But before she can put her plan into effect, the crowd turns screaming, with those at the front scrambling over those slower to react. A cannon ball has landed in their midst, as the Castilians return fire. She presses herself as close to the wall of the nearest house as she can. Lucky it’s newly built of stone; if it was one of the older wooden houses the pressure of people would likely have collapsed the walls.
A woman with her baby in the plaid wrapped tight around her, one arm supporting the child, trips as she is carried past. Bethia catches the woman’s free arm, holding her upright. Her own arm is tugged, the pain in the shoulder socket excruciating, but she hangs on. The woman squeals, but regains her balance, jerks her arm free and flees.
The crowd is thinning now and she sees a few people lying on the ground. She goes to help an old man up, blood dripping from a scrape on his bald head and what looks like a bootprint scoring his cheek. He’s dressed in hessian, tied around his middle by a length of rope and smells strongly of urine. She decides not to offer him her handkerchief to clean the blood off his face. It’s of the softest Flanders linen after all, and was a gift from Aunt Jennet; he’d probably sell it.
Instead she steadies him, breathing through her mouth and trying not to gag, and once he’s upright, judges he can make his way back to the safety of the Mercatgait unaided, assuming the garrison doesn’t start firing into the town centre.
There’s a lull. It’s no doubt hot and heavy work loading, aiming and firing cannons. Hugging the wall, she creeps towards the soldiers who are running back and forward where the street opens onto Swallowgait, the castle towering behind them. The drifting smoke makes her cough and there’s lots of shouting from directly in front of her and more distantly from inside the castle. She reaches the end of the street and peers around the corner. There are soldiers dragging a cannon away from the castle while the Castilians shout insults from above. She’s grabbed by the arm and swung around.
‘Must I always find you where you should not be, my lady?’
She jumps.
‘Wheesht, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
She looks into the scarred face and kindly green eyes of the officer from the day of Wishart’s burning. ‘Oh it’s you.’
Before she can say anything further, there’s more shouting and bustle from the mouth of the street. He looks around and pulls her into the relative darkness of the close between two houses.
‘Stay there,’ he commands and leaves her.
She misses him, which she knows makes no sense; he was at her side so briefly – it’s something about the way he looked at her that reminds her of Mainard. There’s a loud rattling over the cobblestones and she glimpses soldiers heaving on ropes, heads hung like half-starved ponies. The captain runs alongside encouraging them.
‘Pull lads, pull. Let’s get our Deaf Meg to safety. We’ll find a sweet spot from which we can pulverise those protesting bastards, I promise you.’
The soldiers heave and grunt, heave and grunt until the cannon wheels get stuck in the mud when they heave and swear. Eventually they stop halfway down the wynd. She realises she’s trapped. If she comes out of hiding, she’ll either have to run the gauntlet past the cannon heavers or, if she escapes the other way, it’ll be past those braying dogs hanging over the castle parapet.
The soldiers are resting against the cannon now, wiping sweat off their grimy faces, and she can’t see their captain anywhere. She slides down the wall and sits on her heels, not caring that her skirts are dipping in the muck. There’s a rush of air followed by a crash and splinters of wood flying. She curls in on herself as something brushes the top of her head and clatters down behind her.
She stays still, coughing in the dust. Across from the vennel where she’s crouching, a door opens to reveal a family of fisherfolk; mother with her bairns crowded around her, man beside her in his sealskin boots. They’re staring down at the empty space, where once their fore-stair was. A child is lowered clinging to an old fishing net, quickly followed by the rest of the family.
The captain returns and bows, proffering his arm. ‘Let me escort you home, my lady,’ he says, eliciting curious looks from the fisher family and their neighbours, and a giggle from Bethia. She knows there’s nothing to laugh about, but his mockery seems so kindly meant she cannot help herself.
‘But we have not been properly introduced, sir.’
‘That is easily rectified. I am Gilbert Logie.’
She starts. ‘Of Clatto?’
He nods. ‘You know of my family?’
‘I think my mother and your mother have met.’ She had been going to say, are friends, but suspects the friendship may all be on her mother’s side. But she doesn’t regret claiming some relationship between their two families; he should know she’s not just any wench wandering the streets.
‘Ah, and you are?’
‘My name is Bethia.’
He offers his arm. ‘Well Bethia of the quiet confidence, and blue eyes that are so appealing, lead the way.’
‘Thank you kindly, my lord.’ She dips a curtsy, enjoying the mild flirtation, despite the soldiers smirking and nudging one another.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elspeth
Drifting to the work room, and hoping Father has lots for her to do, for she needs the distraction, she hears a knock on the door. She hurries to answer, hoping it might be Gilbert, but blocking out the low afternoon light are Walter Wardlaw and his brother. Wardlaw pushes past her although Norman, who shifts uncomfortably – is he looking apologetic? – bows and stutters a good day.
She welcomes him in return and he lumbers over the door step saying, ‘I have b-b-b-brought you a-a b-b-book, my lady, which I thought you m-m-might like for I under-r-r-s-s-stand you are quite the s-s-scholar.’
Bethia, touched by his thoughtfulness, follows him up to the chamber, where Father is. Norman sits down and fumbles in his bag. She holds out her hand for the book he’s clutching, but he looks up, shoulders hunching, and mumbles, ‘I thought we m-m-m-might read the b-b-book together and I c-c-can explain it to you.’
She bites her lip, holding in a sigh, but it’s hard to reject the appeal in his eyes. He looks like a dog that expects to be kicked, and yet Father says he is not a man to cross in business. ‘What is the title of your book?’ she asks, swallowing a yawn.
‘It is called Historia Gentis Scotorum ,’ says Norman, enunciating each letter and struggling to get past the sco of Scotorum.
‘Oh yes, Hector Boece’s History of the Scottish People. I have already read…’
‘Sit down, Bethia, and look at the book with Norman,’ says Father, while Walter Wardlaw frowns beside him.
She tucks herself into the small space on the settle that is free of Norman’s bulk and he unclasps the book, spreading it open over her lap. Aware that Father is watching, she grits her teeth and allows it. Norman asks if he should translate but she reads aloud, translating as she goes.
Norman looks surprised, ‘that is ve-ve-very good.’ He nods to Father, ‘you have a learned one h-here, Master Seton.’
‘She’s not so bad with the Latin,’ says Father, ‘but more usefully she writes a good hand, can keep the day-book up to date and her figuring is improving.’
‘Those are indeed useful attributes, especially in a wife,’ says Walter Wardlaw.