SCENE FOUR

The following day in the late afternoon. The armoury at Spottiswoode’s Castle in Glasgow. It is a roughly furnished but rather cosy room which the soldiers use as a sort of common room in their off-duty periods. There is a rack of spears along the length of the back wall and, in front of this, a long low table with a number of stools all about it. WILL is seated at one end of the table, polishing his helmet and ANDREW is at the other, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. WILL’S sword and ANDREW’S helmet lie on the table. They talk as they work.

WILL: Andro?

ANDREW: Aye?

WILL: Were you ever mairrit?

ANDREW: (laughing) Naw, no me!

WILL: Whit for no?

ANDREW: Oh, a lot ο reasons! Never kent a lassie I fancied enough — at least, I never fancied a lassie that fancied me! (Looks at WILL thoughtfully) Thinkin aboot it yersel like?

WILL: Aye. I’d hae tae get oot ο here …

ANDREW: Oh aye! Sodgerin’s nae life for a mairrit man!

WILL: … But I’m no worried aboot that. I was thinking ο packin it in onywey. Nae offence and aa that, Andro, but I dinnae want tae end up like you and Sandy — or, worse yet, like Wattie.

ANDREW: Well, it’s up tae yersel, son.

WILL: Aye. Andro, the Faither says I cannae get mairrit — no really mairrit — gin I dinnae get mairrit in a Catholic kirk.

ANDREW: Haw, ye dinnae want tae listen tae the Faither, Christ! He’s said a lot, has he no, and see whaur it’s got him.

WILL: Aye, but if I did! That would mean that I’d hae to be a pape afore I could get mairrit! If the papes won like?

ANDREW: (laying down the sword and looking at him) Wullie, ye’re a chynged laddie, dae ye ken that? Ye’re an awfy chynged laddie. Jist a few short months syne ye were aa for burnin every pape in sicht! D’ye mind when we brocht Ogilvie in? D’ye mind whit ye were wantin tae dae tae him then?

WILL: I didnae ken the Faither then; I didnae ken — I had nae idea ο hou mony folk in Scotland were still papes at hert. Aw, I’m no one ο them, dinnae fash yersel aboot that! But I hae tae look oot for mysel and for —

ANDREW: For yer maw?

WILL: For the lassie that I want tae mairry! There are places in Scotland whaur the ministers hae tae tak swords intil the pulpits wi them! Aye! Gin the papes were tae get back …

ANDREW: Wullie, I’ll set yer mind at rest! The papes arenae comin back, son. The papes are never comin back!

WILL: (sceptically) I dinnae ken hou ye can be sae shair.

ANDREW: Dae ye no? Weill, I’ll tell ye. The papes arenae comin back because the gentry — Faither Ogilvie’s ain kind — ’ll never let them. Christ, the reason — I winnae say the only reason — why the papes got kicked oot of the country in the first place was so’s thae buggers could get their hauns on the ferms and the big hooses and aa the property and treisour that belanged tae the Roman kirk. Ye’ll no tell me that they’re gonnae hand aa that back for a daft-like thing like religion? (Laughs) Ye’ll no tell me that Tam ο the Cougait’s gonnae gie back Melrose Abbey so that the papes can stop a laddie like you frae gettin mairrit!

WILL: (nodding, still troubled) Mebbe ye’re richt, Andro, mebbe ye’re richt. Still, gin the Faither hings …

(WILL is interrupted by the excited entrance of WAT and SANDY)

WAT: That’s it, then. The pape’s tae hing!

WILL: When?

SANDY: On the tenth. Jesus Andro, ye should have seen this! (WILL picks up his sword and helmet and leaves the room) Here, whit’s the maitter wi the boy?

ANDREW: Never mind him. He’s got a lot tae learn, that’s aa.

SANDY: Aye, Him and the Faither’s been gettin gey chief this last wee while. He’ll be upset by the news.

WAT: (taking the seat that WILL has vacated) Aye and he’s no the only ane either! Ye want tae have seen the greetin in the coort the day, Andro — eh, Sandy? No aa weemen either!

SANDY: (coming round and taking his seat beside ANDREW) Aye, Ogilvie’s taen the trick wi them richt enough. Wadnae mind bettin there’ll be a puckle trouble nou!

WAT: B’Christ there will! You jist watch! See, that’s the thing wi papes — they worm awa intae people, turn them against their ain kind. They should hae hung that bugger months syne! See whit he’s done tae young Wullie. He was a guid laddie that, at one time. But see nou? I’ll tell ye this — if there is trouble, I’ll be awry careful aboot turnin my back on him. In my opinion …

ANDREW: (angrily) That’s the trouble wi aa you buggers — ye’re aa fu ο yersels, ye’ve aa got opinions! Weill, I’ve an opinion anaa! (Picks up his sword and hits the table with it) That’s it there! And if there is trouble, Wattie, and I see you turnin yer back on onybody, I’ll soon enough gie ye my opinion, son! You bet I will!

(WAT glares back hatefully at ANDREW but says nothing)

SANDY: Aye, he will anaa! He will! (Pause) Andro …

ANDREW: Aaricht, Sandy. Aaricht. I can see that I’m gonnae get it aa sooner or later — I can see ye’re fair burstin tae let it aa oot — sae it micht as weill be nou. Whit happened at the trial?

SANDY: (enthusiastically) … Weill, Andro, seein ye asked, I’ll tell ye. It was somethin. It was somethin tae see aaricht! Nou, I’d hae thocht that — efter whit happened in Embro — that the Faither’d have calmed doun a wee, behaved himself like? Not a bit of it! My, my, but did he no gie them laldy! I’ll say this for him — he’s fit for them aa in a slangin match. Is that no richt, Wat?

WAT: Oh aye.

SANDY: He said he didnae gie a rotten fig for the jury, that the judges were aa like flies swarmin roun a lump ο shite — weill, he didnae say shite, bein aa pan-loaf and a priest and that, but we aa kent whit he meant — he said he wadnae set doun holy things afore dugs and — tae cap it aa — he tellt the haill coort that the King was nae mair tae him nor an auld hat! Christ, ye want tae have seen Spottiswoode’s face! If looks could kill, there’d be nae need for a hingin!

ANDREW: In ither wards, he pit the raip aroun his ain thrapple! I thocht he wad. (Stands up and, taking his sword, holds it up to the light and looks along the edge) And it’s a bluidy waste, d’ye ken that? A man wi he’s smeddum and brains could dae a haill lot ο guid!

WAT: (Sneering) Ye’re shairly gettin auld, Andro. Auld and saft! What guid is there in a papish priest? There’s owre mony ο the fuckers in Scotland as it is!

ANDREW: (coldly) He has echt days and nine nichts of pure bluidy hell in Embro. You ken that, torturer, you gave him the maist ο it — and he never even looked like breakin! In spite of yer nails and yer mallet and yer clairty wee mind, he never came near tae beggin for mercy! And as far as the law’s concerned, bein a papish priest isnae a hingin maitter.

WAT: (smugly) But he’s no hingin for bein a papish priest! He’s hingin for bein a traitor — he wadnae tak the Aith ο Allegiance!

ANDREW: Then he should hae got the jile until he did! Och, it’s no for me tae say that he shouldnae be punished — I’m no even sayin that he shouldnae hing! It jist seems tae me that it’s a gey donnert thing for a man like Ogilvie, wi aa his smeddum and brains, tae fling his ain life awa like that! Ach whit gars me grue the maist is the fact that aa this argy-bargy is aboot sweet fuck-all! (Holds the naked sword up before him) The haun that hauds this sword has killed mair men nor I hae years ο my life — and whit for? Whit some bluidy jyner said or didnae say in Palestine hundreds ο years syne! Christ, it gies me the boke tae think ο it! (Looks at WAT) You’ll mebbe no mind on this, but Sandy will. Back in the year o’ 96…

SANDY: Oh aye. I mind aaricht. The seventeenth ο September riot. I mind thon aaricht!

ANDREW: The seventeenth ο September. In Embro. There was a mob ο thousans that day — aa bearin wappins and wantin tae kill the King. And at the heid ο them aa was the meenisters. Bruce. Welsh. Black. ‘For God and the Kirk’ they cried ‘For God and the Kirk!’ And on the ither side — on the ither side, there was anither mob. And they were shoutin ‘For God and the King!’ God and the King! The bluid and the snot ran through the streets ο Embro like a torrent that day!

WAT: Oh, aye, I mind on that that anaa. It was a sair business richt enough — but it was aa King Jamie’s wyte …

ANDREW: Oh was it? Aaricht weill, whaur’s King Jamie nou? He’s still got his croun on his heid — at least, it’s no the same croun but a bigger ane — and whaurs Robert Bruce? Whaur’s John Welsh? Huh! The King’s on his throne and meenisters are in their pulpits yet! It’s aye the same — the meenisters and the priests and the high-heid anes’ll dae the argyin and the stirrin up — but when it comes tae the killin and the dein, weill there’s nane ο them can lift up the deid they left on the streets ο Embro that day. And they’re never satisfied. When Ogilvie hings we’ll hae anither riot, this time on the streets ο Glesca. And it’ll no be the meenisters that’ll dae the fechtin or the killin or dein — it’ll be you and me and Sandy and young laddies like Wullie!

WAT: (laughing, quite insensitive to what ANDREW is saying) Be fair, Andro! Be fair! It’ll be Ogilvie anaa!

ANDREW: Aw fine Ogilvie. Ogilvie’ll gae til the gallows and hae his craig stretched — fine for him! That’s what he wants, that’s whit he’s efter! They’ll mak a martyr oot o’m nae doubt — pent his pictur and hing it up on the Vatican waa! Great for Ogilvie! But whae’ll fecht the battles that he’ll leave ahint him? No John Ogilvie. He’s away! (Sighs and sheaths his sword) And so am I. Better get back tae work, back tae the bluidy job!

(ANDREW picks up his helmet and walks towards the door somewhat wearily)

WAT: (Addressing SANDY but really taunting ANDREW) It’s like I was sayin, Sandy. Ye cannae trust thae papes. They get in aawhere — even here.

(ANDREW stops and considers WAT amusedly)

ANDREW: What’s the maitter, Wattie? Ye’re shairly no gonnae tell me that ye’re worried aboot turnin yer back on me?

WAT: (rises, walks towards the centre of the room) Turnin my back? I made up my mind on that score as far as you were concerned a while syne.

(SANDY rises and moves away from the table, behind WAT who is facing ANDREW from the middle of the room)

ANDREW: (very quietly) And what dae ye mean bi that, son?

WAT: I mean that you’re a pape — I mean that you’re a Pope’s man. I mean that I wadnae trust ye as far as I can throw ye!

ANDREW: (stiffens, goes very quiet) I hope you’re feelin lucky, son!

WAT: Ha! Listen tae the hard man! I dinnae need luck for you, ye tired auld priest’s (SANDY very quickly draws his sword and prods WAT in the back with it) bastard!

SANDY: (laughing) Ha, ha! Wattie, ye werenae mindin yer p’s and q’s. I micht be a pape anaa for aa ye ken! Will I disarm him, Andro?

ANDREW: Naw! (Strides forward and gives WAT the back of his hand across the face) Ye daft cunt! I micht hae killed you! Comin the haurd-case! You stick tae yer buits and yer mallet and yer nails! Because the next time you try onythin like thon, the best you can hope for is tae be flung in a cell withoot a door in it. D’ye understand?

WILL: (wiping his cheek where ANDREW struck him) I micht hae kent that the pair ο ye wad hing thegither.

ANDREW: We aa hing thegither! We aa hing thegither — or we aa end up deid! That’s the rule, Wattie. For Christ’s sake, get it intae yer thick heid and forget aboot papes and protestants and bein feart aboot turnin yer back! We’ll forget aboot this — you jist mak shair it disnae happen again, richt? (WAT makes no answer) Richt?

WAT: (reluctantly) Aye.

(ANDREW nods and exits. SANDY sheaths his sword. WAT returns to where he was sitting)

SANDY: Christ, Wattie, that was a daft-like thing tae try. What got intae ye?

WAT: Ach, I got pissed off wi him! Him and aa that talk aboot the seventeenth ο September! Christ, ye’d think the papes’d never done onything!

SANDY: I’ll no argy wi ye, Wattie. But ye’re a lucky bugger tae be sittin there the nou. Andro’s a haurd man, Wat. He’s no lived as lang as he has for naethin. His sword’d have been through your guts afore ye’d got yer ain clear ο the scabbard! Jist dinnae try that again, son. I’m warnin ye!

WAT: Aye? Weill maybe … (Looks towards the door) … but I still say ye cannae trust thae papish bastards!