Читать книгу Kingdom of Shadows - Barbara Erskine - Страница 9

1970

Margaret Gordon looked down at the two children at her feet and smiled. James, his cheeks pink and shining, his hair neatly brushed and his checked shirt and jeans clean for once, was sitting fidgeting on the footstool, near her chair. At eight, he was already a tall, athletic boy, promising to be as handsome as his father. She shook her head sadly, then she turned her attention to Clare. Four years older than her brother she was a dark-haired, slim child, with the grace and elfin beauty of a fawn. Her short, wavy hair framed a delicate face, dominated by huge grey eyes.

And the eyes as always were fixed unwaveringly on her great aunt’s face.

‘Go on, Aunt Margaret, let’s hear the bit about the spider.’ James leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘And how the king escaped from Scotland.’

Margaret smiled indulgently. ‘Again?’ You ask for that story every time you come to see me.’ How strange the way the children yearned for the same old tales to be repeated. And complained if you forgot or altered the slightest detail.

‘And Clare?’ She turned and smiled at her great niece. ‘Which story would you like?’

As soon as the words had left her mouth she regretted them, knowing what the answer would be. She felt her stomach muscles tighten warningly as she met Clare’s steady gaze.

‘I’d like to hear about the Countess Isobel who crowned him king,’ the girl whispered. ‘And how they put her in a cage …’

Margaret swallowed. ‘That’s not very cheerful, my dear. I think perhaps we should stick to the spider today, as it’s nearly tea-time.’ She hesitated, uncomfortable beneath those huge, expressive eyes. ‘Besides, your mother and Archie will be back from their walk soon.’

Easing herself back in her chair she let out an exclamation of irritation as the two walking-sticks, hooked over the wooden arm, fell to the floor with a rattle.

Clumsily James jumped to his feet to retrieve them, stepping over his sister who hadn’t moved. ‘Go on then, Aunt Margaret.’ He wedged them firmly back into place. ‘It happened on Rathlin Island …’

Margaret looked down at her hands. The slim aristocratic fingers were thickened and knotted with arthritis now, so she could no longer wear rings, nor push a bangle over her swollen knuckles. How silly at her age to care for such vain, inconsequential things. Surreptitiously she glanced at Clare again. When the child was a little older she would give her the jewellery. For the rest Clare would have to wait until she was dead.

She gripped one of the walking-sticks tightly and rested it upright against her knees so that she could lean on it, perched on the edge of the high seat to ease the pain in her back. The child’s mother said she often had nightmares. Had she already had the dream? There were dark shadows under her eyes which should not have been there in a girl her age. Margaret felt a warning shiver of apprehension. Abruptly she brought her mind back to the story. ‘On Rathlin Island there was a cave, and there the king and his followers hid the whole of that long, vicious winter …’

If only Isobel had gone with him. If only he had allowed her to stay at his side as he longed. If only he had not sent her away.

The long silence stretched out as her thoughts went back over the story: the story which had obsessed her as long as she could remember, the story she had told these two children again and again.

But how had she heard it herself? She couldn’t remember who had told her first. The story had always been with her, part of her bones, part of her soul. The joy, the pain, the love and, at the last, the fear and despair. And with it the recurring nightmare.

‘Aunt Margaret?’ James gave a tentative cough. ‘The king … on Rathlin …?’

With a start she dragged her thoughts back to the present. She forced herself to smile.

‘I’m sorry, James. I think I must be a little tired.’ She glanced at Clare, almost afraid that the girl had read her thoughts, but Clare was no longer looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on the window, staring up at the thick mat of grey cloud which hung over Airdlie House. Her eyes were full of pain.

‘Clare!’

Only the astonishment in James’s face made Margaret realise how panicky her cry had sounded.

The girl jumped up. ‘Yes, Aunt Margaret?’ She came to stand at the old woman’s side, her face full of anxiety. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, my dear, nothing.’ Margaret levered herself to her feet. Her imagination was running away with her again. It was crazy to think one could unwittingly pass on an obsession. Another fear to lay at the door of her over-fertile brain. The child was growing up, that was all. On the threshold of womanhood. Soon she wouldn’t want to listen to an old woman’s ramblings any more. She would be far more interested in boys and pop music and clothes. There would be no time then for a story so many generations old. No time at all. She would forget.

Margaret took a stick in each hand and gripped them firmly, placing the two black rubber tips squarely on the polished boards on either side of her swollen feet. ‘Let’s go and start making tea, shall we?’ she said. ‘The Bruce and his spider can come later.’