Father nods. ‘That makes sense.’
‘Where is yon son of yours? He’d be a right one to help lead a troop of townsfolk?’ Wardlaw leans forward and stares intently at Father.
Bethia’s pouring the malmsey carefully into the best pewter cups and her hand shakes so much she spills some on the board.
‘Take care,’ growls Father, but she can see he’s glad of the diversion.
‘Will is frae home,’ he says, ‘gone to my sister Jennet’s in Edinburgh.’
She gulps, she can feel the sweat running down her back even though there’s no fire lit in the grate.
‘In Edinburgh? Why so far when he’s wanted?’
Father shrugs, ‘I need him to learn his trade, none better than Jennet and her husband to teach him.’
She’s surprised to hear such praise heaped upon her aunt and uncle; it’s not how Father normally speaks of them.
‘If we’re to form a troop, then the town council must make a tax. All the burghers must contribute.’
Father grows red-faced. ‘It’s no time since I paid a tax for the planting of trees and now you’re asking for more siller. I’m no giving it.’
They argue back and forth while Bethia lingers in the background. She catches Fat Norman’s eye and he smiles at her, then, hunching his shoulders, he returns to gazing at his hands. She’s thinking about how peculiarly sweet Norman’s smile is, when she becomes aware that Walter Wardlaw is watching her while Father is talking; indeed he is stroking around his codpiece, while he stares. He’s revolting, she thinks, and he should consider that wearing such a large codpiece looks ridiculous. He sees her watching and smirks but she looks away, head held high.
Eventually the Wardlaws leave having failed to get Father’s agreement to pay out any of his hard-earned money. She almost feels sorry for Provost Learmonth – if all his burgesses respond as Father does, then there’ll be no local militia. But perhaps that’s what he wants, otherwise he’d have made it an order and not a request. She remembers the stories that run around the town: of how the Learmonths think the leadership of the council is theirs by right and not the elected post it’s supposed to be; of how Learmonth’s uncle is said to have arranged the murder of one of the previous incumbents to ensure the family held onto the provostship. Her mind drifts to Walter Wardlaw, although she would prefer not to think on him at all. He is a disgusting man, but Norman seems of a kindlier temperament. Nevertheless, she hopes he’s not considering her as a replacement bride, and then she smiles at her foolishness. Father wouldn’t marry her to him, and Mother would certainly never agree.
Father strides up and down while she reflects. He stops, looks at her and sighs. ‘It’s as weel done now,’ he mutters and leaves the room. He’s gone for less than the time between bells.
‘I’m sorry lass,’ he says, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her head to look up at him as she sits quietly upon the settle. ‘I’ve tried myself but it will not work. I can think of no other way to do the thing discreetly.’
She waits for him to blurt it out.
‘We must get Will out of the castle – he’ll see sense when he knows Arran is coming with his troops – and we must do it before then. I cannot do it without all the town knowing that my boy’s inside. And it is of much greater risk to our safety as a family for me to be seen entering the castle, even by boat, than you. You managed to quietly gain entry once, do you think you can do it again?’
‘Yes, Father.’ She feels her heart lift in excitement and has to stop herself from rushing out the door. Better to go in the early morning as before, but she hasn’t accounted for the weather – and Agnes.
Chapter Sixteen
Searching
The rain hasn’t stopped for days. People scurry around the town, heads bent doing the tasks they must, and then retreat inside. Fires are lit as though it is winter, not July, and the smoke hangs heavy in the thick damp air. Bethia, holed up in the house, goes frequently to Agnes asking, then pleading, for her to arrange the boat trip.
Agnes shakes her head. ‘Don’t be daft, you’ll be half-drowned before you reach the castle. Anywise, Geordie’s from home and his wife doesn’t ken where he’s gone.’
Bethia stares at her.
‘Don’t you glower at me, lassie. I’ve wiped your nose, and your arse, more often than you’ve had hot dinners.’
She looks down the wiped nose at Agnes and leaves the room, in what she hopes is a dignified silence.
‘Cheeky besom,’ Agnes mutters.
She turns in the doorway. ‘I heard that. Maybe Mother’s right, and it is time we had new servants.’
‘Aye, and maybe it’s time Grissel and me found ourselves a better position, one where our hard work is appreciated.’
‘Oh, Agnes, ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she says, putting her arms around Agnes’s bony body.
‘Get away with you,’ says Agnes, but Bethia can see she’s touched – and presses her advantage.
‘Please help me, please.’
Agnes’s face grows stern. ‘Get out of my kitchen. I told you my brother’s not home and I’ll let you know when he returns.’
A further proclamation comes from Stirling declaring Norman Leslie, Master of Rothes, a traitor.
‘Bloody fools,’ says Father. ‘That’ll no get him to come out. The lairds will fight all the harder to hold the castle, and Wardlaw is also telling that Regent Arran’s son is excluded from the royal succession while he’s held hostage.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s second in line to the throne, after Arran, who’s the grandson of James the Second’s sister. Ach, these royals don’t survive well and, although they produce a wheen of bastards, they’re always short on legitimate heirs. Arran’s laddie has a good chance of being king, between the frailty of infants, and the amount of warring his father’s doing with they English butchers aye at our door. This’ll take the wind out of the garrison’s sails, for King Henry of England will no be so willing to rescue them if Arran’s son is no longer such a prize.’
‘Do you think King Henry will come to their aid?’
Father sniffs. ‘If he sees an advantage – and getting his hands on Young Arran was that – but not so much now.’
The garrison of lairds have held the castle for six weeks and, no doubt supplies are running low after the extravagant feasting on the Cardinal’s stores, and they are swaggering out ever more frequently, unhindered, in search of more. They roam widely taking what they want by force, destroying where they’re resisted and sometimes where they’re not. Regardless of the weather, no one wants to go about in case they meet a group of these men, who think they’re entitled to whatever they can take.
‘For all as though they command the town, as well as the castle,’ says Walter Wardlaw, when he speaks to Father. This time he is demanding, not asking, for funds to raise a troop. ‘It is foolish, many in the town sympathised after what the Cardinal did to Wishart, but no more. Regent Arran is still dragging his heels even though Dumbarton Castle is now taken – and we can look to France all we want, but word is that the Queen Mother is getting nae response to her appeals for aid. King Francois recently signed a peace treaty with England and is unwilling to breach it – though he had no qualms about breaking the long-held alliance with Scotland by cosying up to the English. There’ll be no help coming from the French.’
Wardlaw pauses, and watching from the settle Bethia sees him considering whether to speak his mind, then he shrugs. ‘Of course the provost and I were not without sympathy for the cause these Castilians espouse, but they’ve no respect for the town. We cannot stand by and let them bleed us.’