Page 86 of The Changeling

He shook his head, backed away from me. ‘You lied to me.

You … you seduced me, bewitched me, made me so mad for you I cannot eat or sleep for wanting you. My God! I lay with you, I … I loved you! I do not even know who … or what … you are!’

‘Something dangerous,’ I said dully.

He vaulted onto Apollo’s back, dug in his heels and galloped away.

III

Witch Hunt

There was no time for weeping. The witch-hunters were near. I ran inside, barred the door behind me, then raced up the stairs, calling for Mam and Sorcha. ‘We must flee! They come!’

‘Who?’ Mam cried, sitting up in bed, her fair plait tousled. ‘Who comes?’

‘Witch-hunters. They have Nan! The Regent … I ken he was behind the king’s murder … he seeks to silence me … but Mam, Lord Patrick thinks the Regent means you! I was called Caitlín at court, and Lord James doesna know it’s your name too.’

Mam stared at me, white-faced, then leapt out of bed, dressed only in a chemise and her glowing blue charm-stone on its long red cord. ‘Find Nan’s cunning bag! It must no’ fall into their hands.’

I ran downstairs, drew the cunning bag out of its hiding place in the chimney, and grabbed my satchel from the hook.

Mam ran barefoot into the walled garden. She came back with a wicker beehive cradled in either arm. ‘We’ll no’ go easily. Lassies, when I say the word, throw the skeps down on their heads from the window above, then run. The bees will defend us.’

Sorcha and I ran up the stairs, balancing the skeps on the windowsill of our bedroom.

‘I dinna understand,’ my twin said. ‘Why are they here? Why do they seek to seize you? What do they want?’

‘I ken the truth about the Regent,’ I said passionately. ‘He pretended to be the queen’s friend and wise counsel, when all the time he plotted against her, so he could betray her and seize her throne. He hated her because she was a woman and inherited the crown he wanted for himself, and because she had power over him, and that he couldna bear. And now he is king in all but name, just as I foresaw, and he wants no-one to ken the truth – that he is a liar and a murderer and a traitor.’

Sorcha gazed at me with wide eyes. ‘And now he wants you dead?’

‘Aye, he does. Me and anyone else who dares stand against him. He will drench this land in blood so he can rule, and he will burn any woman who dares to hold any kind of power. We are in true danger, Sorcha, all of us. We are fighting for our lives.’

Pale but resolute, she hitched the bee skep a little higher.

The first of the horsemen reached our gate. Lord Patrick jumped down and strode to our door, his whip in one hand. ‘Caitlín!’ he bellowed. ‘Let us in.’

Carlin growled. I turned to calm her with a quick shush, then looked back out the window. Lord Patrick stood just below me. He was bending over, gazing downwards. At his feet, something silver glinted in the light of the torches of the men who crowded up our path. It was a knife. I stared in amazement. I had stepped over the lintel only moments ago, and the knife had not been there. My thoughts flew at once to Lord George, whose knife had gone missing in Dunning. But how could his knife have made its way here?

Something uncanny was afoot. Something wicked.

Lord Patrick bent and picked up the dagger, turning to face the men hurrying up behind him. ‘Aha! Graham, your knife!’

‘But how did it get here?’ Lord George asked in amazement.

‘The bee!’ Lord Patrick said. ‘It must’ve been her. I always knew she was a witch.’

‘The bee?’ Lord George repeated, bemused.

‘How else did your knife get here? She must’ve turned herself into a bee so she could steal your knife.’

‘Who? Agnes NicNeven?’

‘Or Caitlín! What does it matter? It’s proof they are witches!’

I knew none of us had stolen the knife. Sudden realisation hit me. Lord Patrick must be the one who had taken it. He wanted to pin the theft on us, so that he had some evidence of witchcraft and wrongdoing. He could easily have slipped it into the pocket of his coat, then carried it here to drop on our doorstep. Futile rage boiled up in me.

Lord Patrick hammered at our front door. ‘Open the door, Caitlín!’