Page 26 of The Changeling

‘Do your best to cheer her, will you? What is your name? So I can announce you to her Grace.’

I hesitated. My real mother had called me Rue, a name which meant repentance. It hurt me to be called that. Mam had given me her own name, Caitlín, which meant pure.

I took a deep breath, lifted my chin and said, ‘I’m Caitlín NicNeven.’

In that naming of myself was a kind of apology, though Mam was not there to hear it.

‘Very well, Caitlín. I am Lyndal Gowland, one of the queen’s chamberers. She sent me down to fetch you out of the mirk, such a drowned rat you looked. Not to mention your poor dog! Have you ever seen such a miserable beastie?’ She patted Carlin, who looked up at her pathetically and wagged the tip of her tail.

‘Under normal circumstances I’d not be taking you in to see the queen in such a state, but she’s insistent she wants to see you tonight, and the sooner she sees you, the sooner we can put her to bed.’

Mistress Gowland wore a dress of fine black wool, and a girdle hung with a ring of many keys. She lifted her skirts with one hand and began to climb up a narrow spiral staircase. I followed wearily, Carlin slinking at my heels. She led me into a room with wood-panelled walls hung with rich tapestries, lit only by the fitful fire on the hearth and the unsteady light of a few candles. The queen sat on a velvet chair, her ladies-in-waiting clustered about her. She was dressed in black, with a white headdress and long gossamer veil, and her face was pale and weary. A tiny fluffy dog sat on her lap.

‘Here she is,’ Mary said. ‘I thought it was you. My little soothsayer.’

I tried to curtsey, but my legs trembled and my head whirled. Carlin leaned against me so I could steady myself.

‘I was greatly moved by your song,’ the queen said. ‘Did you sing it just for me?’

‘Aye, your Grace.’

‘You knew I was sad today? Mourning my poor François?’

‘Aye, your Grace.’

‘How did you know? Was it the Second Sight again?’

‘Pastor Knox said so, at the kirk.’

Her lips compressed. ‘That hateful man! What cruel things did he say about me this time?’

I remembered what Mistress Gowland had said, about not upsetting the queen, and shook my head. ‘Naught, your Grace.’

She made a scoffing sound, not believing me, but asked, ‘What was that song you sang? I have never heard it before.’

‘Just an old ballad, your Grace.’

‘Will you sing it again for me? I could not hear all the words.’ So I sang once again. Mary leaned forward and gazed at me with intent eyes, and the flutters and whispers from the ladies-in-waiting gradually stilled as the sorrowful cadences of the song lilted through the echoing darkness. I had to lean heavily on my stick to stop myself swaying with weariness.

Beside me, Carlin shivered, a puddle forming under her paws. She was thin and scruffy after the hard weeks on the road, and I must have looked like a beggar-lass, my kirtle torn and my hair matted with dead leaves. No queen would offer sanctuary to such a sorry pair as us. I had been a fool to think it possible. My throat thickened and my voice quavered and broke, as I sang the last heartbreaking stanza of the ballad.

Before the cock did crow, before the break of day,

the eldest to the youngest said, it’s time we were away.

Lie still a while, he sighed, lie still but if we may,

when she wakes and sees us gone, she’ll go mad before the day.

Cold clay covers our heads, cold clay covers our feet,

The tears our mother sheds just wets our winding sheet.

My voice faded away, and there was a long silence.

Mary had tears in her eyes. ‘What does it mean? Are her sons … ghosts?’

‘Aye, your Grace.’