‘The Bishop of Rome, servant of all the servants of God, according to the duty of the Apostolic charge and to maintain the purity of the Christian faith, doth send you his word.’
He again makes the sign of a cross, his arms sweeping wide.
‘You are guilty of the crime of high treason, and worse, in following the path of heretical teaching. We curse all heretics.’
There is an intake of collective breath from the men surrounding Will. He, himself, can barely breathe at all.
‘To preserve the holy communion of the faithful, we follow the ancient rule and accordingly do excommunicate the killers of Cardinal Beaton together with all those persons, whoever they may be, who aid and abet them, in the name of God Almighty, the Father.’
Will is an aider and abetter; this Great Cursing from the Holy Father in Rome includes him.
‘Wherefore in the name of God the All-powerful, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; of the Blessed Peter, Prince of the Apostles, and of all the Saints; in virtue of the power which has been given us of binding and loosening in Heaven and on earth, we deprive Norman Leslie and all his accomplices of the Communion of the Body and Blood of Our Lord, we separate him from the society of all Christians, we exclude him from the bosom of our Holy Mother the Church, in Heaven and on earth, we declare him excommunicated and anathematised. We judge him condemned to eternal fire with Satan and his demons, and we deliver him unto Satan to mortify his body, that his soul may be in torment until the Day of Judgement.’
In the ghostly light cast from the torches Will can see Norman Leslie. Whatever bravado he may show later, Will knows Leslie is tight with fear. He’s leaning into the parapet as though he cannot stand upright without its support. No man can be brought up in the bosom of Mother Church and not know terror when they are cast out. The agony of George Wishart as he burned is as nothing to what Leslie, Will and their fellows are condemned to suffer – for they will burn in the fire pits of hell, for all eternity.
The trumpet blasts out once more. The cleric sits back down upon his chair and is raised aloft by his bearers, the priests resume their dirge as they turn away, torches held high, and the soldiers on horseback follow. Soon the space in front of the castle is still; it is over and their eternal souls are damned.
Leslie pushes himself off the rampart.
‘May God roast them and guide their steps to hell,’ he says loudly.
There’s a muttering amongst the men but no cheers of support; Leslie’s words ring hollow.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Will’s Demons
The Great Cursing has left Will bereft. He’s always believed that he would pass through the gates of Heaven with ease, and if he helped reform to happen then surely his place would be assured. He tells himself it is of no matter to be excluded, thrown out, cursed – but it does matter. He watches Norman Leslie bluster about how the Pope is the Antichrist, and knows that Leslie too is shaken.
Sitting on a stool in the great hall in the dark of night with the wind howling outside and in, his aching head in his hands, he tries to untangle the politics in his head; even though it was never supposed to be about politics but about faith and salvation. Meanwhile men snore all around.
There’s a loud bang and he jumps, overturning his stool and looking fearfully behind him. The glass is rattling loosely in the long window, as though someone is trying to get in. A man by his feet, gives a guttural snort and rolls over, but otherwise the sleepers seem undisturbed. Will chides himself for his feebleness, wraps his jerkin tight around and settles back to his thoughts. It’s the same thought sifting through his head; they should not have murdered Beaton, he should have been tried and then justly executed. He sees the Cardinal’s slumped body, the blood spurting, his pleading face as he died. Round and around it goes, until he’s ready to thump his own head off the wall.
He decides to fetch his bedding and lie in the great hall. He’ll be amongst servants and foot soldiers, but at least he won’t be alone, for Nydie has been bid to stay with Young Arran. He bends to light a stub of candle in the fire and places it in a lantern. The flame isn’t strong, but if he holds the lantern high it’ll light his way enough to keep evil spirits at bay while he walks the dark passages.
The wind shrieks up the turnpike as he descends, and his candle flickers wildly like demons are dancing in its flame. He must walk down the outside stairs, cross the courtyard and climb the stairs above the dungeon to fetch his bedding; the dungeon where the Cardinal’s body lies yet, despite the many pleas made by his concubine to release it.
He huddles in the doorway looking out on the wind-blasted yard, and his heart fails him. The midden heap is being blown into all four corners. He’ll have to walk through a swirl of shite, and his lantern will surely get blown out. He’d rather the discomfort of sitting on a stool all night than crossing this space.
A figure looms out of the darkness. He bangs his head off the wall and drops the lantern. The man bends to pick it up, miraculously still alight.
‘It’s you, Morrison,’ Will says, trying to still his shaking, as young Morrison’s features are revealed.
‘Aye, I lost out tonight.’
‘Well your watch should be uneventful, we’re unlikely to be attacked in this weather.’
‘All attention is on what the wind throws at us,’ says Morrison, ducking as a long splinter of wood whirls passed his head. ‘Although we are here as much to keep our fellows in, as Arran’s troops out.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re leaching men; two went last night and one the night before. We know not how they escape the castle, for the posterns are all closed and Carmichael holds the keys. He thinks they may be climbing out the sea tower windows and down the cliff, but it’s a risky route for the waves reach high to catch the unwary.’
Will is silent, pondering. Many came to join them last summer, when food was plentiful and they were strutting around the countryside like kings. Then more joined when Henry sent money and supplies, but that is all gone. Now is the time of the true believers, those who have faith in the teachings of Luther and George Wishart.
‘Let them go. It is better we have only those who follow Christ’s true path among us.’
‘I fear we may need the numbers if we’re to continue to repel our besiegers,’ says Morrison. ‘But you, who could be sitting warm by the great fire, where are you going?’
‘To collect blankets from my cell above the dungeon.’
Morrison laughs, although Will did not intend humour. Then he grows sombre. ‘’Tis curious that the Cardinal is still in the dungeon below, tucked up tight in his coffin.’
Will doesn’t think it curious at all. The Cardinal will haunt them for all time for what’s been done to him, both in life and death.
They leave the sheltering doorway and set out down the wooden stairs and across the courtyard together. The lantern is blown out immediately but the moon peeps through, briefly lighting the fast moving clouds above, and the dark shapes of debris dancing around like fiends at play, below. He can hear the waves crashing onto the rocks; the spray leaps high enough to clear the castle walls as they both lean into the wind, pushing their way through to the doorway opposite.
‘I will leave you here and continue my rounds,’ says Morrison.
He feels bereft when Morrison, with his cool steadiness, trudges away. He runs up the outside stairs and into the dark doorway. He climbs, feeling his way, for it is black as a ghost’s lair. Half way up he freezes. Demons are close, he can feel their touch. They’re stroking him, calling him to them and he cannot resist, for he is cursed. The wind howls louder. He’s sure it carries the cries of Beaton as he pleads for his life, and he stood by and did nothing. The noise rises to a crescendo of shrieks. There is a loud bang as something heavy thuds against the doorway below. His legs give way; sinking to his knees, he crawls up feeling the unquiet spirit of Beaton following close behind, its stinking breath blowing upon his neck.