Page 73 of The Changeling

I would walk on the shore at twilight, I decided, on the far side of the island from the castle. I’d say I was foraging for wild herbs for the queen’s supper. After all these months on the island, the guards had grown used to me and Mistress Gowland coming in and out, fetching water, carrying the queen’s pisspot. I threw sticks for Carlin on the shingly beach for a while, and picked meadowsweet, water mint and oxeye daisies, gazing across at the great dark bulk of the Lomond Hills, wishing I had wings and could soar away.

‘I warned you, my daughter, but you did not listen.’ Her voice was the wind in the reeds, the susurration of the tiny waves on the pebbles. ‘Abandon the mortal queen to her fate. She is nothing to you. She is your enemy. Dark forces gather close. Soon your queen will be queen no longer.’

‘She was born to be queen, she will always be queen,’ I said hotly.

My mother laughed. ‘All things end. Your queen’s reign, your queen’s life. I do not wish for your life to end with hers.’

Despite myself, I looked for my mother and found her in the shadowy water under the trees. She wore a crown of hawthorn leaves on her ebony waves of hair, and her sloe-black eyes gleamed in her haughty, high-boned face. Deep lines bracketed her mouth and were scored between her winged brows. Looking at her was to see myself in two dozen years, worn down by heartbreak and suffering. I could not bear to see such a future for myself and looked away.

She held out a hand to me. ‘I will teach you to cast a curse and punish your enemies, if you will leave this mortal queen to her dark fate and come away with me now.’

‘I canna abandon her. When I was homeless, she gave me a home. When I was heartbroken, she offered me hope. She was kind when everyone else was cruel. I canna be cruel to her now.’

‘There is nothing you can do to save her. Even now, her enemies plot to bring about her death, and the death of any who support her. You will die if you do not flee soon, and then all I have worked for, all I have sacrificed, will be in vain. Ruis, I command you! Abandon her to her fate.’

‘You canna command me,’ I said steadily, though my heart began to bang at the sound of my secret name. ‘I have built a wall between us – you canna force me to do aught against my will.’

She frowned and shook her head in frustration. ‘Then I plead with you, I beg of you, leave this place with me now. The mortal queen’s fate is closing in on her now, and she will drag you down with her. You blame yourself for her unwise marriage, but indeed it was not your fault. Blame me if you must blame anyone. I have long plotted against her, seeing in her half-brother’s cold ambition and her own impetuous nature the chance to have my revenge before I died.’

She leaned forward, her dark eyes fixed on mine. ‘For years the mortal queen has danced and feasted and slept in silken sheets, while I and my people have starved and slept on stones. Her ancestors stole the throne that should have been my inheritance and yours, betraying and murdering our king and his men when they had promised peace. You should hate her too. You too should exult that her time is coming to an end and soon, soon, my son – your brother – shall rule in her place.’

‘But how can that be? He is just a baby; she is a young woman. I dinna believe you.’

‘I have never lied to you. You are my daughter, the heir to my throne, fated to break the curse upon my people. I tell you nothing but truth.’

I felt trapped. ‘I canna leave her now, no’ when she has lost everything. Everyone has abandoned her, I canna do the same.’

‘I honour you for your compassion, your loyalty, your strength of will. You will be a great queen of the Shee once the time has come.’

‘I dinna want to be the queen of the Shee!’ I cried.

‘You were born to be queen, you will always be queen,’ she replied mockingly, echoing my words about Mary.

I clenched my fists.

‘Anger is good, anger will make you strong enough to bear what must come. Come with me now, and I will take you to safety in our world.’ She held out one thin claw of a hand to me.

I almost took it, I almost let my mother win. I could not stand another day on this miserable stony island, and I was curious. I wanted to see her realm, the mysterious Otherworld of old ballads and tales. But I had sworn an oath to the queen, and I would not dishonour it.

‘I shallna abandon the queen while she still has need of me.’

‘Fool!’ my mother cried. ‘Do you not understand the danger you are in? Will you sacrifice your life for this doomed queen, and with it all hope of breaking the curse on your own people? I will not let you destroy all I have worked for. I will make you see sense, I will make you …’

‘You canna make me do aught anymore,’ I interrupted her. ‘I ken your true name, Queen Quickthorn. Now be gone! Leave me be.’

I made a wild flicking gesture with one hand, and to my astonishment the smooth gleaming water began to spin around and around in a fast, whirling vortex that sucked my mother away.

I was left alone with my dog on the shore, the whirlpool subsiding into wavelets that ran up and wet the hem of my dress, before settling into calm once more.

The young men who had met the boat when we had first arrived at Lochleven Castle were indeed Sir William’s sons, but only George, the older one, was legitimate. The younger boy, Willie, was the son of a chambermaid.

They are so hypocritical, I thought, these Lords of the Congregation! They dress all in black and go to the kirk and pray twice a day on the Sabbath, and demand the punishment of fornicators and adulterers, when they are just as loose in their morals as those they condemn.

The half-brothers had conceived an ardent admiration for the tragic young queen, and often brought her little posies of flowers or poems they had copied out for her. Mary always accepted them with a sad smile which made them flush scarlet.

One day in late July, George smuggled a note to the queen. It had been brought to the island hidden in the scabbard of a loyalist’s dagger, and said Lord Bothwell had been declared an outlaw and that she must cut all ties with him. I wrote her reply for her, the queen being too weak to hold a quill.

‘I am in utter despair,’ she said, ‘and in daily fear for my life. But I would rather die than divorce Lord Bothwell, for I am seven weeks gone with child and to do so would be to say that I carried a bastard in my womb and so had forfeited my honour.’