‘Stop it.’ He shakes her hand off.
‘It’s true, he’s been excluded.’
‘No, how can that be? You’re telling lies to get me to leave.’ Will folds his arms.
‘For as long as he’s imprisoned here, young Arran is excluded from the succession. He’s not the great chess piece to play after all. And Norman Leslie must know this – he’s not being so loyal!’
She can see doubt, and then the realisation she speaks true, race across his face.
‘He’s still Arran’s son, and King Henry will want him for that reason alone.’
‘You think.’ She tosses her head.
‘Let her out,’ he shouts to the guard and stalks away.
The man looks flummoxed. ‘But, but…,’ he calls to Will’s retreating back, ‘…I dinna hold the key.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The De Langes
Father looks grave when Bethia describes the state of the castle, and the state of Will. Indeed, so concerned is he, that he doesn’t scold her for disobeying him. He paces up and down as she talks of Will’s unswerving belief in the rightness of his actions, his intransigence and the poor wee hostage James Hamilton.
‘This is bad, very bad,’ he mutters.
He stops and stares at her under lowered brows, his sharp nose like a mouse peeping out from the wainscotting. Then he resumes his pacing.
‘We need to do something and fast, otherwise it’ll be too late.’
‘Too late for what, Father?’
‘Never you mind lass, never you mind. We’ll have something sorted quick before word leaks out about Will’s whereabouts. I must see Walter Wardlaw.’ He flies out of the room calling for Grissel or Agnes or some bugger to bring his bonnet and cloak, and fast.
She’s carefully writing out a contract ready for the notary to affix his mark to, when Father returns, slumping into the chair. She glances up, but he won’t meet her eyes and she wonders what he has done to look so guilty about.
The next day the beadle comes to visit again, with his fat brother in tow. He’s telling how Regent Arran is demanding money from the monasteries to pay for the siege.
‘Aye it’s good to know that they rich friars must give up their siller, to the tune of six thousand pounds to recover the castle.’ Father chortles long and loud, until he remembers his heir is inside.
She’s sent to fetch them some of the claret that Father brought, in a recent shipment.
‘The captain says the crossing of the Bay of Biscay was terrible,’ Father tells the Wardlaws as she sets off on her errand, ‘worse than ever he can remember, and in August, when all should be easy.’
When she returns with the silver salver bearing decanter and glasses, one of Mother’s few dowry items, they fall silent. She has a feeling they’ve been talking about her. Everyone watches as she concentrates on reaching the board, the contents of her tray wobbling. She senses Father relaxing as she places the tray down and serves their drinks. They leave soon after, Walter Wardlaw staring at her as he goes. He makes her feel unclean and she doesn’t know why he’s staring anyway, since he already has a wife: a poor trauchled creature.
The painter is still busy about his work with Elspeth ever his devoted assistant, although Mother has already lost interest in her ceiling after Lady Merione pronounced it a good effort. Father however is pleased with the progress of the portrait, which thankfully Antonio managed to repair discretely, meriting John’s respect.
Elspeth’s come to have Bethia pluck her hair line, giving a raised brow like that of the Dowager Queen, ladies of the nobility and, of course, Mother too. Antonio insisted Bethia had her’s plucked high for the mother and daughter portrait, and her eyebrows taken off. After the deed was done, she stared into the polished hand mirror Father once brought her as a gift from France, and a calm, assured lady gazed back. She assumes Elspeth has hopes that something may come of her time with the painter since she’s enduring the tweezers again, but Elspeth says he’s rushing the work now and will soon be finished.
‘Why is he rushing, does he have another commission elsewhere?’
‘No, he says St Andrews is no longer safe and ’tis better to leave while he can easily find a ship.’ A tear runs down her cheek. ‘It seems I am nothing to him.’
‘Ach, things are not so bad and the siege must soon be over now Arran is come. Tell him not to worry, and Father is pleased and will no doubt recommend him.’
Elspeth wipes away the tears and sits up, while Bethia wields the tweezers. She frowns as she works, thinking, what did Elspeth expect? There could never be a future for her with the painter as he wanders the world following commissions, and he is used to, indeed needs to, charm women, with his snapping black eyes, sweet words and courtly manners. He couldn’t take a wife and she doubts he would ever make a reliable husband or be a good provider. Now the bonny pilgrim – he’s a different matter, and Bethia leaves Elspeth to her misery as her imagination wanders around the young man from Flanders. Father seems to have forgot all about him in his anxiety over Will and, as soon as the plucking is done to Elspeth’s satisfaction, she plans to slip out and find him.
But Mother calls before Bethia can leave the house in search of Mainard, wanting her to sort yarn.
‘You spend altogether too much time with your Father, and I need you to assist me – and on more maidenly tasks,’ she says.
Bethia sits hunched over the tangled basket of wools, stifling a yawn, next to John, who’s swinging his legs in boredom, his Latin primer spread before him. All is quiet and she wonders how much longer she’ll have to sit here playing the dutiful daughter before she’s released.
There’s a knock on the front door below and she quickly rises.
‘Sit down,’ says Mother. ‘Grissel will answer.’
She huffs and drops back onto the stool.
‘I heard that,’ says Mother.
The knocking is renewed, more insistently. She’s poised to go when they hear the door screeching open and Grissel’s loud voice.
‘Give us a moment, why can’t ye.’
Mother sighs.
There’s a murmur of voices, which Bethia strains to hear, and then the sound of more than one set of footsteps climbing the stairs. The door is flung wide by Grissel, behind her is Mainard, and following him the equally tall figure of Mainard’s father. She drops the hank of yarn and covers her mouth.
Mother rises to greet them. ‘You wish to see my husband, on business perhaps,’ she says, then sharply to Grissel, ‘fetch the master and bring us some malmsey.’
Grissel bangs out of the room, without a curtsy and Mother’s lips grow thin.
Mainard smiles at Bethia and she hangs her head in embarrassment.
Both Mainard and his father make a courtly leg and bow low. Mother holds out her hand and first Master de Lange, and then Mainard, kisses it.
‘Do take a seat,’ says Mother, looking well pleased; handsome men are a rarity. Mainard’s father begins to speak, but the door opens, and Father strides in. The de Langes stand up and Father stares at them from under bushy eyebrows.
Bethia shifts in her seat. ‘Father, this is Master de Lange and his son, pilgrims come to St Andrews. Mainard helped me when I was troubled by Castilians.’
‘I know who they are. Do ye think I don’t keep an eye upon the doings of my own daughter?’
Mainard whispers a translation to his father.
‘As well you should,’ says Master de Lange smoothly, making a bow.
Father nods and bows back, and they all sit down once more. They converse mostly in Latin with some Dutch, for Father has knowledge of both. It seems Master de Lange wants to discuss a trading partnership, and soon Father leads him to his room of business, while Mainard stays to charm Mother. Bethia doesn’t know what to make of it, but Father is well pleased when he returns, and they leave amidst more courtly bowing.