It seems to Will that the Cardinal is taunting them with his invincibility. Faces flushing in the fury of the kill, Leslie and Carmichael raise their daggers to stab again and again, for Beaton may be a cardinal but he cannot be allowed to believe he’s under God’s protection, not after the burning of Wishart and others too; that was the Devil’s work.
But before they can hack him to pieces James Melville awakes from his torpor and shouts. ‘Stop!’
Leslie and Carmichael both stop, Carmichael with his arm raised high, and stare at Melville. Beaton, hunched over, blood soaking his clothes, looks to his rescuer. Will looks to Nydie and his eye catches Beaton’s forgotten servant. He knows all three of them are waiting for an excuse to leave the slaughter.
‘This is not the way,’ Melville says. ‘The judgement of the Lord will be dealt out wisely, soberly and justly, not in an ill-managed frenzy.’
Carmichael lowers his dirk and yields to Melville. After a moment Leslie steps back too.
Beaton twists in his seat, holding his arm and pressing his elbow into his ribs to stem the bleeding. ‘You must protect me,’ he appeals to Melville. ‘I am a servant of God and he will reward you for saving his own.’
‘Don’t listen to him.’
Will looks around and is astounded to see it’s the Cardinal’s servant speaking.
‘You deserve to die,’ the servant hisses at Beaton.
The Cardinal glares back, clearly incensed that his servant should speak to him thus. ‘Get thee awa, Guthrie. You have failed to protect me and have no place here, nor ever will again.’
Guthrie stares at him, then hawks and spits. He pushes past the men and goes to leave the room. This time Will doesn’t stop him.
Beaton stares at the lump of yellow mucus defiling his red robes.
Carmichael raises his dagger once more, but Melville raises his hand. ‘Let all things be seemly in the sight of our Maker.’
Beaton looks up hopefully, but Melville shakes his head.
‘Careful, Cardinal, Prince of Darkness, you are on your way to the eternal fires of judgement. Do you repent of your wicked life, and especially of the shedding of the blood of that notable instrument of God, Master George Wishart?’
Melville doesn’t wait for a reply, but continues as though he is a preacher in the kirk delivering a disputation, such as the reforming priest Luther strongly advocates. Beaton, who had pulled himself upright in his chair, hoping Melville would release him, slumps again. He’s bleeding freely from his slashed arms and chest, blood pooling on the flagstones at his feet.
‘We are sent from God to revenge the death of his humble servant George Wishart. And here, before God, I protest, that neither the hatred of thy person, nor the love of thy riches, nor the fear of any trouble have moved me to strike you; but only because you have been and remain an obstinate enemy against Christ Jesus and his holy Evangel.’
The Cardinal shrinks further as Melville delivers a verdict on his wicked life, dwelling especially on the murder of innocents and his love of riches. Melville talks in loud sonorous tones, shouting as he reaches his crescendo. ‘How are the mighty fallen. Wicked pride lies humbled. God is not mocked. Priest of wickedness, REPENT!’
Still Will is expecting the Cardinal to be chained and thrown into the castle’s dank dungeon, to be tried later. He imagines Beaton being made to stand in front of them and plead his case as George Wishart did. Melville is too portentous, too full of his own righteousness and too dull to kill anyone. He can see that Beaton, although in considerable pain, is hopeful he will survive. They are both surprised when Melville, with the word repent still ringing around the chamber, takes his sword and runs Cardinal Beaton through.
He has no chance to even raise his arm in self-defence. He stares down at the sword protruding from his chest as Melville hauls it out and runs him through a second time. He falls forward over the sword and Melville has to press his foot into Beaton’s chest to free it. He topples to the floor, more blood gushing from his mouth.
They all stare down at the crumpled body.
Nydie turns and vomits on the floor, splashing Will’s legs with watery flux.
‘Get him out,’ instructs Melville, nodding towards Nydie.
Will takes James by the arm and leads him quickly away. Norman Leslie appears at the foot of the stairs, and glowers at them, for James’s face is a sickly pallor and Will suspects his own is a similar hue.
‘Is he dead?’
They nod.
‘Hah, you lads have not the stomach for men’s work,’ Norman says derisively.
Will grimaces, thinking Leslie has no right to criticise, having stayed well away from the killing and left his Uncle John to oversee the foul deed. Will realises that Leslie knew Beaton would be killed and feels a flush of rage to have been led astray.
‘I thought the Cardinal was to be tried?’
Norman Leslie ignores him, calling up to his fellows. ‘The townsfolk have gathered outside and we should declare to all we are now in control of the castle.’
Will notices he doesn’t climb the stairs, nor enter the room.
They all run up to the parapet to look down at the crowd below. Will hangs back. Hidden by the line of the roof rising steeply above, he peeps out watching the crowd far below. He doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want to be associated with the killing, is already ashamed of his part in it.
‘The evil slayer of George Wishart is dead,’ Norman Leslie shouts to the crowd.
There’s silence and then a common intake of breath.
‘Whaur’s the body?’ calls a fishwife and the crowd take up the call chanting, ‘show us the body!’
Leslie stands back from the parapet and consults with his fellow leaders. Will can see Kirkcaldy speaking angrily and violently shaking his head, but it looks as if he’s been over-ruled. Will ducks down in the doorway to make sure he’s not commanded to carry the bloodied body of the Cardinal up all these stairs. Four men less quick on the uptake are sent and half drag, half carry the now naked Beaton. The blood runs from the wounds, leaving a trail of red, the colour of the Cardinal’s robes, across the mellow sandstone. The body has been slashed many more times after Will left the chamber and the guts tumble from the belly. They hang it over the parapet by an arm and a leg, for all to see.
Norman Leslie addresses the crowd. ‘He was Archbishop of St Andrews, the Pope’s appointed leader in Scotland, Bishop of Mirepoix in France, Counsellor to James V and Chancellor to the young Queen’s regency, yet all his grandiosity has not saved him from a well-deserved end. Take heed, for our Lord is not mocked.’
Will is watching, fists pressed into his cheeks, but worse is to come. Beaton’s servant, that foul creature Guthrie, climbs upon the parapet and, fumbling in his breeches, he releases his stream upon the Cardinal’s body, angling so as to fill the dead open mouth.
Part Two
Bethia
June to October 1546
Chapter Twelve
Gaining Entry
John is disappointed he missed it. He wants Bethia to tell him the story again and again: how the body was hung, how the blood fell, how the piss ran down the dead Cardinal’s face and dripped into his mouth and how his shit-smeared legs dangled weak as a new born calf. Next day, as soon as Father leaves the house, John runs out to stare up at the castle but the body has gone; only a bright streak of red across the yellow stone marks where it hung. Bethia’s relieved when John doesn’t ask any more; it’s all too grim to speak of, especially when she considers Will’s involvement. She should’ve stopped him; oh, how she wishes she had.