Knox is roaring in outrage. ‘To avenge the death of the martyr George Wishart was no sin, and to say our righteous actions are unpardonable is of itself unpardonable. We will not accept an absolution such as this.’
Will looks around, some of the garrison are nodding agreement, others are looking to one another.
‘The Pope is the whore of Babylon and his church the synagogue of Satan,’ bellows Knox. ‘We want no absolution from the Antichrist.’
Kirkcaldy and Norman Leslie are conferring. Will watches them, holding his breath. They nod in agreement and Will staggers, losing all strength – as if the marrow is being sucked from his bones.
Knox demands a torch lit and, taking the pardon from Kirkcaldy’s hand, holds it to the flame. Will watches the parchment flare, curl and burn. The charred remains flutter across the courtyard, while the Castilians howl their derision. The siege will continue.
Part Four
Bethia
March to July 1547
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Roarin’ Game
It is bitter cold, the streets rough with rutted mud and icy puddles. The few soldiers which were left in St Andrews have withdrawn, Bethia knows not where, probably to find warmth if they can – and escape the pestilence which has run rife among them since December.
Now there is the truce, and Arran’s soldiers are mostly gone, the Castilians have again been wandering freely to steal, destroy and ravage. The townsfolk and those in the wider countryside are angry that they’ve been left with little protection. Even the Provost, Sir James Learmonth, ever the Castilians’ champion, albeit on the sly, said it is enough after he came under attack on his way home to his castle at Osnaburgh.
When Father meets Walter Wardlaw in the street, they, for once, are united in their frustration. Father splutters out his anger. ‘Their arrogance knows no bounds, and where is Arran? He took Dumbarton Castle quickly enough and ’tis said it has stronger fortifications than St Andrews?
‘This is very true. It seems that the siege will be allowed to run until the garrison have emptied the town of food and animals, and ravished all our womenfolk.’ Wardlaw’s eyes slide towards Bethia as he speaks and she shuffles her feet, staring at the ground. ‘Can your new friend not give any intelligence?’
‘What new friend?’
‘Arran’s aide,’ Wardlaw inclines his head towards Bethia. ‘You know who I mean, the younger son from Clatto.’
‘Clearly, as Arran’s aide, Gilbert Logie is with Arran at Linlithgow,’ says Father.
Bethia thinks of Gilbert. She misses his calm counsel, as she suspects Father does too. The last time they saw him he said Arran hoped to get the Castilians out by negotiation, after this truce was brokered – although Gilbert also admitted the truce was influenced by Henry of England, before his death, even showing them a copy of the letter King Henry had sent to Arran and his Counciclass="underline"
If you can be content to withdraw the siege which you have laid at the castle of St Andrews, for our sake and until the matter of displeasure against them were further debated, we would take it for a token of love and kindness towards us and think you esteemed our friendship…otherwise we shall be forced to relieve them.
‘The Tudor King hid his threats under honeyed words,’ Father had said, and Gilbert nodded in agreement.
She shifts from foot to foot, wishing the conversation over and Father picks up on it. ‘We must away home, Wardlaw. It is too cold to stand and blether.’
‘Aye, it is bitter, even for March. I will visit soon, with my brother.’ He nods towards Bethia. ‘For it is high time we got this marriage agreed and hand-fasted.’
Father stares at Wardlaw, who licks his lips.
‘There will be more than a hand-fasting – I would not leave my daughter so unprotected. It will be a properly notarised marriage settlement, and a blessing by a priest, or nothing.’
Wardlaw hesitates, staring at Father from under lowered brows. ‘Aye well, she’d better do her duty and deliver sons.’
Father takes Bethia’s arm. She’s shivering as they walk home, and it’s not only with cold. While the truce holds, Father agreed to a delay and Norman was sympathetic, saying that she should not be rushed and promising that he would take good care of her – but the marriage has not gone away.
She feels weary to her bones. There’s still no word from Mainard, although at this time of year none would be expected with most ships staying safe in harbour. She should have long given up on him, as it’s clear he’s done with her. She sighs and decides to block it all from her mind. Who knows what may come to pass in the next month or two; surely she can hold Norman off for that long.
Later she’s bent over her sewing, conscious of Mother nodding her approval, when Father comes in. ‘The water at the mill lade is frozen and the ice thick enough for the curling.’
Mother draws her shawl tight and leans closer to the fire. ‘It is fine for the Dutchiemen to be roaring upon their canals, but surely the men of Scotland have more sense than to be sliding stones around, especially with the town in such turmoil.’
‘I’m in need of some relief from turmoil. And likely no one, not even the barbarous beasts of the castle, will be wandering the streets on such a day. Bethia, you will come with me, and you too, John.’
Bethia shakes her head and even John’s freckled nose is wrinkling at the prospect, but Father insists.
Once by the pond she expects to be dull as well as frozen. The players take up their positions, faces tense with concentration. The game progresses quickly as there’s an icy mist rising, a forewarning of colder weather still. She stands beneath the trees, which give an illusion of shelter, listening to the soothing sound of stone sliding across ice. She wonders why it’s called a roarin’ game when it’s more like a whooshin’ one.
She stamps her feet, grateful that she has thick leather boots, unlike the poor weans they passed on the way here with their bare feet and legs mottled purple, and then catches sight of a figure wandering amongst the trees to her right. Elspeth! May the Holy Mother watch over her. What is she doing here?
Elspeth has spotted her and signals urgently. She looks to Father, but he’s crouched on the ice absorbed in studying his next move. She hastens over and gives her a hug but Elspeth flinches at the touch.
‘You were beaten?’
She nods.
‘Your father?’
She shrugs. ‘He thought it was his duty, although he did it most unwillingly.’
‘But your face…’
‘That was my fault. I moved when I should have remained still.’
Bethia strokes Elspeth’s arm. ‘When did you return? Did your father find you – he came to our house so angry he was fit to burst.’
The tears leak from Elspeth’s eyes but she doesn’t brush them away.
‘I only wanted to paint… and to be with Antonio.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I left him,’ says Elspeth, and the desolation in her voice makes Bethia’s heart ache.
‘Why? Would he not marry you?’
‘He already has a wife.’
Bethia wishes Antonio was before her so she might take her staff and beat his face to a bloody pulp – and at least save some other innocent lass from his pretty ways. ‘Did you know?’
Elspeth stiffens. ‘No, of course not. I would never have gone with him if I had known; I am not a harlot.’