Chapter 28
ELSPET STUMBLES BACK A STEP. Suddenly, she understands what the seidhr journeys have been trying to tell her – that night in the stackyard at Katherine’s farm, wearing the laird’s stolen cloak and winding black yarn around the implaisters.
This is impossible. The Queen has no idea what she’s asking.
‘What is a binding spell?’ Beatrix’s eyes dart between Elspet and the Queen.
The Queen’s penetrating gaze holds Elspet.
‘Mistress Balfour knows well what it is. We cannot allow the King and the Earl of Mar to take this child from me. I shall not be parted from my baby. And I shall not allow my own flesh and blood to be raised in the dreadful way my husband was – it is too cruel.’
‘You’re talking about . . . witchcraft?’ There is fear in Beatrix’s voice but also something else. Fascination.
‘Of course not,’ the Queen says firmly. ‘My requirements here have nothing to do with my husband’s ridiculous crusade.
Mistress Balfour comes from a line of the most skilled spae-wives in Orkney.
A place known for the extraordinary gifts of its women.
She will bind the child and I together so we cannot be parted. ’
Elspet shakes her head. ‘I can’t . . .’
Queen Anna raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course you can – I know all about your grandmother’s great skill. If she could bring a man back from the dead, then surely she can do anything. And they say she taught you all she knew.’
At once, Elspet’s blood runs caal. How can the Queen of Scotland ken these things? What she speaks of is so far in the past Elspet barely remembers it herself.
‘What . . . what do you know about that?’
‘More than you know.’ The Queen stares at her.
Elspet remembers a shadowy, smoky room, her grandmother burning the wood of the thornapple, chanting and pushing hard on the man’s chest.
‘She only did that once, I think, and I . . . I have never . . .’
‘Lucky for you then that I’m not asking for that,’ the Queen interrupts.
Her face becomes harder, the expression of a child used to getting her own way, a child on the verge of a tantrum.
‘As I understand it, you need my protection. Only I can keep you safe against the accusations of the Earl of Orkney. And in return for that protection, all I ask is for a simple binding spell.’
A simple binding spell. But there is nothing simple about what the young Queen is asking – if only she knew . . .
‘I know how desperate you must feel,’ Elspet tries to reason. ‘You are already attached to the bairn that grows in your belly—’
‘This child is all I have. I have no family here in Scotland. To my husband, the baby is a tool, something to bolster his position and get him closer to the throne of England. But that’s not what this child is to me.’
The Queen’s expression is fierce. And she is right – Elspet, and her children, need her protection. But it would be terrible to let her continue under this misapprehension.
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty. But it cannot be done.’
The Queen takes a step towards her; a small step, yet laden with authority. ‘It can be done, and you will do it. Or you’ll find yourself at the mercy of the Earl of Orkney.’
In the silence that follows, Elspet looks round at Margaret and Beatrix, who both appear stricken. They stare at the Queen as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Your Majesty,’ Margaret begins. ‘I feel some responsibility for Mistress Balfour here. We cannot—’
‘Not now, Margaret,’ the Queen says, waving her hand.
She stumbles backwards and Margaret and Beatrix rush to her side, helping her towards the bed, where she sits looking dazed, beads of sweat standing out on the blue-white skin of her forehead.
She wrings her hands, rubbing her knuckles vigorously.
Interesting, Elspet thinks. She has seen this before in women who have lost bairns before their birth.
Despite her fear at what the Queen has just said, some of the possibilities for treatment start to run through her mind involuntarily: that rose syrup will come in useful, and perhaps she can find some yellow tang or glasswort. They are not so far from the sea.
Margaret helps Queen Anna take a drink of wine, and the focus comes back to her eyes.
Beatrix clears her throat. ‘May I ask,’ she begins falteringly, ‘why Your Majesty chose not to trust me with this information?’
The Queen and Margaret exchange a look. The awkwardness in the room is palpable.
Margaret speaks first. ‘I’m sorry, Beatrix, but it was on my advice that you were kept in the dark. It was a task so fraught with risk and I was afraid . . . I wasn’t sure if . . .’ she trails off.
‘If I could be trusted?’ Beatrix finishes for her, her voice cracking slightly.
‘Well . . .’
‘All this time,’ Beatrix says, ‘we’ve been travelling together, sent on such a sensitive mission together, and you’ve been deceiving me about the true nature of our task.’
‘Enough,’ the Queen snaps. ‘It is not for you to question my judgement, Beatrix. Perhaps instead you should ask yourself why we didn’t feel we could trust you.’
Beatrix looks at the floor in silence, cheeks red.
‘I have enough to worry about without you sulking,’ the Queen continues, giving an exasperated wave. ‘Your mother must be keen to see you. Why don’t you pay her a visit now?’
‘You’re . . . sending me away?’
Beatrix’s eyes are swimming – Elspet wants to comfort her in some way but she’s reeling with her own shock. Beatrix hurries to the door without looking back.
‘Beatrix . . .’ Margaret says. But she has rushed out.
They watch the door as it closes behind Beatrix. The Queen shakes her head sadly.
‘Well.’ Margaret sighs with frustration. ‘We can hardly be blamed for caution.’
But the Queen ignores her and turns to Elspet once more. ‘Now, Mistress Balfour, about this binding spell . . .’
But before she can say another word, the door of the chamber flies open.
Elspet looks up, hoping to see Beatrix return, but instead two men stride into the room with an air of authority.
Fear rises in Elspet – who are these folk? Has she been found out so soon? But the men walk straight past her; as far as they’re concerned, she may as well be invisible. They have eyes only for the Queen, who sighs impatiently as they head towards her.
‘Do come in, Schoner,’ she says flatly. ‘I see you have dispensed with even the pretence of courtesy.’
So, this is Martin Schoner, the King’s physician. Elspet takes a step forward, curious. He’s a short man with a round stomach, white hair and a well-groomed white beard, and he wears a frown so deep it appears it must be his permanent expression.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ Schoner replies in a brusque tone that makes it clear he couldn’t care less whether he’s forgiven.
The rising tone in his voice is unfamiliar, and Elspet remembers he’s from Habsburg.
‘Primrose and I are here to conduct the examination. Please be so kind as to lie back on the bed.’ He says this as an instruction, not a request.
One pace behind Schoner walks a younger man, red-faced and sweating in a way Elspet has seen in those who take more wine than is good for them.
He’s taller than the physician but stooped with muckle bags under his eyes – the man looks like he’s been dragged from his bed after a night of no sleep.
This, then, is Gilbert Primrose, the surgeon.
What surprises her, even more than the imperious tone in Schoner’s instruction, is that the Queen complies. She lies down like an obedient child.
Elspet is painfully aware of the need not to draw attention to herself.
These are medical men of court; they report directly to the King and under no circumstances must she give them reason to notice her, much less suspect she has any medical knowledge.
But she can’t help stepping forward another pace or two so she can see more clearly.
She’s spent her life learning how to heal, how to understand the body and mind, and how to bring relief to those who are suffering.
Schoner and Primrose are distinguished professionals, skilled enough to be employed by the King of Scotland himself.
Their expertise must far outweigh her own – they’ve had access to many more sources of learning, funds and opportunities to improve the care they give.
Despite the danger, she’s excited at the prospect of adding to her own knowledge.
She’s also relieved the Queen will be getting the attention she clearly needs. Her headache, pain in her hands and pallid, dry skin are a cause for concern but shouldn’t be difficult to treat by those who ken anything about care for a woman during pregnancy.
Schoner lifts up the Queen’s arm. Elspet watches him prod and measure her, and occasionally murmur to himself, or to Primrose, who sits in a chair by the bed, paying only the most cursory attention.
‘Look at the white-blue tinge to the skin here,’ Schoner says to his colleague.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ Primrose responds.
Elspet is confused – the blessy whiteness of the Queen’s skin is far from an excellent sign. Neither is the way it’s flaking in dry scales.
Schoner goes on. ‘Hmm, yes, this is satisfactory progress.’
Neither man addresses the Queen; they ask no questions about what she feels, any sickness, any pains – all things Elspet knows will provide information vital to determine if any care and treatments might be necessary.
An examination is all well and good but it’s conversation with the mother – the woman who kens her own body, kens its rhythms and patterns, that will give the best indication of whether everything is well, whether she needs a little tincture or balm to ease any suffering, whether the peedie one will be born healthy.
When they do speak to the Queen, it is only to instruct. ‘Sit up, please . . . raise your arms . . . open your mouth.’
‘I’ve been suffering with dreadful—’ the Queen begins but Schoner holds up a hand.
‘Quiet, please.’