Leslie wants the Cardinal’s body brought out of the dungeon and laid to rest somewhere more fitting. Will thinks it’s a little late for such concern, but submits anyway. He, and a dozen others, are herded through the narrow entrance below Will’s sleeping quarters. It is a place he has avoided since he first discovered it the day they stormed the castle, when he was sent running for embers to smoke the Cardinal out. He shakes his head, remembering how scared he was – even the laddie cowering last winter, convinced he was being haunted by the Cardinal’s ghost, seems long gone now.
Ropes are flung down and three men slide into the dungeon. They stand back as a lit torch is tossed in after them. Will, leaning over the rim, sees the deep hollow of carved-out rock worn smooth by its many occupants, and thinks that it is accurately named “the bottle dungeon” with its wide bowl and long narrow opening – from which escape is impossible.
He hauls his head out of the bottle neck; the smell is bad: dank, airless and putrid. Surely the Cardinal can’t still be rotting after more than a year pickled in salt. The men below shout up; they need help. Will sighs, grasps a rope and slides down to join them. No doubt they will soon be imprisoned here themselves, and he would prefer it if the Cardinal was first removed.
He’s surprised to find Melville standing opposite ready to lift the coffin; does he feel any remorse? Three men each side and still they struggle to raise it – it must be lead lined. Others come to assist, and they balance awkwardly on the curve of the hollowed-out floor. The coffin slips and crashes to the ground. The ill-fitting lid slides open.
He looks down upon the tightly packed body and the Cardinal’s face stares up at him. He steps back with a sharp intake of breath, and he’s not the only one. He rubs his eyes hard, God’s blood, he would swear on his life he saw Beaton’s unquiet spirit escape.
The Cardinal’s body is lying half on its side crushed into the too-small coffin with the knees bent and head twisted, so his face looks out at the world. The naked corpse is stained and unwashed and Will feels shame that any person, however reviled, should have their remains so ill-treated. Then he remembers George Wishart’s body, half roasted and blown asunder so that the crowd were collecting what pieces they could find. He, himself, had carried a mangled finger to place in Wishart’s coffin.
They ram the lid back on and get the coffin tied up, and hauled to the surface without any further mishap. He climbs back up the rope and the group, staggering under the weight as they slip and slither in the muck, take it in turns to carry it across the rain-soaked, cannon-blasted courtyard and up the stairs. Will notices that Norman Leslie takes no further part in proceedings; he has vanished, just as he did on the day Beaton was killed.
The coffin is placed in the Cardinal’s old chambers, which are undamaged, so far. There’s some mumbling about washing the body although Will doubts it would hold together if moved for cleaning. Anyway, Kirkcaldy and Balnaves have returned and the negotiations are finished. The terms they sought are agreed; they are indeed to be transported to France. The planks are already laid across the fosse – he can see them through the archway of what is left of the main gate. Will looks around. He and his fellows are a sorry looking group: scrawny, sick and filthy. He thinks of his sister left inside the castle; James will look after her, she’ll be fine.
John Knox comes to stand before them, his rain-sodden robes clinging to his legs as tightly as an importuning miscreant. At least he has stayed, unlike his fellow preacher John Rough, who found reason to leave for England some time ago.
‘The Word is the beginning of the life spiritual without which all flesh is dead in God’s presence,’ says Knox, and the Castilians stand and listen. Knox’s voice grows loud as he continues. ‘In this time of our great need, we will converse with our Lord and say a prayer together.’
Will realises Knox wants the soldiers waiting outside to hear the prayer and know it is being spoken in English; the words of the Bible available to all.
‘Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,’ Knox begins.
Will bows his head and the text of Matthew rolls over him as Knox calls it out in sonorous tones.
‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.’
In that moment he knows he is among right-thinking people. It was right to protest, even to kill the Cardinal was right – in the eyes of the Lord. He feels the power of God like a jolt through his body; they are not finished here, this is not their end.
‘Forgive us our trespasses,’ Knox intones, his voice echoing around the silent courtyard.
Everyone must stand before God, and be answerable for their own failings. There should be no priests paid an indulgence to intercede on a transgressor’s behalf. And what of his own failings. He is to be safely transported to France and he has left his sister here, in danger – made her his friend’s responsibility. He flushes with the shame of it. Then he’s running across the courtyard; he is not too late to correct this transgression.
‘And lead us not into temptation…’ he hears as he ducks into the guard-room, shouting at James to climb up.
James is quickly out and standing next to Will.
‘Hurry, Knox is near finished his prayer and then the gate will be opened.’
‘You are not coming?’
‘You know I cannot leave my sister. Do not tarry, James, go. They have agreed to the terms.’
Still James lingers until Will squeezes his shoulder and gives a gentle push.
He grasps Will’s hand. ‘I will miss you, my friend.’
‘And I you.’ Will releases his hand. ‘But now I am for the pit, and you are for France – and the bonny French lassies.’
He scrambles over the edge and drops down beside his sister as James stumbles away.
Bethia’s soft hand strokes his cheek. ‘Thank you, brother.’
He knows it should be him apologising, not her thanking him for making right what he did wrong. Instead he says, ‘We should lie down and be hid. Arran’s troops will likely search the castle once it is theirs.’ He thinks of the Cardinal’s remains. ‘Although they may be distracted.’
Nevertheless they tuck themselves beneath the overhang. There is silence and his mind drifts, then he’s shaking.
Bethia strokes his back. ‘I’m sorry you’re trapped in here with me.’
‘It’s not that,’ chokes Will.
‘What?’
He shakes some more.
‘You’re laughing! What is there to laugh about?’
‘Can you even begin to think what Father would say, if he could see us now?’
And then she is laughing too and it’s a comfort to him that, after a long period of strife, they are united.
She grows still. ‘Yet I would not be in this predicament were it not for Father – and especially Mother.’
‘I am sorry,’ says Will. ‘I never thought for a moment that they would create an alliance with the Wardlaws. I truly believed it was all a ruse to get me out of the castle.’
‘I wish it had been.’
He squeezes her arm.
‘Norman Wardlaw is not a bad man; indeed he is kind. If I have to be married to someone not of my choosing, there are many worse; his brother for a start.’
‘And was there someone of your choosing?’
She sighs. ‘I cannot speak of him, it is too painful. Let’s say that he may have been of my choosing, but it seems I was not of his.’
He squeezes her arm again and shifts to tug a rock from under him.
‘Anywise I will deal with Walter Wardlaw as soon as we are out of here. I can assure you he will never trouble you again.’