Chapter Forty
Bethia’s New Home
Fat Norman has bought a new home for them, not any house but a tower house resting on the hills outside St Andrews. Bethia feels strange at the prospect of living away from the hustle and bustle of the streets. It is too quiet up here, although the air smells sweet and there is a view of the bay, and her town.
She stands at an upstairs window gazing at a rare clump of tall old trees nearby swaying in the wind, which must somehow have escaped the depredations of building the Great Michael. She can see a group of saplings have been planted close by, probably by the burgh council. Perhaps they are the new siccamour Father had brought from France, saying if he supplied the trees rather than paying the tax then he knew his bawbees would go where they were supposed to, and not end up swelling Provost Learmonth’s pocket. She becomes aware someone is shuffling behind her – Norman is waiting, and sighing, she turns to join him.
He waddles breathlessly following her around as she examines her soon-to-be-home. ‘You must order all as you p-p-please,’ he says. He’s still stuttering when he speaks to her, but much less than before. ‘We will have this room re-panelled, I think, for it is broken here.’ He tugs on the wainscotting and it comes away in his hand. ‘P-p-perhaps you might want a p-painted ceiling, such as your mother had done?’
Mother, following them into the room, humphs.
‘Oh, n-n-nooo, I did not mean we might have anything as f-f-fine as your…’
Bethia places her hand on his arm. ‘I do not care for painted ceilings.’
Norman flushes with pleasure, and Mother with annoyance. Bethia realises she’s enjoying herself. Perhaps she should get the painter here and he can charm her with his honeyed, and false, words. She looks at Norman, so anxious to please her – at least he’s likely to be a devoted husband.
She stops to run her fingers along the arm of the fine new chair he has bought, presumably for her use since he would not fit in it, and Norman bumps into her.
‘Take care,’ she snaps.
‘S-s-sorry,’ he mumbles, stepping back. He still smells of onions but, as his wife, she will insist he washes and changes his raiment regularly. And she’ll tell Grissel not to cook onions.
Norman leads her to the kitchens where a grinning Grissel is investigating the chill room and rattling the new milk pans laid out along a cunningly made shelf. Grissel is to join Bethia in her new home and she does not know who is more pleased – Grissel to escape the constant criticisms of Agnes, or Mother to be finally rid of Grissel. The only one, it seems, who is not happy in all of this is her, but perhaps she can find some joy in the house and the freedom that being a wife will give her. She stares at Fat Norman, his belly swelling over the top of his breeches as though he’s nine months gone with child, and sighs again. He comes to stand next to her, looking anxiously from under straggly eyebrows, his face as pink as a pig’s bottom.
‘Are you h-h-happy with the house? Is there aught you would like d-d-different?’
It would be like kicking a child to say an unkind word to him.
‘It is a fine house, Norman,’ she says, and he smiles wide enough to stretch the skin of his cheeks tight.
‘And you think you will b-b-be happy here?’
She looks up into his bloodshot eyes fringed by peculiarly pale lashes. ‘I will try.’
She leads the way outside to the kailyard, which is far larger than the yard behind her home in Southgait. Grissel bounces around it, exclaiming with delight at her new domain. Bethia looks at Mother’s face, lips puckered as though she’s just drunk sour milk, and feels a jab of satisfaction, for it is Mother who has been rushing the marriage, when Father was still taking it slowly.
She wanders out the gate, leaving Norman to show the others the newfangled hand-pump he has had installed for drawing water. As soon as she emerges from behind the garden wall she’s blasted by the wind whipping around the corner. It will be cold up here in winter without the shelter to be found in the streets. There are compensations, for the bay is laid out below her, the sea sparkling bright as the jewels Mary of Guise wore on her wedding day. She shields her eyes and gazes out. Then she’s running back into the kailyard shouting at them to come.
There are ships rounding the point and sailing into the bay. They count them and when they reach ten they think that is all, but no, after a gap a further six appear, their sails billowing white in the breeze as they follow one another beating across the bay.
‘How beautiful they are,’ Bethia says.
‘Saints preserve us,’ says Mother, grabbing her arm. ‘England has sent its fleet to attack us.’
Grissel screams and Agnes, unusually, draws her daughter close.
‘They have come to relieve the garrison; they will take the Castilians and leave the townsfolk alone surely,’ says Bethia, but she knows that is unlikely even as the words leave her mouth. Indeed the garrison themselves are likely to pillage before departing.
‘I think not,’ says Norman gazing at the ships. ‘Having come this far Henry’s soldiers will loot and burn as he did in Haddington and Edinburgh, Dunbar and St Monans these past two years.’
‘And I think that is not at all helpful,’ says Mother glaring at him.
Norman ignores her, eyes on the ships which are lowering their sails as they draw close to the land and the long oars come into use. ‘I am by no means certain this is the English fleet,’ he says. He squints against the brightness of the day. ‘My eyes are not so good, my dear, what colours are they flying?’
She shields her eyes once more, the sun is high and the light dazzling, ‘Red I think, with some white.’
‘It is the English,’ says mother, scowling.
‘Not necessarily. England would be white with some red.’
‘And I think you will find I am correct.’ Mother turns on her heel and marches towards the house.
Bethia would laugh, if her teeth weren’t chattering.
‘Let us watch and wait,’ Norman says to her. ‘We are safer up here anyway.’ He looks to Agnes and Grissel, eyes huge and faces white as they cling to one another. ‘Fetch us the settle and some food.’ He turns to Bethia. ‘We may as well be comfortable as we wait; and I had supplies brought up, as I thought we might have need of sustenance.’
‘That is thoughtful,’ she says. She realises that Norman is no longer stuttering, is quite the man in charge.
Agnes and Grissel appear around the corner of the house, struggling to carry the heavy oak settle.
‘Put it down there,’ Norman points.
They sit and watch as the galleys slow and the anchors are tossed into the sea. A boat comes out from the harbour, the men being rowed holding onto their bonnets, as Grissel returns balancing a heavy tray in her arms. Bethia stands up to allow her to place it on the settle.
‘As I thought, it is the French fleet,’ says Norman. He looks up at Grissel. ‘Fetch a stool for the tray, girl.’
‘I’ve only got one pair of hands,’ says Grissel, quite recovered now she knows they are no longer in imminent danger.
‘I think you must teach your servant better manners,’ he says to Bethia as Grissel disappears around the corner. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he flushes and gazes at his hands.
‘Grissel is a hard worker and most loyal.’
‘I u-u-understand, my dear.’ He sits up straight as his rolls of flesh will allow. ‘But still, she will not s-s-speak to me as s-s-he does to you.’
Bethia feels a weariness. Norman is perhaps not as malleable as she thought, but he is also correct; Grissel must treat him with deference, as befits a servant to her master.