Page 5 of The Changeling

‘I didna! You ken I didna!’ I cried. By my side, Carlin crouched, hackles raised, growling deep in her throat.

‘The witchling should not be here,’ Margrit said. ‘It’s not safe, you know it’s not.’

‘Nowhere is safe,’ I said. ‘No’ for anyone.’

I thought of our queen, standing trial for murder in England and not given the right to defend herself. I thought of my mother, my great-aunt, all the other women in danger because they hung a star made of birch twigs above a newborn’s cradle, or swept out their house with a besom on All Hallows Eve.

Lady Marjorie called out hoarsely. ‘Caiti? Is she here? Has she come?’

The younger Graham girls watched me with big, scared eyes, while little Georgie – the boy whose birth had injured his mother beyond repair – hid behind Margrit’s skirts, his thumb in his mouth.

I lifted my chin, not looking at them. ‘I am here, my lady. What do you want of me?’

Lady Marjorie reached for me with skeletal hands. A rosary lay on the bed beside her, the forbidden crucifix glinting in the candlelight. ‘Caiti … I’m so sorry. I never meant … I never thought …’ Her voice broke as she began to sob convulsively, clutching at me. Her greying hair was in wild disarray, her sunken cheeks scored with deep scratches, her fingernails dark crescents of blood. Madness was said to run in the blood of the Hamiltons of Arran. Pity filled me, and I let her seize my hands.

‘I … I’m dying,’ she panted, her nails digging into me. ‘Caiti, my time has come.’

‘I ken,’ I answered. The shadow of death was cold upon her.

Behind me, Margrit made a sharp movement. Beatrix gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. I ignored them, bending closer so I could hear her whisper.

‘I … I’m so afraid. They have driven away the priest. Who will grant me absolution?’

‘Dinna be afeart, my lady.’ My throat was thick. It was only eight years since Pastor Knox and the Lords of the Congregation had overthrown the Catholic Church. Lady Marjorie’s whole life had been ruled by its rituals and rhythms. It was no wonder she longed for them now.

‘I’m so sorry about your mother,’ Lady Marjorie sobbed. ‘I did not know …’

How could any of us have known such blackness lay hidden in men’s hearts?

Lady Marjorie clutched me harder. ‘I was wrong … I should never have said it … I thought she was angry Robbie had scorned you …’

‘Mam didna ken!’ I cried. ‘And she’d have done naught to hurt him if she had kent!’

‘So strange … so strange … he sleeps and sleeps and will not rouse. Can you wake him, Caiti? Such powers you must have, to make him love you so. A witchling if ever I saw one, with hair so dark and wild, and eyes as black as sloes …’

She was slipping into delirium, her head tossing fretfully on her pillow. ‘I’m so afraid … of hellfire … your mother … if I had not said … but you’ll forgive me, Caiti? You’ll help me?’

‘There is naught I can do.’

‘I am dying.’

‘Aye.’

‘Soon?’

‘Aye. Very soon.’

‘I need you to shrive me,’ she whispered, her nails digging into my flesh.

Coldness crept over me. I remembered the bronze bell hidden in Nan’s cunning bag. When someone died, she would ring the bell to ward off evil spirits and guard their soul’s passage to the afterlife. And sometimes, when there was no priest to offer absolution, she would eat their sins for them, a ritual meal in which she willingly took on their transgressions so that they might die unburdened and thus escape the fiery pits of hell. It was one of the most mysterious and sacred roles of the cunning folk, and one that made many people fear us.

I did not want to eat a dying woman’s sins.

‘You’ll be better in the morning, Mama,’ Beatrix said. ‘Lie back, rest. There’s no need to be in such distress.’

‘I’m dying,’ she shrieked. ‘The witchling knows. Do you not, Caiti?’

‘Aye,’ I replied.