Page 25 of The Changeling

I knew at last what he wanted, and that Mam had been right.

It was a dangerous world for a lassie.

I ran and ran till I had a stitch in my side, and my breath was sharp in my chest. The cold blue dusk was gone, and dark had fully descended. The wind had teeth.

I did not know where to go or what to do. I drew my damp plaid around me and crouched in a doorway, my arms about Carlin. She whined.

I thought about the queen. Today was the first anniversary of her husband’s death. In his sermon, Pastor Knox had said the French king had died from a rotten ear because he had refused to listen to the true word of God. The queen had wanted the court to go into mourning, but few had put on their blacks, the preacher had said triumphantly. François had been French, and a Catholic. Why should good Protestant Scotsmen mourn the passing of a foreign king?

Mary had grown up with the French prince. She had known him since she was five and married him when she was fifteen. Only one year older than me. He had died two years later, at the age of sixteen, in agony. Why should she not feel sorrow at his death? I would grieve if Robbie died. He had taught me to gallop and to dance, and told me I was the bravest girl he had ever known.

Those words still had the power to make my heart leap.

Robbie said he thought I’d dare anything. So why should I not dare to sing to the queen? I had heard how the people of Edinburgh had serenaded Mary on her first night in Edinburgh, and how she had sat in her tower window and listened to them. Perhaps she would hear me if I sang?

My feet quickened as I hurried down the steep cobbled road. In the valley below, the spires of the Palace of Holyrood lifted out of drifting mist, the ruined arches of the medieval abbey looming behind. Only a few dim lights showed in the old tower. I stood on the iron drawbridge, where the light of the smoky torches fell upon me, lifted my hands beseechingly and began to sing.

Perhaps it was because of the ruins, wraithlike in the drifting mist. Perhaps it was because the queen was sad, as was I. Perhaps it was because it was almost Christmas, the darkest time of the year, when ghosts were known to walk.

Whatever the reason, I chose to sing the saddest and strangest ballad I knew. It told the story of a mother who loses all three sons at once, and who cannot let go of her engulfing grief. A year and a day pass, but still she weeps and curses the world to unrelenting storms.

‘May the wind always howl,’ I sang, ‘the waters always flood, until my boys come home to me in earthly flesh and blood.’

Carlin startled me by lifting her muzzle and howling as I sang the plaintive refrain. Such an eerie sound.

Light strengthened in the tower window, as if a curtain had been lifted aside, as if someone looked out. I willed the queen to hear me.

In the hallowed Yule, when the night is long and dark,

In came her own three sons, wearing hats of birch bark.

Eat and drink, my dearest boys, I have missed you sore,

Let us rejoice, my dear boys are home for evermore.

My song came to an end. I waited a moment, full of hope.

Nothing happened.

Heartsick, I turned away.

But where? Where could I go?

No safe place, no sanctuary, no home.

‘Wait!’

I turned. A woman hurried towards me, a lantern in her hand. ‘Bless me, you’re naught but a bairn! Come in, my dear, the queen wants you. Your song made her weep.’

She led me across the iron drawbridge, and into the shadowy palace. I was so weary I could scarcely put one foot ahead of the other.

‘I hear you’re the lass with the Sight,’ the woman said. ‘The one who told her Grace that she was in danger. I canna have you telling her such dark tidings!’

‘I’m so sorry! I canna help what the Sight shows me. She asked me and I had to answer.’

‘I’m sure you meant no harm. But she’s feeling wretched today, it being the anniversary of his Grace’s death. And your song was very sad.’

I apologised again.