Chapter Two
Escape
‘Heavens Will, let go! Why so rough?’
Will releases her and glares. ‘What are you doing here, Bethia? This is no place for you; what’ll Father say?’
‘I doubt he’ll be any happier to know you’re here.’
Her brother draws himself up to his full height. Although he’s a year younger, he’s grown recently: long legs and long arms, but scraggy with it.
‘I’m a man. ’Tis fitting I am here, but you must go home.’
She snorts. ‘I’m fetching John, he’s somewhere over there.’ She waves her hand vaguely.
‘Come!’ He gets hold of her, by the arm this time, gripping it tightly as though expecting resistance. But before she can shake him off, the preacher speaks and Will lets go.
‘This flame is troubling to my body but hath in nowise broke my spirit,’ he shouts hoarsely, eyes staring up at the castle.
All heads swivel to look. Silk banners hang from its windows as though it is a holy day; she tips her head back to stare up, and sees the tips of cannons poking out from the battlements. The helmets of the soldiers standing by them are visible too, no doubt ready to fire into the crowd should there be any attempt at rescue.
‘Aye, there he is, and wearing the crimson robes.’ Will points.
Standing at the tall window above is Cardinal Beaton, in his full regalia, stroking the pointed beard on his long chin as he watches the scene below. The crowd mutters angrily, for it is the Cardinal who leads the Council that condemned the preacher.
‘’Tis a fine thing to wear those clothes; easy to show he will defend the faith unto death, when it is someone else’s death,’ Will shouts. ‘He maun take care for it may be his own next. That would be a true display of his faith.’
People turn to stare, some nodding in agreement but most looking fearful that he should speak so openly. Bethia tugs on his sleeve.
‘Hush Will, stop this heretical talk, or they’ll take you too.’
He knocks her hand away, still staring at the Cardinal. She sees he has all but forgot her. Whatever is going through his head she doesn’t care. She must find young John and leave.
She turns around, seeking the landmark of the two fat burgesses and stumbles into a soldier, jumping in fear as he catches her. He lets go as soon as she steadies and, by his manner of dress and air of authority, she sees he is an officer.
He nods his head towards the close behind. ‘Get thee away home, lass.’
‘I must find my young brother first.’
‘He’s here?’ the soldier asks, eyebrows raised.
‘Aye, I saw him.’
‘Show me.’
She studies him. He has a long scar running down one side of his face, the skin red and puckered; it’s lucky the sword missed his eye. Yet, he has a stocky solidity that is reassuring.
He follows her as she ducks behind the two portly men, but John has disappeared. She turns, catching sight of his back as he slips away, and points. The officer leaps forward grabs John, who tries to wriggle out of his jerkin, while the burghers complain loudly about being knocked aside. They fall silent when they see the officer.
He snatches John up and John kicks wildly, opening his mouth to howl, but she rushes forward and clamps her hand over it.
‘Wheesht, or the soldiers will take you.’
He glowers at her, but stops kicking.
‘Will ye be still?’ the officer asks.
He nods his head; after a moment he is carefully lowered to the ground, and Bethia grabs his hand.
‘I’ll divert my men,’ the officer whispers, leaning so close she can count the individual hairs of the red beard springing from his chin. ‘Once I do, you maun take this errant knave…,’ he grins down at John who stares back, sticking his lower lip out, ‘…and run fast as you can down the close between the houses. I take it that a lady such as yourself can run?’
She sniffs, then realising he’s making fun of her, nods, gripping John’s hand tightly. But there’s no need for a diversion.
The preacher is gasping in pain. He shouts a hoarse warning at the Cardinal. ‘He who proudly looks down upon me shall soon be thrown down himself.’
The Cardinal raises his hand as though to signal, but, before he can drop it, there’s an explosion. The flames dance high lighting up the grey day, while those closest to the fire shriek and push to escape.
Bethia draws John to her and huddles beside the officer.
He pats her shoulder. ‘It was the gunpowder hung around the preacher’s neck exploding. Cardinal Beaton does have compassion, whatever people may say. It was he who made sure plenty was used, so the burning would be over quick.’
The smell of cooked flesh has her swallowing hard.
‘Go now,’ he says, waving his hand in the direction of the close as he watches the pyre.
Dragging a reluctant John, she flees past the gawking soldiers, down the vennel, across Northgait and into the deserted Mercatgait. There she pauses taking in deep breaths of smoke-free air. A smirr touches her face and she looks up to the sky gratefully, although the Lord has sent too little rain too late to save his faithful servant George Wishart.
John tugs his hand out from hers. ‘Let me go. I wanted to see. I’m going back, you can’t stop me.’
‘Don’t be foolish. Do you want Father to find out and whip you?’
John considers, head bent and kicking at the cobblestones. ‘Anyways you’ll get a skelping from Mother if she sees you’ve been out in the streets wearing only slippers.’
She smirks, he knows she’s too old for whippings, then her smile fades.
‘We will both be in much trouble if Father finds out we disobeyed him and left the house.’
They cross the street and John reaches out to take her hand again.
‘The man, he took it bravely. Why do they do such a wicked thing to him?’
She sighs. ‘He translated the Helvetic Confession of Faith into English, among other things.’
‘A book is a reason to burn someone?’
She squeezes his hand. ‘You think it torture enough to be made to read, don’t you?’
John nods, his head bobbing like a duck on the sea. Then his lower lip wobbles.
‘He had a kind face. When his executioner kneeled before him to beg forgiveness, the preacher told him to stand; he kissed the executioner upon the cheek and said he forgave him. But the executioner still tied the noose tight around his neck and chained him to the stake.’ John rubs his eyes hard. Then he brightens. ‘It was a grand explosion. Did you see the flames, and how people jumped for the fire was singeing them? All of his body bursted apart – I saw a bloody arm fly through the air!’
She swallows again. ‘Enough, John. Let’s leave the poor man, knowing his torment is over and pray he is at peace. Come, we’ll go around the back and in by the byre.’
‘Can I stop and speak to the cows?’
She shakes his arm. ‘No, you cannot, we must hurry.’
They rush in through the kitchen door startling a flushed Agnes as she bends over her cooking pots; the heat of this fire is welcome after the chill outside. Bethia brushes down her skirts, smooths her hair and takes off her slippers. She dampens a cloth, rubbing hard to remove a boot print from the pink silk.
Agnes shakes her head. ‘Ye canna save they now, lassie.’
‘I fear you’re right.’
She gives up and slips them back on, tucking her feet under her skirts. She’ll have to take small steps to hide the toes.
She comes slowly into the hall, John following so closely he’s treading on her skirt. The door closes behind them and they stand listening in the dim passageway. All is quiet – maybe Father isn’t home yet. She takes a step forward, poised to run upstairs.