‘What’s the matter with our pigeon-hearted bairn now? Little misery face, does nothing ever make you happy?’ says Peter Carmichael, jostling him.
He turns his head and looks down at Carmichael. He feels too weary to rise to the accusation that he’s a coward.
‘What did I ever do to you that you should so revile me?’
Carmichael sneers, ‘I have no time to bandy words with a scunnersome donkey penis.’
‘Then why speak?’
In response Carmichael shoves him, and he staggers into the revellers, who push him out of their way. Stumbling into the portico, he’s determined to hit Carmichael back and have this out once and for all – but Carmichael has disappeared. He heads up the stairs looking for him but, instead, finds Norman Leslie sitting by the fire, stroking his freshly trimmed beard . He goes to leave but Leslie lifts his head, turns his piercing eyes upon Will, and beckons him to come sit on a nearby stool.
‘Ach Seton, you’re a lad who doesn’t care for merriment, more of the taciturn nature.’
Will shrugs, embarrassed by the description, which he knows to be true.
‘Well, you’re no so daft. We may be jolly for now but who knows how it will end, and somehow I fear they’ll get us out, unless we get the town and surrounding country on side.’
‘Surely King Henry will eventually send troops?’
‘There are many obstacles to Henry Tudor taking direct action.’
Will shuffles on the low stool, stretching his legs out. ‘I would be most grateful if you could explain, for I am confused. When we were planning the attack on the castle, all were agreed that England would come to our aid.’ He hesitates, uncertain if he should share what he’s thinking. Leslie reminds him of a horse Father once owned, which seemed friendly, but, without warning, would turn and bite its rider.
‘Spit it out, young Seton, for I’m fairly certain I know what’s coming.’
‘I did wonder… if we’d kept the Cardinal alive, would that have spurred Henry into action?’
‘Perhaps, but on balance I think not, and I’m not saying this only because my Uncle John was instrumental in Beaton’s death. Perhaps a wee lesson in Anglo Scots, Anglo French and Franco Scots politics might be helpful to you. I shall make it brief, for no doubt someone will soon come seeking me.’
Will waits expectantly while Leslie leans back and scratches his head.
‘King Henry, throughout his reign, has pursued a most ruinous conflict with France, most recently over both the taking and holding of Boulogne.’
He nods. Leslie isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know, for the French siege of English-held Boulogne affected Father’s trade.
Leslie holds up his hand. ‘Patience Seton, let me tell it in my own way.’
The fire has burnt low and he feeds it with the last of the Cardinal’s books, thinking how unhappy Bethia would be if she saw them consigned to the flames. He, himself, would prefer not to burn books but most of the furniture has already gone; they even chopped up Beaton’s great bed the other day.
Leslie continues. ‘Henry’s subjects, taxed beyond measure to fund his wars, are now in desperate straits with no siller and the price of all goods constantly rising. Not that the King of England cares overmuch about the state of his people, it’s more that they cannot sustain the high taxes for him to continue fighting, and there’s inevitably discontent – that always makes a king nervous. France equally desires an end to constant conflict, whilst still insisting Boulogne is returned, and indeed there was always a possibility that France would sell Scotland out for Boulogne. You’re with me so far?’
Will nods.
‘It is our misfortune that we took this castle in May, and in June a treaty was brokered between England, France, and others, signalling an end to their current wars. The treaty would’ve affected us little had it not included a clause saying, “the serene King of England shall not move any war, without new occasion, against the Scots”, which I am supposing was the French king’s nod to France’s ancient alliance with Scotland. And we are not without our uses to him; there’s no war so cheap for France as when their Scots allies are involved.’
Will sits up; this treaty is new information.
‘Unfortunately, our taking of the castle is not considered new occasion enough; if he wants the treaty to hold, Henry cannot act directly to relieve us. He has created a diversion by drawing Arran’s attention away, to the Borders, with the siege at Langholm. Nevertheless, having feted the French in London last August, when the treaty was signed, he’s now reluctant to stir things up, especially with our Dowager Queen looking for any excuse to get aid from her French relations to end the siege. So you can see our chances of rescue were never great, although we did not know it. Perhaps, if we had known, we wouldn’t have taken the castle.’
Leslie stands up. ‘I must go down, but one final thought, young Seton. It would be treason for me to say it, were I in England, but Henry Tudor is dying, Indeed, when I was briefly in his presence, the stench of rotting flesh was,’ he swallows, ‘unavoidable. As the inevitable draws closer the king is much preoccupied with the next world and matters of the faith, and, no doubt, anxious to be secure that he may easily enter the gates of heaven. There are some fundamental differences in belief between England and us, and it is my opinion that these differences have also held his hand where relieving us is concerned.’
Will purses his lips and nods. ‘Transubstantiation: we, unlike England, rightly do not believe that the substance of the bread and wine blessed during the Eucharist become the blood and body of Christ’s real presence, for it is all a Popish invention.’
‘Aye, I see you are well versed in the doctrine. You are a bright lad and I thank you for your loyal support.’
Will blushes and shifts on his stool. It is the first kind words anyone has said to him in a long time, and, in this moment, he understands why men follow Leslie.
‘I hope this gives sufficient explanation. And I most fervently hope that we may negotiate our departure with honour from here, I do very much hope.’
He sits pondering as Leslie leaves. He’s never heard Leslie so considered, usually it is Kirkcaldy, and even Melville, who provide the calm and rational. He rubs his face and rises. He may as well go and join the celebrations, while they last, but he stands taller, holding Leslie’s few words of praise close, like a warm blanket.
It is February now and yet the darkness barely seems to lift, and then hard frosts begin, which at least give bright days and a fresh vigour in spite of the biting chill. One morning Will watches from his post on the battlements as a ship appears, in an unusually calm sea, sailing wide of the peninsula at the Boar Hills. It seems to be aiming for the castle, not the nearby harbour. He calls down to the courtyard and others come running to look.
‘Provisions from Henry,’ says Morrison, and soon it is being passed from man to man that there are fresh supplies.
‘And look how low it sits in the water,’ says Nydie.
‘Perhaps they bring us ammunition,’ says Morrison. ‘Or maybe men – a relief force finally come.’
They watch, all eagerness, as the ship tacks in the light winds. It is headed for the castle, they are certain. It tacks again, the turn taking many minutes. Surely the helmsman is adjusting course to come to them…, but he is not. There is a collective sigh of disappointment as the sails are lowered and the ship is guided into harbour.
They watch it unloading, and Will puzzles as to what the cargo is. They were right, it is indeed something heavy, with men bent double under the weight. Norman Leslie, come to see, is standing companionably beside Will. Peter Carmichael appears on his other side and Will has to force himself to hold steady.