Page 18 of The Changeling

Sorcha and I were on fire with curiosity about her. She was only eighteen, not much older than us, but had been queen since she was only six days old. Everyone said she was very beautiful. We longed to see her, and so were enraptured when Lord George received a message from his cousin, the earl of Montrose, that the queen was riding on royal procession through the countryside to see her people and would be coming to stay a night.

It was a most miserable day. Mist, rain, mud. I imagined how the queen must feel, coming from the golden court of France to this cold, grey, windswept place. An idea came to me. I whipped together a small dollop of soft butter with honey and orange blossom water. Slowly I mixed in an egg yolk, some zested orange peel, flour, ale yeast, a pinch of salt, and a good glug of buttermilk. When all was ready, I carefully poured the batter into a tiny flower-shaped baking tin, slipped it into the oven, and made a simple syrup with orange blossom water and honey. Then I wrapped my plaid about my head and, with Carlin reluctantly trotting at my heels, braved the bitter wind to go out into the garden. I needed a marigold.

When my cake was cooked, I drew it out of the oven, turned it out onto a cooling rack, and dribbled the syrup over it. Carefully I arranged marigold petals on top, smallest radiating out to largest from the centre, brushing them with the remaining syrup. When I had finished, the cake looked like a tiny sunburst.

Everyone was rushing around making ready for the queen, who was travelling with her entourage from Perth, a journey that would take most of the day. I knew that I would not be able to get close to her once she rode across the drawbridge, so I slipped out by myself, my stick in one hand and my marigold cake in the other. Carlin and I waited for her down the road, by the humpbacked bridge that crossed the Muckle Burn, half-hidden by dripping trees.

The rain had blown over, leaving a strange pale light shining between the dark land and the dark clouds. The castle behind me looked very grim, its battlements wreathed in mist. At last, after what had seemed a very long and chilly wait, a procession approached, the banners wet and heavy with rain, the horses plodding along with drooping necks. I knew Mary at once, by her fine palfrey, the black velvet mourning gown she wore, and the men that clustered around her like drones about a queen bee. Her hair was a bright golden-red, her skin as fine and pale as porcelain.

I stepped forward, holding up the tiny cake. ‘My queen, I wish to welcome you home.’

Mary exclaimed in pleasure and reined in her horse. A young man, very fancily dressed, rode in front of her, jostling her horse. ‘Stand back,’ he ordered me, in a strong French accent.

The queen laughed. ‘Monsieur de Châtelard, can you not see she is a child? And a lame one too? There is no danger here.’

My pride was bruised to be described thus. I was almost fourteen, after all. But I curtsied and said, ‘I made a cake for you.’

Mary reached down and took the cake from my hand. ‘It looks just like a marigold! Is it really a cake?’

‘Aye, I made it from the last bloom in the garden.’

‘And it’s safe to eat?’

I nodded, smiling. ‘We use marigolds to flavour cakes and puddings all the time.’

She laughed and cautiously bit into it. Her eyes widened. ‘It’s delicious!’ Eagerly she ate the rest of the cake, then laughed and dusted away the crumbs from her mouth. ‘Thank you! What’s your name, little one?’

‘Caitlín NicNeven,’ I answered.

‘Thank you, Caitlín. But tell me, why did you decorate your cake so it looked like a marigold?’

I smiled back at her. ‘I thought it would amuse you. Like a … a masquerade, your Grace.’

‘It does amuse me! I wish to know why you chose a marigold, though?’

‘Because they are bright and golden like you, and have your name in them.’

‘That’s the only reason?’

I was puzzled. ‘Aye.’

‘Address your queen as her Grace when you speak to her,’ one of her companions said coldly. He was a tall man with a proud face and a pointed beard, dressed all in black. His eyes were hazel as hers, his hair as red.

I flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didna ken.’ Then I added hastily, ‘your Grace.’

‘And do not speak unless you are directed,’ he snapped.

I stood dumbly, mortified.

‘It does not matter,’ the queen said gently. ‘How are you to know the etiquette of the court when you’re a country lass? My brother James is a stickler for the rules.’

I knew then who he was. The queen had numerous half-siblings, none of them legitimate. Lord James Stewart had been Regent of Scotland while Mary was in France. He was one of the Lords of the Congregation, and a faithful follower of Pastor Knox, the leader of the new Reformed church.

‘The marigold is my secret emblem,’ the queen said, ‘that I chose when I was a little girl in France. How on earth did you know?’

I twisted my fingers together. ‘Sometimes I just ken things, your Grace.’

‘I have heard of such secret knowledge. The Second Sight, is it not called? Tell me, what do you see of my future?’ The queen was laughing, but I could not laugh back. Everything had gone dark and cloudy. The earth seemed to sway and rock under my feet, and I steadied myself with my stick. Carlin whined and pressed closer to me.