Page 57 of The Changeling

‘Do not seek to contact him again,’ he said. ‘If you do, I shall have to report you. They will name you publicly as a seductress and fornicator. I do not wish to do such a thing; not for your sake, but for the queen’s. And if you were truly her loyal servant, you would not wish to do her such harm.’ He pulled out a bag of coins and held it out to me.

I knocked it away with one wild blow. ‘Do no’ dare offer me money.’

‘I mean no insult. I wish only to make reparation for my son’s dishonouring of you.’

‘He didna dishonour me. We are handfasted.’

Lord George drew his dagger, grasped my wrist in his hand, and deftly sliced through the braided cords wound about my wrist. ‘Not anymore.’

Part IV

Alder, tree of secrecy roots hard as iron in flood flesh, when wounded, red as blood furnace of conspiracy

I

Changeling

I was desolate.

A year and a day we had promised ourselves to each other, and that time was done.

Give me another year and a day, he’d begged his father, and I’ll prove my love. But anything could happen in that time. He could die, I could die, the world might end. How could I wait so long? I wanted him now, this very second, I did not want to wait. Bring me every lass in the land you think might tempt me, he had said. I imagined them all, lining up, well-born temptresses all of them, with everything I did not have. Smooth blonde hair, blue eyes, long straight limbs, dimpled knees, human blood.

How long would Robbie hold out? His father had not thought he’d last long, and surely he knew his son. And even if Robbie did stay true to me, would his father permit him to marry me, a serving lass? I did not think so. I wept as I cooked the queen’s soup, and she wept as she ate it, for the king did naught but drink and go whoring. The very heavens wept. The whole land seemed desolate, and a pall hung over the whole court that naught could dispel. The shadow of Signor Rizzio’s murder darkened everything, and no-one knew who to trust.

A month or so later, I was in the stillroom, grinding ginger, when someone came in. I looked up, and caught my breath in surprise.

It was Margrit Graham, Robbie’s eldest sister.

For a second, hope sprang up in me. She had come with a message from Robbie – he wanted to see me, he wanted to run away with me. But the look she gave me was cold and scornful.

‘I need a love spell. Make me one.’

I was utterly taken aback. ‘I canna do that.’

‘Do not lie to me! Everyone knows you bewitched Robbie, and made him mad for you. As if he would fall for a lowborn lass like you! Your great-aunt’s a cunning woman, she makes all kinds of charms and spells. Well, I want the son of the earl of Arran to fall in love with me and marry me, so that one day I shall be a countess, and you are going to make it happen.’

‘But … they say he’s … he’s of unsound mind.’

I was being kind. When people spoke of James Hamilton, the son of the earl of Arran, they called him mad as a March hare. The Easter after I had come to the royal court, his father had locked him in his room to try to calm his wild, incoherent ramblings. He had escaped using a rope made from bedsheets and made his way across country to find the queen, telling her that the earl of Bothwell planned to abduct her and force her into marriage. He had babbled of witches and devils, looking all about him with staring, white-rimmed eyes.

When the queen called for help, he began to struggle and shout, saying that the men trying to restrain him meant to kill him so he could not warn her of the plot. He said that Lord James’s mother, Margaret, was a sorceress, who meant her bastard son to rule, and that the queen must beware. He was judged to be insane, and had been imprisoned in the prison vaults below Edinburgh Castle. Sometimes, when the wind fell silent, you could hear him groaning and raving.

Margrit looked down at me contemptuously. ‘Do you think I do not ken that? He’s my kin, not yours. What does his state of mind matter? It is his state of inheritance I care about. I’ll marry him and rule his lands, and one day maybe our son shall be king.’

I could only gaze at her in astonishment. James Hamilton was second in line to the Scottish throne, his father, the earl of Arran, being heir presumptive. If Mary died in childbirth, and her babe with her, he would be king, despite all of Lord Darnley’s attempts to gain the Crown Matrimonial. But how did Margrit think she could possibly marry the earl’s demented son and bear him a child?

‘But … he’s in prison … he’s confined for life!’

‘You have the queen’s ear, you shall beg her to let him go home and be cared for by his mother and sisters. And I shall offer to go and help them, out of the kindness of my heart, and they will be grateful. And then he shall fall in love with me, thanks to the spell you shall make me, and we will be wedded and bedded till I bear him an heir, a boy that will one day sit on the throne of Scotland!’

I was frightened. Her wild mad plan was too like that of my mother’s. ‘But … what of the queen and her baby? What of the earl?’

‘One step at a time,’ Margrit replied. ‘First you make me a love spell, then you persuade the queen to let the poor daftie go home. Once we are wed, I will think what next must be done.’

I shook my head, saying, ‘Nay, nay, I willna do it. You are as mad as he.’

Margrit grabbed my arm, nails digging in deep. ‘If you do not give me what I want, I will tell everyone you are a witch and ensorcelled my brother, and the queen too. For how else are you here, raised so high? I will say you make poisons in that cauldron of yours, and that you cast a spell on the queen to make her marry Lord Darnley, so that you and your Italian friend could rule. Make me a love spell, or I shall tell all to the world.’