As they leave she treads on something soft; her skirt, thanks be to Mary. She snatches it up, bundling it under her arm. They creep to the doorway and peer out. It’s later than they expect – the dimness caused by a mist creeping in from the sea and smothering the castle. She gives thanks again to the blessed Virgin for her care in summoning a haar which is so dense in the early morning light that they can only see a few steps in front of them. Then she realises they may be hid from their potential captors but any soldiers are equally well hidden from them, and all sound is muffled.
They had talked of the best way to escape while they were in the pit, but now they’re not so sure the plan is a good one. They cannot go out by the main gateway; it will surely be well guarded. They can try to escape by sea through the sea gate, but they’ll have to cross the courtyard. Their plan is to slip out by the closest postern which leads into the castle gardens. Will fumbles in the gun emplacement, where the key is normally tucked under a stone, as Bethia slips on her skirt.
‘It’s not here,’ he hisses.
She pushes him out of the way. ‘My hands are smaller, let me.’
‘Quickly!’
‘No, it is gone.’
‘They must’ve handed it over when they surrendered.’
They stand staring at one another. Will shrugs and turns leading the way, his hand touching the courtyard wall; she follows closely. She can hear voices from above, someone is coming down the wooden staircase from what is left of the private apartments. She tugs on Will’s clothing, jerking him into the cellar beneath it.
‘All gates must be locked and if no key found then closely guarded. I am by no means certain all have given themselves up. The merchant Seton claims his daughter was abducted and is somewhere within the castle. We have yet to find her.’
Her heart bumps and thumps like dough being kneaded and stretched. Father must be desperate – and she need not have hidden; she feels utterly weary.
‘Father tried to save you by claiming an abduction,’ whispers Will, and then says what she has just thought. ‘We need not have hidden.’ His tone sounds accusatory.
‘It’s too late now, I will not reveal myself.’ She shivers. ‘There is no surety they’ll release me undamaged, and who knows what they might do to you.’
Will is silent for a moment. ‘I agree.’
‘And this way you too can escape; you will not be held prisoner and can come home.’
He stiffens. ‘I would never willingly leave my fellows.’
She strokes his arm, ‘I know, you are loyal.’
‘If we don’t get under cover now we shall be found anyway. Let’s go.’
She grabs him as he turns to the North. ‘Not that way. Did you not hear, they will have the postern well guarded.’
‘Where else can we escape, beyond walking out through the main gate and bidding them good morn as we leave?’ hisses Will.
‘Let’s try this way.’ She tugs on his arm.
There are more soldiers coming, they can hear them talking and laughing. They flee along the portico towards the great hall, tripping over stones until suddenly they can go no further.
The voices follow them along the walkway and now their path is blocked by a huge mound of rubble where the east block house once stood. They turn to head across the bailey towards the kitchens and the sea gate, but there are voices coming from that direction too. They look to one another, knowing they have no choice. She tucks her skirts up once more, and they scramble over the rubble, climbing as fast as they can, into the sheltering haar, while the two groups of men meet below.
Chapter Forty-Seven
A Loyal Fellow
They are trapped. The mist is beginning to lift and Will can see to where ducks and seagulls bob on a restful sea; it is a long way down. The tide, as far in as it gets, is lapping against the base of the cliff. He looks up to what remains of the ramparts to their left. The top is still obscured, but, as soon as the haar clears, anyone looking out will be able to see them if they attempt to climb down the cliff.
‘We must hide until dark – and until the tide is out.’
‘Where?’ Bethia asks.
‘We’ll make a burrow in amongst the rubble.’
And they pass the daylight hours, dug in, with stones piercing them on all sides, hungry and thirsty, yet distracted by the fear of discovery. As the sun reaches the zenith of its high summer arc he falls asleep. It is a hot, uncomfortable doze but at least it’s a temporary oblivion. He awakes puzzled; he’s wet. Opening his mouth he lets the rain drip down his parched throat. The relief is indescribable.
The sky grows dark. There is a crash so loud it sounds as though the cannons have started up again, and then an eerie flash of light illuminates the clouds. The thunder growls and is answered again by a dazzle of light. The world is washed in a sinister grey; all sound is muffled, apart from the storm, and it is all around them: God’s wrath. In this moment Will does not care if the Lord is angry; he knows he did right to stay by his sister. Bethia is shivering next to him, and he holds her hand as the thunder rumbles out to sea.
The rain settles in, relentlessly, and soon they’re soaked. It rinses the worst of the dirt off their faces and stinking clothes, but the pleasure of that soon passes, and the rain becomes an additional misery.
There is activity below. He wipes his eyes with wet hands, trying to work out what’s happening. The view into the courtyard is obscured by the mound of rubble, but they can see the forecourt from here; there are people gathering outside the castle. The rain slows to a drizzle and then stops, as a group of men on horseback ride up, bright in their plumed hats and cloaks.
‘That’s Gilbert Logie, next to Arran in the centre,’ she whispers. ‘Sometimes he comes to visit Father.’
‘Oh aye.’ He nudges her. ‘I’ve seen him before. And I take it that’s the great Earl of Arran himself beside Logie. First time I’ve seen him.’
‘If you’d come out of the castle you’d have seen him often enough, but only recently.’
He snorts. ‘The boy next to Arran is his son, you remember meeting him – a good-natured lad.’ He tugs on Bethia’s arm for her head is sticking up swivelling like a little bird’s. ‘Take care they don’t see us.’
She ducks down as he lies low, studying Arran; curious about this Regent of Scotland who took his time breaking the siege. Arran’s eyebrows sit unnaturally high, giving him a perpetual look of surprise; the lips protrude fleshy pink from his thick beard, which already shows streaks of white through the sandy red – much like Father’s. Arran purses those pink lips as he stares at the gate, which is being opened wide as a troop of soldiers march out. He spits then hauls on the reins, forcing his horse to step back and turn, leaving his son glancing between his father’s retreating back and Gilbert Logie. Will is glad to see Logie reach over and pat the boy’s shoulder, smiling down on him.
Behind the soldiers come a ragged group of beggars. Will’s mouth falls open. Led by Kirkcaldy of Grange and Norman Leslie, they straighten up as they cross the fosse, heads held high. He can see John Knox, his beard sweeping over his chest, James of Nydie next to him and there’s Carmichael swaggering as ever; he cannot but feel admiration at Carmichael’s refusal to be bowed.
His heart thumps hard in his chest. They must be taking the Castilians away – to France, as agreed.
He touches Bethia on the shoulder. ‘Stay hidden until dark and the tide is out,’ he hisses. ‘Then climb down to the rocks. You can do it.’
Before she can reply, or stop him, he arises from their hiding place, leaping and sliding down the face of the rubble. They grab him as soon as he reaches the bottom, but he gesticulates towards his friends, his fellows. ‘I am one of them, I am a Castilian too – I must go with them.’