Page 69 of The Changeling

A year and a day had passed, and not one word from Robbie. Despite myself, I had hoped that he would come for me, having proved to his father the depth of his love. I had waited, counting down the days, but he had failed me. And not even a message to explain or to say farewell. Just silence.

Cut him out of your heart, I told myself. He’s found another lassie.

But hacking out my feelings for him left me hollowed. I was a husk of myself. And I drifted through a palace of shadows, of rumours, of ghosts.

Two months after the king’s death, Lord Bothwell was charged with his murder. He stood trial, and was acquitted after just seven hours of deliberation. It was a farce, people whispered. A pretend trial. Bothwell declared he would duel to the death with anyone who dared accuse him again. No-one dared. Edinburgh was full of his thugs, marching about with swords on their hips and ugly expressions.

Two weeks later, Mary rode to Stirling Castle. She wanted her son. But his guardian, the earl of Mar, would not let her take him. He feared the prince falling into Bothwell’s hands. Mary rode away, frightened and heartbroken.

In the morning, our small party set out for Edinburgh. Mary was so pale I was afraid she might faint. The walls of the city were in sight when Bothwell galloped up, an armed force of eight hundred men behind him.

‘You are betrayed,’ Bothwell said, putting his hand on the queen’s bridle. ‘The city has risen against you. Come! I will take you to safety.’

The queen’s guard protested and drew their swords. For a moment, it looked as if there would be violence. Mary made a gesture to her guards to lower their weapons. Reluctantly they acquiesced. Bothwell’s men formed a cordon around us, and we rode to the great fortress of Dunbar Castle. By the time we trotted under the portcullis and into the barbican, we were all swaying in the saddle. It had been a seven-hour ride.

‘I must rest,’ Mary said through white lips. ‘I am not well.’

‘I have a chamber prepared for you, your Grace,’ Bothwell replied.

We were led up to a room furnished with a wide bed, tapestries on the walls and cushioned chairs by a blazing fire. Mary sank down, asking me to bring her a cup of wine.

I went to obey, but Bothwell said, ‘No need just yet. All of you, out!’

Mistress Gowland protested, and he roared, ‘Out, I said!’

His men drew their swords, motioning us towards the door.

Mary looked up. ‘My lord?’

We were shoved through, and the door slammed in our faces. Mary cried out in terror. Then we heard her scream. Mistress Gowland and I tried to get to her, but Bothwell’s men kept us back, naked swords at our throats.

Clinging together and weeping, we could do nothing but listen as, not more than ten paces away from us, Bothwell ravished our queen.

‘I will have to marry him,’ the queen said.

She lay in the bed, knees curled to her chest.

‘But … your Grace!’ Mistress Gowland cried.

‘I have no choice. I am dishonoured.’

‘You canna!’ I burst out. ‘That is what he wants, that is why …’

My voice failed me.

‘What if I am with babe? Am I, the queen of Scotland, to bear an illegitimate child?’

‘Madam, my great-aunt is a cunning woman. She knows what herbs will help.’

The queen shook her head. ‘It is forbidden. They already call me a witch. Am I to give them proof? No, you must swear to tell no-one. Nobody must know.’

‘But … they’ll find out. You canna keep such a thing a secret. All of Lord Bothwell’s men … your own men …’

A shudder racked her. ‘They cannot know. I am the queen. God’s anointed ruler. To touch me is treason. To … to ravish me … no-one will believe he would dare. No-one will believe I did not want it.’

It was true.

‘There must be some way for you to escape,’ Mistress Gowland said.