Page 58 of The Changeling

She must be insane. She would not care what ruin she would bring to me and my family if she made such wild accusations against me. The queen’s enemies would seize upon any excuse to accuse one so close to her. I had to find a way to appease Margrit, to keep her from accusing me.

After a long moment, I said, ‘You need to sew a poppet made in the earl’s likeness, from cloth that his semen has spilled upon. Make a suit of clothes for it, cut from something he has worn, and sew a lock of his hair to its head.’

‘Why?’ she demanded.

‘You need things that carry his life essence, his energy. His semen, his hair, his blood – they are part of him, linked to him. They create a chain between him and your likeness of him, and so what you do to the poppet you do to him.’

She nodded eagerly.

‘Inside the poppet you must hide three black hawthorn barbs, three red hawthorn berries, and three white hawthorn blossoms. And then you must make another poppet in your own likeness, in the same fashion, but with your hair – made from cloth from one of your chemises clotted with your menstrual blood. Then you must bind the two poppets together with red thread, chanting, “Make him want me, make him love me, make him wed me, make it be.” Then hide the poppets somewhere they can never be found. For if anyone ever discovers what you have done, they will burn you as a witch.’

‘Do you swear the spell will work?’

‘If your will is strong enough.’

‘It is,’ she answered, and left.

I sagged with relief. Surely she would not be able to remember the whole spell, or gather all that she needed to make it work? It would take her a long time to even try, for hawthorn blossomed in spring and the berries did not ripen till autumn. Surely she would come to her senses before then, and try some other way to bid for power? And surely she would not tell anyone? For to betray me would be to betray herself.

But her eyes had been alight with a kind of mad, unholy glee.

I could not trust her.

I was uneasy all day. Deep inside me, I knew I had done wrong. Help when you can and, if you canna, do no harm, Nan always said. I had taught Margrit a spell to ensnare a man, even though I kent such a thing was an act of black witchcraft, a maleficence.

I was as bad as my mother, the faery queen – I was as dangerous.

That evening, when at last I could seek refuge in my bed, it was to find my door ajar, my belongings ruffled, as if someone had gone through them in haste. My comb lay discarded on the floor, even though I knew I had laid it neatly in its place.

I bent and picked it up.

There was no trace of my long, black hair in its gleaming teeth.

The queen went into labour a few days before midsummer. Hours passed, and the baby did not come. Mary panted upon her bed, the sheets drenched in sweat, the curtains drawn close to keep out the piercing light. A silver reliquary stood nearby, containing the skull of St Margaret, the queen’s saintly ancestor who had given birth to three kings of Scotland. Mary prayed to her fervently, clutching her rosary, while the midwife did her best to ease her pains. I found the queen’s screams very hard to bear.

Night passed and morning came, and still the queen laboured on.

‘She will die if we canna ease her pain,’ the midwife cried.

‘Save my baby,’ Mary croaked. ‘Please, you must save him.’

She turned to me and held out one entreating hand. ‘You saw my son! You knew he was coming. He is destined to rule the whole land – you told me so.’ Agony distorted her face and for a moment she could not speak. Then she gasped, ‘Please, Caitlín, save him!’

I could not let her suffer so.

‘I need a red cord,’ I said, my voice distant and cold. ‘Quick, find me one.’

One of the ladies-in-waiting rummaged in a chest and withdrew a coil of ribbon, thrusting it into my hands. Someone protested, another looked at me in horror, but I had no time to care for that. I beckoned to the wetnurse, a strong young woman brought in to feed the baby once he was born.

‘Will you help me? Are you willing to take the queen’s pain into your own body?’

She hesitated.

‘The queen will die if we dinna help her. Are you willing?’

‘Aye,’ she gulped.

I thrust one end of the ribbon into the queen’s desperate hands, then tied a knot in it, chanting, ‘I draw your pain into this knot – may it be gone and you released.’