Читать книгу Kingdom of Shadows - Barbara Erskine - Страница 17

The offices of Sigma Exploration were on the third and fourth floors of a glass-fronted block overlooking the Thames at Westminster. Sitting at his desk in the deeply carpeted, luxurious executive suite, Rex Cummin could look across the river towards the Houses of Parliament and it still gave him something of a thrill, after three years, to see the silhouette of the Victoria Tower and Big Ben against the clear duck-egg glow of the early morning London sky.

He was sitting at his desk now, and in front of him on the blotter was a closely typed report. He picked it up and read it again slowly. He was smiling.

… Beattie Cameron Westlake Pierce … rumours about undercapitalisation … insider dealing … possible investigation by the Stock Exchange Council … Paul Royland’s name mentioned in the press, on each occasion unfavourably … directors in internal squabble over funding … Sir Duncan Beattie defends Royland to colleagues over Beattie Committee controversy … MP’s brother suspected over collusion in funding scandal …

Rex’s face creased into a contented smile. He picked up the phone.

‘Leonie, honey, would you fix up a lunch with Diane Warboys for me? It must be before Friday. You’ll find her number in the file under BCWP in Coleman Street. Oh, and honey, would you send some flowers to Mrs Clare Royland? I have her address here, and I’ll give you a note to go with them.’ He chuckled as he put down the receiver.

He lay back in his chair and, tapping his teeth with his pencil, he picked up the report again. At last things were beginning to go his way.

Emma was meeting Diane Warboys that lunchtime at El Vino’s in Martin Lane. She glanced at her watch and then looked around her again at the other diners, drumming her fingernails on the menu which lay beside her on the checked cloth. Sally would only cover at the gallery for another couple of hours. It wouldn’t give them much time.

They had drifted into meeting about once every two or three months after they first met more than a year ago at a party James had given for some of his friends and colleagues at his flat in the Barbican, and Emma found herself frequently asking herself why she and Diane should get on so well together. They were so different in every way. Diane, American, brittle, ambitious, smart as a fashion plate, efficient, very bright and dedicated to her career; herself, not exactly dowdy – more comfortable, bright, yes, efficient, no – She smiled to herself. A career woman too, now, or trying to be, with the gallery on Kew Green nearly six months old. For a while Emma had wondered if what she and Diane had in common was her husband, Peter, but on the whole she thought not. Surely, Diane wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye if that were so.

‘Hello. I’m sorry I’m late.’ Diane descended into the chair opposite Emma and propped an attaché case against the table leg. ‘We were dreadfully busy in the office this morning; and I’m afraid I’ll have to be fairly brief. The boys are covering for me, but I never like to let them think they can manage without me for too long.’ She smiled. ‘What are we drinking?’

‘In my case white wine.’ Emma indicated her glass.

‘I’ll have the same. So, how are you? Are you coming to Singapore with Pete?’

Emma could feel herself stiffening. ‘Was I invited?’

Diane looked at her steadily. ‘I don’t know. Were you?’ She paused for a moment, searching Emma’s face. ‘Pete and I have never had an affair, you know. There is nothing like that between us.’ She smiled at the waitress who had brought her glass.

Emma looked down at the table. ‘I never thought there was,’ she said quickly. Too quickly. Had her thoughts been that easy to read?

Diane reached over and picked up the menu. ‘There is no time for that kind of relationship in the office, Emma. You should know that. Incestuous though the City is with everyone knowing everyone, it just wouldn’t work. Not for long. With your husband and your brother working there you should know that.’ There was a moment’s silence as she studied the menu, then she looked up. ‘Paul is a workaholic like Peter, I suspect, isn’t he?’ The question was very casual.

Emma laughed. ‘I suppose he is; I try and avoid my brother where possible. We don’t get on.’

Diane played with the stem of her glass. ‘I had dinner with Paul and Clare on Saturday.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘It was marvellous. Clare went into some sort of trance in the kitchen, or that is what Henry thinks – anyway she disappeared for a long, long time, and dinner was an hour late. Paul nearly had a fit because the Beatties were there, and Clare was unrepentant and told Lady Beattie she was someone of no importance.’ She chuckled again at the memory as she sipped her wine. ‘Paul and Clare don’t get on, do they?’

Emma frowned. ‘I think they’re going through a rough patch,’ she said cautiously. She glanced at Diane. During the week the latter wore no make-up at the office – her face was ostentatiously naked, the lashes thin and fair, almost invisible. It made her look very young and naive. Emma wasn’t fooled. ‘I doubt if Paul would ever have an affair,’ she said gently. ‘He really isn’t keen on women at all.’

‘But he’s not queer?’

‘Of course he’s not queer. But he is single-minded; and cold. I was never actually sure why he married Clare.’

‘For her money?’ Diane raised an eyebrow.

‘Perhaps.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Not that she has as much as all that; not as much as people think. Just her lands in Scotland which I suppose might be worth a fortune. I don’t know. I do know Paul was furious when she didn’t inherit any money as such.’ She paused, frowning suddenly. Had he just married Clare for her money? Was that the reason Clare was so unhappy now? ‘Clare is a very attractive woman,’ she went on, half thoughtfully. ‘I don’t see any reason why he couldn’t just have fallen in love with her. She was all right, was she, after her’ – she hesitated – ‘her trance?’

‘Right as rain. In fact she was more animated than I’ve ever seen her. She and Paul –’ Diane paused, choosing her words with care. ‘Do you think their marriage is over?’

‘No.’ Emma was suddenly resentful of the questions. ‘No, I’m sure it isn’t. They’ll be fine. All they need is a bit of time to get over their disappointment about not being able to have children.’

‘I didn’t know they couldn’t have children.’ Diane raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m sure they don’t broadcast the fact. And don’t you, either. I shouldn’t really have told you.’

‘Oh come on. I’m a family friend.’ Diane sat back in her chair and crossed her long legs uncomfortably under the small table. ‘Besides, who am I going to tell? I don’t know anyone who would be interested.’

‘Would you like me to get anything for you when I’m in Ipswich this afternoon, Mrs Royland?’ Sarah appeared in the doorway of the drawing room so suddenly that Clare jumped.

She pushed back the pile of unopened letters on her writing desk – the invitations to charity events, the pleas for money, at least two demands that she join fund-raising committees; she didn’t have to open them to know what they were. She glanced out of the window at the hazy garden and sighed. The sun was just breaking through the mist, shimmering on the copper and russet leaves of the chestnuts in the drive. Clare sighed. She stretched her arms up above her head. ‘You know, it’s so beautiful today, I think I might come with you. I could do with a change of scene.’

Sarah frowned. ‘It wouldn’t really be very easy, Mrs Royland. I …’ she hesitated. ‘I’ve so many different things to do. But I’d be happy to pick anything up for you.’

Clare bit her lip, trying not to feel rejected, trying to fight down the feeling of desolation which threatened to overwhelm her. Paul had left for London that morning, before it was light. He had slept in her bed, but he hadn’t touched her. If Sarah went out and left her in the house alone, the loneliness would return, and with it the need to fill the emptiness with daydreams. She stood up. She would go too. She must. Suddenly she was afraid, terrified of the silent rooms. She turned to follow Sarah into the hall, but as she reached the door, the phone rang. With a pleading glance at Sarah’s departing form she turned back and picked it up.

‘Clare? It’s Chloe. My dear, I had to ring you. What on earth have you been getting up to?’ Her sister-in-law sounded breathless with excitement.

Clare sat down again, making a determined effort to steady herself, her fingers once more, automatically, idly, turning over the letters on the desk. Even without the sound of car tyres on the gravel outside she had known Sarah would take the chance to go without her. Her heart sank. Another afternoon alone in the house; and probably a whole evening after it, and then the night, all to be got through somehow. She sighed, fighting back the fear.

‘Clare, are you there?’ Chloe sounded indignant. ‘I shouldn’t tell you, but Geoffrey is praying for you!’

‘Praying for me?’ Clare’s attention snapped back to the phone.

‘He’s desperately worried about you and I thought I’d better warn you, he’s going to come up and see you.’

‘What on earth for?’ Indignantly Clare stood up. She shuffled all the envelopes into the waste bin, and stood staring out at the grass where a blackbird was standing, head cocked to one side, intently watching a patch of daisies. ‘If it’s to do with my inability to have a baby, it’s a bit late for prayers.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘Unless one believes in miracles.’

‘Oh, Clare.’ For a moment Chloe was silent. ‘My dear, I was so sorry to hear about that, and it’s never too late to pray about something so important, but that wasn’t what I meant.’ She sounded deflated.

‘What then?’ Clare picked up the phone and walked to the french windows. She pushed them open and stepped out on to the terrace. The sun was warm on her head, the garden still.

‘Emma came to see us last weekend, just before Geoff went off to his conference. She came to talk about her and Pete. You know they’re having problems with their marriage because Peter is away so much. Well, Geoff took her off into his study and’ – Chloe’s voice took on a hollow ring supposed to denote awe – ‘they talked for ages.’

‘So?’

‘They talked about you.’

‘Me?’

‘It took me hours to wangle it out of him later. Clare, you must be doing something truly dreadful! Emma only mentioned it casually at first. Geoff said she didn’t seem worried. He said she didn’t realise what you were up to. So, what are you doing? Are you sticking pins in wax figures, by any chance?’ There was a breathless pause.

‘I see.’ Clare smiled wryly. ‘Oh, it’s far worse than that.’ It was hard to resist the temptation to tease her credulous sister-in-law. ‘In fact I doubt if you should even risk talking to me! The telephone wires might go white hot and burn you.’ She walked restlessly back into the house, the phone in one hand and the receiver in the other, trailing the long flex behind her. Damn Emma. Who else had she told? ‘Tell Geoff not to bother coming, Chloe. I’m beyond redemption. I’m unrepentant and probably dangerous.’ She meant it to come out jokingly, but her voice sounded too serious. Behind her the door opened a crack and a golden nose pushed through it enquiringly. Clare ignored it.

‘You must talk to Geoffrey, Clare.’ Chloe’s voice had lost its lightness. In the rectory she shivered suddenly. ‘Please. He genuinely wants to help you.’

‘I told you, tell him not to come. Tell him to mind his own business.’ Clare took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just that there are too many people breathing down my neck at the moment, Chloe, and I don’t need it. Whatever problems I’ve got I have to sort them out myself. Look, I’ve got to go.’ Suddenly she couldn’t bear to talk any more. ‘I’ll see you in London soon. We’ll have lunch. OK?’

She put the phone down, not sure whether to be angry or amused. First Emma; now the pompous pontiff; Chloe; Henry; Zak!

Was it really so dangerous to daydream about the past?

Thoughtfully she walked upstairs, past the flowers in the hall and on the landing, smelling the polish and the roses, seeing the curtains blowing gently in the breeze. The afternoon was hot and still and her bedroom was very silent, shadowed by the half-drawn curtains. She stood in front of her dressing-table mirror and studied her eyes critically. They were large, a clear transparent grey, with a slightly darker ring around the iris, fringed with long dark lashes, set attractively far apart beneath a broad brow. Her fair skin was tanned to an even gold. She stared at herself, unblinkingly critical, then she began to pull off her clothes. Naked, she wrapped a towel around herself and ran downstairs.

The heavy cover was over the pool but she dragged it off, feeling the wind cold now it was touching her skin, negating any warmth there might be in the hazy sunshine. Throwing down the towel she dived in, feeling her breath caught and dragged from her body by the chill of the water.

Twenty minutes’ swim and an hour’s gentle, meticulous yoga left her body toned and relaxed, receptive. Automatically she drew her legs into the cross-legged position, resting her hands, forefinger and thumb circled, on her knees. Slowly she emptied her mind. Around her the crisped autumn leaves drifted down onto the pool and settled in the still, clear water. She did not see them. She was repeating to herself, as Zak had taught her, the mantra which would dispel all outside thoughts.

Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya …

Don’t let the mind stray; don’t let any pictures come; relax; gently hold the mantra.

Om Nama Shivaya; Om Nama Shivaya …

She was stiff and cold when she had finished. Dragging the cover over the pool once more, she made her way back to the house. The kitchen was immaculate as usual, not so much as a teaspoon out of place. She curbed a sudden childish urge to make an incredible mess and went instead to the bread bin. She cut herself a thick wedge of Sarah’s homemade bread and plastered it with butter and honey, then she wandered into the hall. The house was totally silent. Casta was asleep on the lawn, under a walnut tree. Standing at the window, eating her bread, Clare watched the dog for a while, thinking idly that this – eating and doing nothing – was how people got fat. She turned. Even the fire was silent. Sarah hadn’t bothered to light it that morning, and neither had she.

The phone rang as she was reaching for the box of matches.

‘Clare, I shall need you in London on the first of November. Would you put it in your diary? Dinner with the Beatties.’ Paul’s voice was uncompromisingly brusque.

Clare hitched herself up on to the table, still wearing only the towel, the wedge of bread in one hand. ‘So, they’ve forgiven me, have they? And until the first, Paul. Won’t you be needing me until then?’ She emphasised the word sarcastically.

‘Clare.’ His tone was warning.

‘That is, by my count, Paul, nineteen days. One could go around the world comfortably in nineteen days. I can have a fortnight in Scotland and still be back easily –’

‘No, Clare! I said, no!’

‘Just how do you intend to stop me, Paul?’ To her annoyance she found her voice was shaking. ‘I’m not your property; you don’t own me.’

‘Clare.’ Paul took a deep breath, clearly audible over the phone. ‘Darling, you’ve misunderstood me. I do need you there.’ He enunciated the words slowly as if she were a half wit. ‘Look, I’ll be home tomorrow night. We’ll talk then. I …’ he hesitated. ‘I have a surprise for you.’

‘Really?’ Clare raised an eyebrow. ‘To have you home mid week would be surprise enough.’ She hung up and took a bite out of her bread, feeling surprisingly cheerful suddenly. For once she had had the last word. And she was right. He didn’t own her. She was not a prisoner. There was nothing to stop her leaving. Her car had been left in London because she had driven back with Paul in the Range Rover, but there were trains and taxis. She wasn’t locked in and spied on like poor Isobel. She stood up. To plan her escape would give her something to do today. She could find out train times, plan connections, arrange to hire a car when she got to Aberdeen, and in the meantime there was always Isobel.

She finished her bread and honey thoughtfully. If there was some threat in Isobel’s appearance it was being perceived by others, not herself. She had been afraid when Isobel appeared suddenly and uninvited before the dinner party in London, but that had been because it had taken her by surprise. Now, when she thought about it, she could see what had happened. She had been tired. Her mind had been distracted, she had sat down with the specific intention of relaxing for a few moments, and she had lit her candles. Her brain had misinterpreted the signs, that was all. There was nothing sinister in it. To Clare, Isobel was a friend – a companion – a part of herself. Why should she let other people make her afraid of summoning the past? What possible harm, logically, could there be in a dream?

It was as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her mind. There was nothing wrong in daydreaming. Her mistake had been to tell people about it. Everyone had their secret dreams and memories; she was no different from them. Except that she had talked about them. In future she would make sure that she kept them to herself.

Buoyed up with sudden resolution Clare ran up to her bedroom and, carefully closing the door, she pulled open the drawer in her dressing table where she kept the candles. Shivering as her towel slipped to the floor, she paused. For a moment she frowned. She wanted to stand naked before the candle flame, arms raised to draw back the veil into the past. It seemed a dramatic, almost natural gesture to make, one of which Isobel would have approved; one she might have made herself. But was that somehow wrong? Did that smack of deliberately summoning spirits? Was that what Zak and Geoff were afraid of? For a moment she hesitated, tempted, then, with sudden self-consciousness she turned away. She pulled on some jeans and a sweater.

Then she lit the candle.

Lord Buchan had returned. He stood staring at his wife, his eyes fixed on her face. ‘So, my lady, I am told you are riding dangerously long distances each day for no reason. May I know why?’

Isobel could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She turned away from him. ‘I feel trapped here, my lord, and bored. I need the air; I need to ride!’

His eyes strayed thoughtfully to her stomach where her mantle hid the slight swell of the five-month child which all her efforts had failed to dislodge.

‘Then your desire for air must be quelled,’ he said sternly. ‘There is enough air to be had in walking the walls. The ground outside is too dangerous for riding now.’ He glanced at the heavy wooden screens over the windows. Behind them thick snow fell slowly and relentlessly, muffling the sluggish movement of the waves beneath the cliffs, smothering the ground, drifting into the rough angles of the castle walls. ‘No one should ride while this weather lasts.’ He sat down heavily on the edge of a carved oak kist. ‘As well we reached Duncairn before the tracks here became impassable. I did not expect such thick snow on the coast; inland the passes are already closed. There will be no more fighting until the spring.’ He paused. ‘I have brought visitors for you from Ellon. Our niece Alice is here, with her father. You must come down to greet her.’

In spite of herself Isobel smiled. ‘I will, gladly.’ Even Alice’s company would be better than none while she pondered ways to rid herself of her child.

Lord Buchan saw the smile, and for a moment he glimpsed his wife’s loneliness. He seldom thought of her as a person. The vast Buchan lands were still ably administered by his energetic mother, so to him, Isobel was merely a dynastic necessity, a woman to whom he was married for political reasons; a woman who was there solely to provide him with an heir. What she did when he was away was of no concern to him, save where it touched his honour or his child. ‘I told her you needed company. You should not be alone over the next few months.’ He frowned. ‘She will help organise your household and see to it that you do not grow bored. It will be pleasant for you to have a woman to talk to while you spin and weave and make clothes for the child.’

Isobel clenched her fists. ‘I do not enjoy spinning and weaving, my lord. I shall go mad if I am forced to sit and listen to women’s gossip at the loom. I cannot bear being cooped up like some poor broody hen!’ She began to pace the floor. ‘I would rather hear the conversation of men!’

Lord Buchan gave a grim smile. ‘Then you will be pleased to hear, no doubt, that your great uncle, Macduff of Fife, is here also.’

The great hall was crowded. Lord Buchan’s followers, and those of Macduff overflowed the hall out into the snowy courtyard. Alice Comyn, the daughter of Lord Buchan’s brother, Alexander, was standing, still swathed in heavy furs, her hands outstretched to the blazing fire.

She offered a cold cheek to Isobel. ‘We thought we’d be cut off on the road through the mountains. My father’s horse went into a snowdrift up to its belly. It took two others to pull it out!’ She took Isobel’s hands in hers. ‘How are you, aunt?’ Her eyes sparkled irrepressibly. Isobel was two years her junior. ‘Uncle John tells me you need company. You must be so excited, carrying his baby!’

Isobel smiled wanly, liking the young woman in spite of the ineptness of her last remark. She remembered Alice as a pert, sneaky girl, constantly creeping into corners to whisper with the pages, but now she seemed changed. Isobel sensed sympathy and warmth in the girl to which she instantly responded. She drew her niece nearer to the fire. ‘Your own marriage is arranged, I hear,’ she said softly.

Alice nodded eagerly. ‘I am to marry Sir Henry Beaumont.’ She shook her head wistfully. ‘I long to have babies of my own.’

‘It is not something to look forward to!’ The words slipped out before Isobel could stop them. ‘To know that something is growing inside you, taking you over, possessing you! Something which is going to tear you apart and perhaps kill you so that it can take life of its own!’ She shuddered.

Alice stared at her, horrified. ‘You don’t really believe that?’

Behind them the hall was noisy and hot from the flaring torches and the huge fire, which was heaped high with driftwood from the bay, and fanned by the constant draught from the doors behind the screens.

Isobel stood motionless, looking at her. Alice was her husband’s niece; his spy. ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘Of course I don’t really believe it. If women believed that, there would be no more children.’ She put her hand on her stomach where she could feel a faint uneasy fluttering. Lord Buchan’s child had quickened.

Alexander Comyn, two years younger than his brother, Lord Buchan, was watching his daughter and Isobel with curiosity. He was a tall, vigorous man, of uncertain temper, but for the moment he was content. The warmth of the fire was finding its way into his bones and a servant was approaching him with a jug of wine. He looked at Isobel closely. She seemed pinched and thin, unhappy, but there was no doubt that the girl was with child. Thoughtfully he stroked his cheek. His only comfort at his own failure to sire a son – two daughters were all his wife had given him – was the fact that his elder brother had no heir. Now this late marriage with Isobel of Fife seemed likely to give John the son he desired. He scowled.

‘So, will Edward of England winter in Flanders?’ His brother was at his elbow.

Sir Alexander Comyn nodded grudgingly. ‘I doubt if he’ll move before the spring. We’ll have time to plan our campaign with Wallace.’

‘You support him wholeheartedly now, then?’ Macduff of Fife stepped forward from his stance near the fire. He strode over to his great niece and embraced her. He was a slight, wizened man, his hair grizzled, stiff and glittering still with clotted sleet which had not yet melted in the heat of the fire. ‘Isobel, child, how are you?’ He kissed her on the top of her head. ‘Are you well?’ His narrowed eyes surveyed her face intently. She was no longer the carefree child with the delightful giggle whom he remembered as being so like her spirited mother. He frowned, then he turned back to the Comyns. ‘You recognise now how much Scotland needs the Wallace.’

‘It appears he is the leader which we lack while our king is a prisoner elsewhere,’ Alexander acknowledged. ‘He more than proved himself at Stirling Bridge.’ At last the boy with the wine had reached him. He seized the proffered goblet and, draining it, held it out for a refill. ‘It seems that all the factions within our kingdom will follow him. Even the Bruces seem prepared to support him.’

Lord Buchan’s gaze went thoughtfully to his wife’s face. ‘Robert Bruce still broods over his grandfather’s claim to the throne – a claim which his father seems singularly ill suited to pursue. I trust neither of them.’

‘Nor I, entirely, but for Scotland’s good, Comyn and Bruce must run in harness and as long as Lord Annandale lives, his son’s pretensions are curbed. Even he sees that his father could never rule this country. He will not support a Balliol king, but while Balliol is out of the country, then he will fight for Scotland.’ He threw himself down into a chair beside the long table. ‘So, brother.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘You are to have an heir in the spring, I see.’ He chuckled. ‘I didn’t think you’d tame that little wild cat of yours. She looks too thin. You must see that she eats well this winter.’

Lord Buchan sighed. He sat down stiffly next to his brother, stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘I trust that your daughter will calm her down. I am weary of fighting each time I speak to her.’

His brother threw back his head and laughed. ‘So, you are hen-pecked, brother, and those scars come from your wife’s claws, not an English pike as we all thought! I’m surprised you managed to bed her at all!’ Pleased with his joke he stood up and walking over to where Isobel stood near the fire he threw his arm around her shoulders.

She shrank away distastefully, but he did not release her. ‘So, sweetheart. How are you? Is my little sister-in-law well?’

‘Thank you, Sir Alexander, I am well.’ Her voice was cold.

‘Good, because we are going to need your good offices in the spring, when negotiations resume amongst the lords of Scotland. We must bring them together if we are to eradicate the threat of England’s suzerainty once and for all. And you have influence with some of our more recalcitrant leaders, I hear. The Earl of Carrick for one.’ He raised his eyebrow suggestively.

Isobel stiffened. ‘You are mistaken, Sir Alexander. I have no influence over Lord Carrick. I have not seen him for a long time.’

She was suddenly very conscious of her husband, still sitting at the table, looking in their direction, and she wondered if he had heard his brother’s comment over the shouting and laughter in the hall behind them. There was a speculative frown on his face. As she watched he stood up and walked over to join them.

‘So, has my wife agreed to talk Lord Carrick round?’

Isobel’s heart sank. ‘I have told Sir Alexander I have no influence over my cousin,’ she said defiantly. ‘I do not see him any more.’

‘While he was fighting on the side of the English,’ Lord Buchan’s voice was silky, ‘it would have been inappropriate for you to have done so, to say the least.’

The colour flared in Isobel’s cheeks. ‘You yourself swore allegiance to King Edward not so long since, my lord!’

‘We have all been guilty at some time of bending before the wind,’ Macduff put in hastily from his position near the fire. ‘What matters is that we should all now put Scotland’s liberty before our personal ambitions and quarrels and free her of the domination of England for good. And to do that we must put our differences behind us. Sir Alexander is right. Bruce and Comyn must fight on the same side.’

Did that mean that she would see Robert again? Later, in the bedchamber, Isobel allowed herself to think about the possibility. For months she had gleaned small pieces of information about his whereabouts and at last heard the devastating news that he had come into King Edward’s peace and fought for the English rather than support the Comyns and John Balliol. It was hard to believe that his hatred of the Comyns was greater than his love for Scotland and however much she tried she found it impossible to justify his actions, but even though he had betrayed Scotland she had still prayed for him, and desperately she had hoped that somehow one day she would see him again. Sometimes she thought it was her dreams of Robert which kept her sane.

With a sigh she glanced around the room. Alice was sitting near her, her spindle lying in her lap. Her attendants were there too, clustered around the fire. Some of the driftwood which had come ashore had been brought up to the tower room and it crackled noisily, sending strange green and blue lights leaping up the huge chimney, a change from the calm glow of peat. Wood was usually far too valuable to burn. Dreamily Isobel allowed Mairi to help her out of her clothes and into the fur-trimmed bed gown in which she habitually slept.

The woman was gently combing out Isobel’s long curling hair when the door opened and Lord Buchan walked in. There was sudden silence amongst the women. Mairi’s hands fell to her sides as she saw the disgust and fear chasing one another across her young mistress’s face, before Isobel concealed her feelings with a look of wary blankness.

Lord Buchan was drunk. ‘Leave us.’ His eyes were fixed on his wife’s, but his command was unmistakably directed at the others in the room. One by one the women hastily gathered up their spinning and sewing and scuttled towards the door. Only Alice stood her ground.

‘It was good of you to come to wish us goodnight, uncle,’ she said firmly. ‘I am going to share Aunt Isobel’s bed tonight. I knew you would want to remain in the hall with my father.’

Isobel’s eyes were fixed on those of her husband. She had gone completely cold.

‘I said out.’ Lord Buchan did not even look at Alice. His brother’s joke had touched a raw nerve and he had spent the last hour, as he drank moodily in the great hall below, allowing it to fester. Alice glanced at Isobel apologetically and edged slowly towards the door in her turn. Her aunt had not moved.

‘So, at last my wife and I are alone.’ Lord Buchan moved slowly towards her. ‘I trust you will make it clear to your clucking attendants that I intend to sleep here in the lord’s bedchamber as long as I remain at Duncairn.’

‘You must not touch me, my lord!’ Isobel found her voice at last. ‘It … it might harm the child.’

‘Nonsense. Women can accommodate a man till their bellies are too big to get near them, and even then there are ways and means!’ He laughed coarsely. ‘It seems to me that you are always trying to keep me from your bed. You have to learn to give pleasure to your husband, my dear. Your body was made to please men. You must learn how to use it. Take off that hideous robe and let me see this belly of yours.’

‘No!’ Isobel stepped back sharply. ‘You musn’t touch me. Please – haven’t I done my duty enough?’

‘Your duty is to please me.’

He cornered her near the high curtained bed. Pulling open her robe he pushed it back off her shoulders and stared down. The slim child’s body had gone. Since he had seen her last she had become a woman indeed. Her breasts were full and heavy, her stomach, boyishly flat before, was rounded, her hips defined. He felt a wave of intense desire shoot through him.

‘So. You think to keep me at arms’ length, till you are delivered of my son!’ He spoke thickly as he pulled her to him. ‘Think again, sweetheart. I find you more beautiful now than ever before.’ He dropped his head to her breast, grabbing for the nipple with his teeth.

Isobel caught her breath with pain. Desperately she pulled at his hair, trying to dislodge him, and, finally managing it, she pushed him violently away from her and dodged out of reach. Her eyes were dark with temper. ‘Curse you, John Comyn! Don’t you touch me again! Don’t you so much as lay a finger on me or I shall kill this child. By the gods I swear I shall kill this child and you will never have a son!’ She could feel the wall behind her, cold beneath its tapestry hanging, and she pressed her hands against it, her eyes fixed on her husband’s face. ‘Leave me! Leave me, now.’

He had gone white. For a moment he stood completely still, staring at her, then he stepped towards her. His voice was very quiet. ‘Sorceress! Witch! Don’t you ever threaten me again!’ He caught her by the shoulders. ‘I knew the devil would claim you for his own one day! Be thankful there was no one here to hear your evil tongue, my lady. Be very thankful indeed.’ He shook her, then quite deliberately he released her and, raising his hand, he hit her across the face. Her head snapped back against the wall and she sagged forward for a moment, stunned, but already he had grabbed her arms and pushed her upright again, his eyes hard. ‘Did you hear me? You are my wife, madam. In the eyes of God and in the eyes of men and at the command of the king, you are my wife, and you will obey me.’

Still stunned, she tried to push her hair out of her eyes. The side of her face was a throbbing mass of pain.

‘At the command of our king!’ She forced herself to stand upright, her voice mocking. ‘Toom Tabard. The king of Nowhere. The king without a country. He is not our king. Our true king would never have given me to you!’

‘Ah, the father of the handsome Earl of Carrick!’ Lord Buchan raised his hand again. ‘How sad that you could not marry Sir Robert, my dear. How sad that you must be forced to love, honour and obey the husband you have.’

She dodged the next blow, trying to push past him, but he caught her easily. Pain exploded in her head as he hit her again. Blind with fury and tears of agony she clawed at his face, trying to free her wrist from his grip, then as she felt him raising his hand for another blow she sank her teeth into his fingers.

With a growl of rage he tried to pull free, pushing her away from him with every ounce of strength he had. Unable to save herself, she was thrown sprawling across the high oak coffer which stood at the end of the bed. The iron-bound corner caught her in the stomach with the pain of a turning sword blade. With a scream she staggered to her feet, clutching at her belly and as, deep in her womb, the blood began to flow, she collapsed at his feet.

Sarah Collins turned into the driveway and parked beneath the stag-headed oak. She turned off the engine and sat still for a moment staring at the front of the house. No lights showed and the curtains were undrawn. She frowned. Mrs Royland usually turned on the outside lights if she was going to be out late. Stiffly she climbed out of the car. The mist was thickening rapidly. She couldn’t see the lights of the village across the fields. The garden was very quiet.

She felt guilty about leaving Clare alone in the house, but she hadn’t wanted to spend the afternoon with her. Acutely aware that sides were being drawn up in some domestic battle, and instinctively knowing that it would be Mr Royland who pulled the punches when the time came, she didn’t want him to think she was in any way on Clare’s side. She valued her job too much. Reaching into the back of the car for her handbag and two carriers, her afternoon’s shopping, she closed the door softly and began to walk across the gravel.

The front door was unlocked. Switching on the lights she drew the curtains. ‘Mrs Royland?’ she called, suddenly nervous.

Quick footsteps crossed the landing and Casta ran down the stairs, tail wagging. The sight of the dog reassured her.

‘Where’s your mistress?’ She bent and patted the thick fur.

Deep down inside, she knew. She glanced around again uncertainly, and then she made her way into the drawing room. Closing the full-length curtains over the dark windows she put a match to the ready-laid fire. She would put on the kettle and then she would go upstairs.

Casta followed her up, keeping close at her heels. On the broad galleried landing Sarah hesitated. The dog had stopped, hackles raised. She growled slightly and Sarah looked down. She swallowed nervously. At the end of the hall Clare’s door was standing ajar. From where she stood on the landing Sarah could see the pale glow of the candlelight.

The pain grew in waves, flowing through Isobel’s body, carrying her to the edge of unconsciousness and then drawing her back. The room was hot; sweat poured from her and grew chill as she began to shiver. She was conscious of people all round her; hushed voices, hands holding hers, cool scented cloths on her face. Mairi was there, and Alice. Someone was piling more wood on the fire. She clutched at a hand, moaning as the pain came again.

Mairi was bending over her, her lips moving. ‘A Mhuire mhathair! It’s what you wanted, eudail. Be brave. It’s nearly over. The child is dead. You’re losing it now. It’s what you wanted, Iseabail, eudail … It’s what you wanted!’

When it was over she slept. The bleeding had not stopped. Around her the women glanced at one another with pale faces. Nearby the tiny body, wrapped in the silk standard of the Earl of Buchan lay in a basket. With the soil frozen they could not bury it; no one dared to throw it on the fire. No one as yet had dared to tell the earl. The foetus had been male.

When at last he was informed of what had happened Lord Buchan, white with fury, made his way back up to his wife’s bed chamber.

‘Murderess! Sorceress! You killed my child!’ He bent over the bed, his face twisted with rage.

‘No!’ Isobel stared up at him in terror. ‘It was you –’

‘This entire household knows what you’ve been doing, my lady. Riding at all hours, swallowing potions to rid yourself of it.’ He towered over her, his eyes blazing. ‘In this very room you flaunted what you intended to do! And now you have achieved it. You have murdered my son. By right, you should die.’

She shook her head desperately, too weak to rise from the pillows. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t kill him … I didn’t …’

‘Brother –’ Sir Alexander had followed the earl up the winding stair. He put his hand on Lord Buchan’s shoulder. ‘Leave it now. Nothing will mend the harm that’s done.’ He eyed the vicious bruises on Isobel’s temple and cheek grimly. ‘There will be other sons. I’m sure your wife will take better care of herself next time.’

Lord Buchan was breathing deeply, the heavy blue mantle he wore falling across the bed. The brooch on his shoulder caught the candlelight in a cold glitter.

Weak from loss of blood Isobel was barely conscious. Around her the room was full of shadows. Dimly she knew that Mairi was there. She felt herself raised and feebly sipped the decoction of bramble, acrimony and horsetail in wine which was held to her mouth, then slowly, as another wave of pain overwhelmed her, the darkness closed over her again.

Mairi stared up at the earl, her expression carefully veiled. ‘She must sleep now, my lord. She has lost much blood.’

‘Please, father.’ Alice appeared out of the shadows. ‘Take my uncle away. If we are to save Aunt Isobel’s life she must have quiet.’

Lord Buchan moved back from the high bed. His face was grim. With one last glance down at his wife’s pale, bruised face he turned on his heel and strode towards the door, his spurs ringing on the stone flags beneath the dried heather.

Sir Alexander followed him and the two women were left alone with Isobel.

Alice glanced at Mairi. ‘Will she live?’

Mairi was fumbling in the bodice of her gown. She produced a necklace of dried rowan berries strung on a red thread. Carefully she bound it around Isobel’s throat. ‘St Bride and the Blessed Virgin willing,’ she said. ‘She bleeds still. Look.’ She indicated the stain, spreading on the sheet below the covers.

‘She did want to get rid of the child, didn’t she?’ Alice gently took hold of Isobel’s hand. ‘That is mortal sin.’

‘Sin against the earl, perhaps,’ Mairi pushed the pewter wine jug back into the embers to warm it. ‘My mistress deserves better than him.’

Alice looked shocked. ‘My uncle is one of the greatest earls in Scotland.’

‘He’s too old for her.’ Mairi was unrepentant. ‘And too hard. She’s like a wild bird, my little lady. She needs gentle handling. A true mate for her would be proud of her spirit, not try and crush it. Here, let me change her linen –’

Sickened at the sight of the blood Alice turned away to the fire. She shivered. ‘Is it true she loved Lord Carrick, do you think?’

Mairi frowned. Deftly packing the moss-filled strips of linen beneath her mistress’s hips she glanced up at Alice suspiciously. ‘She’s been faithful to her husband. That I know.’

‘That’s because he’s had her watched.’ Alice squatted in front of the fire, holding out her hands to it. ‘He brought me here to watch her, too. He’s afraid of her, Mairi. I saw that just now. He can’t understand her, or control her, save by force.’

Mairi was pulling the covers over Isobel once more. ‘She needs friends, not people to spy on her,’ she commented tartly.

‘And I am her friend.’ Climbing back to her feet Alice came back to the bed. ‘But how can I make her realise it?’

‘Friendship has to be earned.’ Mairi tightened her lips. ‘And proved. I’ll sit with her now, mistress, if you wish to go and rest.’

Alice hesitated. ‘You’ll call me if anything happens?’

‘Aye. I’ll call you.’

Mairi sat unmoving for a long time in the silent, empty chamber, her eyes not leaving Isobel’s face. Only when the candles on the coffer near her began to smoke and gutter into pools of grease did she stir. Stiffly she rose and went to sit on a stool before the fire, her eyes fixed on the flames.

Macduff visited Isobel later, sitting at her bedside, holding her hands in his. She moved a little, recognising him in the light of the single candle which burned on the table at the far side of the room.

He smiled. ‘Courage, lass.’ His deeply lined face was gentle.

‘Lord Buchan will kill me,’ she whispered.

He shook his head slowly. ‘He knows he shouldn’t have struck you, and there will be other babies soon enough. You must submit to him, lass. No more arguments in the great hall; no more political statements in front of his men. You deserved to be chastised for that.’

‘Chastised!’ She raised her hand painfully to her face. ‘Is that what you call it?’

‘Aye. Chastised.’ He sighed. ‘You’ll have time to recover, Isobel. We’ll be away as soon as the weather breaks. There is much to discuss with the lords of Scotland.’ He looked down at her, and the name of Lord Carrick hung for a moment in the air between them, unspoken.

‘Just so long as you take my husband away,’ she whispered at last.

He smiled. ‘We’ll take him away, lass. Never fear.’

But the snow did not relax its grip. Weeks passed. Slowly Isobel’s young body mended and once more Lord Buchan began to think about his young wife.