Chapter 27
Elspet Balfour
ELSPET FACES A THICK OAK door, the only thing that stands between her and the Queen of Scotland’s bedchamber. The wood is carved with an intricate coat of arms surrounded by leaf fronds and two rampant unicorns, their horns pointing towards each other, hind legs apart as if about to start dancing.
She examines the carefully sculpted wooden beasts, imagines they’re waiting for the start of a song.
But the distraction doesn’t work – she’s never been so terrified.
Not when she learnt the Earl of Orkney wished to charge her with the crime of witchcraft; not when she was parted from her children; not when she saw Henry Colville at the doors to Dunrobin Castle; not even all those years ago when Colville took her to the Earl’s palace in Kirkwaa.
She draws herself up taller – straight spine, no hesitation. She’s not Elspet Balfour, Orkneyjar spae-wife, she is Lady Alvah Gordon, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and ward of the Countess of Sutherland. She draws strength from the ruby and garnet jewelled coif on her head.
‘It was given to me by the King’s mother, Queen Mary herself,’ Lady Jean had said as she gave it to her the day they left Dunrobin.
‘The right clothing does most of the work for these nobles anyway. If we bedeck you in jewels, they’ll notice little else.
Remember, everyone at that court has a secret – and most of them have plenty. You’re not alone in that.’
Elspet had been unable to stop her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m terribly afraid.’
‘You’d be a fool if you weren’t,’ Lady Jean had replied.
‘Just remember, the King isn’t interested in you or anything you’ve got to say.
Most of the men at court are the same. Just defer to his great wisdom and tell him he’s right about everything.
That’s what everyone else does, to his face anyway. ’
The jewelled coif is a talisman of her new identity. Now, standing before this huge oak door, Elspet tries to feel worthy of it. On her left, Margaret nods at the man who stands guard. He reaches out his hand to open the door but pauses as a thundering voice reverberates through the oak.
‘Speak, woman, who are you to defy me?’
On Elspet’s other side, Beatrix gasps. ‘The King.’
The guard stops abruptly, arm outstretched, frozen to the spot. After a moment, the voice comes again. ‘You will submit to my will in this – and you will learn to be civil to your husband.’
As he speaks, the voice grows closer, and the door flies open. Elspet takes a quick step backward to avoid a man with a thin face and tired eyes who storms out, his angry exit impeded by a limp.
‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty,’ Beatrix says. The man grunts in response as he stalks away with the manner of a petulant child.
So this is the King of Scotland. The lofty figure they’re all supposed to revere. In Orkneyjar, he is the stuff of legends, practically a myth. As Elspet watches the limping figure stomp his way along the corridor, she sees he’s just a man – and not a particularly impressive one.
At her side, Margaret takes a deep breath and nods. The three of them walk through the open doorway and into the Queen’s chamber.
The shining room is surprisingly peedie, and full of furniture. Elspet’s first impression is of wall-to-wall gold, and how cramped the space is. There are candles in gold sconces on every wall, stools covered in glowing velvet. Even the wood shines – the scent of beeswax heavy in the air.
Against the far wall is a bed covered in densely embroidered golden cloth.
A young girl, a thin pale figure in a white gown, sits on the bed.
She looks up as they enter, her expression changing from blank fatigue to a wide smile.
She’s so young, Elspet thinks, nothing but a child – and she’s just been subjected to the angry denunciation they heard through the door.
Lady Dorothea Ruthven is at Queen Anna’s side and Lady Mary Ruthven sits in a chair of rich red damask by the blazing fire.
‘Margaret, Beatrix,’ the Queen says, holding out her arms. ‘Thank God you’ve returned – how I’ve missed you.’
Her voice is not like the rest of these Scottish aristocrats. She has long vowels; she sounds like Orkneyjar, like Mormor, like home. An unexpected rush of warmth sweeps over Elspet.
Beatrix rushes to Queen Anna’s side, and Margaret follows more slowly.
Since the moment they came to her hoose to find her and bring her to their Queen, Elspet’s been convinced of the affection they feel for the young woman in front of her.
But somehow she had expected that once they got to court, things would be formal, full of pomp and ceremony.
There is a joy in this reunion that bolsters her.
‘And this must be the new lady-in-waiting the Countess of Sutherland has sent to me. I am delighted to meet you, Lady Alvah Gordon.’
Elspet doesn’t move. Jean’s voice comes to her – a lady never vacillates in doorways.
But she can’t help it. The Queen looks back at her with wide eyes and an expression of awe that reflects her own.
As if she doesn’t believe I’m quite real, Elspet thinks, and a ranyie pang stirs in her stomach.
Looking closer, she notices a blessy white tinge to the Queen’s skin, which is dry and flaking in patches.
Her spae-wife’s instincts take over and she steps forward.
It’s difficult to know if the pale, dry skin is unusual for the Queen.
These aristocratic women who barely go out into the open all look pale – indeed, she’s spent so much time indoors recently, her own skin will start to resemble this soon.
But she can’t help looking the Queen over with the expert eye of one who’s seen many pregnancies and knows the signs that some treatment may be required.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Lady Mary Ruthven, who stands up. ‘It is so generous of Your Majesty to agree to take such a down-to-earth lady into your court. It will be fun to have someone from one of the more obscure branches of the extensive Gordon tree here in Edinburgh.’
‘Mary,’ Dorothea says with a warning tone. ‘You know very well any ward of Lady Jean’s is a fine lady and will be comfortable here.’ She smiles reassuringly at Elspet.
‘It’s true, the Gordons have plenty of wealth and lands,’ Mary says, ‘but those Highland manners are something quite different – very refreshing, of course.’
Queen Anna gives Mary an irritated look. ‘Leave us. I wish to get to know Lady Alvah and hear from my travelling ladies in private.’
Mary looks affronted. ‘Surely my counsel . . . as the Countess of Atholl . . .’
Dorothea walks to her elder daughter. ‘Come, Mary. It’s been many weeks since Her Majesty has seen Lady Margaret and our own beloved Beatrix – they have much to discuss.’ She ushers the furious-looking Mary from the room.
The Queen shakes her head. ‘I had to send them away so we may talk freely. Your sister gossips like a flaggermus, Beatrix.’
Elspet smiles. How funny to hear that old Orkneyjar phrase here, where so much is unfamiliar.
‘You look pale, Your Majesty,’ Beatrix says. ‘How are you feeling?’
Elspet’s ears prick up. So, the Queen’s paleness is unusual. This may have a bearing on the care she needs.
‘I feel so tired,’ the Queen says, ‘and I have pain in my head and my hands – but I am much cheered by the return of my two favourite ladies.’
‘I’m pleased then that we have succeeded in bringing Mistress Balfour to you,’ Beatrix says proudly. ‘Her skills are wonderful. You were right to send for her.’
The Queen turns to Elspet. ‘I hope you are all they say you are, Mistress Elspet Balfour. You have a lot to live up to.’
All who says I am? Elspet wonders. And what exactly am I living up to here? But she simply smiles. ‘I will do everything I can, Your Majesty.’
‘Your voice.’ The Queen leans forward. ‘It sounds like home.’
‘Yours too,’ Elspet says. The Queen’s eyes are on her – this woman, so different from her in every way but caught here in this unfamiliar place, just like she is.
‘I was thrilled when I received the letter from Dunrobin saying you were coming,’ the Queen says, ‘but so afraid for you all. The Earl of Orkney got word of your visit to his islands?’
‘Don’t worry, Your Majesty,’ Margaret says. ‘We have done enough to keep him from the door for now.’
She explains the conversation with Colville in the stables at Dunrobin – her agreement to consider the Earl’s marriage proposal and the signing over of her lands.
‘Oh, Margaret,’ the Queen says, sighing sadly. ‘I understand what it has cost you to say these things. Your worst fear was to be wedded to a man like that. But we will see any commitment is broken off in a manner the Earl cannot complain of.’
‘We must also protect Mistress Balfour,’ Margaret says. ‘The Earl of Orkney wishes to marry me, but he wishes to execute her.’
The Queen nods firmly. ‘Of course. I shall gain some influence in Orkney that will enable me to protect you.’
This, so soon after their arrival, sends a wave of relief through Elspet.
‘And in the meantime,’ Beatrix says, ‘you will have the finest care in your pregnancy.’
The Queen and Margaret exchange a meaningful look. Then, as if coming to an agreement, the Queen turns her focus on Elspet.
‘Mistress Balfour, thank you so much for agreeing to attend to me. But I must tell you, there’s more to your being here than administering care during my pregnancy.’
Elspet had wondered about this, and she kens Lady Jean had her suspicions too, but that doesn’t stop the dread creeping up her spine. The fear returns that this is all a trap. She may have escaped the Earl of Orkney, but has she entered the lion’s den?
‘What do you mean?’ Beatrix’s childlike eyes are wide.
The Queen touches her on the hand. ‘You’ve served me well, Beatrix. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything.’
Beatrix leans away from the Queen, a look of betrayal on her face.
Margaret walks to the chamber’s small window and looks out. Whatever the Queen kept from Beatrix, Margaret knew about it. Finally, I’ll find out what she’s been keeping from me.
The Queen stands – she’s tall but her height only emphasises her youth. It is the gangling height of someone not quite a woman, long limbs that don’t yet work in unison. She moves to Elspet and holds both her hands – her touch is dry, her skin almost scaly, and surprisingly warm.
‘Forgive me. I need your help. My husband has concocted a dreadful plan – and he will not be swayed from it. He wants to take my baby from me.’
Her voice has a tone of desperation but her eyes are clear and steady.
‘It is too much to bear,’ the Queen continues, her hand going to her head.
She sits back down heavily on the bed. ‘I’m sure the worry is why my head aches so terribly.
If I succeed in carrying this child to its birth, my husband will take it from me when it’s born – he’s determined his heir will be raised at Stirling Castle by Mar, away from court and away from me. ’
This lady is the Queen of Scotland – supposedly the most powerful and envied woman in the county.
Her station is so far above Elspet’s, any comparison is ridiculous.
But this desperation, Elspet understands.
Gillie and Broden’s faces come flooding back to her, the warmth of their peedie arms wrapped around her at the walnut tree.
‘But why?’ Elspet asks, blurting out the question without care.
‘It’s how he was raised. He thinks it will bring the child security. He doesn’t see the barbarism. You only have to meet my husband for a moment to understand the manner of his upbringing has caused nothing in him but fear, mistrust and anger at the world.’
‘But what . . .’ Beatrix says, hesitating. ‘What does this have to do with bringing Mistress Balfour to court? She’s summoned to care for you during this pregnancy – to ensure this baby will be carried to its birth.’
‘That is true,’ the Queen says. ‘I do require the assistance of a skilled spae-wife. The practice here of having men attend to a woman during this most sensitive time is not right – what do they know of pregnancy? They treat me with less consideration than we would a pig in my home country. But there is another task I require of Mistress Balfour.’
And when the Queen turns those grey eyes on Elspet, ranyie pangs sink their claws into her belly.
‘You will perform a binding spell.’