Chapter 30
‘WE CAN WALK BACK TO the palace unaccompanied – it’s only round the corner, Mother.’
Dorothea shakes her head at her daughter. ‘You should take someone for protection, Beatrix. And it’s cold. I’m not keen on you leaving me with that . . . that woman in my house either.’
Elspet has spent the last few hours tending to Kitty.
Despite all her misadventures, the wound in Kitty’s side is in fact healing well.
She regained consciousness for long enough to eat some broth – her faintness seems mainly due to a need for nutritious food.
Elspet has reapplied the dressings and asked for her to be brought more broth in a few hours’ time.
‘She’s sleeping, Mother,’ Beatrix says firmly. ‘There’s nothing to be concerned about. And you don’t need to worry about us walking to the palace. Don’t forget, the three of us had no protection on our journey to Dunrobin. We even slept out in the open for several nights.’
‘Don’t remind me. And you’re leaving me to deal with this disgraced girl under my roof – a fine state of affairs.’
Beatrix smiles affectionately. ‘You’re doing the right thing. Kitty must stay here until she’s well enough to move, and you know very well I must go back to see the Queen.’
‘I do not remember agreeing to let her stay.’ Dorothea frowns but gives a silent nod and kisses her daughter on the cheek.
Elspet follows Beatrix and Margaret from New-Frater House and out into the Edinburgh street.
The buildings are tall on either side of a stone-flagged street, the air is full of shouting, laughter, the clatter of hooves on stone, the smell of meat on the turn, and warm people, a clamour of folk.
Elspet steels herself; she fears she’ll never get used to this proximity to so many people.
In Orkneyjar, the air is fresh and full of salt, and the only folk she sees, she’s known all her life.
The main thoroughfare in Edinburgh is called the Canongate, and on first examination it is one long, impenetrable aisle through the city, flanked on either side by enormously tall buildings.
It’s only when she looks closer that she sees the many small wynds and pends, archways that look like they’re leading to no more than a small hoose, but that actually take you away from the street and into a warren of narrow closes behind.
Because the city is built on a steep slope, one building can have ground-floor entrances on many levels, and the effect is overwhelming; a labyrinth in every direction.
She breathes slowly and deliberately in an attempt to calm herself, and sticks close to Margaret and Beatrix then steps to the side to let a man hurry past in the other direction.
She has to quicken her pace to keep up as they enter the grounds of Holyrood, and breathes a sigh of relief to be out of the throng.
By silent agreement, they walk in the opposite direction from the main palace building, past the abbey and towards the east garden, walled and private, on the opposite side from the noise of the city.
They reach a stone bench obscured by thick mallow bushes covered with bright pink and purple flowers, which overlooks the sweeping entrance to the palace.
Beatrix is subdued. It’s disconcerting to see her without her usual ebullience. ‘You were right not to trust me,’ she admits as they sit side by side. ‘That’s what is so painful. Not that I think you should’ve shared the truth with me – but because I see you were right not to.’
‘I’ve always been so reluctant to trust anyone at court,’ Margaret says slowly. ‘I thought I was acting in my best interests, and the Queen’s. Now, I’m not so sure.’
The bench is small and the three women must huddle close together – a relief in the caal wind.
Beatrix’s brow is furrowed in concentration. ‘You have walls around you, Margaret, but at the core of you, you’re good. The Queen was right to choose to trust you with her private thoughts. I’ve been so caught up in the gossip in this place, I’m as bad as Mary.’
‘No. You are nothing like your sister, Beatrix.’
Beatrix smiles weakly. ‘Perhaps. But I must know now,’ she says, some of her eagerness returning. ‘This binding spell the Queen asks for – can you do it, Mistress Balfour?’
Elspet reaches out to gently touch a delicate flower; they’re larger here than those in Orkneyjar, but the soft petals are fragile against her fingers.
‘I can care for the Queen during her pregnancy – or at least I can try to if it’s possible under the noses of those men. But no, I cannot cast a binding spell which will prevent the child being taken away from her when it’s born.’
Beatrix is disappointed. ‘But the Queen seemed so sure. She said your grandmother brought a man back from the dead. Is that true?’
‘I think so,’ Elspet says slowly, remembering the night many years ago, Mormor’s chanting and the smell of burning thornapple in the fire.
‘I don’t know . . . I was very young. The memory is hazy.
But in any case, that’s a completely different use of the craft.
I’m sorry, there is no binding spell that can defy the will of a King. ’
Beatrix is crestfallen.
Margaret clears her throat. ‘Well, I for one am relieved to hear you say that. Thank goodness we’re dealing with the world of reality now.’
‘But the Queen was clear,’ Elspet says. ‘If I can’t do this, she won’t protect me. For all I know, she’ll send me back to Orkneyjar today. What will become of me?’
‘Queen Anna is desperate but she is a kind woman,’ Margaret replies authoritatively. ‘I believe she will still protect you.’
But the ranyie pang Elspet feels tells her Margaret isn’t certain. The Queen is little more than a child, a child used to getting her own way.
It starts to rain; fine, dreich drizzle that gathers on their cloaks and faces.
But none of the women move. Elspet is filled with worry – everything she’s done is to secure the help of the Queen in getting her back to her homeland.
They may have temporarily fended off the pursuit of the Earl of Orkney’s men, but in her homeland, persecution awaits without intervention of some kind.
Below them, three horses round the approach into the palace, galloping through the rain at speed. The rider in the centre wears all black, and sits on a great white stallion, a braw beast that foams with exertion; this horse has been pushed hard and ridden far.
‘Who’s that?’ Beatrix gasps.
As the riders reach the wide gates at the entrance to the palace compound, their way is blocked by the King’s soldiers.
‘Allow me through!’ they hear the lead rider roar over the wind and the rain. ‘I am outlaw no more – I must see the King.’
Elspet recognises the rider’s voice and shoots a panicked look at Beatrix, who clearly recognises him too.
‘The Earl of Bothwell! The audacity of that man – he’s only just been pardoned and already he returns to court.’
Elspet draws her cloak closer over herself, shrinking into it as she watches his approach, remembering the scrutiny that seemed to see straight through her Lady Alvah artifice to the rough Orkneyjar spae-wife beneath.
But she also feels a surge of excitement.
What purpose can this man have at court now, so soon after their arrival?
Her curiosity lingers long after the Earl has disappeared.