‘‘Tis lead, to make cannon balls,’ Norman says. ‘They must be desperate for there is a tale in St Andrews that the Queen’s men stripped it from the roof of the Great Hall at Holyrood, or so my informant tells me.’ He grins at Will as he speaks, inviting him to join in his pleasure at the Great Hall with its rafters and battens exposed to the sky.
Will manages only a grimace in return, for he’s thinking about how many cannon balls all this lead can be turned into. Leslie pushes himself up and departs, leaving Will wondering who the informant is.
‘Your pretty sister has been helpful,’ smirks Carmichael. ‘Very helpful indeed…’
Will doesn’t know he’s going to do it until it happens – he swings his arm and hits Carmichael. Taken by surprise, Carmichael neither takes evasive action nor defends himself. Will is able to land the punch full on his face, feeling cheek bone crunch beneath his fist.
Carmichael staggers, shaking his head.
Will stands fists clenched, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, as he waits. His knuckles are stinging and he clenches his fists more tightly. Carmichael, face flushed, charges at him like an angry goat. Will steps to one side, sticking his foot out as Carmichael passes. Carmichael trips, and, arms flailing, runs into the parapet.
Will sees, from the corner of his eye, the circle of faces watching, men nudging one another and grinning. He blocks them out and concentrates. Carmichael has his fists up as he moves closer. Will holds his ground. He sees Carmichael swing for his belly and, at the last moment, steps back. The punch lands but not as forcefully as it might, and Carmichael is stumbling, off balance again.
Christ’s blood it hurts, but Will shuts out the pain. Carmichael turns to come at him but before he can land a punch, Will hits him again in the face. Carmichael’s head snaps and bangs off the wall to his right. Later Will’s half sorry that he didn’t angle the punch to knock Carmichael over the parapet and down to the sea below. Although a mortal sin, it would probably have been worth it to rid himself of that sneering face forever.
Carmichael staggers away from the wall, eyes unfocused, the blood pouring from his nose spattering his clothes, and the stones, a bright crimson. Morrison catches Carmichael, pressing his head back to stem the bleeding. Will stands watching until Morrison gestures him away.
He leaves the roof top, rubbing his knuckles, conscious of sore ribs – he’ll no doubt be all bruises around his belly tomorrow. He doesn’t believe Bethia is their spy. He knows she gave Richard Lee information about the position of the siege tunnel, but that was only the once, and Leslie will have plenty of sources of information. He’s sure Carmichael was only saying it to rile him, as usual.
As he descends he can hear Carmichael shouting after him. ‘I’ll make you sorry you were ever born, you lickspittle, you, you…fopdoodle!’
Will sniffs and then smiles, stroking his bruised knuckles. He’s not a fool, knows if he hadn’t caught Carmichael off-guard things may have gone differently. Carmichael will no doubt exact his revenge later. And yet it cannot take away from the most satisfying moment of Will’s life so far – the sight of Carmichael, head hanging and blood dripping, like a stuck pig.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Absolution
It is more than a year since George Wishart met his cruel end, and now another end has come. Henry Tudor is dead, although the news wasn’t unexpected. Word is that he’s been dead since the end of January and they crowned the young King Edward quick, and now Edward’s Uncle Seymour is Regent. Leslie says it makes little difference, for England supports them still, and will continue to render assistance. Indeed they have recently borne witness to a pledge of loyalty to King Edward made by Lord Gray, Sherriff of Angus, a doughty reformer who’s visited while the truce holds. Will, although he’s always hoped for rescue by England, is uncomfortable at the prospect of ever declaring allegiance to that country, even for a generous pension, – he is a Scotsman, after all – and he left the great hall before the Sherriff had finished speaking his oath.
March blows itself out and tips into April. Henry Balnaves returns, much to Will’s surprise, for he expected him to stay safe in England while he could, but at least the bailey is clean once more. Will grows more gaunt and miserable as day follows day. And now the Scottish fleet are back in the bay, blockading the castle so they can neither be easily rescued, nor supplies easily brought from south of the border. The last victualling ships England sent were captured, so all depends on what they can take from the depleted town and countryside. What is more, there’s word that the French King Francis has now died, and his son Henri is already speaking to the Scots ambassador about how they may help to expel the Castilians.
‘You were aye a dour bugger,’ Nydie says, as Will slouches in his corner.
He stares up at James standing in front of him, legs wide apart, as though he is some great lord instead of the son of a local laird who happens to be knighted; as though he is somehow much older, better, stronger than Will. He jumps to his feet and shoves Nydie, hard. How dare he speak thus, as though Will hadn’t seen him puking after Beaton’s murder, as though Will hadn’t wiped his arse when he was too sick to move.
‘That’s better,’ says Nydie regaining his balance. ‘Come.’ He slings his arm around Will’s shoulder and leans into him.
He nudges Nydie away, but James doesn’t seem to notice, and after a moment he relaxes into James’s easy comfort.
‘John Knox is here.’
‘Here? They’ve allowed him entry?’
‘While the truce still holds, and he claims to be our confessor, he’s permitted to come and go. He’s brought three young pupils with him, saying he’s safer inside St Andrews Castle than on the outside.’
Will’s face lights up. Knox is a great orator and a sound defender of both Luther and Wishart, as well as being a much better preacher than John Rough. He walks eagerly along the portico and up to the great hall.
Knox discourses and Will listens.
‘Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God,’ he begins.
He can feel the spectre of the Cardinal retreating and the rightness of their actions advancing. It is Arran and all his men who are damned, not the Castilians.
‘We are the sword bearers in this violent struggle against good and evil as the apocalypse draws near. Where there is sin we must root it out, for to see sin and do nothing is the worst sin of all. It is our task, set by God, to convince men of the error of their ways.’
But before he can get fully fired up, Morrison comes seeking Norman Leslie, Kirkcaldy or Balnaves, and Knox is interrupted. ‘There is a procession come to the gate,’ Morrison calls several times, voice growing louder to be heard over Knox’s oratory.
What now, thinks Will, slumping against the wall.
They hurry down to the courtyard to hear the news. A document has been handed over and Kirkcaldy of Grange unrolls and studies it.
The Pope has granted the Castilians absolution. Will’s heart sings. All will be well.
Kirkcaldy reads aloud the absolution. The pardon contains the phrase, remittimus crimen irremissible. Will scrabbles around inside his woolly head for the translation but there’s no need, it’s already being muttered among them. The Pope has said he “pardons that which is unpardonable”. How can that be? Nevertheless it is still a pardon – the Great Curse has been lifted. He feels a smile spread over his face; it is wiped away as quick as it came.