Chapter 19
ELSPET HANGS BACK, LETTING HER horse fall behind the group; she has no interest in hunting wolves.
As the gap widens between her and the rest of the party, her horse wanders as it will, over towards the forest. She takes slow deep breaths and turns her face up to the lift, relishing the solitude and the warmth of the sun on her skin.
It’s been three days since she adopted her new identity – three days of concentration and study such as she’s never known – learning to speak like a lady, sit like a lady, walk like a lady, eat like a lady.
She’s trying on the skin of Lady Alvah Gordon, seeing if she can make it fit.
Learning her spae-craft from Mormor was nothing like this; she’d picked up those skills gradually and naturally from the day she was born, watching and listening to her beloved grandmother.
But this has been relentless and she’s constantly on edge, veering between a growing confidence that she can pass as Lady Alvah Gordon, and a certainty that she’ll give herself away as a fraud the moment she arrives at court.
As the day of their departure draws closer, she finds herself looking forward to meeting the pregnant Queen.
Caring for a woman with child is something she knows, something she can do.
Nobody can guarantee a good pregnancy and a healthy baby, of course, but she has more skill than most, and it’s familiar ground where there has been none for what feels like a long time.
She clings to Beatrix’s words: the Queen will protect her from the Earl of Orkney. This is the means by which she can get home to her children safely, by which the life she has so carefully built and protected for herself, and her family, can continue.
She feels a slight ranyie pang as she wonders whether Margaret is keeping something from her about what lies ahead. Whatever it is, she doesn’t think Beatrix knows either – the Ruthven girl is as honest as they come.
Despite Margaret’s reticence, though, Elspet can’t believe she wishes her ill. She wouldn’t lead her into greater danger. Elspet hopes her instincts are right about Lady Margaret Livingston. Yes, she’s spiky and closed off, but Elspet trusts her.
Her thoughts are interrupted as her body lurches left in her saddle.
Her boot is stuck in the muckle wide skirt she must wear, a riding gown trimmed with green taffeta, fabric brought all the way to the Highlands from Spain.
She holds the reins tightly and struggles to free her foot from the swathes of material.
Why this dress is considered necessary for a day spent riding she can’t imagine, but she’s Lady Alvah now, and Elspet Balfour’s simple woollen dress, so practical, is not acceptable.
She manages to right herself. I can’t lose concentration, even for a moment, she thinks, stroking her horse’s neck.
They make their way into a glade of broad twisted beech trees.
Between the trunks is an inviting space covered with wide mossy roots.
It’s September now and the leaves are turning orange, the first few have fallen to the forest floor in a shallow sprinkling.
She dismounts and sits down on a thick root, drinking in the spae of the woods.
The sensation of being in an enclosed space contained by trees is still unfamiliar; the stillness of the air presses in on her.
The teeming life of the forest is something overwhelming, a sense of being indoors outdoors, hidden by the trees and in the thick of nature.
The spae of the trees, the earth, the insects and birds is almost too much to bear; she slows her breathing and places her hands on the warm earth, allowing it to become part of her, feeling herself blend into the gnarled trunk of the beech tree on which she rests.
Time stands still. She’s conscious of the ancient, awe-inspiring but comforting power of the woods flowing through her.
The seidhr journey is usually induced in groups of women, spinning wool onto their distaffs or looking into the flames of a fire, and chanting in unison.
It’s a useful tool for a spae-wife, a way to see things, look deeper and see what path must be taken.
Here, under the twisted beech trees of the Dunrobin forest, there is no spinning, and no fire.
She lies back on the ground and looks up at the long branches, their leaves silhouetted against the lift, waving and quivering.
Her gaze loosens and she lets the hypnotic fluttering, their gentle whispers, lull her into the trance-like state.
She sees Lady Alvah Gordon from above, her body stretched out on the ground beneath the wide, spreading beech tree. She sees the wide skirts, the fine thick riding cloak, and the embroidered coif – this is a noblewoman, a woman who belongs in a castle. She sees herself the way others do.
This woman will travel to the court of King James and become a lady-in-waiting to Queen Anna – and she will belong there. Her fear, the worry that what she’s attempting is impossible, floats away on the cool air moving through the glade, as she lies on the warm earth.
Elspet’s horse responds to her shifting weight by breaking into a gallop, a freedom filling her body.
The harsh wind rushes against her cheeks and, filled with calm and confidence brought about by the seidhr, she relishes the connection with this magnificent creature from Lady Jean Gordon’s stables.
She crosses a wide stretch of grassland between sections of woodland on the Dunrobin estate on her way back towards the castle. It’s growing late and the hunters will be returning to the castle now, so she must do the same, much as she’d like to stay outdoors.
She turns at the sound of hooves approaching from behind. Jean and her horse move up alongside her as they enter the tree-lined path that leads back to the castle.
‘You are an accomplished horsewoman, Lady Alvah,’ the countess says as they slow their horses. ‘At least that’s one thing we don’t need to spend hours training you in.’
Elspet feels a stab of embarrassment but, looking into the countess’s dark brown eyes, she sees a twinkle of mischief. Lady Jean is teasing her.
‘I love to ride. I travel across the islands of Orkneyjar to see many people, sometimes great distances in one day – so horseback is the best way.’
Jean nods. ‘Your skills are in great demand in your homeland?’
‘Yes, I carry my bag of plants and herbs with me all the time at home – I feel naked without it.’
The countess smiles and lifts her thick serge cloak to reveal the black bombazine gown beneath. She places her hand between the folds of fabric and pulls out a cloth bag.
Elspet looks on in amazement and meets Lady Jean’s smile.
‘We can arrange for these pockets to be added into the folds of Lady Alvah Gordon’s gown if you would like?’
‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’
There’s a disturbance in the trees at their side, and they both turn to look.
A woman comes running out onto the path, out of breath, her clothing dishevelled and hair loose.
Elspet is struck by how unkempt she is; she’s shocked to see a woman in such disarray.
Perhaps I am becoming Lady Alvah after all, she thinks.
I’m judging her by her rough appearance.
‘Lady Jean,’ the woman says between big gasps of air. ‘I’ve found you.’ She puts a shaking hand on Jean’s horse, to steady herself or prevent the countess from getting away, perhaps both.
Jean looks down at the woman. ‘I recognise you . . .’
‘I’m Kitty,’ the woman says. ‘Kitty Muirhead. I was in service with you for a time. My mother worked as your cook for many years.’
‘Of course.’ A sternness enters Jean’s tone. ‘I wonder you feel able to jump out at me in this manner, Kitty.’
Kitty Muirhead’s eyes are red-rimmed and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I know I left in . . . in bad circumstances. But I need your help. There’s no one else I can turn to.’
‘Why on earth should I help you?’ the countess retorts.
‘I know you owe me nothing.’
‘That’s for certain. Quite the reverse, indeed . . .’
‘But you were fond of my mother, may she rest in peace. I beg of you, in her memory, please help me.’
There is silence as Jean looks at the pathetic figure in front of her.
Kitty has the good sense to speak no more – to reiterate her plea would only irritate the countess.
Elspet looks into the woman’s eyes. There is distress there, certainly, and fear, but a defiance in her expression, a barely concealed anger.
Finally, Jean speaks. ‘I was sorry to hear of Johanna’s death. What is the matter, Kitty?’
Kitty looks around anxiously at Elspet. ‘Can we speak in private – at the castle perhaps?’
‘You’ve got a cheek. Tell me now or move along.’
Then they see it at the same time. Kitty’s hand moves to her belly. Elspet takes in Kitty’s stance, something in the way she holds herself, the straining of her body against the fabric of her clothing.
Ah, I see, she thinks. And she kens Jean has registered it too.
The countess takes a deep breath. ‘You may walk with us as we return the horses to the stables.’ The countess dismounts to lead her horse by the reins.
Elspet does the same and Kitty looks at her with suspicion. ‘I would talk to you alone,’ she says to Jean.
‘This is my ward, Lady Alvah Gordon. Whatever you have to say, you may say in front of her. I trust her completely.’
Despite the pretence, Elspet feels a surge of pride.
Kitty seems to realise this is the best she can hope for and falls into step between them.
In the fine clothes of Lady Alvah, Elspet is painfully aware of the difference between her and this woman.
Kitty’s dress is a dirty brown smeared with black streaks that looks like it might have once been white, worn through in several places.
Elspet’s eyes move to her stomach; yes, she’s not too far gone but there’s a swelling there, the start of a shape she kens well.
‘What do you want my help with?’ Lady Jean’s tone is firm but not unkind.
‘My mother told me all about your wisdom with plants and herbs,’ Kitty says. ‘I know you’ve helped other women who . . . who needed to free themselves . . .’
Kitty stumbles over her words but Elspet’s ears prick up at this.
A woman who is with child and consulting a wise woman wants one of two things – to keep her baby safe and well, or to get rid of it altogether. It’s clear which of these apply to Kitty, and the countess doesn’t make her suffer the indignity of finding the words to say so.
‘I see, and why do you need to free yourself of this child, Kitty?’
‘I am unmarried.’
‘Can the man in question not be persuaded to—’
‘No,’ Kitty says firmly. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘Who is he?’ Jean asks. ‘Perhaps I could talk to him.’
‘No,’ Kitty repeats, that repressed fear rising to the surface again. ‘I can’t tell you who he is. Just know that I must end this pregnancy.’
They are approaching the wide low stable now.
Elspet stops in her tracks. Hanging outside the stable building, lined up in a row, upside down and swaying slightly in the wind, are a line of wolf corpses.
There must be around thirty of the beasts, each one as large as the wolf Elspet came face to face with in the forest. Her ranyie pangs roil and she fights back tears.
There are some who believe the Devil himself may take the form of a wolf.
Does it seem likely that the Devil could be defeated so easily, over and over again?
‘Not a bad day’s hunt.’ Jean surveys the creatures. Kitty Muirhead is oblivious, her eyes fixed on the countess.
A groomsman rushes out and takes the reins of Lady Jean’s and Elspet’s horses. ‘They’ve ridden well today,’ Jean says. ‘Extra oats and a good rub-down for both.’
She turns to Kitty with a deep sigh. ‘Ending a pregnancy is not something to be taken lightly.’
‘I don’t take it lightly,’ Kitty retorts. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for someone like me.’
Jean’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I expect you’re right.’ Then after a moment’s pause, she says, ‘But I can’t help you, Kitty.’
Kitty’s face twists into a mask of fury, her veneer of civility in asking for help gone. ‘You . . . bitch.’
The countess sighs sadly. ‘Your mother was the very best of women, Kitty – I am sorry to see you brought so low.’
‘You didn’t care about my mother. You don’t care about anyone.’
Elspet’s eyes move again to Kitty’s belly.
That peedie swelling usually happens around six months before a child is born.
It occurs to her, based on everything Margaret and Beatrix have told her, that Kitty is only a few weeks further along in her pregnancy than the Queen of Scotland.
But what different circumstances these women are faced with.
One with a child wanted desperately, with all the care and attention a country can bestow.
The other in poverty, desperate to rid herself of the ignominy of an unwanted bairn.
Kitty’s anger is something she recognises, something she understands. It’s counterproductive and it won’t help her get what she wants – but it’s hardly surprising. Kitty sees her sympathetic gaze and scowls. This is not a woman looking for tender feelings.
‘Goodbye, Kitty,’ Lady Jean says. ‘I don’t want to see you again.’ She walks purposefully away from the furious woman.
Elspet looks back at Kitty Muirhead, then her eyes move over the row of wolf corpses hanging on the stable wall, before she follows the countess towards the castle.