Читать книгу Kingdom of Shadows - Barbara Erskine - Страница 14

Clare sat completely still. She was numb from head to foot. Disorientated, she stared around her, then she heard it again. Someone was ringing the doorbell.

Beyond the curtains it was dark now. In the shadowy bedroom the only light came from the flickering candle. She was shivering violently.

Emma was standing on the doorstep. ‘I was just going,’ she said as Clare opened the door. ‘I thought you must have forgotten and gone out.’ She was a tall, striking young woman with glossy chestnut hair and the dark Royland eyes. Beneath her coat she wore a pale blue silk shirt and skirt. ‘Are you all right?’ She peered at Clare suddenly. ‘You look frightful. Is anything wrong?’

Clare laughed uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot you were coming this evening.’ She stepped back to allow her visitor inside. ‘I don’t even know what the time is.’

‘After seven. What have you been up to? You weren’t asleep?’

Clare hesitated, then impulsively she clutched at Emma’s arm. ‘I’ve got to tell someone. It was awful – so … so real.’ Suddenly she buried her face in her hands.

‘Clare?’ Emma stared at her in horror. ‘Come on, what’s the matter? Is it Paul? What has that bloody brother of mine been doing now?’

Wordlessly Clare shook her head.

‘Then what?’ Emma’s voice was gentle. ‘Come on, Clare. You must tell me. Is it – is it about those tests you and Paul went for?’

Slowly Clare raised her face from her hands. She sat down limply in the Victorian chair near the fireplace. ‘Oh that!’ Could she really have forgotten that? ‘The results have come back, I can’t have children.’

‘Oh, Clare.’ Helplessly Emma stared at her. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

‘I was so sure there was nothing wrong.’ Clare stared straight ahead of her at the pattern on the rug near her feet. ‘It’s strange, but I thought I would know if it were me; know in some subconscious part of myself. But I didn’t. I can’t come to terms with it yet.’

‘Are you going to think about adoption?’ Emma asked cautiously.

Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. Paul was foul about it.’

‘The bastard!’ Emma threw herself down on the sofa opposite her. ‘He has got to be the most insensitive, unfeeling, boorish man I’ve ever met!’

In spite of herself Clare smiled. ‘So much for sisterly love.’

‘You know there’s not much of that lost between Paul and me. We’ve always hated each other.’ Emma grinned. ‘I never could see what you saw in him. But you know that.’

Clare smiled. ‘Oh, he has his moments.’ She hesitated, then she frowned. ‘But he has changed lately. He seems to have a lot on his mind and it’s not just the baby business. At least, I don’t think so. He seems to have got some sort of an obsession about money at the moment, almost as if he’s worried –’ she stopped abruptly, shaking her head. ‘Maybe there are problems of some sort at the bank. He never talks about what goes on there.’ She sighed, leaning back in the chair. ‘I’ve been trying to think of ways of taking my mind off everything. And I think I’ve found one. It’s not a permanent solution but it’s a sort of temporary counter-irritant. Inflicting one kind of pain to distract oneself from another worse one. That is what I was doing when you rang the doorbell.’

Emma frowned. ‘I take it that this is something to do with the yoga I’ve been hearing about.’

‘Who on earth told you about that?’ Clare stood up restlessly. ‘But, yes, it’s to do with that. Meditation. It’s the most incredible experience, Em. It’s exciting, frightening sometimes – mind-bending. One empties one’s mind and concentrates, in my case on Duncairn, and after a bit all these images start to appear: people, places from long ago. It is an amazing way of escaping reality!’ She grinned suddenly. ‘It’s as if I were conjuring up the spirits of the dead!’

Emma stared at her, her eyes wide. ‘You’re not serious! What happens?’

‘First I do some yoga to put me in the right frame of mind, then I have a little ritual with a lighted candle that Zak – that’s the man who has been teaching me the technique – taught me. It is a way of opening the doors to some sort of altered state of consciousness. I’m going to buy some incense while I’m up in London – that helps, too, apparently. It’s great fun. Then I begin to meditate, and it all starts to happen – scenes from the past, with real people who talk and move and seem as solid as you or me, and it’s so vivid I feel as if I were there. It is as if, if you had been here, you would have seen them too – seen every thing that happened.’

‘It sounds incredible! You’re loopy, Clare! You do know that?’ Emma grinned fondly.

Clare smiled. ‘I know, it’s frightfully shocking isn’t it? I dread to think what Paul would say if he knew.’

Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘What makes you think he doesn’t?’ She grimaced.

‘There’s no way he could. I’ve never told him. Oh, he knows about the yoga. He thinks that’s one of my typically crackpot schemes. The virtue of yoga is that lots of people do it, and it’s good for the figure.’

‘Even I’ve done yoga,’ Emma said thoughtfully.

‘Well, there you are then. It must be all right.’ Clare smiled at her teasingly. She was beginning to feel better.

‘What you’re doing frightens you, though, doesn’t it?’ Emma was not to be distracted. ‘You were in quite a state when you opened the door earlier.’

‘Was I?’ Clare looked surprised. ‘The doorbell startled me, that’s all. Although’ – she hesitated – ‘it was rather horrible.’

‘What was?’

‘Nothing.’ Clare shook her head.

‘Come on. You were about to tell me, and whatever it was it has nothing to do with you and Paul not being able to have children. It was to do with the meditation – if that’s what it is.’ Emma stood up and rummaged in the sideboard for Paul’s malt whisky. ‘You don’t think you really are conjuring up spirits, do you? Like a medium. Or making ghosts appear or something?’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘Will you try? While I’m here?’ She gave a mock shudder. ‘Here, for God’s sake let’s have a drink! I’ve gone all shivery!’

Clare laughed. ‘From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties, good Lord deliver us! Oh, I’m glad you came, Em. I would have spent the evening in that other world otherwise and it’s much more fun with you. Isobel – that’s the girl whom I seem to see most – well, her life is not quite as fun to watch as it was. In fact I think it may be strictly for when this one is too awful to contemplate.’ Her face sobered for a moment as she remembered the dark, echoing chamber high in the keep at Duncairn, full of the sound of the sea.

She pushed the picture away firmly. The only merit in the scene she had been witnessing was that Paul had not been able to follow her there too. ‘Come on. Give me ten minutes to change and we’ll go out. I have a feeling Paul has gone back to Bucksters without me – he doesn’t want to miss the party tomorrow.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Are you and Peter going?’

‘To David and Gillian’s?’ Emma shook her head. ‘No fear. We’re going to the theatre. Clare, seriously –’

‘No, Em. I don’t want to talk about it any more. Let’s go out. Please.’ She collected the two glasses and put them down on the sideboard, then she turned back to Emma. ‘You won’t say anything about any of this to Paul, will you.’

‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’

Clare smiled. ‘A friend. Otherwise I wouldn’t have told you anything.’

Emma grinned back at her. ‘I’m the soul of discretion. You can count on me. You know that.’

The Reverend Geoffrey Royland sat back comfortably at the breakfast table and opened his copy of The Times. At the table with him, his wife, Chloe and their two teenage children, Piers and Ruth, were immersed in the post. The large untidy kitchen, the only modernised room in the sprawling Edwardian rectory, smelled comfortably of coffee. When the doorbell rang no one moved.

‘Your turn, Piers.’ Ruth did not raise her eyes from the multi-paged letter in which she was engrossed.

‘It’s bound to be for Dad.’ Piers, two years younger than his sixteen-year-old sister, and already a head taller, was flipping through the latest issue of Combat.

‘Even so, it’s your turn, Piers.’ His mother, with an exasperated glance at her husband who appeared to have heard none of the exchange, tried to sound firm. ‘Come on, love. It’s time we all moved. I know it’s Saturday, but that’s no excuse, and Dad’s got a wedding this afternoon.’

Grumbling, Piers climbed to his feet. Clutching his magazine he headed for the hall. Moments later they heard the creak as the heavy front door with its insets of vivid stained glass swung open.

‘It’s Em,’ Piers shouted over his shoulder, then he was gone, two at a time, up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving their guest to find her own way to the kitchen.

Geoffrey, the middle Royland brother, stood up as he saw his sister. ‘What brings you out so early?’ He dropped a kiss on her cheek.

‘Coffee, Emma?’ Chloe slid an extra cup off the sideboard with a surreptitious glance at her sister-in-law. Emma looked tired, and there were dark rings under her eyes. Her normally cheerful face was very sober.

‘Please.’ Emma took Piers’s chair. There was a moment’s silence.

‘Is something wrong, Emma?’ Chloe put the cup down in front of her.

‘I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you, Geoff, about Pete and me.’

‘Ooh, lovely. Gossip!’ Ruth put down her letter, her eyes shining, and pushed her elbows forward on the table amongst the dirty plates and cups.

Geoffrey frowned. ‘That’s enough, Ruth.’

‘It’s nothing very dramatic; I just feel I want someone to talk to.’ Emma smiled apologetically at Chloe.

Geoffrey interrupted her with a gesture of his hand. ‘Why don’t you bring that coffee into my study. We’ll talk there. I know Chloe and Ruth will excuse us. They both have things to do.’

Ignoring the almost identical looks of anger and frustration on the faces of his wife and daughter, Geoffrey led the way out of the kitchen. His study was a ground-floor room, overlooking a quiet tree-lined street. Outside he could see Emma’s Golf parked beyond the gate.

Gesturing her towards what his family referred to as the interrogation chair, a deep-buttoned shabby leather arm-chair opposite his desk, he lowered himself into his own place. ‘You and Peter have been having problems for a while, haven’t you?’ He glanced at her, concerned.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Perhaps only to people who love you. Has something happened?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing special, I suppose.’ She sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘It’s just, well, he’s never there. I went out last night with Clare because I was all on my own again. Then when I got home the house was so – so empty!’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘Poor Em. But from what I hear he won’t change his job. Wheeling and dealing in the Far East is his whole life. Can’t you and Julia go with him sometimes?’

She raised her hands helplessly. ‘If I give up the gallery, I can.’

‘Ah.’ Geoffrey looked at her thoughtfully. ‘And you don’t want to do that.’

‘No I bloody well don’t! It’s not even as though Pete is away at the moment. He came back later from his beastly meeting and of course we had a row! The trouble is we never go out, Geoff! Even when he is home. It’s all work, work, work!’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came to dump all this in your lap. I suppose it was talking to Clare last night. It made me realise how important it is to have something else if your marriage falls apart.’

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh dear. Don’t tell me that is what is happening to Clare and Paul too?’

‘They’ve found out it is she who can’t have a baby.’

‘Poor Clare. I know how heartbroken she must be, but surely that is not going to destroy their marriage?’

‘It’s helping. She’s discovering fast just how rotten Paul can be.’ Emma shook her head sadly. ‘She has got nothing now. No job. No children. And probably no husband. Poor Clare. All she is left with are her daydreams and her visiting spirits!’

‘Her what?’ Geoffrey looked startled.

‘Oh lord! I’m not supposed to tell anyone.’ Emma put her hand to her mouth. ‘Well, not Paul, anyway. She’s doing some kind of weird meditation and conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She paused, then, seeing her brother’s face, she was unable to resist dramatising her statement. ‘With candles and incantations and incense and spells!’

Geoffrey was looking at her closely, unable for a moment to decide whether or not she was joking. It took only a moment to convince him that, in spite of the dramatic whisper, she was not.

Uneasily he rubbed his hands together. ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it,’ he said after a moment. ‘How did she start all this?’

‘She met someone who had been teaching her yoga. It’s all right, Geoff. There is nothing strange about that, at least I don’t think so. Mind you he does sound a bit weird, and I suppose she is exactly the kind of target some of these freaky sinister people look for to exploit.’

‘And you think this man is freaky and sinister?’

Emma shook her head and shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen him, but she seems to think he’s all right. She met him at a party. He’s Californian.’

‘It follows,’ Geoffrey said dryly.

‘And he’s gay, so he’s not after her body, only her mind.’ She laughed.

‘Or her soul.’

There was a pause. Emma eyed her brother uneasily. ‘Don’t take it too seriously, Geoff. Meditation is very trendy still, you know.’

‘Indeed. And so are all kinds of unfortunate cults. You don’t think Paul knows anything about this?’

She shook her head violently. ‘And he mustn’t. She doesn’t need any more hassle from Paul, she really doesn’t.’

‘It isn’t just a question of hassle, Emma. This could be serious. If you are correct, then Clare could be playing with fire. So many people get involved with these things without realising how dangerous they are.’ Geoffrey stood up and walked across the room. Absentmindedly he picked up his pipe from an ashtray and tapped it against the white plaster moulding of the mantelpiece. ‘I really ought to talk to her,’ he went on after a long pause.

Emma watched him uneasily. ‘Geoffrey, I promised I wouldn’t mention it to anyone.’

‘I’m glad you did, though.’ He polished the bowl of the pipe thoughtfully on the front of his sweater. ‘You and Clare get on well together, don’t you?’

‘You know we do.’

‘And you care about her?’

‘Of course!’

He paused. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t this you came to tell me about, Emma? You are worried about her, aren’t you.’

‘I’m worried about myself, Geoff. That is why I came.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘And we must talk again. Don’t do anything too precipitous, Emma. Peter is a good man. I think you’ll work it out. I think you both still love one another. And as for Clare –’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘I really do feel I must do something for her. Unfortunately I have to go away next week, but in any case I must think about this very carefully, and …’ he hesitated with a quick glance at his sister, ‘I must pray.’

Emma snorted. ‘What else?’ she said. She grinned. ‘Will you pray for me as well? I need it.’ Then her face sobered. ‘Don’t say anything to her, Geoff, please. Whatever it is she’s doing, it matters to her. It is all she’s got at the moment.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘That is the danger,’ he said. ‘That is exactly the danger. Poor Clare. I feel guilty that I hadn’t noticed that she was so unhappy. But we don’t see her and Paul that often, and when we do she always seems so self-contained. Chloe is very fond of her.’

‘So am I. And I don’t want to see her hurt. Leave it alone, Geoff, please.’

‘I can’t do that, Em. Not until I’ve found out what she really is doing. I have to, don’t you see? And something else. I think I should talk to Paul.’

‘No!’ Emma jumped to her feet. ‘No, you mustn’t. Look, maybe it’s not as bad as I’ve made it sound –’ She stopped as she caught sight of the expression on Geoffrey’s face and she could feel herself blushing. ‘No, I haven’t lied. Don’t look at me like that, but maybe I exaggerated a bit –’

‘Even if you have, Em, I think I should look into it as soon as I come back. I have to make sure she’s not doing something silly and I must make sure that Paul understands the strain she has been under.’

‘Blast you, Geoff! Can’t I make you understand! Leave Paul out of it!’ She put her hands on the edge of the desk. ‘Don’t mention it to Paul. Don’t you know yet what a bastard our brother can be?’

‘Oh, come on, Emma. That’s uncalled for.’

‘Is it?’ Emma slumped back in her chair. ‘I sometimes think you don’t know him at all, Geoff. Not at all.’

‘The idiot wouldn’t listen!’ Emma threw her car keys down on the kitchen table at home. Peter, deep in the weekend section of the Financial Times, did not respond.

Emma clenched her fists. ‘Did you hear me, Peter?’

‘What?’ Something in her tone got through to him. He half closed the paper, but only to turn the page; then it was reopened before him, separating them from one another as effectively as a brick wall.

‘I said, Geoffrey wouldn’t listen!’ Emma repeated, her voice tight.

‘About what?’ Behind the paper Peter was obviously still listening, but only just. He had cooled off considerably since their row the night before when he had arrived home after midnight exhausted from his meeting in the City. She had refused to believe that work could have gone on that late, and he had been short-tempered and irritable after an endless evening with a party of Japanese industrialists who had indeed talked nothing but business the entire night. ‘You know, Em, we should try and grow some of these pollution-resistant shrubs. It says here they are –’

He stopped abruptly as she swooped forward and plucked the newspaper out of his hands.

‘If you don’t shut up and listen, I am going to tear this into tiny little pieces and jump up and down on them!’

‘Sorry.’ Peter gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘So, you’ve been over to the Pompous Pontiff for breakfast.’

In spite of herself, Emma giggled. ‘You must not call him that. Especially in front of Julia –’

‘Julia is quite spectacularly not here –’

‘I know that! She’s spending the day with Tamsin. Listen Peter, I told Geoff about Clare. I didn’t mean to, but it sort of slipped out, and now the idiot insists he’s got to tell Paul.’

‘Of course he must. If the whole family is being told, why should Paul be the only one left out?’

‘The whole family isn’t being told!’

‘No?’ Peter looked at her coldly. ‘Geoffrey and Chloe, and no doubt those fearful children know. James knows. I know. No doubt David and Gillian know. If they don’t, someone will tell them at their party tonight.’ He shrugged. ‘Thank God we’re not going to be able to go to that. I can’t stand all that open air and rural gossip.’

‘I would like to have gone.’

‘Rubbish. You’d spend your entire time sending up those terribly boring people David and Gillian know. The soi-disant grande bourgeoisie of East Anglia who order their copies of The Times to drain their green wellies on to. I doubt if any of them have ever actually opened a copy in their lives.’ Gently he retrieved his paper from Emma’s hands. ‘So, don’t pretend to be sorry. I bet Clare’s not going.’

‘Well, no.’

‘Exactly. She’s got more sense. And, whatever she’s doing, Em, in future keep out of it.’

Paul had taken Casta for a walk across the fields. The grass was white with dew and a thick mist still clung amongst the trees; it was cold. Hands in pockets, he strode down the lane and up the edge of a field, watching with only half an eye as the dog ran back and forth, plumed tail wagging, flushing rabbits and partridge out of the hedgerow. He was still seething with anger. The drive back to Bucksters, always agonisingly slow on a Friday evening, the realisation that he should have brought Clare back for the party – David and Gillian would raise their eyebrows when he turned up without her – and the continuing nagging worry about the money, all had contributed towards a sleepless night and a king-size headache. He was well aware that he was being unfair to Clare, but he could no longer think about things rationally. He kicked at a stone which lay in his path. Across the fields a tractor was slowly pulling a plough parallel with the hedge away from him, a cloud of gulls following it, hovering excitedly as the dull dead stubble turned methodically into huge scoops of shining clay.

She had to be persuaded to sell; it was imperative that she be made to see the sense of whatever offer was being made.

He drew off his boots in the back porch and walked into the kitchen at Bucksters. Sarah Collins was rolling out some pastry at the table, her hands covered in flour. She glanced up as he walked in.

‘The post and papers have come, Mr Royland. They’re there, on the side.’ She smiled at him distractedly. ‘I’ll make you some coffee, shall I, as soon as this pie is in the oven?’

Paul’s answering nod was automatic as he picked up the two newspapers and the pile of letters before heading for the drawing room.

One of the envelopes was addressed to Clare – typed, with an Edinburgh postmark. Thoughtfully he turned it over, then with sudden attention he ripped it open. He read the contents twice, carefully, standing with his back to the fire, then throwing the letter down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa he went to the french doors to stare across the garden. At last the mist was lifting and the sun was coming out. Slowly Paul smiled.

‘I sure like the house.’ Zak leaned back on the Victorian chair and stretched his long legs out before him.

Clare smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She sat down opposite him. ‘I’m really glad you came.’ Her face was troubled.

Zak gave her a quick appraising glance. ‘Did you speak to your doctor yet, about the results?’

She shook her head. ‘I tried ringing once or twice, then I realised I didn’t want to speak to him. I can’t face it. I just want to put everything out of my mind for a while. I want to know that when I close my eyes at night I can forget about Paul and babies and doctors and tests and just sink into peaceful sleep. Without nightmares. Perhaps I should take sleeping tablets, I don’t know.’

Zak shook his head slowly. ‘That’s not the answer, Clare, and you know it or you wouldn’t have rung me.’ He was studying her face.

‘I’ve been doing the yoga,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘And that is good. I enjoy it and it makes me feel marvellous. At least it always has until yesterday. But the meditation exercises are different. They are all good for me, I suppose, when I can do them, but some of them are so boring.’ She glanced at him with a half smile. ‘All except the one – the visualisation one.’

He waited, his eyes not moving from her face.

‘It’s the one you told me to do yesterday. The one where I think myself into a special place; where I’m supposed to find myself at peace somewhere I’ve been happy.’ Her voice had dropped so low he had to strain to hear it.

Once more there was a long silence; Zak waited easily, not pushing her.

‘I managed to do it again after I spoke to you, but I don’t think I’m doing it right. Suddenly there is no peace in the scenes I see.’

This time he sat up, straightening slowly in the chair, resting his wrists loosely on his knees. He frowned.

‘Tell me what you see.’

‘Scenes. From the past. Very vivid and sometimes quite horrible.’

‘Scenes?’

‘Scenes; like a film. People come and go; they talk; they fight. They are real.’ She hesitated and then gave an apologetic smile. ‘I told my sister-in-law it was as if I was conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She shrugged painfully. ‘That is what it feels like, Zak.’

Zak shook his head slowly. ‘First lesson, Clare, never tell other people what you are doing. So few understand.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘There may be a thousand books on meditation in the shops, and every newspaper and magazine may recommend it for everything from business stress to shop-lifting, but it still takes courage to admit you take it seriously. Yoga, yes; yoga serves the body beautiful. Meditation, no way.’ He was almost talking to himself. ‘I know a lot of people who won’t accept it or take it seriously. People who should know better.’

Clare caught the sadness of the tone and she remembered suddenly the athletic young man she had met at Zak’s side once in Cambridge. Rude health had oozed from him, but he had not been one who would cultivate the spiritual, that much had been obvious. ‘But is what I am doing right?’ Unobtrusively she brought his attention back to herself. ‘Is that what is supposed to happen?’

He pulled himself together visibly. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. Tell me some more of what happens. Or, better still, why don’t we meditate together? I can see how you prepare and what you do.’

She nodded, doubtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it will work in front of anyone else.’

‘Work?’ He looked puzzled. ‘What’s to work? You mean I might distract you? If that is the case you are not putting your full concentration into it. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘Can we do it here? Are we likely to be interrupted?’

She glanced at the front window, remembering Henry. ‘I’ll draw the curtains and lock the door. I’m not expecting anyone.’

She looked down at herself uncertainly after she had closed the curtains. She was wearing grey slacks and a cotton sweater. ‘I know you said one should bathe and wear something loose –’

‘And then relax body and mind with a session of yoga exercises.’ He nodded easily. ‘I guess we can skip that, OK? What you’re wearing is fine. Show me what you do next.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll fetch a candle.’

The box of candles was upstairs in the bedroom at the back of a drawer. Extracting one, she kicked off her shoes and ran downstairs, barefoot.

Zak was sitting cross-legged on her Persian rug. He too had removed his shoes. His hands rested on his knees; his eyes were closed. He opened them as Clare appeared. ‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘Do you always use a candle?’

She nodded. ‘It seems to help me concentrate.’

‘Fine. That’s OK.’ He closed his eyes again.

Clare set the candle down on the rug in front of him and lit it. Then she hesitated. She wasn’t sure where to sit – beside him or facing him. Suddenly she felt rather foolish.

Zak spoke, his eyes still closed, his tone soft and preoccupied. ‘When you’re ready. Take your time. Do what you usually do. Whatever feels right. Take no notice of me. I’m not even here.’

The room was intensely silent. Even the noise of the traffic outside in the street seemed to die away.

Slowly Clare sank to her knees and raised her arms before the candle, parting her hands as if opening a curtain, then gracefully she slipped into the cross-legged position and closed her eyes.

Surreptitiously Zak opened his own. His relaxed posture did not change, but every sense was alert as he watched Clare’s face and he knew the moment she had slipped away, out of the quiet Campden Hill house, and into the past.

In spite of the brilliant light of the sun, Elizabeth de Quincy, dowager Countess of Buchan, had ordered the lighting of a hundred candles. The hearth was empty. In the doorway the King of England stopped and looked around him. His followers crowded around him staring at the two women at the far end of the hall. Around the walls of the castle the household and the servants stood peering over each other’s shoulders in awe. Edward’s reputation was of a formidable and a vengeful man.

Elizabeth, who had not yet departed for her dower lands, stood on the dais in the great hall, with her new daughter-in-law at her side as King Edward entered. It was a violently hot day. Outside the sea murmured against the cliffs; the birds were silent, roosting in the shade, or rocking gently on the sleeping waves. Behind him his followers filed into the courtyard and spilled out across the bridge to the meadow beyond the castle.

He was tall, a good-looking man still, in his late fifties, his dark hair greying at the temples beneath the gold coronet he had elected to wear on his triumphant journey. Beneath the cream woollen mantle he was wearing a full suit of mail. He alone amongst his sweating followers looked as cool as an ice floe in the winter hills.

By that midsummer of 1296 the Scottish armies were scattered and in defeat. King Edward was in the ascendant.

Lord Buchan had come back briefly to Duncairn with Scotland’s elected king, John Balliol, his cousin and the Lord of Badenoch, and sat up all night grimly discussing policy with his cousins. He left with scarcely a word for Isobel. They had decided to beg for terms. The only policy possible at the moment was to be received into Edward’s peace.

The King of England’s terms were harsh. At Brechin, King John of Scotland and his followers were told their fate. The kingdom of Scotland was forfeit and its most sacred treasures, including the Stone of Scone and the Black Rood of St Margaret, were removed to London. King John and his Comyn friends and relatives were to be sent south into England, the Earl of Buchan with them. Lord Buchan was luckier than his kingly cousin. He was not destined for the Tower. Instead he was merely required to remain south of the River Trent, beyond the sphere of Scottish politics.

His new wife was not required to go with him. She had her own appointment with Edward of England.

At Duncairn the news of John Balliol’s humiliation was greeted with horror by the dowager. At Montrose, his abdication of the kingdom had been followed by the ritual tearing off of the royal arms from his surcoat – an action which was to gain him throughout the land the nickname of Toom Tabard. He was then sent south, the prisoner of Thomas of Lancaster, whilst King Edward turned his attention north. Slowly and inexorably the royal train began touring the defeated land, stopping at every town and castle of note on the way to demand the abject homage of every important person left behind after his prisoners had been sent south. On 22 July he had at last arrived at Duncairn.

‘So.’ He did not appear to raise his voice, but it carried with ease across the hall to the dais. ‘This is one of the strongholds of Lord Buchan, who is at present our guest in England. I shall require the keys of this castle, and homage from its keeper.’ His eyes strayed from Elizabeth to Isobel. He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘Lady Buchan? The keys if you please.’

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!’