Page 67 of The Changeling

We’d had our year and a day, I told myself. That too was a gift.

I bent and cupped my hands to drink from the little spring that gushed from under the boulder. It was icy cold, but refreshing. A gleam caught my eye. I reached under the water and drew out a thin band of gold, oddly shaped and twisted. In wonderment, I slipped it onto my finger. This was a holy place. To find a ring here seemed like a blessing.

On the eighth day of February, I made the queen her breakfast as usual. As I passed her the plate, my fingers brushed hers. A rush of awful, vivid images. Fireworks exploding in crimson and orange, the queen with the shadow of bars upon her face, lying curled on a bed, blood spreading from between her legs, her dress ripped away to show a scarlet petticoat, an executioner’s axe falling. I reeled back, fell to my knees, my hands over my face.

‘Caitlín! Are you ill? What’s wrong?’

I battled with the bile of words rising up my throat. I must not speak, I must not tell her what I had seen. So much harm had come because I had spoken before. The queen had married in haste because she longed for a son who would rule all the land, and her half-brother, a man she had trusted, worked against her because he sought to rule in all but name.

Forcing the words down, I closed my mind to the storm of visions.

‘Naught is wrong,’ I lied. ‘I am just weary. Please forgive me, your Grace.’ As I struggled to my feet, the firelight winked over the golden ring on my finger. I drew it off and offered it to the queen.

‘I … I found this at the sacred well, madam. Where your ancestor saw the white stag with the holy cross between its antlers. Will you no’ wear it? It’ll keep you safe.’

She was surprised, but pleased. ‘Thank you, Caitlín. That is sweet of you.’

As she slipped the ring on one of her fingers, I backed away, almost tripping over Carlin, who had risen to her feet, her fur bristling up along her spine. I leaned on her slender strength, and somehow managed to stumble from the room.

The following day was one of carnival and celebration. It was the last Sunday before Lent, and one of the queen’s favourite servants was to be married. Mary had requested a great banquet, and the kitchen was a hive of activity. I never cooked for the queen’s public events, so I was free from duty. Carlin and I climbed Arthur’s Seat, my plaid wrapped tightly about me against the chill. Snow powdered the ground and the wind lashed like a steel-tipped whip, but the sky was a sharp clear blue and the Firth of Forth gleamed. From the top of the crag, I could see the towers of Holyrood, with the gaunt arches of the abbey behind.

‘Only a fool like me would be out in such weather,’ I said to Carlin who was chewing enthusiastically on a stick, her ears and her plumy tail blown sideways, along with a long streamer of drool. ‘Let’s go and get warm.’

As I walked back towards the palace, I saw Nicholas, the queen’s page, hurrying out of the back gate, wrapped in a heavy cloak. I stared in surprise. Nicholas was never found far from the fire and a jug of wine. I had not once seen him walking in the garden, let alone out on the hills.

Nicholas came to a halt by one of the big sycamore trees that grew along the palace wall and spoke nervously to someone there, hidden in the shade. Tall, dressed in black, the man tossed the young man a heavy pouch that jingled when he caught it. Nicholas said something else, his hands raised pleadingly, and was dismissed with a gesture. Nicholas began to hurry along the wall towards the Canongate. Not wanting to be caught spying, I crouched in the blowing grass, pulling Carlin down beside me.

When I thought the coast might be clear, I scrambled up again, only to see the tall man in black step out from under the tree. It was Lord James. He looked around him, then glanced up at the hill. His step checked as he saw me and he frowned. I had no choice but to walk toward him, pretending I had seen naught. As I neared him, I bobbed my awkward curtsey and went to pass him.

He caught my arm. ‘What are you doing out here?’

‘Taking my dog for a walk, my lord.’

‘Not too cold for you?’

‘A wee bit. But my dog needs a good run every day, no matter the weather.’

Carlin recognised the words ‘dog’ and ‘good’ and wagged the tip of her tail.

Lord James grunted, and let my arm go. He strode off, and after a moment I followed him, wondering what on earth the earl of Moray could be doing having a secret meeting with the queen’s page. As I neared the Canongate, I saw Nicholas hurrying along the road towards the city. On impulse, I followed, Carlin at my heels.

Nicholas went through the town gate, and I paid the toll and went in after him. Soon he turned down the road that led to Kirk o’ Fields. More puzzled than ever, I hung back and watched from behind the wall as he met with a man under the stone archway that led into the old Blackfriars monastery. Nicholas handed over the heavy pouch of coins, and what looked like an iron key. As the other man took it, I recognised him. It was Lord Bothwell. But why had Lord James used Nicholas as a messenger when he and Bothwell met every day at court? What secret business could they have, these two men who had hated each other for years?

I ducked out of sight, then hurried back towards the palace. As I came through the front gate, Lord James was astride his black stallion, shouting orders to his men who were mounting their own horses. He gave the order to ride, and the whole party swept past me, so that I had to press back against the iron gates to avoid being trampled, pulling Carlin close to me by her collar. Lord James saw me, and his frown deepened. He rode so close that my skirt was bespattered with mud from his horse’s hooves.

‘Where does the earl of Moray go?’ I asked one of the guards.

‘To St Andrews. Word has come his wife is suffering a miscarriage.’

‘Och, what a shame! When did the message come?’

The guard shrugged. ‘No’ while I’ve been on duty, which has been since the bloody crack of dawn.’

I smiled in thanks, and walked thoughtfully back inside.

Some hours later, the wedding feast began. Men hurried back and forth with laden platters of food and jugs of wine. I went up to the musicians’ gallery, and joined some of the other servants there, watching and listening from behind the fretted stone barrier.

The queen was dressed in black velvet, embroidered with silver. Around her neck she wore long loops of black pearls, iridescent against her pale skin. Her red-gold hair was brilliant against the sombre hue of her clothes.