Page 47 of The Changeling

One night, I crept barefoot through the rows of sleeping men in the darkness, knotting the nettle string and chanting silently, I canna be heard, I canna be seen, I am but a shadow … I wore nothing under my cloak but my chemise. I lifted the edge of Robbie’s plaid and crept in beside him. Robbie jerked awake. I laid one finger on his lips. He kissed it. I dragged my chemise over my head. His breath caught, and he tore off his own shirt, then turned me so I lay within the shelter of his cradling body, his plaid drawn over us. We had never been totally naked before. Greedily he explored the bare landscape of my body with his hands and mouth. The vast starry sky arched above us. All around us, men slept. We dared make only the slightest of movements. It was exquisite. It was excruciating. Our breath panted faster, our subtle rhythm quickened, we met and parted and met and parted. At last I shuddered, blood roaring in my ears. Robbie bit my neck to stop himself from groaning out loud. He grasped my hips, thrusting as deep into me as he could go, releasing his seed within me. We lay motionless, still locked, bodies thrumming.

Someone moved nearby, then rose and stumbled away to piss beneath a bush. Robbie drew the plaid about me, holding me close, his arm rigid. The man returned, lay down, stretched, yawned. We heard every creak and rustle. At last, all was quiet. I sat up, wrapped myself in my cloak and crept back to my bed. We had not uttered a single word.

It was not enough. It was never enough.

The next morning, I made myself a brew with Nan’s herbs, as I had done every other time we had come together. I dared not risk conceiving a child. Already we were taking such wild risks. I could hardly believe my own boldness. What if we had been caught? I was a fool, mad and reckless with love, imperilling everything. I did not care. I wanted Robbie – I had to be with him, whatever the cost. Who could say what would happen tomorrow? We were at war, and could die at any moment. I had to live for now, I had to seize love.

Word came that Lord James and the other rebels had fled to England. We returned to Edinburgh in triumph, and Mary appointed Lord Bothwell to her privy council, perhaps to remind her husband that she was queen and he was just her consort. I did not like Bothwell, who was a swaggering bully with a mean streak that saw him whip his horse if it baulked at jumping a wall, and box the ear of a pageboy if he was not fast enough to bring him more ale. Carlin did not like him either, and she was the best judge of human character I had ever met.

On my eighteenth birthday, the queen told me she was with child. ‘Will this be the son you foretold?’ she asked eagerly. ‘The one who will unite the crowns of England and Scotland?’

‘I dinna ken, your Grace,’ I answered uncomfortably.

‘Can you not see the future? Is that not your gift?’

I looked about me, afraid someone might overhear. ‘I’m sorry, I see naught, madam,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Please stop asking me.’

Her face shadowed, and I knew she understood me. The earl of Moray might have fled, but Pastor Knox still preached against her in front of great crowds at St Giles Kirk.

‘When I have a son and heir,’ Mary said, ‘the people of Scotland will be so thankful that the line of succession has been secured, they will pay him no heed. All will be well then.’

She spoke as if trying to convince herself, rubbing her abdomen with both hands as if it were some kind of talisman against harm.

I did not see Robbie all winter. The king spent the whole season travelling from castle to castle, stag-hunting and grouse-shooting. We heard rumours of wild parties, of whores and drunken orgies. Tormented by jealousy, I told myself that Robbie would never betray me, that he had sworn to be true to me for a year and a day, come what may. The year was running out fast, though, and he was just a man.

In early spring, Henry at last returned to court. It was a fiery meeting between him and the queen, who was now almost seven months pregnant.

‘You are my wife!’ he bellowed. ‘I am your lawful wedded husband, and you have sworn to obey me!’

‘It is not as if you act like my husband. You are never here. You are always gallivanting off somewhere, and I hear such stories …’

‘It is your fault for being so cold to me.’

‘You wish me to be warm? Then stand by me and do your duty to me …’

‘Duty? There’s a cold word if ever I heard one.’

‘Henry, a king has responsibilities …’

‘Another cold word. Damn you and your duties and responsibilities. If you treated me more like a king, I would act more like one.’

‘If you acted more like a king, then I and everyone else would treat you accordingly.’

‘Everyone else? Like whom? That Bothwell oaf? You bar me from your bed, and then expect me to creep to heel like a whipped cur? Well, madam, I prefer to go where I can expect a warmer welcome …’

I hurried away, each angry word reminding me that the queen’s distress was my fault. If only I had not cooked those mayblossom cakes! But how could I have known?

I longed for Robbie. If the king was back at court, so too should he be. I went out to the courtyard, looking for him. He and Rory were fighting with swords under the watchful eye of their father. I halted, my hand on Carlin’s collar to stop her frisking across to him in joyous welcome, and stood watching Robbie as he spun and blocked, swinging his great two-handled sword above his head and lunging forward to strike against his twin’s weapon with the sound of a bell ringing out. Each move was smooth and graceful, well-honed muscles flexing and bunching. Desire coiled in the pit of my stomach.

Robbie saw me and faltered, and Rory knocked the sword from his hand. Robbie hardly noticed, his eyes fixed on me. He motioned with his head towards Arthur’s Seat, the great green crag that rose up behind the palace. I nodded eagerly and went to wait for him under the hawthorn tree, where the ragged ends of my nettle string still fluttered on the bare black twigs.

It was a bright clear day, but the wind was sharp. I stamped my feet and blew into my gloved hands. Carlin sat at my feet, looking ruffled and miserable.

Robbie came at last, saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I think my brother suspects; he’s sticking so close to me. You know what twins are like, always knowing what the other feels.’

I thought of Sorcha with a pang. But we were not truly twins. Not even sisters.

He drew me into his arms and kissed me. ‘I’ve missed you! It’s been too long. That night, under the stars. I cannot stop thinking about it. I’ve never felt anything like it. How you dared! Oh, God, Caiti, it’s all I can do not to take you here and now, where anyone could see us.’