‘I will get a courier off to Edinburgh and find out what I can.’
‘Mind you, be discrete. She is of good family.’
‘Of course,’ says Gilbert. He rises.
‘Thank you.’ Father places his arm around Gilbert’s shoulders. ‘Come again, son.’
She shows Gilbert out, pondering what she’s heard, and goes to close the door behind him, when he calls out to her.
‘Should you ever have need of me send a message to my lodgings, the house by Greyfriars, and I will come.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, but she cannot imagine what that need might be; the only need she has is of Mainard, and Gilbert can’t do aught about that. It’s two months since he left, and she knows he returned safely for Father has had much communication from Master de Lange. She has read the letters, they are about the trade they agreed – Flanders linen for Scottish hides is to be its beginning – but there has never been any letter, message or word for her included. She thought Mainard had more honour and, even if he no longer cares, that he would write and tell her, not leave her in this misery of uncertainty.
Father’s smile has gone when she returns to the work room. ‘This is bad, very bad,’ he mutters, ringing his hands.
‘Do you not think Gilbert can get her back?’
‘What… oh I’m not thinking of Elspeth, though ’tis a shame for the lass, and her father.’ He bends his head and rubs at the bald spot which Bethia notices is getting bigger. ‘No, it’s Will I’m thinking of.’ He lifts his eyebrows and nods to her. ‘That was well spotted, my lass, and a clever question.’
She raises her own eyebrows. She’s no idea what he’s talking about.
‘The carts,’ he says, ‘the carts taking away rubble.’
‘Yes?’
‘Arran’s troops may well be trying to dig their way into the castle, and, if so, the siege might quickly be over. I do not think we can get Will out now, even if he would come, and that leaves us in a dangerous place. I am sorry, lass, I know it is not to your liking, although we can be confident Norman is eager, but I think we must have an alliance with the Wardlaws.’
Her mouth is so dry she can barely form the words. ‘What sort of alliance?’
‘A marriage settlement, of course.’
‘No, Father, please no.’ She reaches her hands out to him.
He steps back, holding his hands up, palms outwards. ‘If we tarry, it may be too late; there are many who would be happy for a reason to strip us of our wealth and property. I will speak with Norman Wardlaw tomorrow and get things moving.’
Bethia drops onto the settle. She feels as though all the breath has been squeezed from her.
Part Three
Will
October 1546 to April 1547
Chapter Twenty-Six
Siege Tunnel
Will lies on the straw pallet he’s been allocated in the Sea Tower on the other side of the courtyard from the portico and the comfort of the Cardinal’s old rooms. The Cardinal haunts his dreams, blood-dripped arms reaching out to be saved. He wishes they’d given up the body when his concubine, Marion Ogilvy, came to the gate again last week. He thinks on how she was kept waiting just inside, head bent, the garrison watching while Norman Leslie strode over. She held her hands out as though beseeching him, but Leslie shook his head and she dropped to her knees before him. Despite his refusal, he helped her up with every appearance of gentleness and led her back to the gate. Will wonders what it must have taken for her to plead for her paramour’s body with the man who was formerly the Cardinal’s friend and, for all she knows, his killer.
‘A pox on you and your bastards,’ someone called, as she stumbled away.
Marion straightened her back, lifted her head and cried, ‘shame on you all.’ Then Leslie slapped and cursed the fellow, and Will considers he was right to do so.
Eventually he falls back into an uneasy sleep. He’s awoken by his stomach cramping. His witch of a sister was right, they did get sick; five of the Castilians have perished of the plague, and his good friend James of Nydie has been near death. His fellows are saying the besiegers somehow placed a dead sheep in their water to poison them all, but Will doesn’t see how that can be. The well is dug straight down deep, through the rock on which the castle is built. It’s more likely they got sick eating rotten food, probably the dead pigeons which were all that was left in the pigeon loft. But things should be better now, for Henry Tudor has, at least, sent a supply ship, which successfully evaded ships on patrol from the Scottish fleet.
Henry Balnaves, one of the original conspirators, who had remained on the outside, joined them as the supply ship arrived – which is as well for he’s a man, it seems, who likes to organise. He willingly, and determinedly, takes charge of the arrangements inside the castle. He prevents any pillaging or waste as happened before with the Cardinal’s rich stores – two miscreants caught stealing wine were whipped – and has overseen the cleaning of the courtyard, directing the dung heap shovelled into the sea.
Will can hear the waves crashing against the rocks below; he was never so aware of the sea, and all its moods, till he came to live in the castle. The wind howls through the broken windows behind him and he buries his head beneath the blanket. Why did his co-conspirators break so many windows? He knows why. They did not expect to be here still. Henry of England was to send troops, as well as stores. Kirkcaldy and the Leslies said from the beginning that he would seize the opportunity to invade, that they would be rescued. Much as he’s reluctant to admit it, his father was right. The old wind-bag said King Henry was ower wily to get drawn in, and where is the benefit for him now Beaton, may God have guided his steps to hell, is dead? Instead the message from the English king demanded they give up their greatest bargaining tool and send him Arran’s son.
He thinks what it must be like to be James Hamilton, son of the Regent and second in line to the throne, a pawn in everyone’s game. Sometimes he’s grateful to be only the son of a merchant, and not much worthy of anyone’s attention.
‘Get up!’
Will jumps.
Carmichael kicks at his feet. ‘I said get up, you lazy stinkfart.’
Will leaps off his pallet and stands, fists raised.
‘Oh ho,’ Carmichael crows, holding up his hands in pretend dismay. ‘Our wee boy thinks he’s a man.’ He steps forward, swings high and clouts Will around the head. ‘Take that as a warning, I’ll tolerate no kail-headed coddroch threatening me. Now get down to the courtyard and fast, Arran’s soldiers are bent on the Devil’s work and we must stop them.’
Will rubs his burning ear muttering, ‘a pox on you, you horse penis,’ at Carmichael’s retreating back.
‘I heard that, you useless giant bairn,’ Carmichael roars.
He strides over to where Will is standing, eyes on the ground, and punches him in the stomach. Will bends double clutching his belly and gasping for breath. Carmichael kicks him in the arse, so hard it is as though Carmichael’s boot will come out the other end.
Groaning he drops to his knees, then topples onto his side, curling up as small as his tall frame will allow. He can feel Carmichael standing above him but he keeps his eyes closed.
‘I’m not finished with you yet, Will Seton.’ He hawks and gobs.
Will feels the damp spittle landing on his hand, which is shielding his face.
He lies still as he can, in a body which is exploding with pain. When he hears Carmichael’s footsteps going down the stairs, he allows himself to whimper. What did he ever do to be so hated and despised by another man? And why didn’t he, at least try, to defend himself. What’s wrong with him; a dying mouse has more spirit.