Geordie shouts and after a few moments a face peers through the bars of the yett. He sniffs, ‘They must be thinking God is keeping watch for them, since they’re no bothering.’
‘Bethia Seton, what are you doing here?’
She sees James of Nydie’s blonde head and frowning face looking down.
‘Is there a way up, I need to speak with Will.’
‘There is a ladder but it’s not an easy climb.’
‘I’ll manage,’ she calls, voice quivering.
A rope ladder is unravelled and hangs, swinging in the breeze. Geordie grabs the end of it and she goes to step on.
‘Wait,’ cries James and a rope comes slithering down. ‘Tie it around you.’
Up she goes, the ladder swaying and banging off the cliff. She keeps her eyes fixed on the uneven rock close to her face, so close in places that her nose and knees bump off it, and her knuckles scrape over it. Her breathing is loud in her ears, fluttering and panicked, but she’s grateful to James for the rope, doesn’t think she could have done it otherwise.
‘Ye’d better no be long,’ Geordie shouts, as she’s crawling through the gate. ‘If the tide gets too far out the boat will be stuck till it rises again.’
She waves a hand in acknowledgement as James helps her up. Then she’s passing through the yett and into darkness. The stone feels uneven beneath her feet, it must be the servants area, perhaps the cellars and store rooms. There’s a doorway at the end; the door is ajar and a shaft of light illuminates the vaulted ceiling. They pass through into a large courtyard and, in front of her, is the portico.
The painter, Antonio, has talked of the porticos of his Firenze and of the graceful stone arches which are a walk-way providing cool shelter from their hot sun. She is sure this one is as beautiful as any in Florence, although Antonio says in Scotland a castle portico only gives shelter from the rain. A pretty folly, he calls them, and perhaps he’s right, as the rain, which had held off for her passage, is now splashing onto the cobbles.
Above the portico are tall windows rich with coloured glass, probably the chapel. She wonders if the Cardinal’s body is laid out there, although it will stink by now. Perhaps they’ve preserved it in salt like Agnes does to keep the beef after the autumn killings. No, more likely they saved the precious salt, and tossed the Cardinal’s remains into the sea.
There is a tug on her arm, and she’s brought back to herself.
Chapter Thirteen
The Regent’s Son
‘Bethia, what brings you here? It’s not safe.’
‘Will, at last.’ She touches his arm. ‘Thanks be to Mary, you are safe,’ she looks him over, ‘and seem unharmed.’
He steps back. ‘Of course I’m unharmed. We barely had to raise a sword and they were pissing themselves and begging to be let go. We made them strip and run out, naked as they came into the world.’ He gives a bellow of laughter in the telling which sounds overloud to her ears.
‘I saw,’ she says, brushing the hair out of her eyes.
They move to shelter beneath the overhang of the great hall roof, for the rain is falling steadily now, like an old grey cloak. He stands with his feet wide apart, arms akimbo but he is such a boy that his beard is a fluff upon his chin.
‘You must come home with me now, Father is angry.’
‘So,’ he shrugs.
‘He’s worried, so worried he paces night and day. You know how Father can pace.’ She stutters over the words in her anxiety.
But Will’s not to be mollified. ‘I will stay with my friends,’ he says, thrusting out his chest. ‘I cannot creep away like a scared lassie.’
She steps back. ‘The friends who murdered the Cardinal.’
He looks at the ground, shuffling his feet.
‘Please tell me you had no part in his death.’
Before he can reply, two men appear at his side.
‘Who’s this, young Will?’
Will dips his head and introduces her. She recognises Norman Leslie, Master of Rothes, and the smaller and more handsome, who’s named as Peter Carmichael, also looks familiar. Both men bow and she’s forced to hold out her hand, conscious that the wind has made a wild tangle of her hair, for them to give their obeisance, which they do. Then she’s angry with herself; she doesn’t want killers kissing her hand. Yet she is relieved that they treat her courteously and not like the ruffians who shouted the other day – although she thinks Carmichael, who has his eyes fixed upon her chest, might have been among them. She pulls her jacket close around her.
‘’Tis better you leave here. Let me escort you to the gate,’ offers the Master of Rothes.
She doesn’t want to leave, not until she’s had a chance to speak with Will some more – and she certainly doesn’t want to leave by the main gate, for all the town to see, even if she didn’t have a boat waiting.
‘There’s family business. I must speak with my brother,’ she mumbles.
The man smiles and she can see understanding in his eyes.
‘Then we will leave you.’ Bowing, he turns and walks out into the rain with his companion by his side.
‘They say it is Norman Leslie who murdered the Cardinal.’
‘Then they are wrong,’ says Will. ‘Norman Leslie wasn’t even there, although that puffed-up toad Carmichael was. Leslie is a great man, especially for one so young. It was Leslie’s Uncle John who struck first…,’ he stammers, ‘…or so they say.’
Her eyes widen. ‘You saw it?’
Will looks around the courtyard and doesn’t reply.
‘Anyway, never mind that,’ she says, for she’s not here to argue about the killing, it’s too late for that. She grasps his sleeve. ‘Please come home. They’ll send troops soon and you’ll all be hung, or worse.’ She feels the clench of fear, remembering Wishart’s gentle face and the smell of burnt flesh. She hopes Will understands that she’s not only here as their father’s proxy, but also for love of him, her brother.
‘Come, Bethia, let me show you. You’ll see, we Castilians shall not be so easily got out.’
She hesitates. Agnes’s brother won’t wait long below, between the tide, and now the rain filling the boat, but curiosity gets the better of her. She’s a merchant’s daughter and, as such, is unlikely ever to see inside this bishop’s palace again.
He takes her first to the Cardinal’s apartments and she is left gasping: the cloying smell of perfumes in his armoires; his clothes of violet camlet; the yellow velvet cassock slashed and pulled out with white tinsel sarcenet; the ermine-lined tunics; the red damask sandals; his four poster bed hung with red taffeta; the French lace and Antwerp silver plate; the brightly painted panels far more ornate than anything Antonio has created for their home; the chairs with the Cardinal’s coat of arms carved on their backs and the emblem of his house picked out in cross stitch on the seats.
‘He even had an upholsterer in his employ,’ Will says.
‘He lived like a King,’ she says, eyes big with wonder.
‘Norman Leslie says he lived better than any King; that the Church is richer than the Crown.’
Will takes her everywhere, even to the stores.
‘Fourteen barrels of eels from Loch Leven,’ he says, standing among them, now opened and empty. He kicks as a rat runs over his foot. ‘There were wines from Bordeaux,’ he waves towards an empty wine rack, ‘which we have much enjoyed.’