Burning Ambition

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Marie buried her face in her hands and wept.

  ‘Oh, this is intolerable!’ cried her mother. ‘Am I never to be free of these tearful outbursts? They distress me so, and I wish to be happy. Your father and I have been having a wonderful time, and I will not have you spoiling my mood.’

  At the mention of her father, Marie looked up at her mother.

  ‘Does father say anything about the siege?’ she asked.

  ‘Now, why on earth should we talk about that dreary siege? We had plenty of other things to occupy ourselves with!’ Effie giggled, running her hands over her dress, as if to straighten it.

  ‘I shall die if I do not hear news of Donald. I must find a way of getting to him, I must!’

  ‘You must do no such thing! Your father would not hear of it. And besides, I remember now, he mentioned something about plague in the castle. It is unthinkable that you should venture anywhere near the place.’

  But Marie had made up her mind. The only problem was finding a way of getting into the castle. Perhaps Nellie’s brother could help. She would speak to the maid alone, and persuade her to help. Nellie would not let her down.

  Having made this decision, Marie’s spirits suddenly lifted. Soon she would be in Donald’s arms. She refused to believe that he could have succumbed to the plague. He would be there, and her place was at his side.

  The outbreak of the plague had been a bitter blow to the Castilians. Their mood had hitherto been one of hope. Now it became tinged with fear. There was an enemy within the walls, an enemy all the more deadly because it came unseen and unheard.

  John Knox, fervent protestant and follower of Wishart, had arrived in the castle in April, and had been persuaded to preach to those within its walls. He had no hesitation in declaring, and repeating at every opportunity, ‘that their corrupt life could not escape punishment of God’, and that the plague was the instrument of God’s judgement.

  His was the voice of doom, prophesying their defeat by forces gathering outside the walls. He dismissed the Castilians’ hope of rescue by the English: ‘Ye shall not see them; but ye shall be delivered into your enemy’s hands, and shall be carried to a strange country.’

  Talk of this kind made Donald McFarlane’s task extremely difficult. He and the other leaders of the Castilians had to maintain morale, and ensure that the occupants of the castle remained an alert and effective fighting force. Tireless in his encouragement of his followers was the Castilians’ commander, Sir William Kirkcaldy, a powerful, fearless, hot-blooded swordsman. He frequently toured the walls of the castle, giving new hope to the defenders by sheer force of personality. He never shrank from giving his opinion, and there was no restraint whatsoever in his condemnation of the Earl of Arran and his men.

  Donald, like everyone else, was perpetually weary. Food was in such short supply that the Castilians were reduced to catching rats, and they became adept at trapping sparrows and other birds that were foolish enough to land within the castle walls. Water was plentiful, for there was a deep well in the courtyard, but the situation was nevertheless becoming increasingly grave.

  He trudged across the courtyard, having just left a meeting of the Castilian leaders. Morale was not good—John Knox’s speeches were eroding what little optimism there was left among their community, and the plague was an ever-present threat. On top of everything, rumours had reached them that a French fleet was on its way, bringing with it a deadly cargo of powerful siege guns and expert Italian gunners. The Bishop of Moray’s request to the Pope for assistance had been heeded, and the relatively easy time the Castilians had had at the hands of the Earl of Arran looked to be drawing to a close. Donald did not see how things could be worse.

  ‘Donald! Oh, Donald!’

  He turned, stunned. He knew that voice, yet it could not be …

  ‘Marie! What in the name of God are you doing here!’

  ‘I had to see you. I did not know if you were alive. There were such rumours about the plague and—’

  ‘But how did you get into the castle?’

  ‘I was escorted to the gate by one of the Earl’s soldiers—my maid’s brother. There I was recognised by Sir William Kirkcaldy, who let me in. … Oh Donald, I have missed you so much.’

  She fell into his arms, and he clasped her to him. He could feel her heart beating wildly, as she sobbed gratefully at his breast.

  After a moment she raised her head and gazed up at him.

  ‘I thought I would never see you again. I thought we had held each other for the last time. Oh Donald, I shall never leave you again.’

  ‘My darling Marie, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you. But there is nothing for you here but hardship and death. I cannot allow you to remain in this place.’

  ‘I shall not leave you, my love.’ Marie’s voice was now firm. Donald knew better than to argue, and, besides, he had little energy for it.

  But Donald had work to do. He had to make a tour of inspection, ensuring that all the lookouts were at their posts, and seeing to it that no-one stole any of the animals or birds from the traps that had been set, because it was the rule that all food was to be shared. He led Marie across the courtyard, and began to tell her of life in the castle. She looked around, her eyes missing nothing. Donald pointed out a huddle of shapes in one corner, explaining that that was where plague victims were herded.

  ‘How bad is the plague?’ asked Marie.

  ‘It may well be our undoing. It has taken some of our finest men, and will no doubt take more. Our only consolation is that it keeps the Earl of Arran at a safe distance.’ Donald laughed. ‘At present, our most fearsome weapons are the dead bodies of plague victims—we cast them over the walls on to the heads of any of Arran’s men who have not the sense to leave us in peace.’

  Marie was surprised at the callousness in Donald’s voice. Then she remembered his part in the murder of Cardinal Beaton, and the silencing of the castle guards. She had to accept that childhood had come to an end, for both of them. Life was now a deadly business.

  As if to illustrate her thoughts, two men approached, carrying between them a stretcher. On it was the body of yet another plague victim. The men stopped as they reached Donald and Marie.

  ‘Who have we here?’ asked Donald.

  One man replied by shaking his head sadly; the other was motionless.

  Donald stepped up to the stretcher and looked at the bulky but emaciated form lying on it. The fetid stench of death made close examination unnecessary, as well as inadvisable, but Donald could not mistake the features of the man’s face. It was Dougal, his staunch friend from their days in the tunnels.

  Far out at sea, Leo Strozzi, Prior of Capua, Knight of St John and now commander of the French fleet bearing down on St Andrews, smiled as he caught his first glimpse of the Scottish coast. The sea was flat and calm as a millpond, and the sun reflected off the gleaming, gilded prow of Strozzi’s massive galley as it surged forward. The only sounds that reached him were the rhythmic beat of the drum below the deck and the splash of the oars driving the galley through the waves.

  Standing there on deck, Strozzi’s thoughts went back to the meeting at the Vatican with his Holiness only a few short months before. It was then that he had learned what his next command would be. As he had walked through the Pope’s luxurious apartments, Strozzi could not help but congratulate himself on his spectacular rise. Who would have believed that an orphan from the slums of Naples could ascend to his present position? He had, of course, been truly fortunate to be taken into the local monastery and educated at the expense of the church, but how he had seized his opportunity! Perhaps his current status owed more to an assiduous study of all the latest techniques of siege warfare than to any real spiritual purity—but then, as the Pope was fond of saying,

  ‘Saints? My dear Leo, I already have plenty of those! As for expert artillerymen like you, they are like gold-dust!’

  And Leo Strozzi was truly an expert in the use of gunpowder and cannon. Many a t
ime he had practised his art on the infidel Turk, and the very mention of his name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of his Holiness’ enemies throughout the Mediterranean.

  His Holiness, as ever, had been glad to see him.

  ‘Ah, my very own dog of war! It is good to see you here again Leo.’

  ‘Your Holiness is too kind. A humble man like myself is not fit to—’

  ‘Enough, Leo, enough!’ the Pope interrupted. ‘We must get down to business.’

  The Pope explained that Strozzi’s next mission would be to sail to Scotland and put down a heretical uprising. Strozzi hardly knew where Scotland was, but he did not mention that to his Holiness. Anyway, what did he care where the heretics were? If his Holiness wanted them exterminated, then Leo Strozzi would not fail him. He would sail to the ends of the earth if necessary.

  ‘I want them taught a lesson they will not soon forget, Leo. Show them no mercy, for those who reject the one true church deserve no mercy. You will have as many galleys and cannon as you require. And the next time we meet you will entertain me with tales of yet another glorious victory.’

  And now, as the coast of Scotland drew ever closer, Leo Strozzi prepared himself for battle. He called his chief gunner to him.

  ‘Is everything ready, Vincenzo? I have no love for these cold northern lands and I want this affair decided with all speed.’

  ‘Fear not, my Lord, we will soon be back amongst the olive groves, drinking the good red wine of San Gimignano. My men have every gun primed and ready to blast the heretics from the face of the earth. A paltry fortress such as they inhabit will not stand long under the fire of our great cannons.’

  Strozzi smiled. ‘That is good, Vincenzo. For tomorrow at dawn, the heretics will wake to see us at anchor in St Andrews bay. And then, may God have mercy on their souls!’

  The early watch at the castle had had a quiet night. Nothing stirred, and as the sun rose, it looked as if it would be another fine summer’s day. Suddenly, there was a shout from the sea tower.

  ‘Ship ahoy!’

  Donald had just risen, and heard the shout, as did half the castle.

  ‘Damn!’ he swore as he raced up to the battlements. The sight that met his eyes filled him with despair. He had been expecting an attack from the sea, but when he saw how many French galleys were at anchor in the bay, he knew in his heart that the castle was doomed. Even from this distance, Donald could clearly see the feverish activity on board the galleys, as every gun in the fleet was brought to bear on the castle walls. He had never seen so many cannon and he could all too readily imagine what the effect would be once they opened fire.

  Donald spent the morning with Sir William Kirkcaldy trying to organise the castle defences with the men that were left, and his mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get Marie out of the castle. Arran’s troops were more alert now than they had been for months. Where it had often been possible to find a way through Arran’s lines in the past, now there would be none. Marie was trapped in the castle. The Earl and his newly-arrived allies would never let any of them escape.

  Later Donald found time to speak with Marie.

  ‘I told you this would happen, Marie,’ he said, as he paced up and down her chamber, clearly agitated.

  ‘I don’t care about myself, Donald. I’ve told you that. It’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about me, but we’ve got to get you out of here.’

  ‘No, Donald, I’m not going anywhere, not now.’

  ‘This time you will do as I say. I will get you out of here if it’s the last thing I do!’

  But despite his brave words, Donald had little hope that he would be able to fulfil his promise.

  Under cover of darkness, Leo Strozzi had come ashore and made his way to Arran’s camp. As he passed through the Earl’s forces, Strozzi was not impressed. Little effort seemed to have been made to press home the siege, and as he cast a professional eye over their few cannons, he was disgusted to see them lying unattended and rusty. They had clearly not been fired for weeks!

  Barely able to conceal his contempt, Strozzi stormed into Arran’s tent. Arran greeted him coldly.

  ‘Good evening, my Lord Prior. I trust your voyage was an easy one.’

  ‘It was. But I am afraid I have no time for pleasantries, my Lord,’ Strozzi replied frostily. ‘This so-called siege of yours has gone on too long already. His Holiness grows weary of your incompetence. He commands that the siege be brought to a successful conclusion immediately, and I expect nothing less than your full co-operation.’

  Arran started to protest, but Strozzi ignored him.

  ‘Tomorrow, we will bombard the castle from the sea. If our lesser cannons fail to breach the walls, we will bring our siege guns ashore and the walls of that little fortezza will be pounded to dust.’ Strozzi paused for effect. ‘If your men can summon the courage to walk into the ruins and despatch any heretics who may still be alive, then this whole sorry business will be at an end.’

  From the parapet of the sea-tower, Donald watched with grim fascination as the French galleys manoeuvred to bring their guns to bear on the castle. It would not be long now, he thought. But he had prepared his men well, and every gun in the castle had been brought to the north wall. At that very moment, a gunner stood at the ready behind each cannon, waiting for the word of command.

  ‘We may well be doomed,’ Donald had told Sir William, ‘but by God we will sell our lives dearly!’

  The Galleys were nearer now. Another few seconds and they would be within range of Donald’s artillery.

  ‘Wait for it, wait for it!’ he told his men. ‘Now!’

  A deafening series of explosions shook the walls of the castle as the defenders loosed off their first volley at the French galleys. The effect was immediately obvious, as one galley veered away, holed at the waterline. The cries of wounded sailors and galley slaves drifted up through the dense smoke that now shrouded the walls.

  ‘Again!’ shouted Donald, and the gunners unleashed another shattering volley.

  A few of the galleys had begun to return fire, but with little accuracy, and only a few casualties were sustained inside the castle. After a third volley from the walls, the galleys turned away and made for the West Sands, where the first crippled vessel was already beached.

  A loud cheer arose from the walls as the French broke away, but Donald did not join in. He knew they would be back.

  Strozzi, meanwhile was incandescent with fury. If word of this ever got back to his Holiness … ! Vincenzo suffered the full weight of his wrath.

  ‘You have shamed me, Vincenzo. I expected better of you.’

  ‘My Lord Prior, I … I …’

  ‘No excuses, Vincenzo, after today’s fiasco! Just do as I say. Take the siege guns ashore tonight. Mount them on the highest buildings in the town and demolish that damned castle.’

  ‘Of course, my Lord, consider it done,’ Vincenzo stammered, as he turned to go.

  ‘And remember this, Vincenzo,’ Strozzi continued, ‘if you fail me again, you will spend the voyage home chained to an oar amongst those scum down below. Do you understand?’

  ‘I will not fail you again,’ Vincenzo told him.

  ‘I hope not, my friend, for your sake.’

  After the initial jubilation, a bleak depression settled on the castle. They all knew it was not over, and their fears were confirmed when they saw the great siege guns being hauled ashore. Soon these fearsome weapons were in place on the Cathedral walls—perfectly placed to rain their fire directly down onto the castle.

  Donald could do nothing but watch, with Marie standing silently by his side. He had not found a way to get her out of the castle and, as he watched the preparations for the final assault, he realised he had left it too late. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘For what?’ Marie asked.

  ‘I feel responsible for your being here.’

  ‘It was my choice, Donald. Y
ou have nothing to reproach yourself for. Anyway, perhaps all is not lost. …’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘I am afraid we both know better than that,’ said Donald.

  They remained on the walls, but they did not have long to wait. With a tremendous roar, the first French siege gun opened fire, the shot crashing into the sea-tower with appalling violence. Screams rose up from the smoking ruins of the tower and within seconds the entire castle was a scene of panic and chaos. Shot after shot smashed into the walls, the courtyard, the towers. The air was filled with smoke and dust as tons of masonry came crashing down.

  Donald tried to shield Marie as best he could, pushing her in front of him as they raced for the relative safety of one of the surviving towers. But they were soon separated in the smoke and confusion. Marie ran across the courtyard to the east wall of the castle, and hid behind the vast bulk of the East Blockhouse as another deafening volley hit the wall. Already it was breached in several places, and at this rate it would not be long before the whole wall collapsed. Running up the stairs to the battlements, Marie caught sight of Donald trying to rally his men and she called out to him. Donald turned and saw her, and started to shout something, but she never knew what he said. An instant later, the section of wall where he had been standing disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust and he was gone. Marie could not believe her eyes. One moment he was there before her, living and breathing, and the next …

  The force of the blast had thrown Donald from the battlements into the rubble of the courtyard below, where Marie could see his body lying motionless in the swirling smoke, half buried under tons of debris. She ran down the stairs, almost unable to see where she was going through her tears. She was intercepted before she got to him by a man with a grip of steel.

  ‘It’s too late lassie, there’s nothing you can do for him now,’ the voice boomed. ‘He’s deid.’