Will clambers around the rocky promontory until he’s below the palace chapel. There’s the yellow light of a candle shining from its windows and he wonders who is at prayers so early. He stays close to the cliffs, slipping and sliding sometimes over seaweed and sometimes over a green moss covering the rocks, which glows in the moonlight. It looks dry and safe to walk on but is as treacherous as the seaweed. He’s glad he’ll be returning by boat, would not wish this way on anyone and wonders why there is so much seaweed about when normally it’s collected for the fields. But then no one, he supposes, will feel safe on this shore at the moment.
There is a break in the rocks and the sea ripples ghostly before him. His heart thumps in his chest but he steadies when the first wave breaks over his foot. He looks out over the water lit by the moon: a pathway to heaven; may the saints aid him and keep him safe. He sits down on the rocks chiding himself, for what is he thinking to invoke the saints who are naught but Papist flummery. Sighing he slides into the sea, which is the only way to reach the next shoal. Fortunately the water is only thigh high and he makes progress until he trips, arms flailing to keep his balance.
A pox on Leslie and his big idea, he mutters as he clambers onto the rocks, the barnacles scratching his skin. He’s glad none of the company can see him stumbling around, especially that fat slug Carmichael. He shivers, his wet breeches sticking chill against his skin. He can see the dark line of the pier jutting into the sea – not far to go. The sun is sending its first rays over the horizon when he finally stands on its secure footing. Now to find oars and a boat.
He hears voices, and, instead, he’s looking for a place to hide. He climbs down a ladder and onto the supporting struts of the wooden pier, sinking his head into his shoulders. He’s been too slow, left it too late and with the sun rising on a calm sea, the fishermen will be taking to their boats. He’ll be caught if he tries to steal one.
Hanging there, without much idea of what to do, he realises this is his chance to escape the foul castle and muck-spouts like Carmichael and John Leslie – when he remembers their attack on Beaton he shudders still. He could slip from the harbour back to his home right now, with no one to stop him. Nydie has whispered more than once that he doesn’t trust either Leslie and their whole escapade is more about the Leslies’ revenge on Cardinal Beaton for appropriating lands they considered theirs, than any true belief in the need for the church to reform. Why should he suffer for them? He reminds himself that the Leslies can conspire all they want, but there are some among the Castilians who are honest and faithful. No, it is tempting, but he will never leave men the like of James Melville and William Kirkcaldy of Grange, not to mention his friend James of Nydie – he will stay true. And he would not have Carmichael still unchallenged; their business is not yet done. Now, he must find some oars, steal a boat and get away from here, quick as he can.
Before he can move, the voices draw close. A rope is being tugged, hauling a boat alongside the quay. He sees a pair of legs, someone is descending the ladder. Will buries his face in his arm and holds his breath, praying he goes undiscovered. His prayer is answered, and the man passes him. He hears the thump of feet on boat and risks a peek, straight into Bethia’s startled face.
‘You’re wearing breeches,’ he says.
She has the grace to blush. ‘I was coming to you.’
‘I need to take the boat.’
She raises her eyebrows and continues her descent.
He watches from above as Grissel’s uncle holds out his hand to steady her. He can’t help but notice her confidence. There’s something about wearing breeches that seems to have freed her – when it should shame her.
She settles herself and looks up at him. ‘Geordie and I are ready to go, are you coming, or would you prefer to hang there?’
He’s furious. God’s blood, she’s a girl, how dare she look at him with those straight blue eyes. He climbs out from the struts and onto the ladder, which he descends rapidly, and readies himself to jump.
‘Whoah,’ says Geordie, ‘take care or you’ll have us tippet-ower.’
He lowers his leg and feels Bethia’s small hand grab it, placing his foot on the seat; his sister thinks herself very important. He sits down in the front of the boat and they cast off, pulling strongly away, hugging the cliffs that he’s just scrambled over to the detriment of his knees, hands and clothes.
‘I was coming to the bishop’s palace because…,’ Bethia begins.
He raises his hand. Let her come. She’s so busy with her own concerns she doesn’t ask about his, about why he should risk life and limb to get to the harbour. Let her come, and once they reach the castle he’ll take the boat, and Geordie to row it. Let her find her own way back to the comfort of their home. If she’s going to adopt the dress and mannerisms of a man, let her find out what it means to be one and to have to look out for herself, instead of expecting others to take care of her frailties.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tents Muir
Other fishing boats are taking to the water as they pull away. The ships patrolling are standing well out to sea, obviously more watchful for anything coming from the South and England than from the harbour, and Will thinks they’ll gain the castle safely, especially now the tide is well in.
Bethia tries to speak, but he holds his hand up and shakes his head each time. What can she possibly have to tell him, apart from more pleas for his return home, and he will not go. His decision was made once and for all as he hung under the quay just now.
She folds her hands in her lap and he’s left with his thoughts; the only sound is the oars dipping in the sea and the cry of a lone seagull floating on the wing above. If he wasn’t so furious he would enjoy the stillness but, in the face of Bethia’s serenity, he cannot. He’s sure she’s pretending – she used to do this when they fought as children; the angrier he got, the calmer she became, which made him even angrier. He grinds his teeth, loud as Father, at the memory.
They near the castle. Will has not seen it from the sea before; it is a forbidding sight, although the brown smears down the walls below the privy chutes show its occupants’ frailties. Bethia fumbles with a bundle in her lap and drops her skirts over her head, tying the strings tightly at her waist. He’s relieved she’s not entirely lost to modesty, and more relieved yet that he’ll not have to defend her honour from the leers and asides if she entered the castle wearing breeches. She makes no further attempt to tell him why she is come. And, as he follows her out of the boat, over the rocks, and up the ladder he still chooses not to ask.
‘It is said you have a siege engineer within, sent by King Henry,’ she says, as they pass through the open postern.
He doesn’t reply but Nydie, who’s unbarred the gate, says indeed they do. She turns and looks at Will, but he stares at the ground.
‘Please take me to him. I’ve some information he may find useful.’
He feels his face redden: how dare she issue orders.
They pass the kitchens and he can see a puny fire is burning in the centre of the huge fireplace with a pot hanging over it. Getting the fixings to light fires is increasingly difficult. They have long since used up the Cardinal’s store of coal and wood; indeed they are now burning his furniture and books.
They enter the courtyard. Nydie rushes ahead, presumably to let Richard Lee know he has a visitor. Bethia lifts her feet, and, as he draws abreast of her, he sees her face wrinkle in disgust at what’s sticking to them. The stench is throat-clogging after breathing sea air – even with Balnaves’s clean ups.