Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nydie
Bethia stands by the West Port watching Father. He’s riding towards the ridge above the Kinness Burn, which is the road to Cupar, where he often has trade. But it is also the road to Hugh of Nydie’s lands, where she suspects, and hopes, he is going. There has been much discussion between her parents about whether she should marry Norman Wardlaw or James of Nydie.
‘James is by far the better match,’ says Mother, ‘and one day will be an earl too, as was my father. It is most suitable.’
Father sighs long and loud. ‘And being the wife of an earl is of small account if he has no Earldom.’
Mother tosses her head, ‘Hugh of Nydie is too well connected to suffer because of his support for the siege.’
‘God’s blood woman, his connections will not save him from punishment. Most of his closest allies are among the garrison, and will likely forfeit their lands themselves. Anywise he has not yet formally offered his son for Bethia, whereas Norman Wardlaw has offered – and, more to the point, been accepted. We should not even be discussing James, for I have shaken Norman’s hand and given my word.’
Mother grows pale. ‘At least speak to Nydie so we may know his intentions.’
Bethia clasps her hands together and mutters a prayer. A tear runs down her cheek. It is June, and the fierce weather long past, yet there has still been no word from Mainard. He could at least have sent her one message, even if it was to tell her he would not be returning, but then few ships have come this year, and even fewer pilgrims. The tale of the holy city of St Andrews at war with itself will no doubt have been carried over the sea, spread through France and across the Holy Roman Empire.
She stands at the gate watching Father’s retreating back. She watches for a long time as he grows smaller and smaller. She becomes aware that the workers on the nearby rigg are lifting their heads to stare at her, and she’s being buzzed by flies from the dung they’re spreading.
Retreating back through the port, the acrid smell of burning catches in the back of her throat, as she walks up Southgait. The Dominican Friary still has wisps of smoke drifting skywards from the fire which partially destroyed it a few days ago. The talk in the streets is that Norman Leslie and his Castilians torched it. She stands gazing at it; half the roof and one wall has collapsed, leaving the solid stone arches exposed.
A soft hand touches her arm. ‘You s-s-should not be w-w-wandering the s-s-streets alone.’
She turns to look up into Norman’s puffy face, the spider web of red lines across his nose and cheeks vivid in the daylight.
‘The destruction is sad to see.’ She waves her hand at the ruin of Blackfriars.
‘And in our ane street,’ he says, devoid of stutter, his voice harsh in a way she has never heard before. ‘We are nowhere near the Bishop’s Palace and yet they’re arrogant enough to attack here.’
She looks at him with respect, can almost see the man that Father has described as a fierce trader. He takes her hand, tucking it under his arm, and she allows it as they stroll towards her home. It’s easier, she thinks, to be with Norman when she is by his side and doesn’t have to look at him, although the wheezing each time he takes a step is hard to ignore.
She hears the drone of bagpipes and looks for its source. A piper is leading a wedding procession: the bride head bent, the groom red-faced, the parents smiling, the priest carrying the vial of holy water to bless the bed, the watching crowd shouting out, smirking, nudging one another.
Bethia tugs her hand out, mumbling, ‘I will go home now, you need not escort me further.’ She doesn’t look at Norman. She scurries away, pushing through the watching crowd, past Agnes and Grissel who are calling out as loud as anyone, and into her home. She slams the door shut behind her and leans against it, praying to the Virgin that Father and Hugh of Nydie have come to an agreement.
Father soon returns, saying he hasn’t got time to discuss where he’s been when she asks. He sends her into the strong-room, which adjoins his workroom, to fetch some papers, while he reads a letter just come. She turns as she opens the strong-room door, and sees him crumple a paper and toss it into the fire burning in the grate.
She is kneeling in front of the iron bound kist when she hears Mother.
‘When did you return, Thomas?’ There’s a crash, as the door Mother must have flung wide, bangs off the wall. ‘Why did you not seek me out? I have been most anxious.’
‘Whoah, whoah. Hud your horses. Sit down and I will tell you all.’
Father knows she’s in here and she waits for him to call her out, to send her from the room – but he does not.
‘Nydie and I had a full and frank discussion. He does not think the siege will continue much longer.’
Mother huffs. ‘They’ve been saying that from the beginning and now we’re more than twelve months in.’
Bethia hears a chair creak. ‘Nevertheless the new King of France takes a different view from his father, and is close to our Queen Mother and her family. Both Nydie and I think King Henri will honour the auld alliance between our two countries, which his father all but broke, and send help soon.’
‘And surely England might equally send help.’
‘They might, but they have had ample occasion to relieve the garrison and have so far failed. In any case, although it matters to those Castilians by which means they are got out, it matters little to us – provided the town is left unharmed.’
‘Apart from that our son is among them.’
The chair creaks again, as though it is about to split. ‘As he’s made his bed, so let him lay on it.’
‘He is our son,’ wails Mother.
‘Aye, and because of his rash actions we are likely to find ourselves homeless beggars.’
Mother huffs. ‘But what of Nydie?’
‘Hugh of Nydie is a man, I have learned, who is impetuous in speech yet slow to act. The suggestion that his son and our daughter might wed was spoken aloud the moment it occurred to him. He barely remembers saying it, and was most surprised to be forced into a discussion of its merits.’
Bethia slumps against the chest and bites on her hand.
‘But why were you so long, what were you discussing if not this marriage?’
‘Take care how you speak to me, Mary. I am your husband and need not account to you for my actions or time. I have explained, but still you do not seem to grasp the gravity of our situation. Remember when your family was expelled from England, how King Henry took all your land and possessions?’
‘I am hardly likely to forget.’
‘This is what may well happen when it is discovered that our son is among the renegades in the castle.’
Mother gasps.
‘And the same is true for Hugh of Nydie. It would be of no help to our family for Bethia to marry into theirs. Norman Wardlaw is a far better option, and he is aware of our precarious situation; we are already discussing how we may together lessen the severity of any retribution.’
‘You have told the Wardlaws where Will is!’
‘Only Norman, Walter is a different matter.’
‘Well, I hope Norman’s discretion can be relied upon, for his brother has a most sinister demeanour. Have you agreed a date?’
‘I will speak with Norman.’
‘And I will look to her wedding clothes.’ Mother sighs. ‘We must have a wedding breakfast, I assume?’
‘Of course.’
‘And with such a family.’
Bethia covers her head with her apron and rocks back and forward. There is to be no escape.