The soldiers look to Logie, watching from horseback. He nods his assent and the they let Will step into line.
James pats him on the shoulder and John Knox nods to him. They are marched down the hill to the harbour, the path lined by the citizens of St Andrews, come out to watch the prisoners leave. Will sees little sympathy on their faces, and they chant a Popish rhyme.
He supposes he can hardly blame them. The Castilians did little to endear themselves to the town, which he knows from Bethia, was much put upon during the siege.
‘Where is Bethia?’ whispers James.
‘She is still hid.’
‘You left her in the pit?’
‘Of course not. She was by me, in the rubble.’
‘Ahh.’ James nods.
‘She will easily escape once it is dark,’ he asserts, hoping saying it will make it so.
‘I am glad you are by my side,’ says James. ‘It shows great loyalty to our group, especially when you might have escaped.’
‘Aye, either that or great foolishness,’ says Will. He’s glad James can explain it, because already he cannot understand what strange impulse had him leap down the rock face – and yet it felt a betrayal not to join his fellows.
It is only when they reach the quayside, and the hammersmith comes to fit their fetters, that he understands they are to be galley slaves. Carmichael is shouting; they’re being cheated, the terms of the agreement have been broke. He thinks, no they haven’t. We were promised transportation to France, but no one thought to agree what form the transportation would take. He feels a great weariness. What a fool he has been; he’s made all the wrong choices from start to finish.
He notices Gilbert Logie standing to one side, watching. The man has an angry scar pulling down one side of his face, lucky the sword missed the eye. He stares at him and Logie stares back, no doubt also wondering what idiocy made Will re-join the group. Logie straightens his shoulders and comes towards Will. The tone in Bethia’s voice when she spoke of him was warm, and his sister, unlike him, is no fool. Will makes up his mind, he must trust to Logie’s honour.
‘I am Will Seton, brother to Bethia,’ he says in a low voice, before Logie can speak.
Logie leans forward to whisper in his ear. ‘I know who you are. I am sorry, but I can do nothing to help you.’
‘No, no, ’tis not help for me I seek.’
‘Where is your sister?’
‘She’s hiding, and I fear for her safety.’
Logie’s eyes widen. ‘You left her!’
Will leans in to explain, conscious that Logie is shaking his head as he listens.
‘I will do my best,’ Logie promises.
‘You won’t imprison her, she was never one of us – did not support us, ever.’ Will hopes the Lord will excuse a small falsehood, surely telling the location of the mine barely counted as support.
‘Have no fear, I will protect her,’ says Logie.
Will stares at the ground as Logie walks away. Then he lets out a sigh of relief, by God’s good heart Bethia should soon be safe.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Rescue
Bethia lies hid in the rubble, caught between the soldiers patrolling on one side, and on the other, the long drop to the rocks below. Soon it’s so dark she can only see the soldiers by flickering torchlight. There is a breeze now; she’s shaking with cold and her instinct is to burrow deeper into the rubble for shelter. She shifts to escape a sharp edge pressing painfully into her cheek and sets small stones rattling down the slope. There are calls from below and torches waved. Someone starts to climb; her breath is so loud in her own ears she’s sure he must hear it. Then she can hear him breathing heavily as he comes closer, and closer. Another few steps and he’ll be upon her. There is a rumble, and he grunts as an avalanche of stones underfoot carries him away from her.
‘There’s nothing there,’ he calls to his fellows, but she lies rigid, for a long time.
The moon rises, a fingernail moon, giving a little light in a black sky, That’s good, Bethia, she tells herself, they won’t be able to see you. She doesn’t tell herself that she won’t be able to see her way. But although it is dark now, she knows the sun will soon return. She tucks her knees under her, resting on her forearms. It’s agony to move, and when she does fresh stones find new places to dig in. Slowly, stiffly, she crawls to the top and looks over. She can see the water, black and glistening below; is the tide on its way in or out? She can’t stay to find out; she must move or she’ll be here for another day: that or discovered.
She sits, whispering to herself, ‘the Virgin is with you, Our Mary loves and keeps you. Be brave Bethia, be strong.’ She says the last, and moves. She moves too vigorously and she’s sliding down the back of the rubble mound unable to find purchase. She’s at the edge of the cliff and about to go over. Somehow she digs in her heels, bracing to halt the slide before she tumbles onto the shoals way below. She lies on her back, clutching at the stones by her side, waves of fear pulsing through her, biting on her lower lip to stop herself from screaming, and then she can taste blood. She doesn’t think she can move.
‘Come on,’ Bethia, she whispers, over and over. She sits up slowly and tucks her skirt into her waistband as best she can. Turning, she grips with her fingers and searches with a flailing foot for the ledge she spied just below her. Finding it she edges along, it’s wider the further she goes. She kneels and drops down to the next long ledge and crawls along it; the sandstone is still warm from the heat of the sun earlier. In this way she descends until it’s not far to go. But now she’s stuck, where the cliff juts out over the sea, its base worn away by the waves. She lies along the ledge and peers over it. She can’t see any hand-holds, nothing to climb down with. She must lower herself, let go and trust that the water is not too deep. She crosses herself, sends a plea to the Virgin Mary and scrambles over the edge. She hangs until her fingers slip, nails tearing over stone, and then she is falling. She hits the water and sinks but there’s rocks below her; pushing up with her feet she gets her head out of the water, coughing and spluttering. The water is chest high, and, once she gets her breath, she moves forward, one step at a time over slippery stones. The sea-bed slopes upwards, and soon she is able to clamber onto another shoal of rock. She can hear the sound of water, trickling over the cliff behind her, above the susurration of the waves. She wants to stop and rest, but she knows she must keep moving. She slides into the next gulley but the water is deep here and she cannot feel the bottom. She’s shivering, and has lost all feeling in her clawed fingers – she tries but hasn’t the strength to pull herself up onto the rocks again.
Fighting to keep her head above water, coughing and choking, she’s sinking under when a rowing boat, following the narrow sliver of moonlight, appears. Perhaps it is Saint Andrew himself come to save her – but he’s too late; she slips under once more and does not come back up. A hand grasps her hair, then the back of her dress. She can hear his laboured breath as he tries to pull her into the boat. Do saints breathe, she wonders.
‘Kick, Bethia, kick hard or you’ll have us both in.’
Perhaps Saint Andrew is there, pushing from below, for somehow she finds the strength to give an almighty kick and suddenly she’s half in the boat, the man tumbling her legs in after. She rolls onto her back, coughing between taking in great gulps of air. When she finally stops choking and gets her breath she stares up at the scarred, red-bearded face staring down at her.