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Chapter Seven

The Cardinal’s Entourage

As the sun finally drops low in the sky, Bethia finds Will reading. He’s crouched in the window seat with the lower unglazed shutters open to catch the light, shoulders hunched against the chill breeze. She watches unobserved and then looks out past his bent head to where the golden light brushes the top of the New Inn, the house given to Mary of Guise on her triumphal entry to St Andrews.

She remembers the beauty and foreignness of the new Queen when she arrived from France: the richness of her clothes; her vast retinue including her own father come to check his daughter would be treated with care and full honours; the angel that handed her the keys to Scotland; and the forty days of jousting, archery, hunting, dancing and masquerades which followed. It was the most exciting event of Bethia’s life. But now, only six years later, both sons Marie birthed for James are dead, along with King James himself, leaving only the unwelcome baby daughter as queen, and a group of nobles power-broking to control the regency.

But what is Will, who rarely reads, studying so intently he’s unaware of her presence? She draws closer and he jumps, closing the tome with a thump and fastening its clasp.

‘Come Will, you need never hide a book from me, who loves them above all else.’

Will laughs. ‘And that’s the truth, my bookish sister. Take care for men do not like a wife who has more knowledge than them.’

She tosses her head. ‘Then I will find one who will take pride in a clever wife.’

‘Good luck in this town.’

‘But what are you reading?’ She nudges him so she can squeeze into the narrow seat too.

‘’Tis better you do not see,’ he says, covering the title with his hand.

‘Oh Will, it’s some heresy. I know it.’

‘Well, since you know I need tell you no more.’

She elbows him. ‘Come on, where did you get the book?’

Will grins. ‘Father’s ship brought it.’

‘But how?’

‘How do you think? The sailors bring them to sell, for there’s a ready market in holy St Andrews. Even the priests want to read what Calvin, Erasmus and Martin Luther have to say.’

‘Please let me see.’ She presses her hands together in mock prayer.

Will bows back and passes her the book. She unclasps it, spreading its weight across her lap.

‘It’s in Greek!’ She’s surprised, Will is choosing to read anything in Greek when he complained so often about having to learn it. ‘By God’s good heart, it’s the New Testament translated into Greek.’ She looks at him. ‘Oh Will, when it’s one of the reasons they burned poor Wishart. This is perilous, not only to your life but to your eternal soul. You’re questioning our Holy Father in Rome.’

‘Stop going on. I don’t need you to play the big sister all the time. And what is the harm anyway – to read it in Greek, or to read it in Latin?’

She throws the book at him as though it is poison, which in a way it is; poison to question the true faith. She does not understand why Will is getting drawn into this new doctrine, he was never a scholar. She cannot stay in the room, she needs to breathe.

Out she goes into the twilight in time to see Cardinal Beaton’s entourage returning to the city. He’s not there, no doubt ridden ahead with his guard of soldiers tight about him, the townsfolk made to line the streets and bow as he passes. The baggage train, although well guarded, will travel too slow for his safety. She’d heard it was recently attacked but, not finding the Cardinal, the ruffians indulged in a spot of thievery, stealing a chest full of gold coin.

A small crowd is still there. They’ve seen it many times, for the Cardinal never travels lightly, but the wonder of all the carts carrying food, fine wine, bedding, clothing, silver plates, fuel, a hundred servants both French and Scots, and the final crowning glory, his four-poster bed perched upon a broad cart, never fails to entertain – although she can hear angry muttering too. She turns to leave after the passing of the bed, and finds the lanky figure of her brother behind her, his face dark with anger.

‘You know it is his fault.’

‘What is?’ she says, wearily. She’s cold, and in no mood to stand listening to another of Will’s rants, as well as fearful someone might overhear him.

‘Come, let me show you.’

He turns and marches for home and she trails behind. Waving her to wait, he disappears up the spiral to the attics. She stands warming herself, her back to the fire, longing for the unseasonably wintry May to pass. She can hear Will rummaging in the room above, boards creaking, and then he’s thundering back down the stairs, bursting into the room waving a paper.

‘Shut that door.’

He kicks it shut, flapping the paper in front of her face. She snatches it and he hauls her away from the fire. There’s an eye-watering smell of scorched wool and he beats at the back of her dress with his hands.

‘It’s as well Mother isn’t here to see you do this, yet again.’ He grins at her.

She smiles back ruefully, then smooths the paper crumpled in her fist.

It’s a notice. She can see the hole where it was once pinned to a church door or a tree, or, most likely, a Mercat cross. She tilts it, trying to read in the firelight.

You may thank your Cardinal for this…’ it begins.

She looks at Will questioningly.

‘When Henry Tudor’s troops sacked Haddington and all the other towns, and even burnt the kirk at St Monans, over the past two years, they left a notice each time with these words,’ he explains.

She feels the fear, like a punch to her belly. ‘And how is it that the King of England invades our country and it becomes the fault of our Cardinal, who has been the great defender of Scotland? Take care, Will, this is anglophile talk, and treason forby.’

‘It was us who broke the treaty promising our infant queen in matrimony to King Henry’s son,’ he mumbles, looking down at his feet.

‘It is a too rough wooing of our wee Queen Mary,’ she says angrily.

‘Why can’t you understand Bethia – we must have reform of the church, and Cardinal Beaton is blocking it. And, as the Bishop of Mirepoix, he’s all about supporting French interests, for they align with his own.’

She reaches up and touches his face. ‘Will, please don’t listen to those lairds. Father says they are not good men.’

He knocks her hand away and leaves the room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Chapter Eight

Conspirators

Will is still so angry he might burst. He can picture it, his guts spilling across the floor and a great steam-cloud of fury rising from them. The wickedness of Cardinal Beaton to do what he did to that gentle soul, George Wishart, makes him question God. For surely a just God would strike the Cardinal down; smite and smite and smite him. But the Lord God Almighty has withheld his gracious hand, and the Cardinal still rides out freely, living a life of greedy self-interest, swelling his own coffers by the wicked selling of indulgences and at the expense of the people of his vast diocese, especially the poor.