Page 72 of The Changeling

‘Help me! Help me!’ she screamed.

Then she was dragged back into the room and the shutters slammed.

VI

Lochleven Castle

The wind whipped the waters of Lochleven into whitecaps. Our boat tossed up and down. The queen huddled in the prow, a cloak drawn close about her. Mistress Gowland and I sat side-by-side on the bench, holding hands for comfort, Carlin pressed against my legs.

Ahead was the dour grey tower of Lochleven Castle, rising from a tiny island in the middle of the loch. It was here that the queen was to be imprisoned.

The prow of the boat grated on the pebbles. Mary did not move. The men who had rowed us had to carry her ashore. A small party of people waited to meet us. A burly man dressed in a severe black doublet, two young men in padded breeches and velvet capes, and a straight-backed older woman with fierce, hooded eyes in a thin, autocratic face that must have once been very beautiful. She looked upon the captive queen with malicious pleasure.

‘Who is she?’ I whispered to Mistress Gowland.

‘That is Lady Margaret Erskine,’ she murmured back. ‘The earl of Moray’s mother.’

My attention sharpened. I had heard of her, of course. It was said she hated Mary because she thought Lord James should have been king. He could not inherit, of course, being a bastard, but Lady Margaret had plotted to divorce her husband and marry the king and have her son legitimised. Instead, the king had married a French princess who had given birth to Mary, and so all chances for Lord James to rule were lost.

‘And who is the man with her?’

‘That is Sir William Douglas, the laird of Lochleven, and Lady Margaret’s legitimate son.’

‘So he’s Lord James’s half-brother? They share a mother, while Lord James and Mary share a father?’

Mistress Gowland nodded.

‘What of the laddies?’

‘I dinna ken … maybe Sir William’s sons?’

Sir William bowed to the queen, then halted the movement and straightened. ‘Madam, we have prepared rooms for you.’

She did not answer.

Silently, we were conducted to a room in the tower, and the door locked behind us.

We undressed the queen and put her to bed, and there she lay, day after day, unmoving, unspeaking, scarcely eating or drinking, till we feared she would die. Mistress Gowland and I were permitted to go out and fetch her food and wine, to try to tempt her appetite, or take her dirty linen to be washed by the laundrywomen who came once a week from the shore. Mary was kept under close guard, though, in case she escaped. Our only visitor was Lady Margaret, who came to taunt the queen. Mary did not answer, just turned her head fretfully on her pillow, tears slipping out from under her bruised-looking eyelids.

‘Why does Lady Margaret hate her Grace so much?’ I asked Mistress Gowland one day. ‘It is no’ Mary’s fault her father didna marry her.’

‘She is a proud, arrogant woman,’ Mistress Gowland answered. ‘And she believed it was her destiny to give birth to a king. When she was pregnant with Lord James, she had a dream of two heraldic beasts fighting in her womb. She always believed that was a sign that her son would one day rule.’

I stared at her. ‘Two heraldic beasts?’

‘Aye. A lion and a dragon.’

No wonder Lord James had been so struck by the prophecy I had made.

Mary was very frail, but so afraid of being poisoned that she would not eat. I persuaded Sir William to let me cook for her, and did my best with few ingredients, stirring eggs into chicken broth, and poaching freshly caught trout in white wine. Slowly, Mary began to recover some of her strength, enough that she was able to get up and sit in a chair and look out the window. She spoke little, her hands constantly rubbing her belly which was beginning to swell.

Every night, I suffered dreadful vivid nightmares. Drowning, my limbs tied. Running across a yellow field, hunted by dogs and men on horseback. Fire leaping, mouths screaming. A blade flashing, blood spilling. The hoarse croak of a raven. Beware, beware.

Midsummer came, and I could not bear our captivity any longer. Out in the world, people were dancing and feasting, the meadows were full of wildflowers, the forests burgeoning with young beasts discovering their strength. Yet here I was, locked in this dour prison with the queen, my youth slipping away from me. In my secret heart, I wished I had listened to my mother and left Mary while I still could.

Deep inside me, though, a core of tempered steel. I had done harm. I must atone. I must endure.

It was a thin time. I wondered if my mother would try to reach out to me again. I feared someone overhearing her speaking to me, or seeing a glimpse of her in a bucket of water. Any hint of the uncanny, and Sir William would surely report me to Lord James.