‘Gilbert Logie,’ she murmurs.
He leans on the oars, shaking his head slowly. ‘You are some lass.‘
‘How did you know where I was?’
‘I didn’t know for certain, but guessed you were likely to climb down when it got dark.’
‘You saw me hiding?’ She is confused. Surely if Gilbert saw her, then others will have too. She hauls herself upright and onto the plank seat. He takes off his jerkin and passes it to her and she wraps herself in it, the scent of male sweat comforting.
‘I’m sorry I was so late, nearly too late. I was unavoidably delayed by Arran.’
She can’t breathe again at the mention of the Regent.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the harbour, unless you want me to tip you out here and you can try your luck in the sea once more.’
She shakes her head emphatically. She’d rather go to prison than get back into the cold, briny water.
‘What happens when we get to the harbour, what will you do with me?’
Gilbert doesn’t answer. He’s concentrating on manoeuvring around rocks.
She’s shivering violently still and slides off the seat and back onto the foot of the boat, finding herself sitting in a puddle of water; it’s preferable to being exposed to the breeze off the sea.
They reach the harbour entrance in silence. The French fleet is moored out in the bay some distance away, but there are a few ships at the quayside. He hesitates, unsure where to tie up. She is more and more baffled. She’s expecting to be handed over to a guard, and yet he seems to be trying to land unseen.
The quayside is quiet, although there’s activity at one ship where men move back and forth unloading barrels, and reloading others from one of the warehouses, torches lighting their way. They will be hurrying to sail as soon as the sun rises and catch the tide.
He rows gently, barely causing a ripple in the still water and they creep along the back of the ship. He’s taking her deep into the far corner of the harbour, away from torch-light and moonlight. They draw close to the quayside, he ships the oars and they glide alongside, where he catches the bottom of a ladder.
‘Stand up slowly,’ he says but she doesn’t move.
‘How did you know where I was? I am sure I was well hid.’
‘You were, I looked and could not see you.’
‘Will told you.’
‘Aye, your brother begged me rescue you.’
She nods, grateful to know that Will didn’t leave her entirely without help. She’s still baffled as to why he so impetuously joined his fellows, but she’s never understood his passion for Church reform, and why he would risk his own life to achieve it, however much it might be needed.
Gilbert holds the rowing boat tight against the metal ladder, while she rises unsteadily; but her hands are so cold she cannot grip the rungs. He is unable to help, all his energy on keeping the boat steady. Finally she gets a hold on the ladder, but with knees stiffly resistant to bending, she’s struggling to climb. Suddenly a face appears above and Gilbert is fumbling for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
‘Bethia…,’ the voice whispers, ‘is it you?’
‘Mainard?’ She collapses onto the seat and Gilbert lowers his pistol. ‘By God’s good grace, where have you come from?’
‘What do you do here, Bethia? Why the hiding?’
‘I will tell you all later, just please get me out of here – quickly and quietly.’
‘Wait,’ Mainard says, and disappears.
‘Who is he?’
‘He was a pilgrim from Antwerp, who once helped me.’
‘I don’t know what help he’s planning on giving now, but we must get out of this boat before we’re discovered, and by someone more dangerous.’
She’s positioning herself for the climb once more, when a rope comes uncoiling down. Gilbert grabs the end, ties it around her waist and then she’s climbing, with Mainard supporting her from above, her soaking skirts clinging tight making it even harder to lift each leg and wet hair plastered across her face making it difficult to see .
Gilbert quickly follows. Mainard has already removed his cloak, wrapping it tight around her, and hands Gilbert back his soaking jerkin. The two men jostle over who will see her safely home. She wants to tell Mainard he’s too late, she’s promised and about to be wed, but her teeth are chattering so much she can’t form the words.
In the end it is Gilbert who takes her through the postern, striding past the guards, to her home. Light is creeping over the roof tops as he knocks softly on the door. It opens and she’s handed over to Agnes, who exclaims loudly then as quickly covers her mouth. He nods and departs. Father’s head appears around the workroom door. He looks tired, as though he hasn’t slept all night. For a moment he cannot speak. He pulls Bethia into his arms and hugs her, even though she’s sodden.
‘Oh lass, my lass,’ he whispers. Then he holds her at arm’s length and a more familiar expression of annoyed weariness replaces the tenderness. ‘But what were you thinking, to go into the castle, of all places, and at such a time?’
She stares at the ground. She cannot speak for shivering.
‘Wheesht,’ says Agnes, ‘can ye no see the lassie’s dead on her feet?’ She guides her into the kitchen where Grissel is sat upon a stool topping and tailing blackcurrants. Grissel pauses hands raised above the bowl and shrieks in delight as she leaps to her feet, sending the bowl crashing and blackcurrants rolling across the floor. ‘Thank our blessed Virgin you are safe – but how did ye escape, how did ye get out?’
‘Leave the lassie be,’ says Agnes.
She shakes as Agnes strips her clothes off and orders Grissel to fetch warm water from the pot bubbling over the fire, and then to get the berries picked up before she tramples them all into the floor.
Agnes washes her tenderly, exclaiming over the bruises and ripped flesh. ‘Such a state, such a state,’ she mutters over and over.
Bethia cannot get her mouth to form any words. She tries to speak: to tell of being hidden in the pit; of climbing out; of the fight with the soldier who they may have killed. None of that was so bad, for she had her brother by her side. What was terrifying was to be left alone, half buried in rubble watching the soldiers coming and going for the rest of the long day and evening.
She shivers and shivers as Agnes sends Grissel for clean raiment, then gets impatient waiting, and wrapping her in a blanket, leads her up the stairs to bed.
Mother, just arising for the day, gasps at the sight of her. ‘You foolish girl, now look what you’ve done to us.’
Bethia is too tired to respond and slides gratefully into the still-warm bed. Agnes holds the door wide and Mother passes through, shaking her head.
She thankfully closes her eyes. She does not expect to sleep but she does, a deep sleep but unfortunately of short duration. She’s awoken by doors banging and Father shouting. She doesn’t know who he’s shouting at, for only his voice is audible. It can’t be Will and she hopes it’s not John. If it’s Mother, Agnes, or Grissel then they are all robust enough to survive his ill-temper, and he won’t whip them.
The house falls quiet again and she drifts back to sleep. This time her slumber is stabbed by painful dreams. The body of the soldier comes to life and attacks, she twists away and then she’s falling towards jagged black rocks, their sharp points reaching to impale her. She awakens, her mind still thick with dreams. Her hands are throbbing and she pulls them out from under the covers; the skin is scraped red raw, nails torn. She wonders where Norman is. She will tell him why she fled into the castle as soon as she sees him. No doubt Father will want them married, if not today, then by tomorrow. She buries her head back under the covers.