Page 32 of The Changeling

I came back to myself, sick and shaking. I had seen more. Blood and storms, flames and smoke. But I could not speak of what I had seen. I clenched my jaw, words boiling inside. Carlin rose from the hearth rug and came to stand beside me, and I put my hand on her back, bracing myself so I did not fall. When the world had steadied, I gathered up my basket and my stick, and stumbled down the narrow spiral stairs and out the door into the garden, throwing down my basket by the step, rushing into the mist. I had to get out, away from the palace, away from the ruined abbey, away from the smoke-wreathed city. I had to go somewhere high and wild and empty where I could breathe. Behind the palace, a great green hill rose from the mist. I hurried out the gate in the high stone wall, Carlin bounding joyously by my side. I dragged the ribbon from my hair and shook it loose; I hauled off my boots and stockings and ran barefoot up the slope, my skirts kilted up through my girdle. I ran and ran, and then I walked and walked, the thyme-scented wind scouring my soul clean.

How I hated and feared the curse of the Sight. I thought I had stamped it out, I thought I could keep it buried deep. Such horrors it showed me. What was I meant to do with such dreadful visions of the future? Tell the queen her son would do great evil? Warn the world to beware? How could I? I did not even know if I saw true.

I sat on a rock and put my stockings and boots back on. I bound my hair up again, I shook the mud and twigs from my heavy black skirt, and I went slowly and soberly back to the palace once more, as camouflaged as a moth among shadows.

‘So dearly do I love you,’ I sang, ‘I will follow you both far and wide, for you are a bonny laddie.’

The queen listened with clasped hands and shining eyes, as the girl in the song put off her fine velvet gown and dressed in beggar’s rags to follow the man she loved, only to discover he was not a vagabond as she had thought but a lord in disguise.

‘That same night she was bedded, and the next morn she was wedded, and all for the following of her bonny laddie.’ I ended with a flourish.

Mary laughed. ‘That’s not the usual order of things! Oh, I love that song, Caitlín. Good to have one with a happy ending for a change. Will you sing me another?’

I performed for the queen most evenings after supper. She loved the old ballads I knew, full of love and heartbreak, betrayal and murder, battles and acts of valour. I had learned my songs from Mam, and it was impossible not to think of her when I sang. It gave me an ache around my heart. Every day I imagined going home and begging my family’s forgiveness, and every day my spirit quailed at the thought.

I had not forgotten the look of hate in the faery queen’s eyes as she watched Mam, or that she had once tried to steal Sorcha. If I went home, my real mother would find me. She would not care what harm she did to get her way. I could not risk her threatening my family to force me to submit to her. I would do anything to save the ones I loved.

The intensity of my loneliness and longing for home gave my voice a new depth of emotion, and often moved the queen to tears. She too was afraid and lonely. She wished to marry and have a strong husband to stand by her side and help her rule, and she yearned for a child of her own.

I knew this for I was the first to see Mary every morning and the last to see her every night. In the seclusion and intimacy of her private quarters, she no longer had to wear the heavy mask of the monarch, but could, for a space of time, be just a young woman, only a few years older than me. She talked to me and I listened, offering what small crumbs of comfort I could.

I was just beginning a new ballad when a pageboy brought news a messenger had come from France. ‘Bring him in,’ Mary ordered, then said to me, ‘I fear it may be bad news. My uncle has been hard pressed in the religious troubles in France, I know. I hope he has not been hurt!’

The door opened and a handsome young man came in, dressed in short padded breeches, worn over mud-splattered hose. His satin coat was wet through, and his dark curls dripped. I knew him at once as the Frenchman who had seen me give the queen a marigold cake.

‘Monsieur de Châtelard!’ the queen cried. ‘Whatever do you do here, so far from Paris?’

‘I knew you would be anxious about your uncle, so I was given leave to bring you the news myself.’

‘That was kind of you! What has happened? Is he hurt?’

‘Non, madame. The Duc de Guise broke the siege at Orléans, and the Huguenot rebels have fled.’

‘Heaven be praised!’ Mary crossed herself swiftly, then lifted her rosary to her lips and kissed the crucifix.

A quiver of distaste passed over Châtelard’s face. He presented the letter to her. ‘An account of the battle, madam.’

Mary broke the seal and read swiftly. Her expression grew troubled. ‘A hard-won battle, indeed. Let us hope peace will soon return to France again.’

She rose to her feet, and held out her hand for him to kiss. ‘I thank you for bringing me the news, Monsieur de Châtelard. You must’ve ridden hard to reach me. I beg you will take some time to rest before you return. My chamberlain will find you somewhere to sleep.’ Then she said, with a faint smile, ‘And some more suitable clothes, perhaps? Silk will do little to keep you warm in a Scottish winter.’

He smiled, bowed and withdrew.

The queen sat down again and buried her face in her hands. ‘My uncle let his men rampage unchecked for three whole days,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Raping and pillaging and murdering for three whole days! More than a thousand Protestants killed. How could he?’

‘I’m so sorry, madam,’ I said, feeling pity for both those who had lost their lives so terribly and for the queen, whose uncle’s cruelty towards the French Protestants was used as a weapon by Pastor Knox against her. He told his congregation that Mary intended to restore Catholicism to Scotland with the same brutal methods. It did not matter how often the queen declared she would respect their faith if they respected hers. Pastor Knox continued to try to compel her to pass laws that enforced what he considered a godly way of life, and Mary continued to refuse to endorse his legislations. This news from France would send Pastor Knox into a frenzy of preaching against her.

I made the queen a tisane of dried meadowsweet and linden blossoms steeped in hot water, and added a teaspoon of honey and a dash of whisky, to comfort and fortify her. Then I left her to read over the letter again, her face white and strained.

A double spiral staircase wound down from the queen’s presence chamber, one with broad steps for courtiers and visitors, and one with narrow steps for servants. With Carlin at my heels, I began to descend the steep, cramped staircase, carrying a single candle to light my way. Suddenly Carlin growled and pushed forward, preventing me from descending. One paw was lifted, her whole body alert and tense.

‘Who’s there?’ I lifted my candle so the light swung around the curve of the spiral.

Châtelard came up a few steps, barring my way with one extended arm. ‘So, la petite sorcière, we meet again.’

‘Let me pass, monsieur,’ I said with dignity.

He grabbed my arm. ‘I remember what you said to her the first time we met. Warning her of danger. What do you know? Who is your master?’