Will, Lee and the two miners all squeezed tight together nudge one another; light is shining through from below. They enlarge the hole, cries beneath them growing loud, then fading. Lee kneels at the edge, and sticks his head through. Will can feel Lee’s body tense, ready to jerk his head out if necessary; he is a brave man. They wait, then Lee lifts his head out and smiles.
‘It could not be more perfect.’
They all shove their heads through in turn. Young Morrison, who’s crept along the tunnel to join them, wants to climb down and explore, but Lee forbids it. When it’s Will’s turn to look, he sees they’ve broken through more than the height of a man above their attackers. The tunnel beneath is spacious enough for six men to stand abreast and room to bring in horses, or ponies at least. He thinks how easy his task might have been if he’d had a pony and cart – and the space to use one.
‘There is nothing Regent Arran’s men can do,’ says Lee rubbing his hands. ‘You two,’ he nods to the miners, ‘stay here until I send down armed men to keep watch.’
When they emerge Balnaves, the Leslies and Kirkcaldy of Grange come running and cluster around Lee to hear the news.
‘Their tunnel is made worthless – we can fire down upon them, or tip cauldrons of boiling water or even just a loud halloo will send them fleeing; they can excavate no further,’ Lee says.
Balnaves claps his hands, Kirkcaldy claps Lee on the back and the Leslies cheer.
Then Balnaves is tugging on Lee’s arm, and Will sees Lee frown. ‘But surely they can still set explosives,’ Balnaves says.
‘They surely can, and light a fire under their wooden props too,’ says Lee disengaging his arm. ‘And it will cause the tunnel to collapse; but they never got far enough to reach beneath the castle walls, so only the ground before the castle would be brought down. Indeed it would be to our advantage if they did set explosives, for troops cannot easily storm the castle if the foreground is all broken up; it would be too treacherous.’
Richard Lee’s plan has worked perfectly and their attackers have failed. For once Dour Will, as his fellows have named him, is as jubilant as the rest, albeit exhausted. They pat one another on the back and declare that Lee is truly the king of siege engineers.
Even Nydie rises from his sickbed to join the celebrations, leaning on Will, while James Hamilton looks on, his face ashen. Regent’s son or no, he is smiling but then Will, and others, have taken the opportunity of his incarceration to teach him the new doctrine and the importance of reading the Bible.
Arran responds quickly after the failure of his plan, sending emissaries to the gate with a message offering terms if the Castilians will leave the castle, and release his son. They’ll be taken to Blackness Castle and held there, at least the lairds will. As the son of a merchant, Will reflects, he’ll probably be given more lowly imprisonment than a chamber at Blackness.
Far from seriously considering Arran’s offer, the garrison is gleeful. It’s yet another sign the Lord must be on their side, otherwise their besiegers would have got them out. The lairds send Arran’s emissary back with an instant refusal. In response Arran rolls the big guns out again, Crook-mow and Deaf Meg, and stations them by the trenches, aiming at the block houses and the Chapel. There’s much activity among the Castilians, re-energised after being freed from the slavery of mining. They are still well equipped, thanks to the large quantity of lead bullet and cannon balls Cardinal Beaton had stored in the months before his death when, as Leslie says, he was any day expecting an attack from his arch enemy, Henry of England.
They set up in the towers and position themselves by the windows for firing down on anything and anyone that’s moving below them. It’s almost too easy. They pick them off like waddling geese, and a great cheer goes up whenever they hit one of Arran’s artillerymen. Soon Arran’s troops withdraw.
Another lull ensues. November is the month dedicated to the Souls in Purgatory and, now the excitement has passed, Will feels as though he may well be one of them. Although he hated the mining, at least it was exciting; boredom sets in once more. He wonders what manoeuvre Arran’s going to execute next, for surely he cannot allow the siege to continue unchallenged.
It’s not long before he finds out.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Great Cursing
On 23rd November 1546, Will is sent up to the top of the block house to oversee guard duty. It’s a grey day; grey sky merges with grey sea. They haven’t seen the sun for a week; even the constant wind has failed to blow the clouds away enough to uncover it. Water droplets rest on walls, doors and floors, drifting in through unglazed windows and apertures, leaving everything damp and slimy to the touch. What little light there is soon begins to fail as the short day tips into the long Scottish winter night. He strides back and forth across the battlement, swinging his arms, but he cannot remember the last time he was warm.
He’s not alone in his vigil, but feels disinclined to speak to his fellows. What can he say to them anyway; that he hates this castle as much as they do? Better to stay silent. That is until Morrison hails him to come see, and they all hang over the parapet puzzling, through the dimness, about what is going on in the streets below.
Arran’s guard is lining up in front of the castle, within firing distance but on horseback. Will shouts to his fellows to get the brazier going so they’re ready to fire at need, although the horses will likely give the troops the necessary speed to escape any cannon fire, and he judges they are out of range of musket shot. It would be difficult to fire in any case, for darkness is near upon them.
They fuss around the brazier nevertheless, and Will sends a man running down the spiral stairs all the way to the kitchen, as he was once sent, to get a tray of burning embers to light the damp faggots of wood. The wood is supposed to have been kept covered, but someone has neglected their duty. And it’ll be his head that will roll if cannon fire is needed and they cannot deliver it.
A trumpet blasts out and he sprints back to the parapet. All the church bells of St Andrews peal at once then fade away. A procession of priests come in pairs down the Swallowgait from the cathedral, carrying torches which they wave back and forth like firebrands. They’re singing but the singing is not as in the kirk, solemn yet uplifting; it is a chanting which hurts the ears and sets the body trembling.
The soldiers beneath clash their arms, the noise reverberating off the castle walls, and lower their flags to the ground. By the light of the torches he sees a cleric in full regalia being carried high on a chair. The priests part and he passes through them, then he too is lowered to the ground. He stands in front of the soldiers on horseback, with the priests fanning out behind.
The Castilians have poured from every nook and crevice in the castle and are leaning out of windows and hanging over parapets. They’re strangely silent, but it would be difficult to be heard above the cacophony rising from the choir below. Will’s whole body vibrates to the sound, his heart beating as though it will burst from his chest and the blood roaring in his ears. He looks to his right and sees Norman Leslie himself standing next to him.
Once more St Salvators leads the way, its church bell tolling; the other church bells follow. Will covers his ears as the satanic crescendo from the choir peaks, then fades. The cleric raises his arms to heaven and slowly lowers them making the sign of the cross. Then he begins to speak.