Page 68 of The Changeling

Lord Bothwell was also dressed in black and silver, as if he had known what she planned to wear. He sat beside the queen, and said something to make her laugh. He snapped his fingers for Nicholas to serve more wine. He and Lord Bothwell gave no sign that they had met clandestinely earlier in the day. I watched, trying to make sense of what I had seen, foreboding weighing down my spirits.

Four angelic-looking children in white and gold began to sing and play their instruments. I had never heard music quite like it before. One of them, a girl with red hair and blue eyes, was playing a most unusual lute shaped like a woman’s body. She was holding it the wrong way, though, so that it was her left hand which strummed the strings. A murmur arose from the crowd.

‘She plays with the devil’s hand,’ the queen’s luthier murmured. ‘It is a good thing Pastor Knox is not here to see it! He’d call her a witch, for sure.’

A shiver ran over me. ‘Someone should warn her! She’s only a lassie.’

He nodded and slipped away.

Everything seemed overstretched, ominous. I could not seem to calm my heart, which beat in heavy uneven strokes. I did not understand why everything seemed so portentous. Was it the remnant of my dream, the hawthorn leaf I had found on my bed, the fact that Lord James and the earl of Bothwell seemed to be plotting against the queen?

The queen thanked the children. ‘Will you come and play for the king? I know he will like to see the new singers of whom the whole court is speaking!’

I was weary, but I could not seek my bed until the queen had retired. It was late when she finally came back to her room, and I noticed at once that the ring was gone from her finger. She saw my glance, and said apologetically, ‘I hope you do not mind, Caitlín. I gave it to the king. He is beset with so many fears and fancies, I thought it would ease his mind. He is to return to Holyrood tomorrow.’ She sighed, looking pale and troubled.

Without a word, I gave her the chamomile tisane I had prepared, made sure her sheets were warmed thoroughly, then drew her curtains and banked the fire.

I did mind. Very much. I had so little of my own, and the ring had seemed somehow blessed and magical. I had given it to her because I loved her and feared for her, and I wanted, in some small way, to atone for what I had done. Yet she had given away my gift without a second’s thought, and to a man who intended her harm.

Why is she always trying to please and placate these men? I thought. They care naught for her; they just want to use her to grab whatever power they can get.

My room was so cold, my breath puffed white before me. I slipped into bed, my sheets like ice, and curled up in a ball. Carlin lay on my feet, warming them. She began to snore in seconds. It took me much longer.

In the dead hours of the night, I was woken by the distant boom of a massive explosion. I sat up, wondering what had happened, and went to the window. All I could see was an orange glare above the city. I put on my stockings and boots, wrapped my plaid about me, and went down the hall. Every door was opening, heads peeping out, voices clamouring. ‘What has happened? What was that crack?’

Nobody knew. The air stank of brimstone; grey ash drifted in the wind. The queen was afraid it was an enemy attack, and called for Lord Bothwell. When at last he came, he was tousle-headed and heavy-eyed. He sent guards to investigate.

At last, news came. Nothing was left of the Old Provost’s Lodge but a pile of smoking rubble. It looked as if it had been blown up with gunpowder.

Mary crossed herself swiftly. ‘The king? Is he hurt?’

‘He is dead, your Grace.’

Mary gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘Blown up?’

‘Nay, madam. There is no’ a mark upon him. We … we think he was suffocated.’

The king’s body was put on a board and carried to Holyrood to be examined. Mary could not bear to look at him. She crept into her bed and lay, shivering and crying.

‘I was meant to stay there last night,’ she said numbly. ‘I had promised Henry I would stay. If I had not come back to Holyrood … sweet mother of Christ, I would be dead too.’

‘God had his hand over you,’ Mistress Gowland said, bringing the queen the hot tisane I had prepared. Mary tried to drink it, but her hands trembled and her teeth chattered so much she could scarcely bring the cup to her mouth.

‘What does this mean?’ she asked pitifully. ‘Who could have done such a terrible thing?’

I had my own theory, but I dared not utter it. There were soldiers everywhere, and I had not forgotten how they had looked to Lord James for orders, instead of the queen, when Monsieur de Châtelard had sought to ravish her. Instead, I went down to the kitchen, and ground herbs in my mortar and pestle, and listened.

Rumours abounded. The king had been found in the garden, half-naked, his genitals exposed. He had been suffocated. Or perhaps strangled. Or perhaps he had been blown so far by the explosion, and died of internal injuries. His valet had been found nearby, murdered too. There was a furred cloak lying discarded, and a chair, and a rope, and a dagger, and one velvet shoe. His murderers had worn black cloaks and slippers, so they would not be seen or heard. His murderers had come in armour with drawn swords. His murderers had declared themselves Bothwell’s men at the town gate. His murderers had just pretended to be Bothwell’s men to cast suspicion on the earl. His murderers had poured gunpowder all through the house, and Bothwell himself had lit the fuse. No, the gunpowder had been hidden in the cellars, the men surreptitiously passing sacks over the wall, even while the queen was promising her husband he could return to her bed the very next day.

No-one seemed to know the truth. Mary huddled in her bed, so afraid and shocked she left it to Lord Bothwell to investigate. Posters began to be plastered all over the city. Some had drawings of the dead king, with the inscription: ‘Bothwell murdered me.’ A ghost was seen walking the dark streets, wailing the same words. It all seemed so theatrical, so staged. I had seen ghosts before – I knew they did not look like a man draped in a sheet, but the whispers grew into a roar.

Three weeks after the murders, someone tied a placard to the gates of Holyrood Palace. Mary was drawn as a bare-breasted mermaid, and Lord Bothwell as a cowering hare in a circle of drawn daggers.

I stared at it in utter dismay. Its meaning was clear. Mary was a siren, a temptress, a murderess, a witch.

V

Burn the Witch