Page 64 of The Changeling

My cheeks grew hot. I met her gaze. ‘It’s just … how can you bear to be separated from your babe? Will you no’ miss him?’

I thought she might be angry with me for being so forward, but instead she merely looked sad.

‘Of course I’ll miss Jamie. Just like I missed my own mother when I was sent away from her. But I cannot keep him with me, Caitlín. Any plot to seize my throne would be made much easier if they could seize my son as well. My first duty to him is to keep him safe, not to indulge myself by keeping him with me, when I might be murdered any day, as poor Signor Rizzio was.’

She was right. So many of the kings of Scotland had died violently, the throne inherited by children and the land torn apart by struggles between factions intent on ruling through them. How much worse it would be if both queen and prince were killed or taken at once.

If it was me, I wouldna care. I’d keep little Jamie so close, I’d never let him out of my sight.

But I had not been raised a queen.

Blazing wheels of fire somersaulted into the night sky, then rained down in a cascade of crimson, orange and purple.

A gasp went up from the crowd. By my side, Carlin cowered and shivered. The deafening noise frightened her. I soothed her, gazing up in astonishment. Fireworks, they called it. It looked like shooting stars, like comets, like an omen of war. Smoke drifted in the wind, reeking of gunpowder.

It was Prince Jamie’s christening, and the queen had hosted a great banquet to celebrate. Ambassadors from all over Europe attended, along with many of the Scottish nobles. James Hepburn, the earl of Bothwell, was there, and so too the queen’s half-brother, Lord James, the earl of Moray, pardoned by the queen for his rebellion and returned once more to court. The two men hated each other, but both smiled and pretended they had not been at war only the previous year.

With the eyes of the world upon her, Mary had once again asked her husband to return to court and gifted him a dazzling suit of cloth-of-gold to wear to the christening. Henry was surly and uncooperative, however, and would not come out from his rooms. Whispers abounded. People said he was covered in pustules and had lost his hair. Others said he was angry that he had not been given a central role in the proceedings. Pastor Knox declared his conscience must have finally smote him at being part of such an extravagant and idolatrous Catholic ceremony.

Worst of all, though, were the rumours that it was because Henry knew little Jamie was not his son. People had noticed the prince was small and dark, and thought it strange when both his parents were so tall and fair. If Henry had stood by Mary’s side, been loving towards her and the little prince, and polite and conciliatory towards the foreign ambassadors, the gossip might have died down. But he did not. It was as if he wished to hurt the queen.

My only consolation was seeing my brother again. Jamie was six months old, and very small and frail. His nurse carried him everywhere, his limbs still swaddled tightly. I offered to mind him for her, while she went to enjoy the masque being performed in the great hall, and then I quickly unwrapped him and let him lie on a blanket by the fire and stretch his little legs.

He kicked and kicked, and waved his arms about freely. I sat beside him, Carlin stretched out beside me, and he gazed at her with wide eyes. Trying to reach for her, he suddenly rolled over, then laughed with delight to find himself on his tummy. I smiled, and Carlin bent her head towards him and licked his hand. He laughed again, grabbing hold of her shaggy fur. She let him tug on her a few times, then politely got up and moved away. His little face scrunched up and he began to cry, so I sat with him on my lap, singing, ‘Rock- a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green, thy father’s a nobleman, thy mother’s a queen.’ His eyes slowly shut and he fell asleep in my arms. I held him close, an ache around my heart, until the nurse came back and castigated me for unwrapping him.

It was nearly Christmas, and I longed to make my brother a gift. But what could you give a prince whose bedcover was made of cloth- of-silver and his rattle of gold? I went out into the frosty parklands and walked until I found an elder tree, its branches heavy with berries. I cut a stem and whittled it into a little flute, smoothing the wood and drilling little finger holes, testing it constantly to make sure the sound was pure. Then I carved the shape of the elder rune on the back, and hid it in his chest of toys.

Maybe one day, when he was older, he would find it and play it, not knowing he had a sister who had made it for him with love.

On Christmas Day, Henry and his men galloped away from Stirling Castle, headed for his father’s castle in Glasgow. It was another rude snub for the queen, and she wept. ‘What am I to do?’ she sobbed to Mistress Gowland. ‘I wish I’d never married him. If only there was something I could do to rid myself of him!’

But she was Catholic and could not divorce him without a papal dispensation, and that she could not apply for without endangering the legitimacy of her son. The queen was trapped.

In the New Year, Lord James brought her news that Henry was plotting to seize the little prince, murder Mary, and rule through his son. She sat quietly, her eyes lowered. Her half-brother grew impatient and said roughly, ‘Do you not understand, madam?’

Mary looked up at him. ‘I understand you perfectly, thank you, James.’

‘Well, then? What shall you do?’

‘I will ask his Grace to join us here in Edinburgh. The king has been most unwell, and I would like my doctors to have the care of him.’

‘Is that wise?’ Lord James snapped.

Her brows rose. ‘You worry about contagion? I will not house him here. At least, not until his Grace is fully recovered.’

Lord James said quickly, ‘He will not come. He’ll suspect a trap.’

She rose to her feet, in a gesture of dismissal. ‘He will come if I ask him to. His Grace misses the rewards of being a king.’

In her voice was the faintest suggestive inflection. I understood her to mean that she would allow Henry back into her bed if that would keep him from plotting against her, and by Lord James’s thunderous expression, he interpreted it the same way.

‘You know he has syphilis?’

‘I know he will be undertaking a cure,’ she answered smoothly.

‘Thank you, James, for bringing me your news. I trust your wife is well? You must bring her to court soon.’

When he had gone, she beckoned forward Mistress Gowland and me. ‘I must ride to Glasgow. Will you pack for me? I will not stay long; pack only the essentials.’