Page 65 of The Changeling

‘But … your Grace,’ Mistress Gowland said in alarm. ‘Glasgow?’

‘It cannot be helped. The king will not come if I do not go and bring him back. And this quarrel has gone on too long – it is time to bring it to an end.’

She needed to keep her husband under her eye, for fear of what he might do. I pitied her. There was no-one she could trust: not her husband, not the nobles of her court, not even her own half-brother.

It was a long, cold ride to Glasgow and back. Snow blew across the road, and dusted our horses’ rumps with white. Carlin loped after me, the wind blowing back her shaggy fur and flipping her ears inside out. Rooks’ nests swung back and forth in the bare trees, looking as if they could not possibly keep from tumbling to the ground.

Henry was carried in a horse litter, his face covered by a taffeta mask to hide the sores clustered about his lips. It was slow riding, testing all of our patience. A raven flew overhead, croaking mournfully. It put my nerves on edge. Chillingly, it reminded me of my mother. I knew she had further plans for me, and that the protective wall I had built around me must anger and frustrate her. I renewed it every dark moon, but there had been no sign of her since the night the queen’s son had died. I would like to think her defeated, but knew I was deceiving myself.

The raven followed us all the way back to Edinburgh, wheeling above us in the sullen grey sky. Perhaps its presence weighed on Lord Darnley’s nerves too, for he suddenly decided he did not wish to stay at Craigmillar Castle, a stout fortress on the outskirts of the city, which Mary had ordered prepared for his use.

‘I hate the place – it’s like a prison. Why can I not stay at Holyrood with you?’

‘You’re sick,’ Mary said after a moment. ‘Our little man is at Holyrood now; we canna risk him catching whatever it is you have.’

He moved his head fretfully against his cushions. ‘You care more for the babe than you do for me.’

‘I care for you both,’ Mary replied. ‘Come, Henry, you’ll be comfortable enough at Craigmillar. I’ve ordered beds and tapestries and carpets to be taken there.’

‘I won’t go!’ he declared. ‘What am I meant to do there all day?’

‘Rest, recover, do as the doctors have ordered,’ she answered. ‘When you are well again, you can come back to Holyrood, if you like.’

‘You want to keep me captive! I won’t go.’

Mary compressed her lips, looking about her to see who may have overheard him. We all had, everyone who rode with her. The king had spoken in a high, shrill voice, making no effort to be discreet.

‘Very well,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘You do not need to go to Craigmillar if you do not wish. Where would you like to stay?’

‘Somewhere I will not be intolerably bored! In town somewhere.’

Mary looked as if she wanted to protest. I knew she was thinking that, if her husband had syphilis, he should not be going out in his usual fashion.

One of the queen’s secretaries coughed and said, in a low voice, ‘Madam, if you wish, the king may use my brother’s house, the Old Provost’s Lodging at Kirk o’ Fields.’

‘Aye,’ Darnley said, ‘that will do. It is not far from Holyrood – you’ll be able to visit me.’

Mary looked troubled. ‘Will it be safe?’

‘It is inside the city walls,’ her secretary reassured her. ‘The town watch will be patrolling.’

‘It is only for a short while,’ Darnley said. ‘I will be well soon.’

‘I will send a messenger to Holyrood to arrange things for you,’

Mary said, and beckoned to her page, Nicholas. He galloped ahead, while we had to slug along beside the litter, listening to Lord Darnley complain.

The raven kept us company the whole way to Kirk o’ Fields, fluttering down to settle on the church tower overlooking the king’s lodging. Hunched against the bitter wind, one damaged claw tucked up beneath its body, it croaked loudly like some ancient harbinger of doom.

I could not bear to hear it. But even with my hands over my ears, its voice croaked in my head, Beware, beware, evil is near.

IV

Gunpowder

Candlemas Eve. Two years since my mother had come to me at Falkland Palace. Two years since she had told me that one day I would be queen of the hollow hills.

That night I dreamed I walked through a dark cavern, carrying a candle in one hand. Icicles of stone hung around me. An old woman with a mass of silver hair sat cross-legged by the side of a stretch of dark water. A circlet of dead twigs crowned her head, and she was dressed in rags that barely covered her withered limbs. The light of my candle rippled on the surface of the pool, which moved uneasily, as if something lurked within.