He rocks from side to side to ease himself as he chomps on a slice of hare pie. She realises his size makes it difficult for him to get comfortable. Even the settle is too small to rest his spreading bulk upon and he’s probably only at ease when he’s lying down. She clutches at her skirt and shakes her head – she doesn’t want to picture Norman in bed – she will not think of it, not until the very last minute when it is inescapably before her.
She wonders where Mother is, probably inside looking out from a window. She cannot but smile to herself – Mother must wait until she, Bethia, is ready to leave, and Norman, of course. They watch the activity as small boats go to and fro between the galleys and the harbour.
‘They have brought many soldiers with them,’ says Norman rubbing his hands. ‘Finally we will see some action.’
Bethia points at the castle and the small dots of men running around the top. Plumes of smoke spiral high, purple against the blue of the sky, no doubt come from braziers lit ready, and more cannons are being turned from the land side to point at the sea.
‘I think there’s unlikely to be an attack today, when they are but newly arrived,’ says Norman; but he’s soon proved wrong.
The anchors of half a dozen ships are heaved up and the oars begin to dip in and out of the water. She can see them working in rhythm and hear the occasional shouted command drifting on the wind, although the rowers wielding the oars are hidden from view. The gusting wind makes it hard for them to hold position as they near the castle, and requires much work for the galley slaves. She pities them, for their task is relentless.
There’s a boom, the sound reverberating around them. The swallows nesting in the eaves swirl high above, and the gulls take to the skies screaming. Then a burst of smoke is followed by another boom, the French ships are firing on the castle and the Castilians have replied. Their shot lands harmlessly in the sea, but the ships have been more successful and hit land, although they’ve missed the castle. Dust rises from a house in Swallowgait and, as it clears, they see the roof has collapsed and Norman points to the yellow-red lick of flame.
Bethia covers her mouth with her hand and there’s a gasp from Agnes watching behind. Norman pushes himself up off the bench as Mother comes around the corner.
‘We must leave immediately and do what we can to protect our properties from damage,’ Norman says, hirpling towards the stable yard.
Mother grabs Bethia, pinching the flesh as Bethia tries to tug her arm away.
‘You are not your own mistress, not yet, and I will tolerate no more cheek.’
Bethia squirms but Mother leans in, hissing in her ear, ‘and we can delay no longer; the siege is about to be broke and you must marry now.’
They both stare at Norman’s back, the pap, pap, pap of a slow release fart escaping as he lumbers through the archway into the yard.
The church bells are ringing in the town in between the thunder of cannon fire. One of the galleys skews round and they see there’s a hole in its side. Another comes to its rescue, although they only take the free men off and the galley slaves are left to row the stricken ship back to harbour, as best they can.
‘Come,’ shouts Norman from the cart, and the driver assists them up, leaps on himself and spurs the horses down the hill.
Chapter Forty-One
Strozzi
The firing goes back and forward over the next day few days and more houses are hit, but at least the fires are put out before they get a hold and spread through the town. The French fleet takes more hits than the castle does, and they withdraw, out of firing range. One ship has sunk, another run aground and the ones which are damaged come into the harbour for repair. There are French soldiers and sailors in the street, swelling the number of troops already in the town returned from Langholme. The activity to end the siege grows more intense. Rumours abound of the man in charge sent by the new King of France.
Leon Strozzi is said to be a military genius. He is also a Knight of Malta, Prior of Capua, Captain General of the French galleys and cousin to Henri’s Queen, Catherine de Medici. It seems Strozzi knows what he is about and will flush the Castilians out with all possible speed. Arran himself is now regularly seen strutting around the streets deep in discussion with Strozzi.
‘Whit are they doing?’ asks Grissel, when she and Bethia are at the Mercat to purchase what food they can for her wedding feast, before all is gone to feed the soldiers.
There’s lots of activity on the tower of St Salvators, which rises behind the houses in this street. They hurry down the vennel, into Northgait and straight into Gilbert Logie, who is calling up instructions to the men above.
‘Ah, my lady Bethia,’ he says bowing, ‘ever in the midst of danger. And I hear I must congratulate you.’ He looks down at his feet, then lifts his head and stares into her eyes. ‘When is the happy event to take place?’
She bites hard on her lip. ‘It is to be tomorrow.’
‘In the midst of chaos?’
She stares at the ground shuffling her feet.
‘The groom is eager to claim you…which is as it should be.’
‘Have you met him?’ The words burst from her.
He jerks his head back. ‘Ah, no. I do not think I’ve had that pleasure.’
She doesn’t want to speak of Fat Norman. ‘What is happening here?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you anything, for I understand your brother to be amongst the garrison.’ He frowns. ‘That is something you, and your Father, hid from me.’
She bows her head both to acknowledge that he was ill-used, and in a final acceptance that her marriage must take place. Gilbert is right that he was ill-used by them, but of more import is that it’s of common knowledge her brother is within the castle. She wonders how Gilbert knows – and if her whole family are suspect. Her belly constricts at the danger they are in, yet she gives a bold response.
‘You need have little fear I can, or ever would, pass information to my brother, for our Father has disowned him. In any case the garrison can see for themselves, they have no need of informants.’
Gilbert is staring as though he cannot drag his eyes from her face. Then there’s an almighty crash, as the first planks of the wooden tower fall to the ground. They leap back, narrowly avoiding flying splinters.
‘This is not a safe place to be,’ he says, taking her arm.
‘Why are you pulling the steeple down?’
He drops her arm. ‘I see Signor Strozzi. I must go.’
She watches among the crowd as he directs the operation and Strozzi shouts impatiently whenever he’s unhappy with progress, which is often. Gilbert does not re-join her, nor does he introduce Strozzi. She studies the Florentine; he looks a little like a much older Mainard with his dark eyes and brown face, and the tight curls of his hair. But he is a man who exudes great authority, and word is that he has successfully broken sieges elsewhere.
The steeple is soon all down, with the fishwives dashing in to grab the wood, which will give them a goodly supply for cooking upon. A group of soldiers strain to turn a windlass and pull a large cannon along the street, then work quickly to disassemble the cannon while ropes are lowered and the cannon sections tied on. They begin to heave from the top of St Salvator’s tower, the men below steadying the cannon from swinging widely while those above haul with all their might. She watches hand covering her mouth; if the rope breaks, then the men on the ground will be injured, or killed.
It is as though Satan has listened in to her thoughts. There’s a cry from above and suddenly the cannon comes hurtling down, chipping and dislodging the stones of the tower as it falls – but the men are well practised and leap out of the way in time. Strozzi roars at their clumsiness and sends for more men. Grissel nudges her, and she knows they must away, for they have to take some supplies up the hill to her new home, along with the kist full of her clothes and two further kists of bedding, dishes, knives, linen and anything else that Mother doesn’t require, ready for tomorrow.