She sits high up on the cart beside the carter, gripping the staff Mainard had made for her. She thought it might comfort her to have something of him in her new home, but she only feels sadness. She will burn it, she thinks, tightening her grasp. Grissel perches on a chest behind, blethering to the stout man clutching a pistol who Walter Wardlaw has sent to guard her. She wonders at this – it is not like Wardlaw to be thoughtful, but then she is soon to be the property of the Wardlaw family.
The men lift the kists off the cart and carry two up the stairs, panting and heaving, sweating and swearing as they go. She shows where she wants them placed but then decides on a more convenient spot.
‘Mak up yer mind, woman,’ Wardlaw’s man mutters.
Grissel comes upstairs carrying a chamber pot. ‘Where do you want this?’, she smirks.
Bethia laughs, although it sounds false, even to her own ears. ‘Out of sight; tuck it under the bed.’
Together they make up the bed, ready for tomorrow. The sheets smell of the lavender which Agnes has laid between them – it is an invigorating scent and yet soothing. Norman will need invigorating, she suspects, and likely by tomorrow night she will need soothing. She shudders.
Grissel ties the bed curtains back neatly. ‘My mother says it is no sae bad after the first time, and it is better not to fight it,’ she says smoothing the blankets.
‘There is still the kist to unpack in the kitchen,’ Bethia snaps and Grissel hurries away.
She stands by the window, which looks down on the kailyard, listening to the ‘klee, klee, killy,’ call of a kestrel circling above. The bird circles grow wider, its cries grow fainter and fade away. It is so very quiet.
Then there are voices below and she sees Walter Wardlaw climbing down off his horse and wonders why he’s here.
She is kneeling by her kist shaking out her other dress to hang on the pegs set handily along the wall, when he comes into her chamber. She’s surprised she didn’t hear him clomping up the stairs, but sees he’s in his stocking soles. Why would he take his boots off… she cannot imagine it’s out of consideration for her housewifery. He closes the door, leering at her as he draws the bolt.
She stands up, holding her dress to her and backs away. He advances.
‘We’ll just make it easy for Norman,’ he says, ‘especially as I’m no sure he’s up to the job.’
She’s backed up against the bed, sure she’s somehow misunderstanding but he’s coming towards her, still with that strange look on his face.
She straightens up and speaks loudly, although her voice is shaking. ‘Get out of my room.’
He pushes her back on the bed and she screams. It sounds odd in her ears, but she screams again as he clambers on top of her, pressing his hand over her mouth and shouting in her ear. ‘Scream all you want; it’s my man on guard downstairs.’
She twists under him but his weight is heavy on her, and she can’t breathe. Then he kneels to tug up her dress, pushing her legs apart and she can draw in air again. She claws at him leaving long scratch marks down either side of his cheeks. He slaps her, the sound ringing loud in her ears, but she barely feels it.
He’s fumbling at his breeches now and she reaches down the side of the bed, searching. Where is it? He’s leaning over her and she screams again, her hand frantically searching under the bed; and then she has it. She swings out and hits him as hard as she can, with the chamber pot. He’s shaking his head, dazed. She swings again, the crack as the pot hits his head echoing around the room. The pot shatters, showering shards of china over her, its handle still tight in her grip.
Wardlaw’s eyes glaze over and, as he collapses, she rolls to one side so his weight only partially falls on her. She pushes and kicks to free herself and scrambles off the bed, unbolting the door and escaping down the stairs. Wardlaw’s man is at the bottom barring the way, preventing Grissel from coming up. Over his shoulder Bethia can see her staff, tucked behind the front door. She charges into him, but cannot reach it.
He staggers but regains his balance and comes at her. Grissel leaps on his back, clawing at his eyes and he grabs her wrists – it’s enough time for Bethia to get past and grab the staff, instinctively holding it as Mainard taught her. She pokes Wardlaw’s man in the stomach and he doubles over, letting go of Grissel who drops in a heap, then she hits his legs, sweeping the feet out from under him. He topples back as Grissel scrambles out the way and they hear the crack loud in the hallway as his head hits the flagstones. He lies dazed as they both stand, panting and staring down at him. She hits him across the head, and he goes limp. Grissel hauls on his legs, slewing him away from the door, and then they are outside and running down the hill for home.
Chapter Forty-Two
A Prisoner
The marriage is to go ahead tomorrow and Bethia has been locked in her chamber overnight. She opens the shutters and studies the wall beneath her window. If she could climb down the swinging rope ladder from the castle, surely she can climb down the much shorter wall of the house. But she can see no way down; the wall is too smooth and the drop too far. She bangs the window shut and goes to sit on the bed, hands covering her eyes, rocking back and forward. Think, Bethia, think, she mutters over and over.
Uncovering her eyes she sees her wedding dress hanging from its hook on the wall in front of her. It is of finest damask, cut low across the bosom and with a wide skirt and small train. Blue in colour, like that of the Virgin Mary’s raiment; blue which means loyalty in love – the rich blue dress she once dreamed of.
She cannot believe her parents are making her do this. Father could have been persuaded but Mother not…
‘All women have to put up with men trying to ravish them – stay out of his way in future,’ Mother says, when Bethia arrives home, so breathless from running, and fear, she can barely get the words out to tell of Wardlaw’s attack.
‘What were you doing allowing him into your chamber anyway; what did you expect? He was inflamed with passion and men cannot control their passions. It is up to women to exert the controclass="underline" to never lead them astray, or place themselves in a situation where the man may take advantage. What were you thinking, going to the house with Wardlaw, and without Norman to protect you?’
‘I didn’t know he was coming,’ she screams. ‘He turned up after we got there. Do you think, for one moment, I would have gone anywhere with that man, especially after the way he stares at me and licks his lips.’
‘Now calm down,’ says Father. He frowns at Mother. ‘I mean both of you. We will all sit down and talk this over – quietly.’
‘We cannot delay, you yourself are saying they will break the siege this time, with all these soldiers and ships come from France.’ Mother says, holding onto his sleeve tightly, face turned up, imploring.
He removes her hand gently. ‘I know, I know Mary but I cannot leave my own child so unprotected.’
‘She will not be unprotected – she will have a husband. And it is his job to protect her, not yours.’
Father nods slowly. Bethia knows she’s losing him.
‘He is not my husband,’ she shrieks. ‘And you are my protector.’
Father rests his hand on her shoulder. ‘Be calm, my lass. I will speak with Norman and make him aware of his brother’s transgressions. Much better he deals with it.’