The Cardinal was trembling now but whether with fear, or fury, or both, his enemies neither knew nor cared.
‘Repent the shedding of George Wishart’s blood!’ one of them commanded.
Beaton ignored him, crying out defiantly ‘You dare not harm me. I am a prince of the church.’ But even as he spoke he realised the futility of his words.
‘Great prince of the church,’ another of the men intoned sarcastically, ‘for the good of your immortal soul, be quick about it and repent the shedding of George Wishart’s blood!’
‘George Wishart was a heretic. His was the fate of all who defy the true church. I had no choice.’
‘Then nor have we,’ he said, running the Cardinal through with his sword.
Swords and daggers flashed in the candlelight as the others joined in the slaughter. Finally, as Beaton’s bloodstained corpse lay twitching on the floor, one of the men undid his trouser flap and sliced off the Cardinal’s genitals. Then he dangled them from the dead gaping mouth. Afterwards they hung his body from the foretower of the castle for the edification of the people.
When Marie heard the screaming and shouting, she rushed from her room just in time to see Donald disappearing like a shadow down one of the dark stairways. She called out to him but he ignored her. Then she was caught up in the general panic that followed the realisation that the Cardinal had been assassinated. Both her father and mother were in a state of shock at first. Then her mother suddenly became hysterical. Marie tried to calm her, but nothing could stop Effie screaming and wildly thrashing about until Marie, in desperation and fearful that her mother would take a seizure, struck her a hard blow across the face. At least that quietened Effie, who fell silent, staring wide-eyed and ashen-faced at her daughter. The Bishop also looked shaken.
‘Go to your room, Marie. I’ll see to your mother.’
Marie returned to her bedchamber, her whole body trembling with fear. She stayed in her room for what seemed an eternity, listening to the commotion outside.
It was some time later when Donald came to see her, and told her that the conspirators had managed to take the castle.
‘George Wishart’s death had to be avenged,’ he explained. ‘The world is a better place now without that fornicating hypocrite.’
Marie’s apprehension was not allayed. She felt confused and afraid. Donald seemed like a stranger to her now. He had become a murderer, and she didn’t know what to say to him. Yet she welcomed the comfort of being held in his arms. For the first time she clung to him and allowed him to make love to her, and in doing so, her body awakened to a passion that blotted out thought. They lay in each other’s arms until morning. Then he kissed her and said,
‘It’s time I went to help organise our defences. As soon as the news of the Cardinal’s death gets out …’ He shrugged. ‘Our enemies will descend on us like ravening wolves.’
Once she was alone, Marie still couldn’t fully accept that Donald could have had a part in committing murder. But later, she had an even greater shock. The two guards who had been on duty at the gate the previous night had also been murdered. She found Donald and asked him what had happened, and to her horror, she learned the awful truth.
‘I had to stop anyone finding out that you helped us. It was to save you. Now no-one will ever suspect that you were involved in all this.’
‘But I didn’t help you. I mean, I never realised, never in my wildest dreams did I think that you—’
‘I know. But who else would believe you? I couldn’t take the risk, Marie. You mean so much to me.’
Marie’s emotions were in turmoil. Gazing at Donald’s lean, sensitive face, she felt he was still a dear and totally familiar part of herself. Yet at the same time, her perception of him had completely changed. She shuddered to think what the future might hold for them, trying desperately to banish the words murder and murderer from her mind. After all, men—good men—were killed all the time during a war. Cardinal Beaton had certainly been at war with the Protestants, and now they were fighting back. Donald was only one of many fighting for what they believed was a just cause.
The problem for Marie now was, although her loyalties were with Donald, did she feel any real loyalty to his cause? She could see much truth in what George Wishart and now Donald stood for. Nevertheless, she had been brought up in the Catholic church for sixteen years and she had so often found comfort there. Her emotional nature responded gratefully to the singing of Mass, to the rituals and to the beauty of what the Protestants were now calling papist idolatry. Could she turn her back on everything she had known before? It was a question she couldn’t answer.
The next morning the situation in the castle became clearer. The assassins and their supporters had seized the castle, and although they were holding some hostages, most of those who wanted to leave would be allowed to do so. The Bishop of Moray was fortunate that Marie was his daughter—he might well have shared Beaton’s fate had Donald not intervened, allowing him to flee along with Effie and Marie. Marie had not wanted to go, but Donald had insisted.
‘This is no place for a woman,’ he told her. ‘It’s only a matter of time before we will be besieged, caught here like rats in a trap. Once Arran gets word of this it will be a fight to the death.’
‘But I want to stay here with you Donald,’ Marie pleaded.
‘It’s out of the question. The danger would be too great. Now, hurry, you must go!’ And with that he led her to the gate, where the Bishop and the rest of those about to leave had gathered.
‘Take good care of her, my Lord Bishop,’ Donald said.
‘I will indeed,’ replied the Bishop. ‘And very shortly, I hope, the Earl of Arran will take care of you and the other murderers hiding within these walls!’ Without waiting for a reply, the Bishop dragged Marie and Effie away. Mounting their horses, they rode out of the castle.
Marie slumped in the saddle, hardly able to take in the impact of the events of the last few days, no longer able to hold back the tears that streamed down her face. Turning around to look back towards the castle, she could just make out the lonely figure of Donald standing in the gateway.
Safely back at Spynie, Effie at least seemed to have recovered her composure. One thing was certain: there was no question of Marie ever marrying Donald McFarlane now. As she told Marie,
‘That’s the last you’ll see of him and a good thing too. Now maybe you’ll come to your senses and agree to have a good man who’s worth something.’
Marie made no answer. She was in a daze of grief. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even weep any more. She didn’t know what to do. Nellie, although much the same age as Marie, was forced to treat her like a child, dressing her, undressing her, putting her to bed each night, hauling her out of bed each morning, trying to cajole her to eat or drink. Marie remembered hardly anything about the long ride from St Andrews to the palace of Spynie and then to the house she shared with her mother.
Returning to all the familiar scenes of the childhood and youth she’d shared with Donald, the wave of grief broke and flooded out, and she wept broken-heartedly. Later she rode over to the palace to beg her father for news of Donald.
‘How dare you even mention the name of that damned murderer in my presence!’ the Bishop said. ‘I am doing everything I can to see that he pays for his crime. As you well know, the Earl of Arran is laying siege to the castle of St Andrews. And even as we speak, letters I have sent are on their way to Rome asking his Holiness to despatch a fleet to destroy these filthy assassins—including your precious Donald. So do not trouble me with your concern for his safety. While I have breath in my body, he will never be safe!’ The Bishop struggled to compose himself. ‘Now, go back to your mother and trouble me no more!’
Marie listened in silence. She was shocked at the change in her father. He had always been good to her in his own way—now she felt he was on the verge of hating her. The death of his friend the Cardinal had shaken him, but it had also made him
a very dangerous man to cross. So she left without another word, filled with a terrible foreboding that she would never see Donald again.
VII
AT St Andrews, the siege dragged on. Winter came, and then spring. ‘The Castilians’, as those in the castle became known, were hopeful that the protestant English king—Henry VIII—would send a military force to relieve them. No such force came, but they did not despair, for they still held a number of hostages, among them the Earl of Arran’s young son. Knowing this, Arran was unwilling to risk a full-scale assault on the castle, but chose instead to try to starve the Castilians out of their stronghold. Accordingly, he gave orders for his men to secure their positions and wait. There was on occasion a desultory exchange of fire, but casualties were surprisingly light for so serious a business.
Arran was not idle, though. He also set about digging a tunnel under the southern wall of the castle, into which his men would then pile gunpowder. The powder, when set alight, would blow a hole in the castle wall, and Arran’s men would then charge through the gap, taking the defenders by surprise. Unfortunately for him, it proved impossible to keep his plan secret, because the Castilians could at times hear the hammering and scraping of the work in progress—the ground under the castle being solid rock. The only defence against this mining strategy was for those in the castle to dig their own counter-mine, another tunnel which would enable them to intercept the attackers underground. Donald McFarlane took charge of this most hazardous task.
Speed was of the essence, and Donald had no time to spare for making the counter-mine safe. In any case, wood was in short supply—the occupants of the castle had had to burn a considerable quantity in order to keep themselves warm through the long hard winter months. As a consequence, the roof of the mine was not strengthened, and there were frequent rock-falls. Inevitably, lives were lost.
Before long, their mine had progressed so far that they knew they must be getting close to their underground attackers. A new problem then emerged: it was vital that they broke into the besiegers’ tunnel, but it was equally important that the besiegers should not break into theirs. That would be a catastrophe, as they would in effect be opening a way into the castle for the attackers. They had to stop at intervals, and listen for the sounds of the enemy.
So it was that Donald found himself crawling face down in total darkness, the dust from the hewn rock filling his lungs, the drip of water from the roof of the tunnel providing a steady rhythm to the scraping of his boots along the jagged floor. The sound of the water brought back memories of his childhood with Marie, of how they would play and fish together by clear streams, of his love for her. But there seemed no place for love in his life now—he had had to send her away, for her own safety, and they might never be together again. Crawling in this dark tomb brought home to him how cruel life could be. But he had no time for self-pity; he had a job to do. With an effort, he firmly pushed thoughts of his love aside.
As he neared the end of the tunnel, he could dimly see three men up ahead, digging steadily by the light of a single flickering candle. Large wicker baskets lay scattered about, some already filled with rubble, others waiting for their damp, dusty load.
‘Is that yersel’, Donald?’ wheezed a voice.
‘Greetings, Dougal, yes, it is I.’ Already Donald’s own voice was sounding hoarse, choked with the dust which formed a grey mist throughout the tunnel, and coated the workers so that they looked as though they had been fighting with bags of flour. One man took hold of a rope which was attached to one of the full baskets, tied it round his chest, and began to crawl back down the tunnel, dragging the basket after him.
Donald peered towards the end of the tunnel, and saw that they were making good progress. Dougal, to whom he had spoken, a veritable giant with an air of quiet determination, had turned back to the rock face and was once more hard at work with a small pick. There was not room for a man to stand, even an average-sized man, and no space at all for swinging the pick. Dougal had to lie on his side, and the work was painfully slow to watch. Donald shook his head.
‘Stop, Dougal, we must listen. We cannot be far from them now.’
‘Indeed not, Donald. Tam and I heard them afore, dingin’ at that rock like demons. It’ll no’ be lang noo.’
‘Quiet, then.’
Dougal put down his pick, and there was silence, broken only by the relentless dripping of water. Then another sound came to his ears, and Donald’s heart leapt. It was unmistakably the sound of hammering, and could only be the attackers working in their tunnel.
‘Which direction do you think it is coming from?’ whispered Donald.
‘Wha kens,’ shrugged Dougal, ‘the sound’ll echo right through the rock.’
‘But you can feel it as well as hear it. I could swear it was underneath us.’ Donald put his ear to the floor of their tunnel, and held his breath. ‘Yes! Both of you, put your ear to the ground and listen.’
They did so, and even in the semi-darkness, Donald could see fear enter their eyes.
‘We must dig downwards. Now, while the sound of their own digging will make them deaf to our presence.’
With renewed vigour, Dougal grabbed his pick and began to tear at the floor. Donald found a similar tool and joined in, while the third man brought over a basket and started to clear away the broken rock as fast as he could.
They had gone down about a foot when Dougal gave a sudden cry.
‘I can see a light! Doon there!’
Donald turned to the man with the basket.
‘We need more men down here right away! And they must be armed. Have swords and knives brought for the two of us also. See to it, quickly!’
The man slithered off down the tunnel as fast as he could.
‘Right Dougal, let us see if we can bring their roof down on their heads!’
‘Aye, we’ll teach them to go diggin’ where they’ve nae right!’
Their efforts became frenzied, as they sought to break through as quickly as possible, before the enemy could bring sufficient armed men into their tunnel, which was the longer of the two.
It was not long before they had made a hole large enough for a man—even Dougal—to slip through. Peering through the hole, they could see a large chamber, dimly lit, and quite deserted. By this time they could hear the shouts of men coming along their own tunnel. When the first of these arrived, carrying weapons for the diggers, Donald told him to relay a message that each man was to proceed straight into the enemy tunnel. Then, taking a sword in one hand, he jumped through the hole and into the cavern beneath.
In a moment, Dougal and several others had joined him, and he led them along the enemy tunnel. This was similar to their own, but much larger, so that they were able to walk upright.
Up ahead there was movement in the gloom. Suddenly, there was a deafening roar, and a man on Donald’s left spun round and fell to the floor. Another shot rang out, but ricocheted harmlessly. Armed only with swords and daggers, Donald’s men had no option but to charge.
‘At them, lads!’ he cried, and led them, running, towards the enemy.
The fight was bloody and confused. They had evidently taken those in the attackers’ tunnel more or less by surprise, for the force they encountered now was ill-equipped, but there seemed to Donald to be hundreds of them. In the narrow passageway he and his fellow Castilians fought desperately for their lives, giving no quarter, and receiving none. Soon the floor of the tunnel was piled high with the dead and dying of both sides.
At last the enemy began to fall back, and soon Donald and his remaining men were left alone, exhausted, gasping for breath in the choking, stale atmosphere. But to linger here was dangerous, for another attack could be made on them at any time. He gave the order to fall back.
Getting back into their own tunnel was by no means easy, as the hole through which they had dropped was set quite high up, and in their weariness it required all their strength to help each other through.
Daylight blinded them
when at last they emerged into the castle courtyard, caked with blood and dust, their clothes torn by both the sharp edges of the rock and the Earl of Arran’s swordsmen. Donald made arrangements for their tunnel to be guarded at all times, for a route now existed through the castle’s defences.
With his last remaining energy, he dragged himself away to his bed, where sleep almost instantly came upon him.
But he had done a good job, for the carnage left behind in the Earl of Arran’s tunnel was gruesome enough for the Earl to forbid any further forays under the walls of St Andrews Castle.
And so the stalemate continued.
‘But you must have seen or heard something! Someone must know how he is!’ Marie screamed as she shook poor Nellie roughly.
Nellie had just returned from a visit to her brother, who was a soldier in the Earl of Arran’s army. Marie had pounced on her the instant she had walked through the door, and had plied her with desperate questions, hoping for news of those inside the castle, especially Donald.
‘Please, miss, I’ve told ye all I ken! Naebody sees or hears much at all. They just sit aboot a lot and chuck a wheen insults ower the walls every now and then. All I can say for sure is that there’s been nae real fightin’ tae speak of. The only danger to yon Donald McFarlane is … is …’ she hesitated, ‘well … they say there’s plague in the castle.’
‘Plague! Oh Nellie, you have to help me. I must get word to him. It has been months since we left the castle, and I have heard nothing, nothing …’ Her voice broke into a series of great sobs, as she thought of Donald, trapped, and in mortal danger.
‘And that’s exactly as it should be!’ Effie, returning from the palace, where she had been entertaining the Bishop of Moray, had entered the room, and had overheard Marie’s last words. ‘It’s high time you put thoughts of that man out of your foolish head. You have your whole life ahead of you, why waste it moping about like this?’
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