The Changeling Child

by E. D. Walker

  The kelpie’s indignant whinnying pierced her ears as she swept out of the stable. She smiled with savage satisfaction, then lifted a hand toward Llewellyn, motioning him to follow. “Magician, with me. We have plans to make before tomorrow night.”

  ***

  But before Beatrice could even get Llewellyn back to her chambers to plan, a messenger came for the magician to carry him off to Stephen’s secret counsels. Llewellyn left the changeling in her care, not daring to bring the creature into Stephen’s sight.

  Dawn crept over the horizon, and Beatrice had not yet been to bed. Her body felt emptied out, dry. Barren. Even tears were denied her.

  The changeling had no such problem. Once the magician left the room, the fairy child let out a wail like a heart breaking, and fat, shining tears slid down the plumpness of his cheeks in waves.

  Beatrice sent for her ladies, but they refused even to enter the room, let alone tend to the small crying creature. She had been forced to send Mary away when the midwife didn’t stop muttering that they should put the changeling in the fire and save everyone a lot of bother. Beatrice needed the midwife to speak comfort, not vitriol, and so Beatrice had been forced to isolate herself when most she needed reassurance and companionship.

  Beatrice felt utterly alone. And trapped. These past few days reminded her painfully of her last days at the king’s court when all the ladies had shunned her, muttering about her whorish ways and exalting in the death of her brother whenever she’d passed them. Darkness seemed to ooze into her skin with every moment, until she felt suffocated by despair. The changeling’s piercing cries did not help, each one making her flinch, sliding along her nerves like a knife blade.

  Along with everything else, the changeling’s crying had made her milk release, and now the front of her dress was soaked—her body trying to feed a baby that was gone. Stolen. Lost.

  “Quiet, damn you.” She crossed to the crib, gripping the wooden edges until her hands hurt. “I’ll put you in the fire myself, you damned monster.”

  But when she stared at him, the baby did not look like a monster. Perhaps the crying had sapped his strength, because the glamour was leaching off him now. His skin was a flushed, dusky green, his eyes black and pupil-less, his ears pointed. The sight of his true form should have terrified her, but she actually found it easier to look at him when he was like this. When he did not look like her son.

  As he moaned pitifully and thrashed chubby fists, he didn’t look like much of a monster either. He looked like what he truly was. A baby. Only a baby. No demon sent from the fairies to sow disaster among Beatrice’s people.

  She stroked one finger down his cheek, and his skin was baby-soft and damp with tears. “What happened to your mother?” Who was she? Had she wanted to give him up? Had the other fairies taken him from her? Was it the fairy queen herself? Had she been disdainful of this fussy, sickly child and decided to trade him for Beatrice’s own beautiful boy?

  The changeling blinked his large black eyes and reached for her, pumping his hands in grabbing motions, rocking his body to tilt toward her. Her own son was never this needy, this demanding. But then, her son was the beloved pet of the whole household, constantly passed from one adoring set of arms to another all the livelong day. This poor creature had barely been tolerated since his true form was discovered.

  Were the fairies taking care of her boy? Was he screaming and crying like the changeling? Was he starving? Did they have wet nurses among the fairies—

  Beatrice broke off and stared at the pitiable changeling. He hadn’t been fed in hours. Maybe not all day. If fairy babies were anything like human ones, his belly was probably cramping with hunger now. No wonder he’s crying.

  But. She frowned, her heart twisting with guilt. She had prayed that the fairies were treating her own son well, feeding him, tending him, and she’d left this little one to starve all day. How could she do that and hope for better for her own baby? But…

  Nervous, heart skittering, gut churning, she reached into the crib and lifted the fairy child into her arms. He rooted at her chest immediately, driven by instinct. With shaking hands, she unlaced her dress, then pulled the fabric down and let the starving baby latch onto her breast.

  Her body ached with the tension, but after a moment of the baby feeding like a normal child—and not growing claws or fangs or any other of the horrible things she’d imagined might happen while she nursed him—Beatrice relaxed and settled into her nursing chair. The baby was utterly calm in her arms, a warm, satisfying weight. He rested one fist against her skin and she tucked her finger under his, examining his tiny baby nails, the pale green flush of his skin.

  She jumped when the peach tones began spreading back over his skin. When she glanced back at his face, startled, she was relieved to see he didn’t have her son’s features but his own. Although his eyes were blue again and not fairy-black, and his hair changed from coal black to a dark red like hers. Comparing faces in her mind’s eye, she could tell his eyes were smaller than her boy’s, his cheeks less full. But the changeling had an adorable little cleft on his chin, and dimples flashed in his cheeks when he smiled trustingly at her. A sweet smile, a shy smile. One utterly unlike her son’s—and yet utterly appealing for all that.

  Her heart wobbled like a stone teetering on the edge of a mountain. She stroked the silky down of his hair, her pulse fluttering. “Oh no.” But she smiled at him as she said it.

  Chapter Eight

  Really it was no wonder the changeling managed to enchant her. Human babies and small animals had much the same magic. She didn’t feel particularly alarmed as the baby made her laugh and smile and sigh with his happy giggles and silly faces. This was baby magic, not fairy wiles—and she would have been helpless to resist him either way.

  Eventually, her laughing and smiles managed to convince a few of her ladies that the child was not so dangerous as that, and they returned to her chambers. But when she would have left him to find the magician or her husband, he cried and clung to her neck. She gave up on leaving him or her chambers. Around noon, she managed to sleep atop the covers on her bed with the babe sprawled across her chest, a warm weight. He drooled down the front of her gown and was groggy and bleary-eyed when he woke. A fearsome monster indeed.

  “Is there anything I can get for you, my lady?” Petronilla kept her voice low, her brown eyes wide in her dark face as she glanced at the changeling in Beatrice’s arms.

  “No. Wait, yes.” Beatrice palmed grit from her eyes and shifted the baby’s weight in her arms as she sat up. “See if you can summon Master Llewellyn for me. And send a page into town for my jeweler. Ask him to come here.”

  Petronilla frowned, then shook herself and sidled back a pace to carry out her errands. “Yes, my lady. Would you…” She flicked her gaze to the baby again. “Would you like me to take him? To see if you can rest more.”

  Beatrice smiled but shook her head. “It’s all right.” She managed to rise while still holding the baby and crossed to the blanket where her own son usually played. She tried to set the changeling down, but he only curled his hands into her hair and refused to let go. With a sigh, Beatrice cupped his bottom and rested his weight on her hip. “Fine. Then you’ll have to come with me, you troublesome little man.”

  Petronilla was already back from sending the pages about their duties. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  More than I want any of the other women underfoot. “Yes. Although we’re not going far.”

  She went down the hall and one flight of stairs. Petronilla shadowed her, hands tucked modestly into her sleeves. When they stopped in front of Llewellyn’s door, Beatrice pushed the door open without hesitation. Petronilla lingered uncertainly in the hallway. “My lady?”

  “Don’t worry. The magician gave me leave.” He hadn’t actually, but if Beatrice could ever manage to speak to him again she was sure he would. They were ill-prepared for their planned raid tonight, and she intended to rectify that.

&n
bsp; She tried opening the magician’s saddlebags with one hand and the baby dangling, but the child was too heavy and squirmy. He kept throwing off her balance. Exasperated, she crossed to Petronilla and dumped the child into her hands. He fussed and whined, fretting in the other woman’s arms and reaching for Beatrice. Petronilla looked equally uncomfortable, staring at the baby as if he was a feral cat about to claw her eyes out.

  “Just hold on.” She dug into the trunk and at last unearthed one of the two iron chainmail shirts as well as a sharp boot-knife of pure iron. She tossed both on the bed and took the baby back from Petronilla before he could work himself into a full-blown tantrum. “Take those, please.”

  Petronilla scooped up the shirt and the knife, obviously grateful to be carrying them instead of the baby. The baby, for his part, clung extravagantly to Beatrice’s neck, seeming to let Petronilla know just how distasteful her arms had been to him. Spoiled children, the both of them. Beatrice grinned as she led the way back upstairs to her chambers.

  ***

  When she gave the jeweler her orders, he goggled at her. “My lady, I suppose I can do what you want, but this is not my art. You’d be better served taking this work to the blacksmith or the armorer who is more used to it.”

  “Every man in this town who can work a forge has already been pressed into service for my husband. He overlooked you. Which is my good fortune. Have it all ready for me. And have it ready before sunset. There’s a fat purse waiting for you if you do…” She lowered her voice, letting some of the kindling rage inside her leak into her tone. “…and a firm beating waiting for you if you fail me.”

  The jeweler swallowed visibly, but he took the mail shirt with him and promised to return later with her desired items.

  Beatrice stared out the window, at the sun still high and bright in the sky, and let out a deep sigh. Anxiety burned in her skin, making her blood feel as if it were popping, leaving her unable to focus, to sit still.

  The changeling’s laugh pierced through her doom, and she smiled to see him playing on the floor with a ball. He looked less and less like her own boy every hour. The changeling’s baby-blue eyes had turned color again, lightening to a clear pale green like a spring leaf. He seemed slightly bigger too, older than her boy, more coordinated and sure of his movements than a human baby. Maybe he was older, or maybe fairy babies grew differently. He had deigned to allow Petronilla to roll the ball back and forth to him, but he smiled over his shoulder at Beatrice after every roll, checking to see if she was watching him.

  With a laugh, she bent to sit on the floor behind him for the rest of the afternoon. The more she saw of him, the more she decided the changeling was a bit like one of the castle cats: condescending of all her ladies when they tried to play with him, fierce and fretful when his will was flouted. But, for whatever reason, he would always quiet for Beatrice, snuggling close, his kitten breath stirring against her skin.

  Like calling to like maybe. Hadn’t she played parts in her time like the changeling child was playing human? The dutiful daughter, the temptress…the doting wife.

  But motherhood and caring for this land and its people…those had never felt false. Holding her son—her own son—had felt like the lifting of a veil. As if she’d seen the world through a piece of gauze before and only now could she see the truth—sharp, real, clear as looking through Llewellyn’s seeing stone. All her own concerns and desires had seemed so petty once she’d held the miracle of her son in her arms.

  And I lost him. Maybe the real falsehood was that she could ever be a good mother.

  The changeling boy stirred against her chest. They sat together in the window seat, staring at the bustle below as Stephen welcomed more men-at-arms from his borderlands. The baby pressed one small fist against her heart, staring solemnly into her face. Truly an uncanny child. Another little miracle.

  But not my own. She tucked the tip of her finger inside his small fist and felt him squeeze it back. This was the trouble with babies and kittens and all small, fragile things. They could steal your heart in a moment with nothing more powerful than an unguarded smile, a bright laugh, a happy sigh against your heart.

  “I cannot keep you, little man.” Not if she was to get her own son back.

  The baby nestled against her once more. He tangled one fist in her curls, lifting the red mass to his mouth to suck on. She laughed and pulled her hair free. “We must work on your courtly manner.” He settled back in her lap, staring out the window and chewing on his own toes instead of her hair. He’s not yours. You cannot keep him. She sighed and rubbed his smooth back, tying to calm the clamorous beat of her own heart. The sun was sinking low, painting the sky a vibrant, violent red. A bad omen? Or a good one?

  “My lady?”

  She whirled at the sound of Llewellyn’s voice. The magician looked haggard, dark circles under his eyes and a gauntness in the lines of his cheeks. Mary trailed after him but did not speak. She only cast a glare at the changeling and a cool look Beatrice’s way before settling herself into a chair in the corner.

  “Petronilla,” Beatrice called. “Bring wine and food for the magician.” If the sullen Mary wanted refreshment for herself then she could ask for it.

  Petronilla leapt at once to fetch the food. The other three noblewomen held back, huddling together and murmuring among themselves. Doubtless not wanting to risk fraternizing with a known sodomite like Llewellyn. Beatrice tsked to herself. As if who one went to bed with had anything to do with one’s moral character. She drew a chair over for the magician and fairly pushed him into it. He folded up like one of her son’s small rag dolls.

  The changeling fussed and reached for the magician, pumping his fists. Llewellyn smiled and held his arms up to take the child.

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She passed the baby over, then let out a moan of relief and proceeded to stretch her arms and shoulders.

  Llewellyn quirked an eyebrow. “Long day?”

  “I haven’t put the silly boy down. He won’t go to anyone else without a great riot of screaming, so it’s not even worth it.”

  “Hmm.” Llewellyn bounced the boy on his knee, making the child laugh. The magician’s mouth twisted, looking wistful somehow. Meanwhile, Petronilla returned with a tray of fruit and day-old bread. With a sigh, Beatrice took the baby back so the magician could have both hands.

  “How go my husband’s plans?”

  Llewellyn washed a chunk of bread down with two gulps of wine. He wiped his mouth then spoke. “He rides tomorrow at dawn, hoping to catch the fairies sleeping, and I must ride out with him.”

  “Fool.” But she said it without heat.

  “And how go your plans, my lady?”

  She bit her lip but could not quite contain the smile stretching across her mouth. “I’ll show you. Come. Mary, attend me.”

  “Do you need me to take charge of the baby, my lady?” Petronilla asked.

  “No.” Beatrice swallowed, the beginning of regret stirring in her gut. “He’s going with us.”

  ***

  “You did what?” Llewellyn lifted his mangled chain-mail shirt, his hands shaking as he gaped at Beatrice. Half the links were missing from the bottom of the shirt, so that it would now come up only to a grown man’s navel.

  She tossed her hair. “That shirt won’t fit under my gown. I need protection too.” She’d had the jeweler fashion a long belt out of the metal links. Not the most attractive of adornments, but she wore it underneath her skirts anyway, hidden from the fairies’ sights. The belt hung low about her waist with a small tail of links down the front of her shift as well. It felt a bit like she had a shackle around her waist, but the iron hung reassuringly heavy about her hips. She’d also stolen Llewellyn’s smaller iron dagger for her boot and grabbed the bag of pearls from her broken necklace to tie to her belt. The pearls might be useful for bribes. Fairies will take bribes, won’t they? She fought off a wave of dread, pushing away the thought of
everything she didn’t know, all the dangers she didn’t even know to look for.

  “Just what is your plan? My lady.” Llewellyn bowed obsequiously enough, but there was a tart edge to his voice.

  “We must sneak in to the Fairy Hill, find my son, and switch back the babies.”

  “Is that all?”

  “The kelpie will help us.”

  Llewellyn scrubbed a hand over his face, looking wary. “The kelpie might get us into the Fairy Hill. I sincerely doubt he’s going to help us, though.”

  “We have to try something.” And you didn’t devise a better plan. She bit her cheek to keep from spitting the words out. “The fairies took him. I’m sure we can take him back.”

  Llewellyn puffed a breath out, looking more like a frayed rag doll with every moment. He nodded briskly, once. “Fair enough.” He dug two ceramic flasks out of the belt at his waist and handed them to her. “Sleep potions. Use them well.” He crooked his elbow and offered it to her. “Shall we go, Baroness?”

  Remembering the darkness, the fairies, the queen’s choking magic, Beatrice wet her lips. How can this work? How could she accomplish what her husband and a dozen strong men-at-arms had not?

  They can’t give birth. Men can do some things well, but there are some things women are made for. I was made to protect my child as surely as a shield is. The truth of it struck her suddenly, and seeped into her like a warm elixir in her veins, giving her strength, giving her courage.

  Besides, I have experience with intrigue and sneaking about in the dark. She linked her arm through Llewellyn’s. Mary met them in the hallway, bouncing the changeling in her arms. Together, the four of them made their way out of the castle and down to the stables to fetch the kelpie.

  Chapter Nine

  The kelpie laughed when he understood their intent. Or, at least, he made the closest noise he could to a laugh for a horse—a sort of braying wheeze. “This is a fool’s errand.” He nodded his horsey head toward the changeling. “The queen will not give up her baby for that.”