Page 78 of The Changeling

But I knew we would not.

My body ached with weariness, but I did not sleep well that night. My dreams were ominous and strange, filled with the croaking of ravens and the shadow of an axe falling. I had not told the queen all I had seen. My forebodings haunted me.

I could not bear being unable to save her.

‘Please dinna go to England,’ I said to Mary in the morning.

‘Please.’

She shook her head. ‘Elizabeth will help me. She knows what it is to be a queen alone in a court full of scheming, treacherous lords. She will believe me.’

I knew the queen was wrong, but there was naught more I could say.

We went down to the beach. Mary was to cross the Solway Firth to England on an old fishing boat. The fisherman was nervous, twisting his cap around in his big, scarred hands, looking about to make sure no-one saw.

She was dressed in poor borrowed clothes, a hood drawn over her head.

It seemed so wrong.

Her men were calling to her to hurry – they would miss the tide.

She bade me farewell, then sat where she was bid, Mistress Gowland beside her. The sail was hoisted, and bellied out at once. The wind was so strong I had to hold my blowing hair back with my hand. As the boat sped away, Mary looked back at me on the shore. Tears were pouring down my cheeks. I made an imploring gesture.

Suddenly Mary stood up, gesturing to the fisherman, as if begging him to turn back.

He shook his head and shrugged, pointing at the swift race of the waters beneath the boat’s hull. Mary sank down again, then bowed her face into her hands.

I watched the little boat till it had sailed out of sight, carrying my queen away from Scotland, towards England and her death.

Part V

Green willow, tree of thresholds roots in water, leaves in air builds to the underworld a stair for a flight of spirits cold

I

The Knock

Once again, I had lost everything. My home, my queen, my purpose. I had nothing but the clothes on my back, my satchel with my wooden spoon and pot and knife, my purse with a few coins.

‘Thank heavens for you,’ I told Carlin, ruffling her ears. ‘What would I do without you?’

She wagged her tail, then trotted ahead of me. I could only go slowly, for I was sore in both body and mind. What would happen now? The earl of Moray ruled Scotland, and he was my enemy. He knew that I had the Sight, and that I had guessed his role in the queen’s fall.

The question was: would he hunt me down? Could he find me? He knew my name, but he did not know where I lived. He might guess it was near Inchbrakie Castle, where I’d first encountered him and the queen on the road. But would he take the trouble to search me out? Was my life truly in danger, as the faery queen had warned?

I had no choice. I had to go home. I had to make sure my family was safe. I feared my mother would find some way to counteract my binding spell and harm them, and I feared the Regent’s ruthless hunt to eliminate his enemies would extend to anyone who might have knowledge of his actions. And he had seen Nan, with her antler staff and her amulets. He knew she was a cunning woman.

So I put the rising sun to my right and the setting sun to my left, and walked and walked, begging an inn for a night’s lodging in return for singing a few ballads, or helping a woman churn butter, or scrub the scullery in return for a bannock and a bone for my dog. Carlin kept me company and guarded me at night, and every step took me closer to home, to family, to love.

My route led past Stirling Castle, where the wee king, my secret brother, was kept safe. He’d be almost two years old now. I wondered if he had found the elder flute I had made for him, if he ever played with it. I wanted to see him again, but he was never taken beyond the high stone walls of the castle. After a morning spent gazing wistfully at the gate, heavily guarded at all times, I sighed and kept on walking.

I was close now. Another few days, and I’d be home.

The Regent’s men were everywhere on the road, hunting any of the queen’s men who had fled after the battle, stopping and searching travellers, and enforcing the Kirk’s strict laws of dress and behaviour. Women were ordered to keep their hair covered by a linen coif, to wear sober colours, to speak in a soft, meek little voice with their eyes lowered. In my black dress, my unruly hair bound and hidden, I should have passed unnoticed, but I wanted to take no risks. I avoided the main road north, heading east into Fife so I could climb through the Ochil Hills and approach Crieff by the old tinkers’ way.

The air was full of the heady scent of blossoming heather and gorse, and the burbling call of curlews on the wing. It should have been a peaceful, healing scene, but something was wrong. The faces of the people I passed were tense and suspicious, and there was a taint of smoke along the horizon. The path led me into a village dwarfed by the giant bulge of crag above. Two rows of stone cottages lined the track, smoke trickling from holes cut in the thatch.

One of the cottages had been burned out. Its ruin still smouldered. A dead cat had been nailed to its broken front door.