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.