He sits in the family pew in Holy Trinity, his back resting where the family’s name has been carved into the wood. He’s hoping to find some calm in this church of guilds, merchants and craftsmen; the church of the people of St Andrews. The sun glints through the coloured glass, staining the Hammersmith’s altar pink and green. Next to it, through the lattice of the screen, the priest sways as he chants the words of the mass; the standing congregation sway with him. The familiar words of the liturgy wash over him, and peace does enter his soul.
It doesn’t last long. Again angry thoughts race through his head until he’s ready to bang it off the polished knob which decorates the end of the pew. He knows God can only act through his true servants, which he and his fellows are. He has no choice, he must work with them to bring down the Cardinal.
Nearby, John is swinging the thurible with enthusiasm, the smoke from the incense enveloping him. If he swings it another hands-width wider, he’ll give the priest a good whack across the back of the legs with the burner. Will thinks how much he would enjoy that. The priest ends his Latin babble and the boys of the Song School line up, John included, to deliver their pricked song and descant. The purity of their voices soars into the vaulted nave, and brings a tear to Will’s eye.
He bends forward to rest his elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He knows that he must be bold but he feels shaky inside. It’s his, and his fellows’, task to deal with the Cardinal, in the name of the Lord God Almighty. He kens how to shoot an arrow for he’s spent enough time at the Bow Butts, as all boys are required to, but he’s never attacked anyone. The most he’s ever done was to wrestle and swing a few punches, when he was no older than John. When Bethia, squashed in next to him, touches his arm to inquire if he’s ill, he glares and knocks her hand away. He’s not ill, he’s scared.
After dinner he goes to meet with his fellow conspirators in the house by the Swallowgait. He’s a minor player in a great game, being only the son of a merchant. It is the lairds, the grandees of Fife, and their sons, who are taking the lead in making plans. Will’s included because his friend James of Nydie, is here. And he does most fervently believe in the need for reform, and the doctrine that salvation comes through individual faith and constant reading of the scripture in the vernacular, none of which is sanctioned by the Pope’s church.
When he joined the group, he expected much discourse on such topics but it hasn’t happened. He thinks his fellows have forgot why they’re here, overtaken by their hatred of Cardinal Beaton and their determination to bring him down. True, Beaton is a wicked and corrupt man, who must be held to account for what he’s done to Wishart, and others, but surely there should be some talk of the spiritual amongst the political?
The key conspirators sit along the long board, while the lesser players, who include Will and James, are standing. Will is hard against the wooden panelling that lines the walls in this comfortable home, ridges pressing into his back, with Nydie tucked in next to him. He wonders if it’s necessary for James to be quite so close. James is forever touching; a nudge here, a wee pat on the arm there. Actually, today, he finds the prospect of a wee pat on the arm comforting – in view of the plans that are being made.
He studies the conspirators as they talk. Most notable are the Leslies, the uncle John and his nephew Norman, but really it should be said in reverse – for Norman Leslie, Master of Rothes, is a leader of men. He fought at Ancrum Moor last year, leading three hundred bowmen from Fife; a battle against the English where, for once, Scotland was victorious. Norman’s certainly taking the lead here, insisting that they must act against the Cardinal, now.
‘We will take him where he feels most safe… in his castle,’ he says banging his fist upon the board.
‘And he is most safe in his own castle. I do not think it a wise course of action,’ says Henry Balnaves. ‘We’re not an army, not yet. And although, with wider family members and our servants, we may number over one hundred, most of our followers could not successfully be pitted against Beaton’s trained soldiery. We need to take him when he’s out from his stronghold, on one of his many processions across the countryside.’
‘We’ve tried, as you well know, and failed. He rides out with too strong a guard. Gaining entry to the bishop’s palace is the way to go. I know my way around, am well kent by the servants, and we can enter quietly as a small group claiming to have a meeting arranged.’
‘Aye, you are a great friend to the Cardinal,’ says Peter Carmichael.
Will doesn’t like the man, nor his habit of sneering at others.
‘Many of us have been a great friend to Cardinal Beaton – in the past,’ says William Kirkcaldy of Grange.
‘But not sworn an oath of loyalty to him,’ says Carmichael.
John Leslie leaps to his feet, sword in hand. ‘Take that back!’
‘Sit down John,’ says Norman. ‘It’s true, as we all know. But as we also know Beaton has been ower greedy. When he reneges on a bond he has made to us and takes land that’s rightfully Rothes land, then he is no longer deserving of our loyalty.’
‘God’s death, we’ve all suffered at the altar of Beaton’s ruthless ambition,’ says Kirkcaldy. ‘My father,’ he waves to the man sitting opposite, ‘removed from his position as Treasurer of the Realm, Balnaves taken down as Secretary of State, and both imprisoned, as well as your land unlawfully seized. Where we once all worked alongside the Cardinal for the good of our country, he is now too self-interested to ever place its higher good before his own.’
There’s much nodding around the board.
‘Beaton was himself held prisoner in Blackness Castle for a time,’ mutters Peter Carmichael, but he is ignored.
Will tries unsuccessfully to block the memory of arguing with Father about the lairds’ motives. Their group is all about curbing Beaton and instigating reform and is not, as Father claims, driven mainly by the advantages the lairds receive from supporting King Henry in his ambition to control Scotland. He does not believe that Balnaves, the Kirkcaldys and the Leslies all receive a regular pension from England to further Henry’s cause. Father even says it is only thanks to Cardinal Beaton’s valiant efforts to exclude them from power, and to maintain the French alliance, that King Henry’s ambitions have not yet been achieved.
The room is stultifying; Will wipes the sweat from his face and shakes his head to clear it of Father’s words. Father has misunderstood the main point, which is surely the desperate need for church reform, and to hold the Cardinal to account for instigating the burning of George Wishart.
It seems James Melville of Carnbee, a close friend of the dead Wishart agrees, for he leaps up making the shared settle rock violently, his companions either side grabbing at the board to prevent being overturned. ‘We are not here in service of personal vengeance.’ He glares at the Leslies. ‘And we are not here in service of King Henry of England.’ This time it is Balnaves who receives the venomous look. ‘We are here to avenge the death of a good man, whose only crime was to challenge corruption within the clergy, and whose only desire was to bring people to a right and true faith. He chose a martyr’s death, as the good Lord wished, and now it is our turn to show ourselves loyal servants of the Lord.’ Melville sits down and folds his arms, chin pushed out, daring anyone to challenge him.
There’s some shuffling and looking at the floor until Norman Leslie once more takes over, and dour Melville is sidelined. ‘We are agreed to take action then,’ he says firmly. ‘Let me lay the fruits of our discussion before you so we may all be clear.’ He rubs his face and takes a deep breath. ‘’Tis true we never thought to take the Cardinal in his own palace, but it seems our best chance is in the place where he feels most safe. You are in agreement so far?’