretched to keep the burning heat away from his face.
John Leslie’s grim faces lightens when Will’s head appears.
‘At last, did you go to Hades itself?’ Carmichael calls.
But Will is too intent on blowing the coals to keep them alight to pay heed.
The straw takes quickly, the fire leaping high, and soon the wood they brought is burning merrily too. It’s a well-made door of good Scottish oak but the flames are licking it, creating long black scorch marks which rise higher and higher. Nydie, this time, is sent to fetch more wood to get the fire even hotter. Smoke is rising from the door, creeping up the turnpike and along the wooden roof timbers. If they feed the fire enough, not only will it burn through the door, but set the roof alight.
There’s a scraping noise from behind the door, then cries from within. A voice shouts, ‘leave the armoire in place, that is an order.’
The noise of someone pushing something heavy continues. They hear a ringing slap, even above the crackle of the fire.
John Leslie leans as close to the door as he safely can. ‘Give yourself up man, or it’ll go ill for you.’
‘Is that Norman?’ calls the Cardinal.
‘No, it is John, John Leslie.’
‘I will have Norman, for he is my friend.’
Leaning in to listen, Will thinks, Norman is not your friend, not anymore.
‘Content yourself with such as are here, there are no others.’
Will shivers, for Leslie’s voice is cold as a bucket of icy water tipped ower him.
‘I will open the door if you promise me safe passage,’ the Cardinal pleads.
There’s a snort of laughter from Carmichael, and Leslie raises his eyebrows, finger over his lips.
‘We promise you safe passage,’ says Leslie leaning into the door. ‘Safe passage to hell,’ he mutters to Carmichael, who smirks.
James Melville steps away from them. Will can see he disapproves of Leslie and Carmichael’s levity.
‘You will not kill me?’ Beaton asks, so softly Will strains to hear the words.
‘We will not kill you,’ Leslie says loudly.
They wait.
There’s a shuffling as the servant is presumably permitted to push the armoire aside and then the door is slowly unlocked. Leslie, Carmichael and Melville leap over the fire and rush into the room. Nydie follows, while Will and the hammerman kick the fire and stamp on the scattered embers. Will coughs and coughs on the smoke.
Chapter Eleven
Cardinal Beaton
Cardinal Beaton sits upright in his chair, hands holding his belly. He’s dressed in his red robes and even his cardinal’s hat, just as when he watched poor Wishart die from on high. Will rubs his watering eyes, thinking things might go better for Beaton if he wasn’t wearing these robes. The servant edges towards the door and Will blocks his exit.
Leslie and Carmichael stand before the Cardinal, who gazes at them. There’s a glint of steel and suddenly Leslie has a jagged edged whinger in his hand, and Carmichael is fumbling at his breeches to release his dirk. Will snorts as Carmichael struggles with his clothing. He covers his mouth with his hand, can’t believe that such a sound escaped him. Carmichael glances over his shoulder, glaring at Will.
Beaton’s expression changes from one of outraged hauteur to terror when Leslie points the whinger at his face. He flinches. ‘You promised!’
‘We make no promises to a viper,’ hisses Leslie and stabs at the Cardinal’s chest. Beaton raises his arm to protect himself and the point slices deep into his flesh. He screams, and Leslie tugs on the knife to release it.
‘I am a priest,’ shrieks Beaton, face twisted in pain, clutching the arm as the blood runs from under his sleeve to drip on the floor.
Leslie’s only response is to lunge again, and this time he hits the collar bone.
Will winces, puzzled; they’d agreed to take the Cardinal hostage, not kill him. Perhaps they intend only to maim, for surely he’s more use to their cause alive than dead? He does not want to watch an attack on Beaton, any more than he wanted to watch the slow burning of Wishart, but, yet again, he cannot draw his eyes away.
Carmichael’s finally freed his dirk and raises it high, stabbing down. Beaton tries to block the knife point with his uninjured arm. Leslie takes the opportunity to thrust his knife below the raised arm but the Cardinal hunches, protecting his heart. This time Leslie’s dagger bounces off Beaton’s ribs.
‘I am a priest, I am a priest! You cannot slay me.’