Page 82 of The Changeling

Did I do this? I thought. Is this passion or is this sorcery?

His weight was upon me. I could not breathe, I could not move – he was too strong. I could not stop him. Another moment and he would be inside me.

He bit me, hard, and I gasped and heard again the queen’s cry as Bothwell kicked shut the door behind him.

I struggled wildly to be free. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’

Robbie released me.

I scurried away from him, the back of my hand pressed against my mouth. He stared at me, bemused. ‘Caiti? You cannot think I would …’

‘Never touch me again!’ I cried, clutching my bodice closed. I ran for the shelter of the forest, weeping, and crouched where he could not see me. Carlin found me there, her face anxious, and I drew her down and made her stay silent and still, as Robbie called my name again and again. It took a long while for him to give up and ride away.

II

Lammas Fair

Again and again I dreamed of drowning. I would wake, choking for breath, damp with sweat, my face wet with tears, the sheets twisted about me. By the time I realised where I was, the dream would already be dissolving.

My eyes must have been shadowed, for Nan tutted her tongue and steeped chamomile, lemon balm and thyme in hot water for me. I drank her tisane obediently, but the dreams continued.

‘What is troubling you, hinny?’ she asked one day.

I shrugged. What could I say? I’d pushed my love away because of anger and pride and fear. Mary’s rape haunted me, the way she had been broken by a man’s ambition and greed. I feared being broken myself, I feared what men could do. I thought often of the queen. I had been at the centre of the royal court, seeing all that happened, but now I was so far away.

Gossip sometimes reached us. The Regent had found a casket of letters which proved the queen was an adulteress and murderess. The Regent had sent a mission to Denmark to extradite Lord Bothwell, who had fled to safety there. The Regent was hunting down the king’s assassins without mercy. The Regent was determined to stamp out all witches, so no woman could grow too powerful again. The Regent intended to travel to England to testify against the queen, who was to stand trial for conspiracy to murder.

Sometimes just rising in the morning and facing the day seemed far too hard.

‘It’s been a difficult time for you, hinny,’ Nan said. ‘You need time for your soul to heal.’

‘Faeries dinna have a soul,’ I said wearily.

‘Bollocks,’ Nan said. ‘Stop moping, and go and cut me some rosemary, there’s a good lass.’

I had grown interested in Nan’s omen staves since I had been away, and often got them out and laid them in rows, seeking to understand their hidden messages. Nan would glance over and say, ‘That one is dair, which means oak. It stands for strength and protection. And that one is holly. Its rune is tinne. It represents the warrior’s shield.’

One morning, after a restless sleep haunted by nightmares, I put my hand within the pouch and said, with a kind of miserable desperation, ‘What is it I need to ken?’

I pulled out a twig marked with the rune of saille, one downward stroke and four slashes to the right. Willow, tree of thresholds. Its bark eased pain and healed wounds, and its woven tendrils could make a cradle for babes, a hive for bees, a quiver for arrows, a coffin for the dead, a ladder for ghosts. The harps of bards and the spokes of chariot wheels were made from willowwood, and so too the staff of the Cailleach, the goddess of darkness and death and winter. Its symbol meant to leap, to sally forth and defend against besiegers. To draw the willow omen stave meant you were standing on the brink of some profound transformation, and that you would need great courage.

I stared at it, then thrust it back into the black pouch, deep as it could go.

On the day of the Lammas Fair, Nan and I loaded up the hand-cart at dawn and set out for the market town of Dunning. As we passed the Knock, a raven flew overhead, cawing. It followed us all the way to the river, and soared above us as we clattered over the bridge. It frightened me, and I pulled my plaid over my head, trying to hide my face.

Nan glanced at me, then reached into her pocket and drew out a red cord hung with a tiny birch twig and a holey stone. She tied it about my wrist, pulling my sleeve down to hide it. ‘Just in case,’ she said.

I hardly spoke on the long walk. My thoughts were consumed with Robbie. I longed for him to say to me, I always loved you, long before you wished for me. I danced with you because I wanted to hold you in my arms, I kissed you because I wanted my mouth on yours, I lay with you because I wanted to be one with you.

Instead, he had said, I do not care if it’s witchcraft or not, I just want it.

He thinks me wanton, I thought miserably, and then, We are no’ handfasted anymore, he had no right, and sometime later, He thinks me a black-hearted witch – does he know me so little?

At last, we trudged into Dunning. It was here, the old tales said, that St Serf killed a dragon, armed with nothing more than a breastplate of faith and his wooden staff. It had an old thorn tree in the centre of the marketplace, and Nan and I set up our trestle in front of it. I arranged jars of honey, bottles of mead, and little tubs of flower salves. Nan hung candles over a rack, and laid out a row of small wicker skeps that hummed, for anyone who wished to turn beekeeper themselves. As the light began to fade, a great bonfire was lit in the meadow beside the kirk and musicians began to play for people to dance.

‘Go and watch, hinny,’ Nan said. ‘I can manage without you.’

So I went to the meadow, Carlin at my heels, and stood under a tree, watching the dancing and wishing I was as lithe and lighthearted as the other girls. Carlin looked up and wagged her tail. I followed her gaze with my eyes, and saw Lord George walking towards the meeting house. The last time I had seen him, I had been sitting on a barrel, half-naked, his son with his breeches around his ankles. He had threatened to have me named seductress and fornicator. Humiliation burned through me, and I turned abruptly, hurrying to get out of sight.