Page 74 of The Changeling

I knew she lied. The babe in her womb had been conceived at Dunbar, when Bothwell had held her hostage and forced himself upon her repeatedly. That had been three months ago. My heart ached with pity for her.

Another message was smuggled in a few days later. The lords intended to force her to abdicate and crown her son king. ‘Never,’ Mary said, struggling to breathe. ‘How dare they? I am their queen, chosen and anointed by God!’

She paced back and forth within the tiny chamber. ‘Jamie is not even one year old! How can he rule? He’ll be naught but a puppet king, with their hands jerking the strings. I trusted them! All the while, they plotted against me. They … they … they are murderers! Traitors!’

Suddenly, she gasped and bent over, hands pressed to her belly. She was white to the lips. We rushed to her side. ‘The babe,’ she whispered.

We unlaced her stiff, heavy dress and helped her to her bed.

Her chemise was stained with blood.

‘Madam, lie still,’ Mistress Gowland entreated. ‘Caitlín, call for a doctor.’

I ran to the locked door and pounded on it, calling desperately. But by the time help came, it was too late. The queen had birthed two puny babies, with huge heads and blind eyes and perfect starfish hands. They did not take one gasp of air. The servants took them away and buried them.

The next day, at knifepoint, the queen was forced to sign her abdication.

Bonfires blazed in the garden and all the castle’s artillery was fired. Carlin whimpered and tried to hide under my skirts.

‘Your son has just been crowned king,’ Lady Margaret told the queen with malicious glee.

Mary turned her face to the wall and wept.

I sat motionless, my heart thumping sickeningly. The faery queen’s plan of revenge had come to fruition.

Her changeling child was now king.

Lord James was named Regent. He came to Lochleven Castle to see Mary. Everyone bowed deeply to him and called him ‘your Grace’, a title usually reserved for monarchs. He harangued Mary for her indiscretion and imprudence, then coldly told her she would do well to pray and ask for God’s mercy. Mary feared he meant to have her executed, and could hardly breathe for terror. As he turned his back on her to leave, he saw my expression.

I hated him with all my heart. He had plotted against the queen, connived in the murder of her husband, and made her the scapegoat for his sins. All these years, he had worked in the shadows, never revealing his hand, never wielding the dagger or striking the spark that lit the fuse. But I knew the truth, and he saw that knowledge written upon my face.

His eyes narrowed.

Mary rallied her courage. ‘You must take care, James. If the people of Scotland can so turn against me, who was born to rule, how much more will they turn against you, a bastard born?’

Regent Moray walked out without another word.

Weeping, she bent her face into her hands. ‘If I am not queen,’

she said brokenly, ‘what am I?’

VII

The Queen of Spades

The weeks dragged past. We spent much of our time embroidering and playing cards. I had never played before, and Mary was patient with me, going through the pack and explaining how they were ranked. She sighed when she turned over the queen of hearts.

‘They used to call me that in France. Now I am the queen of spades, I suppose. Fortune-tellers say it means misfortune.’

As Mary recovered her strength, she began to think about how she could escape and win back her throne. We imagined drugging her guards and stealing a boat, or climbing out the window on a rope made of sheets knotted together, or ice-skating to freedom once the loch froze in winter. All were impossible.

On All Hallows’ Eve, I turned twenty.

It was the end of summer and the beginning of winter, a time when the veils between the worlds grew thin. I had not seen a glimmer nor heard a whisper from my mother since I had told her to be gone. It should have been a relief, but instead I fretted about what she had said. Was it true Mary was doomed and naught I could do would save her? Was it true I was in deathly danger? But why? From whom?

I had so many questions and I needed answers. So, at midnight on this most haunted of days, I slipped out of the stone tower and went down to the loch, shielding a candle with my hand. I knelt by the still water, hidden from sight by black dripping trees and drifting mist, and set my candle so its light kissed the still water. I knelt, gazing down into my own dark, fearful eyes.

‘Queen Quickthorn, I summon you,’ I said.