‘The Duke has a castle in Glasgow. He is one of the most well-liked and respected men in the country as well as one of the wealthiest. We could be living there in the lap of luxury. We’d never need to worry about money again.’
‘I’d have plenty to worry me if I was tied to that pig of a man.’
‘Oh, you wicked lassie. How dare you speak about the Duke like that!’
‘I don’t want to marry anybody but if I had to, it would be Donald McFarlane that I would choose.’
‘Oh him.’ Her mother flapped her hands in a gesture of dismissal. ‘What could he offer us? Is that where you’ve been?’ she cried out, the truth suddenly occurring to her. ‘Stravaiging about with that useless creature.’
‘We weren’t stravaiging about. We went to hear George Wishart preaching.’
‘The heretic?’ her mother screeched in dismay, collapsing back into a chair. ‘Did anyone see you? Oh, dear Jesus, I hope no-one saw you. If the Bishop or the Cardinal found out, that would be the end of us. We’d be finished. If your father turns against us we will be penniless, left to starve. You’d be lucky not to end up at the stake—’
‘Oh mother, be quiet. I was only listening to the man preach. They dragged him away. …’
‘Yes, I know. I saw him brought here. He’ll be tried of course, but that is merely a formality. He is certain to be executed.’ She brightened a little. ‘I imagine it will be quite an occasion, no doubt with a banquet and all sorts of entertainments afterwards.’
Marie had stopped listening.
Just then Nellie came into the room.
‘Miss Marie, your father wants to see you. He says it’s urgent.’
Effie instantly feared the worst.
‘Oh no! Surely he can’t have found out about your stupidity already? Promise me, Marie, promise me you won’t let your father know you’ve been anywhere near George Wishart!’
But Marie had already left the room. Walking along the lantern-lit passageway, her heart pounding, she reached the library where she knew she would find her father.
He was sitting at a table lit by a silver candelabra, his quill scraping laboriously over a scroll of paper. He looked up.
‘Marie.’
‘Yes father?’
He laid down the quill, leaned back and clasped beringed hands over his scarlet robe.
Marie drew a chair over so that she could sit facing him.
In a voice seething with suppressed anger, the Bishop spoke.
‘I am greatly displeased with you. Mr Fraser is always telling me how quick-witted and intelligent you are, and I believed him. Until today. Is it true that you have been consorting with heretics?’
‘If you will only let me explain—’ Marie began.
‘How can you explain defying the church and everything I stand for in so flagrant a fashion? I tell you my child, you should consider yourself fortunate indeed not to be sharing the heretic’s cell after what you have done!’ He paused for a moment, then continued,
‘But you are young and naïve in matters of religion. And indeed of life. The lion cub looks attractive and harmless enough. But he is still a dangerous animal. So it is with the heretics. It is not just their wicked heresy that is the problem. They favour an English alliance and the king of England is a deadly opponent of the true faith. They are tearing this country apart like the lion tearing at the body of its prey.’
Marie was listening intently, her brilliant green eyes fixed on her father’s sallow face. Now she said,
‘But the way that man was treated was so cruel. Donald and I only wanted to—’
The expression in her father’s eyes hardened and she recognised in them a man who would show no mercy, not even to his own flesh and blood. When he spoke again there was cold anger in his voice.
‘So young McFarlane was with you, was he? Well, I shall have words with him. I had heard that he was keeping bad company. By God! When I have finished with him he will curse the day he ever heard the name of George Wishart!’
Marie had lowered her head and begun to weep. Against his better judgement, her father took pity on her.
‘Marie, you poor child, you must understand, these heretics feed on innocent fools like you. You must never forget that the punishment for heresy is death. However, on this occasion I choose to overlook your questionable actions. Let us call it a … childish error of judgement. But I warn you, if you disappoint me again, you may not find me so merciful a second time.’
The Bishop rose from his desk and walked over to the window. Looking down into the courtyard in the gathering dusk, he could just make out the shapes of workmen piling wood around the stake. He turned back to Marie.
‘Tomorrow, the heretic will be condemned, have no doubt about that, and I expect you to attend the execution and see justice done.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps that will cure you of your dangerous naïveté. Now, leave me, I have much work to do.’ And with that the Bishop turned once more to the window.
Marie walked out of the room in a daze. How had she ever become involved in all this? Why on earth had she made Donald take her to Haddington? But she still felt sorry for the poor preacher languishing in the dungeons below, imagining the dreadful tortures he was he suffering at that very moment. And then a shiver ran down her spine as she remembered how she had blurted out Donald’s name. Her father had been merciful to her, but as for Donald … ?
II
WISHART slipped and stumbled as the guards hustled him downwards. Ahead of him, the steps of the narrow winding staircase fell away steeply, disappearing into the darkness, deep underground. Each crudely carved tread sparkled feebly as the smoky torchlight reflected off the damp stone steps. At the bottom stood a heavy oak door of rough hewn planks and rusting ironwork. One of the guards flung back the bolt, opened the door, and shoved Wishart roughly forward into the darkness of the dungeon.
As the door slammed shut behind him, a fetid smell rose like a wall in front of him, a reminder of all the other poor unfortunates who had occupied this cell in the past. With a grimace Wishart realised he was standing in the residue of years of human effluent. Although there was little light, there was enough for him to recognise a stone pallet to rest on. Thankfully he found it free of the disgusting mire that covered the floor. He looked round for the source of light. It was coming from high above his head, at the end of a narrow stone niche. Suddenly Wishart felt terribly weary, and he slumped down onto the cold stone. Lying on his back in the gloomy damp of the cell, he stared upwards, hypnotised by the beauty and purity of his own tiny patch of sky, and wondered what tomorrow would bring.
In the blackness of his cell, time soon ceased to have any meaning for Wishart. Sometimes, if he listened intently, he could hear the distant sounds of life outside continuing without him. The faint echoes of girlish laughter brought the beautiful face of the striking young woman at the market cross to his mind’s eye. He had seen her with Donald McFarlane at that last meeting, and although he had never met her, he had heard much about Marie Hepburn, daughter of the Bishop of Moray. Having seen Marie, with her proud bearing and glorious tangle of red hair, Wishart could well understand why Donald was willing to risk so much for her. Many times, as they hid from the Cardinal’s men in dark attics and damp cellars, he and Donald had spoken of her.
But more often, they had spoken of the plan to kill Beaton. Donald had accepted Wishart’s assurances that it had to be done, and he had put any doubts he may have had firmly to the back of his mind. Everything had been ready, and the conspirators were just about to put their plan into action when Wishart was arrested.
As he paced up and down his cell, Wishart reflected ruefully on how close he had come to succeeding. If only he could have evaded the Cardinal’s men for another few days! But he had no-one to blame but himself—ignoring the advice of his friends, he had insisted on going to that last meeting to maintain the appearance of being a simple preacher. What a fool he had been! He had been playing a dangerous game, and
now he was undoubtedly going to pay the price. And he could expect no help from his friends in England. By the time they heard of his predicament it would be too late. In any case, he knew only too well the ruthlessness of King Henry’s spymasters. They would probably find it more expedient to deny all knowledge of him and let events take their course. For a brief moment he considered the possibility of Donald and the others finding some way to get him out of the Cardinal’s dungeons, but he dismissed the idea as hopeless. Then another thought struck him. What if Donald could persuade Marie to use her influence with the Bishop? If only he could find some way of getting a message to Donald … Perhaps all was not lost just yet.
It turned out that Donald had already tried to slip in to see Wishart secretly, but had been intercepted by the Captain of the Guard, a polite and decent kind of man, according to Donald. Nevertheless, he had been adamant about not allowing anyone near the heretic.
‘I’m under strict orders from the Cardinal,’ the Captain explained. ‘No-one sees Wishart. And if you’re a friend of his, I advise you to keep it to yourself. This castle is a dangerous place for anyone who sympathises with heretics.’
‘I’ve only made things worse,’ Donald told Marie when they met later. Then his voice dropped to a whisper and Marie was barely able to catch his words. ‘But if we can’t save him, at least we can avenge him and carry on his work.’
‘Never mind that now, Donald, there is something I have to tell you. My father knows you were at Wishart’s meeting, I think he means to do you harm.’
‘I’m not afraid of your father,’ Donald replied.
‘Well perhaps you should be. At least try to keep out of his way until all this is over.’
‘You may be right,’ said Donald. ‘After all, I will not be much use to Master Wishart if I too am locked away in the dungeons. But I swear, if they kill him, I will make them pay for it!’
Marie looked away. Then she spoke.
‘I don’t think I can bear to watch him being executed.’
‘You have no choice. The Cardinal has ordered everyone to attend, and your father will be expecting to see you there. You cannot afford to anger him any more than you already have.’
Later Marie told her mother,
‘I will not stand by and watch that poor man being burned. It’s too horrible. I refuse to be any part of it.’
Effie’s small face crumpled with anxiety. In panic she fluttered about the room like a trapped moth, golden skirts seesawing over their wide pannier.
‘But your father commands it. What would it look like if you didn’t obey him? I’ll tell you. It would look like you were sympathising with the heretic. And with all the highest dignitaries in the church here to witness your heresy! Do you want to be burned next?’
‘You wouldn’t care. You’d come along and enjoy the spectacle like the rest of them,’ Marie said bitterly.
‘You’re a wicked ungrateful lassie, Marie Hepburn, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you end up tied to a stake with the flames licking around your feet. Oh, dear Jesus, it doesn’t bear thinking about. …’ Effie staggered back into a chair, half fainting, desperately waving her fan. ‘What is to become of us? How can you do this to your poor mother?’
Marie hesitated, biting her lip. There was some truth in what Effie said. And if she defied the Bishop, it might only make things worse for Donald. She was prepared to risk the Bishop’s anger, but she couldn’t be responsible for anything happening to Donald.
‘If you insist, then I’ll go,’ she said reluctantly.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Marie. The Bishop would have blamed me, you know, and I can’t bear it when he’s displeased with me.’
Marie felt a pang of sympathy for her mother and she wondered momentarily what Effie saw in the Bishop. He was a cold and ruthless man. But at the same time she knew her mother revelled in the excitement of life at the palace of Spynie. There, Effie could mix with the highest in Scottish society. And then there was the cottage in the grounds of the palace that the Bishop had provided as a home for her mother and herself. He also provided a modest sum every now and again on which they could live and keep Nellie, the maid, and John, the groom and general handyman.
But the Bishop also supported Alice McNeal and Magnus Hepburn, who lived only a few miles away from Effie’s cottage. No doubt there would be other female calls upon his purse as well, and Marie knew it was a constant worry to Effie that a day might come when ‘her’ Patrick would no longer feel obliged to provide for her. She never tired of reminding her daughter of this dreadful possibility.
III
THE morning of the execution dawned bright and clear, and from first light, a buzz of excitement filled the castle.
‘Everyone who is anyone will be here!’ Effie told Marie, as she hurried along, dragging her daughter with her. But because she was a petite woman, she had to keep raising herself on tiptoe. It was the only way she could see all the people in the crowd and give them her customary bright smiles and waves of greeting. She soon became quite dizzy with delight as they moved among the elegantly painted and richly clothed ladies and gentlemen.
Everyone was chatting and laughing, filling the castle with excited noise and Marie could scarcely hear herself think. Then she noticed Magnus and Donald arrive, along with her cousin, James Hepburn, the young son of the ‘Fair Earl’ of Bothwell. Magnus’s mother Alice waved cheerily to them. Although Alice was jealous of Effie and told all sorts of tales about her to the Bishop whenever she could, in public at least, she was bright and friendly. Effie, to her credit, was too good-natured to be jealous or spiteful to anyone, and warmly returned her greeting.
Soon the babble of conversation was hushed, as a trumpet blast heralded the arrival of George Wishart. His face, the colour of alabaster against his sombre clothing, looked strained but resolute. He walked calmly if a little rigidly, eyes fixed on a distant horizon. As the Captain of the Guard guided Wishart towards the pyre, the preacher smiled kindly at him and seemed to bestow on him a look of gratitude.
Not that the poor man could have anything to be grateful for, Marie thought.
‘There will be a lovely banquet after all this is finished,’ her mother whispered. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself, you’ll see.’
Effie could never accept the fact that her daughter did not enjoy such occasions. Marie had been spared from attending most of the Bishop’s orgies at the palace of Spynie, but it was usually by feigning some indisposition or other. Magnus and Donald were always roped in to take part mainly because their parents, like hers, loved to attend.
Now, at the castle of St Andrews, Marie was reluctantly impressed by so many guests dressed in such splendour. The gentlemen, in huge puffed and slashed sleeves, and elaborate codpieces, and the ladies bedecked in a striking panorama of all kinds of rich velvets. Some were in satin, others in taffeta, others in damask, all of them decorated with gold buttons, fur linings and ruffs. But most magnificent of all were the bishops and the Cardinal, their robes emblazoned with huge scarlet crosses.
‘Laud’s sake,’ Effie hissed at Marie as they walked up the steps of the east tower, from where whey would get the best view of the forecourt below. ‘Can you not raise one wee smile? What’ll folk think? You look so miserable.’
No-one could accuse Effie of looking miserable. She made a vivid impression in her orange coloured dress with its wide skirt supported by wooden hoops. Its enormous cuffs were set above the elbow and spilled in deep luxuriousness to below the hips.
Effie liked clothes that showed off her neat little figure to advantage, and she was fond of flashing a shapely ankle when she climbed the stairs or was enjoying the dance. She favoured dresses that forced her breasts upwards to bulge above the square décolletage, and she wore bodices that fitted closely at the back with a trained skirt set in deep pleats behind. She often tried to make her daughter dress in exactly the same fashion. But Marie, although taller than her mother, never carried off these embellishments with the s
ame joie de vivre. As often as not, she ended up wearing underlinen, finely pleated and held closely and high round her throat with a neat frill. And she absolutely refused to have her dresses made in the same garish colours as her mother’s.
As they reached the parapet, Marie was struggling desperately to think of anything that would take her mind off what was about to happen. Her eyes wandered over to where Cardinal Beaton sat, flanked on either side by the bishops. She met her father’s stare and wondered if he could see the contempt in her eyes.
Finally, she could no longer avoid looking towards the place of execution. As Wishart’s guards strapped him into a long black coat and led him to the stake, the two executioners were already waiting by the stake with packets of gunpowder to tie under his armpits.
Men in armour stood nearby to foil any attempt at a rescue, and gunners with artillery at the ready lined the walls of the castle, their eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of dissent.
The trumpets blew once more, and Wishart’s chains were made secure.
The expectation of the crowd was now so strong that Marie could almost feel it physically washing around her. Down below, people pushed and jostled to get a better view. The odour of their unwashed bodies assailed Marie’s nostrils with an unusual vigour, and as people were pushed first one way then the other, the clamour of their raised voices swelled to a meaningless babble. Suddenly, a yell went up and she knew the fire was lit. Unwillingly she felt her eyes drawn, as if in a trance, to the smoking pyre. There was a gasp from the crowd as suddenly the flames caught and leapt skywards. At first Wishart just kept looking up and above the crowd, his eyes focused on the patch of powder blue sky high above the grey stonework that enclosed the courtyard.
As the flames caught hold, his face contorted with the anguish that tortured his lower limbs. Just as the executioner stepped forward to tighten the rope around his neck and end his suffering, Wishart summoned all his remaining strength for one last desperate proclamation. His words were aimed at Cardinal Beaton.
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