Page 109 of The Changeling

‘Seven hundred years ago … hmmm. Well, Scotland was then a number of smaller kingdoms. Here in the heartland of Scotland was where the Picts ruled, according to early medieval texts. And, of course, the evidence of the carved stones.’

I thought of the spirals and rings on the stones of the faery ring in the meadow below the Knock. ‘Picts?’

‘Aye. It means “the painted ones”.’ At my puzzled glance, he continued, ‘The Romans said the Picts had complex patterns and markings on their bodies.’

‘Like a crescent moon?’

‘Aye, that is very common. A crescent moon crossed with a V-shaped design that looks like an arrow broken in two. Also spirals and circles and strange beasts. It is believed they made the marks by pricking their skin, then poking ash inside with thorns. An odd and painful process, indeed.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘Who kens for sure? It is said a new king, Kenneth the Conqueror, sought to overcome them, riding against them seven times. The Picts were a race of mighty warriors, though; fearless and terrifying in battle. They painted their bodies blue with woad and fought near-naked.’

Lord George was growing animated, gesturing as he spoke, so I could almost see the Pictish warriors, an unearthly blue, their bodies marked with dark intricate patterns, barefoot and wild-haired, running with weapons raised high.

‘Apparently, the women fought alongside their menfolk, and were just as fierce. Indeed, some say they were ruled by queens, not kings, but that must surely be an exaggeration.’

Why? I wanted to demand. Why canna a woman rule?

But I let Lord George talk.

‘Kenneth could not defeat them in battle, so he invited them to a great banquet, promising them peace and reconciliation. There was food aplenty, and the mead flowed, and music, and much merriment. Then Kenneth made a secret signal and his men worked some kind of lever. The floor fell away, and the Picts were plunged into a pit filled with sharpened stakes. The Scots slaughtered them all.’

‘The Scots? So our queen Mary can trace her lineage back to him?’

‘Aye, she can. The Stewarts are proud to be descended from Kenneth the Conqueror.’

I took a deep breath. So many things made sense now.

‘They say that when the Pictish king and his warriors were dead, Kenneth set out to slaughter his heir, so that none could ever claim back the throne. The Pictish queen heard the army marching towards them, and knew at once what they intended. She took up the babe, and ordered her old nursemaid to take the cradle, which was made of solid gold, and use it as a decoy to mislead King Kenneth.’

I leaned forward, listening intently.

‘She fled with the babe,’ Lord George continued, ‘and the nursemaid carried the cradle to the nearby loch. The sun gleamed on the precious metal, and Kenneth saw the flash. He galloped that way, but when he came over the ridge, he saw the loch lying below and the old nursemaid sitting on a rock, the cradle in her arms. She stood and faced them, her long grey hair flying in the wind. She laughed and fell backwards into the loch, and sank away from view. Though Kenneth ordered his men to dive and search, no trace of the nursemaid or the cradle was ever found.’

‘That is so sad.’

‘Och aye, ’tis.’

‘What happened to the queen and the baby?’

‘She fled to the hills, then prayed for deliverance to her dark gods. They opened a rift in the rock where she and her people could hide. Kenneth, tricked by the old nursemaid, thought he had won. But the Picts’ heir lived, hidden from sight in the hollow hills, waiting for his chance to have his revenge.’

Her chance, I wanted to say. Her revenge.

‘What was the price?’ I said instead.

Lord George raised his bushy brows. ‘Price?’

‘What price did the Pictish queen have to pay to her dark gods?’

He shook his head. ‘I do not know. A heavy one, no doubt.’

I nodded. I thought I knew what the cost had been for all these hundreds of years. ‘What can you tell me about these gods?’

Lord George shook his head and spread his hands. ‘Not much. There is an old poem, written by a Roman named Lucanus … now let me see.’ He got up, went to his shelves and stood there browsing, while I thought about all he had said.

‘Here we are. I will do my best to translate.’ He lifted the book in one hand, and began to intone: