Father drops into his chair. ‘Aye, you would think that, but I do not trust the lairds or their motives.’ He looks up at Will. ‘All I ask, son, is that you heed my warning and take care. Cardinal Beaton is in their way, and it has little to do with the martyrdom of the preacher, and everything to do with what King Henry of England wants – our wee Queen Mary married to his son, and Scotland finally under his control.’
Chapter Six
Mayday
Beltane comes and Bethia rises with the sun. She joins her friend Elspeth and the flow of girls heading for the Braes to wash their faces in the Mayday morning dew, which will bring good fortune for the coming year. It should be a joyous renewal but the town feels heavy, as though someone is pressing a lid down on a boiling pot that may blow off at any moment. Bethia thinks that even if she and all the lassies of St Andrews immersed their whole bodies in dew, it wouldn’t create enough good fortune to prevent the explosion that’s building. After the subdued festivities, she drags her feet homeward, already weary of the day.
When she emerges from Louden Close into Southgait, she sees Will hurrying past Holy Trinity, head down. It’s a relief he won’t be at home and she can have Father’s undivided attention – and a break from arguments. But where is he going in such haste? She hesitates, then follows at a distance. He crosses Mercatgait, weaving his way through the busy market stalls.
‘That brother of yours aye looks to be on some furtive business,’ says a neighbour, grabbing Bethia’s arm as she goes to pass. ‘And he’s got some fancy friends these days, he’ll be getting ower grand to speak to us soon.’
Fortunately the neighbour is distracted by the stall holder arguing the price of a bundle of kale. Bethia squeezes through the crowd and runs down Rotten Row. She sees Will ahead, striding past Fishers Cross watched by the fisher wives redding and baiting lines as they sit chatting on their doorsteps. He turns into Swallowgait and she peers around the corner. Will’s stopped in front of a house and is looking back up the street. She ducks her head in, then peeps out again in time to see him disappearing through the opened door.
She walks up the street and stands in front of the house frowning. Who lives here, boarders from the new St Leonards College perhaps, but she can’t think what Will could have to do with them. She stands on tiptoe but the lower shutters are closed and she cannot see through the upper mottled glass.
Conscious a pedlar leaning against a nearby wall is watching her, she walks away. Two men brush past her; she recognises them and shivers. The Leslies are powerful and dangerous men. It is said the nephew, Norman Leslie, has quarrelled with Cardinal Beaton and John, the uncle, has spoken openly of vengeance. She turns back to watch them. They too stop at the door and are admitted.
She bites at the skin around her thumbnail, wondering if she should tell Father where Will is, and sighs at the prospect of the shouting match which will inevitably follow. Anyway, Father seems unable to stop Will in anything he’s put his mind to. No, better to say nothing, there’s no point in causing more arguments.
When she reaches home, she finds the painter has come and gladly forgets about the Leslies.
Mother has cornered Father again. ‘We must have vermilion, made of crushed snail shells from the Orient.’
‘I know what vermilion is made from – and more importantly how costly it is. What I don’t know is why we must have it.’
‘There’s to be an indigo for blue skies and the angels’ gowns, and a tracery of stars and moons along the beams. It will be exquisite. There won’t be another ceiling like it anywhere.’
Father rubs his head, then touches it again, forehead wrinkling. He runs his fingers around the bald patch, stroking and touching. ‘Fine, I will speak with the fellow.’
‘But I will have my vermilion.’ Mother raises her eyebrows and gives a slight nod.
A smile creeps over Father’s face. Bethia knows Mother will indeed get her vermilion, and Father his rare reward.
Bethia leaves them and goes to have a look at the painter. She finds him perching on a ladder; he glances down, sees her and winks. Blushing, she hurries from the room, returning later with her friend Elspeth.
The painter has built a scaffolding of planks and ladders, and is laid on his back when Elspeth calls up to him. His hand jerks and the line of the pyramid he’s painting smears into its neighbour. He tuts, cleans it off, then leaps down from his eyrie to stand in front of the girls. He has the deepest brown eyes, thick brown curls and a broken nose – which somehow makes him more, not less, attractive. Her tongue cleaves to the roof of her mouth; she could not speak even if she could think of anything to say. Elspeth has no such issue.
‘Where are you from?’ she asks, and Bethia flinches at her bluntness. A “good day to you”, first would be more courteous.
‘I from Firenze.’ His eyes slide from Elspeth to Bethia as he speaks. Elspeth nudges her.
‘Che bellissima,’ he mutters to himself.
The heat starts at her neck and crawls up her face.
The door opens and Mother drifts in. ‘Antonio, how does the work progress?’ She looks up at the ceiling. ‘I do hope you’re not being interrupted.’
‘Ah, signora, the daughter?’ He waves his hand towards Bethia.
‘Yes, this is my daughter, Bethia.’ Mother pauses, not looking at Elspeth, ‘and her friend.’
He catches Mother by the elbow. ‘The daughter, I must paint.’
Mother looks down at her arm and detaches it from his grip. She opens her mouth to speak, but he forestalls her.
‘Mamma e figlia,’ he says, ‘both the beautifuls. We will have the portrait together, the mother and the daughter, and no one he will know who she is the mother and who the daughter.’
Mother frowns.
‘Only one figlia, one she child?’
‘Only one living,’ says Mother, and looks more kindly upon Bethia than she can remember in a long time.
‘Then the portrait we must paint,’ says Antonio, sweeping his arm out to take Mother’s hand in his, and bowing low.
Mother hesitates, but he kisses her hand and releases it.
‘I will speak with my husband.’
Bethia sighs as she thinks on Father’s reaction.
Mother opens the door. ‘Come girls, we must let Antonio work.’
As Bethia goes to leave, she glances at Antonio and he raises his eyebrows. A giggle escapes from the watchful Elspeth. Dipping her head to hide a smile, Bethia closes the door carefully behind them.
But soon it is Elspeth who’s constantly with the painter. At first, Bethia feels she must stay too, she should not leave Elspeth alone with the vibrant Florentine; anyway, it’s her hand he bows over and her he calls bellisima, not Elspeth. Yet the more often he takes her hand, the less she likes it, thinking he relies too much on his pretty face to get what he wants.
She’s annoyed with Elspeth too. She’s seen how, recently, Will grows silent and red-faced when Elspeth is near. She knows, next to the Italian, he’s only a boy, but he is her brother. Yet, as the work progresses she realises that Elspeth is more interested in the painting than the painter – asking about the making and mixing of colours, the angle and sweep of the brush and how he creates the cherubs, crosses and fleurs de lys. She’s even broached with her parents that they could have a painted ceiling with herself as the artist. Her mother will let Elspeth do as she wills, as long as it is safe, but her father says that no daughter of his is to be an artisan, and laughs at her ambitions. So, under the pretence she’s visiting Bethia, she spends as much of her days as she can in the room with the painter, and soon Bethia is unaware Elspeth’s even in the house. Anyway, she’s preoccupied, the skin around her thumb nail bitten raw – Will is in a strange mood, and she doesn’t think it’s got anything to do with Elspeth.