‘What is unclear for you, young Seton?’ Lee asks rubbing his forehead. ‘Spit it out, for I would not have someone as important as you confused.’
He ignores the slight, for he very much wants to understand. ‘How will us tunnelling out stop them from tunnelling in? We will simply create a route for all to access the castle.’
‘Ah, not such a stupid question. It is down to the skill of the siege engineer, and you are fortunate in having a greatly experienced one before you.’ Lee makes Will a courtly bow. ‘It is vital that we countermine with all possible speed for we must reach them before they are beneath our walls, which means we must go to work – harder and faster. Though I could wish it was not rock we had to dig through, for I do not know how successful we can be,’ he mutters to himself as he turns, swerving to avoid Balnaves who has come to listen.
‘We must remember,’ Balnaves says, his voice booming around the courtyard, ‘that Arran is a whiffle-whaffle. I never saw a man who has so much difficulty in making up his mind; if he agrees with you at dinner, he’ll be agin you by nightfall. We must not dig blindly, but frequently stop and listen to ascertain if his men are indeed at work.’
Lee raises his eyebrows. ‘Naturally,’ he says. ‘Now, Balnaves , you must excuse me for I have not the time for idle chatter.’
Will and Nydie glance at one another, smothering smiles, but it’s the last time for many days they have anything to smile about.
The work is relentless. They dig straight down for around twenty feet, occasionally using small amounts of explosive to help them along, and then Lee announces they are in the wrong place. He moves them only a short distance inside the guardroom, and they start again, still by no means certain it’s the right place to intercept their attackers – or that they have even begun a siege tunnel. Nevertheless Lee will brook no rest.
Will knows he has it easy in comparison to the miners, but his hands are cracked, the skin tight and claw-like making it difficult, as well as painful, to lift the buckets full of rubble, and all made worse by his body still aching from the beating he took. They break only for a short daily service, gathering to stand in the courtyard, for the chapel is too small to contain them all. Their preacher John Rough was, by a strange twist of fate, recently private priest to Regent Arran – when Arran had his godly fit and leaned towards Protestantism and reform. As soon as Cardinal Beaton held his inquisition and turned Arran back to the Papists, Rough had to flee. Will, standing at the back, sways then jerks awake, thinking it’s no wonder Arran didn’t continue down the Protestant path, with Rough as his guide. He may be an earnest, right-thinking man, but his grasp of doctrine is woolly.
He detaches himself from the group, and slinks into the chapel instead. It’s a peaceful place, although considerably barer now the rich hangings have been removed. He sits on the massive chair that would once, no doubt, have been the Cardinal’s, head resting in his hands. The sound of voices comes from outside, the service must be finished and he cannot tarry. He spits on his hands, hauls up his breeches and goes back out, wondering how much longer he can keep this up.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Moonstruck
Will and Nydie are called away from their work to speak with Balnaves and Leslie. Will scrubs his face, the water stinging the cuts in his hands, before they climb the stairs to the Cardinal’s chamber like old men, hands pressed to their lower backs.
‘Lee wants the stone cutters brought from your father’s lands,’ says Leslie to James.
‘Although we still have no certainty Arran is tunnelling,’ says Balnaves, gazing out of the window.
Leslie sighs. Will and James wait, eyes on the floor.
‘Nydie lands border the River Eden, do they not?’ Leslie asks.
James nods.
‘Then it is best to go by boat.’
‘Aye, and that may prove difficult since our boat was destroyed,’ says Balnaves turning from the window.
‘And if you went by a boat,’ says Leslie, as though Balnaves had not spoken, ‘which we will acquire, and into the Eden Estuary, you may also go to Erlishall Castle, and get supplies.’
‘That is assuming the Mountquhanys have supplies and at least one more boat in which to carry them. It is wild lands at Tents Muir, caught as they are between the Eden and the Tay.’
‘I think you’ve swallowed a bucket of gloom today, Balnaves,’ says Leslie.
Will can’t help but grin, although it disappears when Leslie turns those protruding eyes on him.
‘You must know the harbour here well.’
Will gulps, Bethia knows the harbour far better than he. One of the many reasons he’s reluctant to go to his father’s warehouse, is the permanent stench of fish around the harbour – and he avoids Fishergate, with its stinking middens full of rotting fish guts, as much as is possible.
Leslie doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You must get a boat from the harbour and bring it here.’
Will’s mouth falls open.
‘You may need to swim to get to there, for you’ll need to leave by the sea yett. We are too well watched to get out through the gates, and Arran’s troops patrol the gardens now too.’
‘Well, if do this we must,’ says Balnaves, ‘although I still have my doubts about the need for miners, and it means more mouths to feed, then send this lad alone – he’s less likely to be noticed. Young Nydie here can save his strength for the trip to his family’s lands, once we have a boat.’
Leslie rubs his chin, mouth pursed. Will is more than willing to be of a party for he desperately wants a break from mining, to get out of the crowded castle and breath some clean air, and especially to get away from Carmichael, but he doesn’t want to go by himself – and he can only swim a few strokes before he sinks.
‘Aye, that is a good plan.’
‘But, but…’
They stare at Will.
‘There’s a storm.’
Leslie and Balnaves laugh and James rests his hand on Will’s arm.
‘Of course we will wait until it has passed,’ says Leslie. ‘Unless you want to take your chances now – and likely be battered to death on the rocks, if you’re not swept out to sea.’
By the next night, the storm has worn itself out but the moon is obscured by cloud and Will tells Leslie he must have a moon. ‘Else how can I find my way?’
Leslie frowns, but agrees.
‘I must have a low tide,’ says Will when Leslie summons him the following evening.
‘It’ll be Yule in the year of our Lord 1600 before there’s the perfect conjunction of moon, weather and tide. You will take your chance tonight, lad, and make the best of it.’
The moon has risen, late in the night, when he’s let out. He sees the white of James’s face above as he climbs down the rope ladder, the clang of the yett closing, after they’ve hauled the ladder up, loud in the stillness. He strides over the rocks, keen to get to the harbour and be done with this task. His feet go from under him and feels the air beneath him, then he’s on his back, head thumping off the ground. He lies still for a moment on the slimy seaweed before rolling onto his knees and getting up, the breeze chill against his damp back. The moon is casting long shadows making it difficult to work out where to place his feet safely. He picks his way carefully, sinking into the fronds of seaweed, long and thick as a mermaid’s hair, which tangle around his ankles. He slips again, nearly falling into the deep gully between two shoals, the water glistening below him. He can hear the soft shush of waves touching the edge of the long fingers of rock nearby – the tide must be further in than he’d hoped.