Kingdom of Shadows

The keys lay on the table, beside Elizabeth. Automatically she reached for the heavy ring. Then she drew back. ‘You are the countess now, child,’ she whispered hoarsely.

Isobel froze. Her mouth had gone dry. To pay homage to the King of England for a single stone of Scotland was heaping insult on their already pitiful humiliation, but she dared not refuse. Slowly she picked up the keys. She stepped off the dais and began the slow walk down the hall, aware that every eye was on her. She held her head high, walking with slow dignity, her eyes fixed on the face of the king.

Reaching him she dropped a deep curtsey and handed him the keys. He tossed them to the knight standing at his side. ‘So, you are Lord Buchan’s bride. My congratulations, madam. I am sorry to have had to deprive you of your husband so soon.’ His face was cold. ‘Our cousin, your mother, sends you greetings; and your brother who is in the household of our son.’

‘Thank you, sire.’ She curtseyed again. She had seen her mother so seldom in the last few years she could barely remember what she looked like; her brother she had never seen, save as a baby.

‘And your uncle, Macduff, who appealed to us at Westminster last year, if I remember right, against your late lamented King John’s decision to imprison him.’ Again the humourless smile. ‘It was astute of him to recognise us even then as overlord of Scotland.’

Isobel could feel her cheeks colouring in indignation. ‘My uncle, sire, was bitter at the injustice done him by our elected king.’ She emphasised the penultimate word. ‘Had Scotland’s true king been chosen to rule, my uncle would not have needed an arbitrator.’

She heard the gasp of horror from the onlookers at her temerity, and she felt a little clutch of fear but she kept her head held high.

‘The true king?’ Edward enquired with deceptive mildness.

‘Robert Bruce, the lord of Annandale, sire.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘The man who thinks I have nothing better to do than win a kingdom for him. His claim was dismissed as invalid at my court, Lady Buchan, with those of the other rabble of claimants to the throne of Scotland. And now that John Balliol has proved himself traitor to his overlord, Scotland can do without a king at all. I shall rule this country myself from now on. I require your homage, madam.’

She swallowed. ‘You have my homage and my loyalty, sire, for our lands in England.’

‘And now you will kneel before me for your lands in Scotland.’

There was a slight movement around them, whispering amongst the Buchan household as they watched the young woman standing before the king. Elizabeth de Quincy raised her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Her own mortification at their defeat was lessened by the sight of Isobel’s dilemma, and not for the first time she felt a secret grudging admiration for her rebellious daughter-in-law.

Isobel had clenched her fists. ‘I will give my allegiance only to the King of Scotland, sire –’ she whispered. Her courage was fast oozing away.

‘There is no King of Scotland.’ Edward was peremptory. ‘You will do homage to me as overlord of Scotland, madam, or you will be sent a prisoner to England after your husband. Choose.’

She gave in. Kneeling in the dried heather at the king’s feet, she put her hands in his and repeated the oath in a voice so quiet that he had to bend to hear her.

Twenty minutes later the King rode out of the castle, leaving a token garrison behind to hold it in his name.

It was a year before she saw her husband again.

The following summer King Edward granted Lord Buchan a safe conduct to travel north for two months only, to visit his lands in Scotland and to see his wife.

Isobel was pacing up and down the deserted tower room, kicking at the hem of her skirts with every step, her arms folded, her face set with fury. She was alone. The servants had fled downstairs. Lord Buchan had still not come to greet her.

For months she had remained alone at Duncairn. The morning after the King of England’s departure, Elizabeth had removed most of the household to Slains Castle a few miles along the coast. Isobel was left behind. It had been her husband’s orders before he left under escort for England. She was to remain at Duncairn with the garrison and a handful of women and learn the duties of a wife.

Frustrated, bored and angry, she had begged and railed and sworn at her husband’s steward, demanding to be allowed to ride out of the castle, but he was adamant. The earl’s orders were to be obeyed. She was a prisoner.

And now Lord Buchan had returned. The night before she had heard the horses and men ride into the castle and she had waited in her room, trembling, for him to come, but he had not appeared. Now her fear had passed and the anger had returned. How dare he ignore her! She was the countess – that much she had learned in her solitude in the castle, and she deserved his attention.

With a whirl of scarlet skirts she stormed back to the window and stood in the embrasure looking down at the sea, drumming her fingers on the stone. The tide was high and the waves were crashing on to the base of the rocks, casting clouds of spray into the air. The sun was shining directly into the window – a brilliant September sun, highlighting the whin on the granite cliffs and turning the dry soft grasses to gold. When the door opened behind her, slamming back against the wall, she did not turn.

‘So, this is where you hide yourself. Can you not even come down to the great hall to greet your husband?’ Lord Buchan’s voice was acid as he banged the door shut behind him.

She swung round. ‘I am not a groom to attend at your stirrup, my lord.’

‘Indeed not. You are the lady of this castle, the hostess I expect to find in the hall greeting my guests.’

‘I was unaware you had guests.’ Isobel stepped down from the embrasure. ‘As no one had the courtesy to tell me!’ She had a sneaking feeling she was in the wrong, but nothing would make her admit it, even though the sight of her husband’s tall, muscular figure beneath the dark green mantle had brought back her fear of him with a sickening jolt.

He sighed. ‘Isobel, I do not want us to be enemies,’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing will be served by your temper. Come.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let us go down now.’

For a moment she hesitated, then, reluctantly she put her hand in his. If the only way to get out of the castle and ride free was to appease him, then appease him she would.

The truce lasted until dusk. At the high table in the great hall she was seated between her husband and his guest, his cousin John Comyn. As a succession of courses came and went before them, their talk was all of politics.

‘You agree that King Edward of England is making more and more impossible demands of the Scots people. We have to find a way of being free of his ambition.’ Lord Buchan leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

Comyn nodded gloomily. ‘Our cousin, King John,’ his voice was full of irony, ‘does not dare cross him now. He is useless. We have to throw the weight of tradition and the wishes of the community of the realm into the scale. All the lords of Scotland are with us.’

Buchan frowned. ‘Nearly all. There are some who put their arrogance and personal ambition before Scotland’s good.’

Comyn nodded. ‘The Bruces, you mean. They are still with us at heart, even if they appear to support Edward. Young Carrick is a fine fighter.’ He sighed. ‘They find it hard to acknowledge that their claim to the throne was overturned and John Balliol made king. They will come round slowly if we can find a way to make them turn their allegiance back to Scotland without rubbing their noses in the act.’

Isobel looked from one man to the other. The mention of Robert’s name had set her heart beating very fast. ‘Robert will never swear allegiance to Balliol,’ she said firmly. ‘The Bruce claim was far the stronger!’

Both men looked at her in astonishment. ‘So, you are an expert on the law, little cousin!’ John Comyn smiled at her patronisingly.

Isobel could feel herself growing red. ‘I know who was the rightful heir to King Alexander’s throne,’ she said tartly.

‘But it was a representative of your own brother who crowned Balliol king, surely.’ Comyn was enjoying himself. ‘The seal of approval from the Earl of Fife himself – who else could have put the crown on King John’s head?’

‘My brother is in England, sir, and a mere child,’ she retorted. ‘He knew nothing about it. He would never have set the crown on Balliol’s head of his own choice.’

Buchan’s face darkened. ‘That is enough! John Balliol is our king for better or worse, and we must abide by the court’s decision. Now the important thing is to see that Scotland regains her independence and rights as a kingdom.’

‘To do that, she must have a strong king!’ Isobel put in.

‘And you think old Robert Bruce of Annandale is the man to fill the position?’ Comyn asked, still amused. ‘A man whose wife, if the story is true, threw him across her saddle when she took a fancy to him, and carried him off to force him into marriage! A strong man indeed!’ He leaned back with a roar of laughter and raised a goblet of wine in mock salute.

‘I think it is the younger Robert Bruce she means,’ John put in coldly. ‘Am I not right, my dear? It is his son, Lord Carrick, we are talking about, are we not? The one who paid you so much attention when he was here last.’

Too late, Isobel saw how she had betrayed herself; desperately she put her hands to her flaming cheeks, conscious that the eyes of both men were upon her. ‘I haven’t spoken to Lord Carrick for more than a year!’

‘But when you did?’ John was watching her face thoughtfully. ‘You spoke to him alone, did you not? It was reported that you were both seen leaving the chapel.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t remember.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘What does it matter now?’

‘It matters not at all. Now,’ he said quietly.

Alone in their chamber later he turned on her. ‘You will not see Lord Carrick again alone, do you understand?’

Isobel, wrapped in the pale green bed gown Mairi had given her after helping her undress, shivered. The room was dark now and full of shadows as the candles streamed in the draught from the window.

‘I doubt whether the occasion will arise, since you are enemies,’ she said sadly. ‘And he has no interest in me anyway. He is married.’ Her eyes betrayed her pain for a moment.

Lord Buchan saw it. ‘So. That is it. You would have preferred a young, handsome husband, a man whose father claims a kingdom. That appeals to you does it?’ His face was hard with anger. ‘Not the stable boy my mother thought you were involved with, but an earl! So much more fitting for the great Lady of Duff. Far more to her tastes, although not, perhaps, to Carrick’s, as you came to me a virgin! Or was he still so recently knighted that he was mindful of his vows! Well, you are married now, madam, and to an earl of ancient lineage. To me! And you will play the part of my wife in every particular until the day you die, do you understand me?’ He caught her shoulders. ‘Your first duty being to provide me with an heir!’

He took no pleasure in her body. Her slim, almost boyish figure, her pale skin and delicate bones excited him hardly at all as he pulled open her gown and pushed her down on to the bed. Only her rebellion raised him to passion, and then it was anger, not desire which inflamed him.

He stayed at Duncairn for three weeks as he discussed with the Scottish lords their plans for rebellion and made the decision at last to defy King Edward openly by breaking his parole and joining them. By the time he left the castle with them, Isobel knew that she hated him as she had hated no one in her life before; and she also knew that she was pregnant.

As he rode away down the track at the head of his men she called Mairi to her.

‘A bath,’ she commanded. ‘Have them bring a bath up here and fill it for me!’

‘My lady?’ Mairi stared at her. ‘Up here? Now?’

‘Now,’ Isobel was imperious. For once she did not care how much work it made for the servants, or how hard it was to carry water up the high winding stairs. She waited in the chamber she had shared with the earl for the men to drag the heavy wooden tub up the stairs and fill it with bucket after bucket of rapidly cooling water, then, alone save for Mairi she began to remove her clothes.

She heard the woman’s quickly smothered gasp of horror as she saw the bruises on Isobel’s arms and shoulders, and the lacerations where her husband’s brooch and buckles had caught at her bare skin as he took her again and again over the weeks, not even bothering to undress himself, but she ignored the woman’s unspoken sympathy. She gritted her teeth. If she wavered even for an instant in her resolve she would begin to cry, and that she would never do.

Helping Isobel climb into the high-sided tub it was Mairi who found that she was blinking back her tears, but Isobel was uncowed. ‘Fetch me that box, standing on the coffer,’ she commanded as she lowered her aching body into the water.

Mairi did as she was bid, wiping her eyes surreptitiously on her sleeve as she picked up the small carved box.

Isobel held out her hand. ‘Now, leave me alone,’ she commanded.

‘My lady –’

‘Leave me! I’ll call you when I’m ready.’ Her voice wavered for the first time.

She waited for the door to close, then, carefully holding the box clear of the water, she opened it.

The powders were ready; crushed herbs and tree bark, the ash of a burned piece of parchment on which a spell had been written and the charcoal remains of a poor burned frog. With a shudder she tipped the mixture into the water, and throwing the box to the ground she gently stirred it in around her. She had already swallowed some of the powder, dissolved in wine; this ritual cleansing would complete the spell which Mairi had herself told her, long ago, and would rid her of Lord Buchan’s child.

When the water was quite cold and she was shivering violently she called Mairi back.

‘Quick, give me a towel.’ She climbed awkwardly from the bath, and ran, swathed in the towel to stand by the fire. Her teeth were chattering audibly. ‘Throw on more peats, Mairi, I’m so cold.’ Outside, the wind was rising; the polished horn shutters in the windows rattled and the dried heather on the floor stirred uneasily in the draught.

‘I won’t bear his child!’ Isobel cried as Mairi approached with a neatly folded clean shift from one of the coffers. ‘I won’t. I’d die rather!’

Mairi shook her head sadly. ‘It will be as God wills, my lady.’

‘No! It will be as I will!’ Isobel shook out her hair. She snatched off the towel and stood for a moment, naked in the firelight, looking down in distaste at the roughly woven unbleached cloth which was covered in little bits of the herb and bark that had been clinging to her damp skin.

Mairi shrank back. Such blatant nakedness was suddenly shocking. The child she had bathed a thousand times before had become a stranger.

As she watched, Isobel held the towel high and flung it on the fire. It smoked and blackened on the smouldering peats, then it burst into a brilliant flame which leapt crackling up the chimney. Both women stared at it for a moment, then, shaking with fear, Mairi hurried forward and wrapped Isobel’s chilled body in the shift. When she turned away the little hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Glancing over her shoulder at her mistress, Mairi crossed herself secretly.

‘You’re not afraid of me, Mairi?’ Isobel asked suddenly.

‘Of course not, my lady.’ Still unnerved, Mairi didn’t look at her. She stooped to pick up the box near the bath and closing it reverently she put it down on the table.

‘I meant it, Mairi. I will not carry that man’s baby.’ Isobel spoke with a new authority, no longer a child.

‘I believe you, my lady.’ Mairi shivered again.

‘And now it is over.’ Isobel was staring into the fire. ‘Soon the blood will come, and I shall be free of it!’

6

‘James Gordon is here, Mr Royland.’ The voice on Paul’s desk rang out suddenly in the silence.

Paul turned from the window and pressed the intercom switch. ‘Thank you, Penny. Could you ask him to come in?’

He smiled wearily as the door opened. ‘I’m sorry about lunch last week.’

James shrugged. ‘No problem. Did you talk to Clare?’

Paul nodded slowly. He threw himself down into a chair, gesturing at his brother-in-law to do the same. ‘We discussed things at some length.’ He hesitated, giving James a quick appraising glance. ‘I want this conversation to be completely confidential. It is to ask you about Clare.’

James sat down slowly. His expression was carefully guarded.

‘As you predicted,’ Paul went on, ‘she is adamant in her refusal to contemplate the sale of Duncairn. Irrationally so.’ He paused again, allowing the words to hang for a moment in the air. ‘It is of course a very difficult time for Clare. The discovery that she can never have children has upset her enormously. It is perfectly understandable that her entire outlook on life is a little disturbed at the moment. The problem is that she is allowing her emotional distress to interfere with her business acumen.’

For the first time James’s face flickered. ‘I never thought my sister had any business acumen at the best of times.’

Paul looked at him sharply. ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, I assure you she has. Which is why she would be the first to be furious if she found that she had missed out on a massively profitable deal while the balance of her mind was disturbed.’

James let out a soundless whistle. ‘That’s a bit strong, surely.’

Paul stood up restlessly. He walked across to the window and stood looking down into Coleman Street for a moment in silence. When he spoke it was with extreme care. ‘I understand that there have been times, even from her earliest childhood, when Clare has had periods of, shall we say, strangeness?’ He put his hands in his pockets, leaning forward slightly, as if studying something below on the pavement.

‘Hardly strangeness.’ James was staring at Paul’s back. ‘She’s always been highly strung, I suppose. And Aunt Margaret used to call her fey. But I don’t think that means what one thinks it does, does it?’ He gave a forced laugh.

‘It means doomed to die young.’ Paul turned sharply, leaning against the window sill.

James licked his lips. They had gone rather dry. ‘I’m sure Aunt Margaret did not mean that.’

‘What then?’

James hadn’t realised before what hard eyes Paul had. Brown, like nuts; expressionless in the handsome, slightly overweight face.

‘I think she meant slightly spooky; seeing ghosts, that sort of thing. Like those nightmares she used to get all the time.’

‘She still has them.’

‘Does she?’ James glanced up at him.

‘And she is still suffering from claustrophobia. That has something to do with the nightmares, I think.’

James hesitated uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know that it does, actually,’ he said at last. ‘I think that may be my fault.’ He stood up and slowly paced up and down the carpet. Paul was watching him, a frown on his face. ‘It was when we were children,’ James went on after a second or two. ‘A game that got out of hand.’ He glanced up at Paul with an apologetic smile. ‘Aunt Margaret used to tell us stories about Robert the Bruce, Scottish history, battles and stuff.’ He paused again. ‘One of the stories was about a woman who was put in a cage and left there to die.’ He shuddered. ‘It was pretty horrible really. Clare was obsessed by it and Aunt Margaret would go on about it; it never seemed to dawn on her that Clare was really upset by the whole thing. Anyway, we used to play Robert the Bruce games: the Battle of Bannockburn, that sort of thing. And once we played the woman in the cage.’ There was a long silence. ‘Kids can be pretty cruel, can’t they, and there were times when I thought I hated Clare. She was older than me, and I always thought she was mother’s favourite, so I didn’t have too much conscience about what I did.’ He stopped pacing the floor. Looking down he kicked viciously at the carpet.

‘And what did you do?’ Paul prompted softly.

‘I locked her in a cage at Airdlie.’ James resumed pacing the floor. ‘There was a cage at the back of the stables – a small run really, where grandfather kept his dogs. I found an old padlock and pushed her in and left her there. It was quite late at night. Completely dark. There was no one around.’

‘How long was she there?’ Paul’s eyes were fixed on his face.

‘All night. We started playing after we were supposed to be in bed. The grown-ups were having a dinner party. No one noticed she was missing. No one heard her call.’

‘What happened?’

‘In the morning I went to let her out. I thought it was a great lark but she was unconscious. I can still remember how frightened I was. I thought she was dead. I didn’t know what to do. The woman who looked after Aunt Margaret came and I helped her carry Clare to bed. She was terrified because she was supposed to have been looking after us. She put hot-water bottles at her feet and smacked her hands and face and in the end Clare woke up.’

‘And?’

‘That’s the strange part. She didn’t seem to remember anything about it. And no one ever said anything. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.’ James gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It was shortly after that that she started getting attacks of claustrophobia – quite serious ones. I felt as guilty as hell.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ Paul said grimly.

James grimaced. ‘Aunt Margaret blamed herself. I think she suspected that it was to do with the woman in the cage, but she didn’t know what I had done. She never told us that particular story again.’ He paused again. ‘The woman in the cage. I think she died at Duncairn.’

‘I see.’ Paul turned away, walking back to the window thoughtfully. There was a long silence, then at last he spoke. ‘It is my opinion, and that of our doctor, that Clare is heading for a nervous breakdown. To avoid such a thing happening, I am going to take as much as possible off her shoulders; take over the management of her affairs; send her away for a long rest so that she can get things back into perspective.’

‘And sell Duncairn while she isn’t looking,’ James said almost under his breath.

Paul swung round. ‘I can see no merit in keeping the property. That hotel will be nothing but a drain on our resources. However, if there is really some family attachment to the place I am prepared to offer it to you first.’

‘At the same price Sigma are offering?’ James raised an eyebrow.

Paul inclined his head slightly. ‘The property has become valuable and I am a businessman.’

‘How do you propose to get Clare’s agreement to all this?’

‘I will see to it that I get power of attorney.’

‘You mean you’re going to have her certified?’

Paul noted the sudden indignation in his brother-in-law’s voice. ‘There is no question of that. She will give it to me willingly.’

‘You think so?’ James looked sceptical. He paused, then he shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, Paul, but I’m not interested in buying Duncairn. I wouldn’t do that to Clare, and besides, I’m not about to throw that kind of money into any property, whether it has oil or not. Nor am I sure anyway that I necessarily want to stand around and watch them put nodding donkeys all over the headland.’

Paul gave him a withering look. ‘I didn’t see you as sentimental.’

‘No?’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you forget that I’m a Scot too, Paul. Aunt Margaret left the place to Clare because she thought I wouldn’t appreciate it fully. Perhaps she was right, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t have sold it. I may be a businessman, but to see Duncairn raped would hurt even me. I won’t go so far as to try and stop you selling; no one could ignore the kind of offer you’ve had, but I won’t stand and watch.’

Paul inclined his head slightly. ‘Fair enough. We understand one another, I think.’