Читать книгу Kingdom of Shadows - Barbara Erskine - Страница 16

Mairi stared at her young mistress suspiciously. ‘What are you doing there all by yourself, and so quiet, my lady?’ She wondered for a moment if Isobel had been crying.

The girl turned away sharply. ‘I shall ride again this afternoon, Mairi. Tell Hugh to bring a fresh horse.’

Mairi scowled. ‘My lady, don’t do it. You’re just exhausting yourself. It’ll not help.’

‘It will.’ Isobel put her hands on the almost imperceptible swell of her stomach. ‘It has to.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘A fresh horse, please, Mairi.’

They no longer stopped her leaving the castle. A countess, with her retinue, might ride where she willed, it appeared, once she carried her lord’s heir in her belly. And ride she did, galloping across the moors, regardless of the weather, until her horse was exhausted and her followers gasping. She jumped the animal over burns and gullies, and returned home aching and exhausted at dusk day after day. But still the baby inside her grew.

It filled her with horror and disgust; she could not bear to think that anything of Lord Buchan’s could be growing inside her, that any part of him could become a part of her. Besides that, she was terrified of even the idea of childbirth. It was one of the few things of which she was truly afraid. The fear went back to when she was four years old and her brother Duncan was born.

She remembered the time vividly – a few beautiful days at the beginning of September in the year 1289 which would remain in her mind forever as a time of blood and terror.

The Earl of Fife had been sceptical about his wife’s joyful news of her pregnancy when she had told him. He had gazed at Joanna with hard grey eyes, scarcely a flicker of response on his youthful face, not allowing himself any hope from what would surely be yet another false alarm. It had been more than three years since the birth of their first child, and even then his wife had disappointed him. It had been a girl. Joanna had shivered, and pulled her mantle more closely around her shoulders, remembering her husband’s anger and frustration as he stood looking down at the puny mite which had for a moment been placed in her arms. But this time it would be different. She had prayed to St Margaret and to St Bride and to the Blessed Virgin herself and surely they would not let her down. With a son at his side Duncan would once again, she felt sure, become the debonair young man to whom she had come a bride from England. Then he had been thrilled to receive her as his wife, dowerless though she was, as a daughter of the Earl of Clare, Hertford and Gloucester, and close kinswoman to England’s great King Edward. Then he had treated her as precious gold.

The whole of that long hot summer after the young earl had ridden away they had waited. Then, one day Isobel’s secure world had changed. It had been a beautiful day, but it was drawing to a close. Outside the narrow castle windows a light breeze had sprung up, bringing with it a suspicion of early autumn chill. To Joanna de Clare, standing at the window, the afternoon had seemed long and dreary, and she had welcomed the cool air after the heat of the hall where they had taken their evening meal. Now from behind the distant hills the sunshine slanted low across the misty shores of the Forth, staining the tide race with carmine and gold. Any day now her husband would return, and she, now heavily pregnant, could show him the reassuring evidence that this time her promise of a child had been well founded.

A boy had thrown some dead fruit wood on the fire and its sweet scent had drifted across the chamber, almost neutralising the fetid stench which even the autumn winds could not quite disperse from the stagnant moat below. Quite soon they would be moving south, leaving behind them the Fife castles with their stinking piles of refuse and exhausted storerooms, all the evidence that remained to show where her household had passed the months of the long summer.

Behind her the sound of a shrill childish giggle rose suddenly above the muted sounds of talking which had been reaching her but faintly from the fireside behind her where several of her women were seated on stools around the leaping flames. The boy was carefully feeding the greedy licking lights with the dried twigs, slipping them one by one into the red hot embers to be devoured with a quick crackling sound, and as each crumbled into hot dust the flame would reflect in the bright red kirtle of the child’s gown.

Mairi had been young then, and nervous in her first position in the countess’s household. ‘Now, my lady, will you leave the poor little creature alone!’ Her frightened voice was raised at last in sheer desperation. At once, the chatter ceased and several pairs of reproachful eyes were raised from finely-stitched needlework. The only sound came from the crisp crackle of the fire and the mournful notes of a muted harp. Then, after a hasty glance towards the countess, the women had resumed their quiet gossip.

Joanna watched them all for a moment. The child was on her knees at the nurse’s feet, her dark ringlets hanging around her shoulders, her scarlet gown a patch of brilliance against the drab dusty heather which strewed the floor. She seemed to be trying to bury something beneath Mairi’s long skirts as the unsuspecting young woman picked up her spindle. Another piercing giggle reached her mother’s ears as Mairi sharply pulled the sweeping folds of material away from the little girl.

Again there was an uneasy silence. Joanna had shown herself to be possessed of an uncertain temper in the last few months and she had made it quite clear that her high-spirited daughter should be kept as much out of her way as possible in this, the smallest of the earl’s castles, where they were all forced to share the same restricted living space.

Only the old man, sitting in the corner, did not seem to notice the strained atmosphere in the room. His long frail fingers stroked the harp strings soothingly, but his eyes were fixed on the embrasure where his mistress stood silhouetted in the bright evening light. Master Elias had been harper to King Alexander in the old days, but since the king’s death he had returned to the service of the Fife family, from whose lands he had come so many years before. His music was said to be the best in the whole of Scotland. Joanna had noticed his gaze. It disturbed her to see his eyes, which had been for so long completely blind, fixed unerringly on her face. She was certain he could read every thought which passed through her mind and with a superstitious shiver she turned away from him, directing her attention once more to her daughter.

‘Isobel! Come here and show me what you’ve got,’ she called out suddenly, sitting down on the narrow stone seat. The child paused in her play, uncertain, but then as the gentle reassuring sounds of the harp continued, she rose and gathering something up in her arms danced with it across the floor, out of a last small patch of sunlight near the fire, across the darkening room and back into the mellow light near her mother. She dropped a slightly unsteady curtsey and held out her arms to let a tiny kitten fall on the waiting lap. Joanna suppressed the urge to smile at the eager little face and surveyed her daughter gravely. Someone had woven a little wreath of cornflowers into the dark hair and they had begun to wilt sadly. The girl looked like a small wood nymph with those mischievous eyes and laughing mouth.

By the fire the women had watched with interest as mother and daughter confronted one another. The little girl was looking up shyly through her dark lashes, in awe of this beautiful young woman who was her mother. She was well aware that Joanna had ordered Mairi to keep her away from her. Joanna had half smiled, however, as the child put her hand on the scrap of fur that was lying exhausted in her lap. She was a pretty child, with the flecked grey hazel eyes of her Celtic ancestors. Drowsy in the heat of the fire Joanna, lost in a dream, was brought back to the present only when the kitten, stretching, began energetically to knead at her knees, its claws hooked into her gown. Catching hold of it impatiently she threw it on to the floor where it landed on its feet, spitting with fright and indignation. Isobel had been standing watching her mother’s face with wide-eyed intensity, but now she fell on her knees beside the kitten, gathering the tiny creature up in her arms and soothing its ruffled feelings. She had looked up at her mother, her eyes blazing with uncontrollable temper although she had said nothing, and Joanna did not notice the child’s anger. She had risen from her seat and was gazing from the window once more, lost in thoughts of her husband’s return.

Mairi had not, however, missed that look in Isobel’s eyes. Leading her charge back to the fire she shook her head sadly. There was temper there which must be curbed for Isobel’s own sake. She had seen too many signs of it over the three years she had had charge of the child.

Mairi had first come to Isobel from a village high in the mountains of Mar. The Earl of Fife’s grandmother, who was now Countess of Mar, had found the girl and arranged that she come to Joanna’s service. She was a quiet, introspective young woman, whom some had thought simple. But she had soon picked up a smattering of the Scots which the household of her new mistress spoke, while she still spoke her native Gaelic to the child when they were alone together. Isobel, avid for stories, and with the quick ear of the very young, did not care what language they were in as she clamoured for more and more, as long as they came fast and ever more exciting. Mairi was clever at relating, with wide eyes and expressive gestures, the hair-raising tales of her own mountains, with their attendant ghosts and demons, sprites and fairies, and Isobel had absorbed them all.

The boy began lighting the torches with a brand from the fire. They flared wickedly for a moment as each caught, then settled to a steady flame. Joanna turned from her place at the window at last and went back to her seat near the fire.

‘My lady, there are riders coming.’ The boy had been drawing the heavy shutters across the window. Joanna looked up, trying to steady the sudden excitement in her heart.

‘Let us hope they are here before darkness comes,’ she said as calmly as she could. She turned to the harper. ‘Pray, play something more cheerful for us before we retire to bed.’

Isobel knew instinctively that her mother was excited; she knew she hoped for her father to return soon, but she did not care. Small as she was she had nursed in her heart her father’s scorn and it had festered.

‘Well, sir, are you not to play for us tonight?’ Joanna turned sharply on the harper, who had continued merely to stroke out gentle meaningless chords from his instrument. He turned his face in the direction of her voice and opened his mouth as though to say something, then he changed his mind. Instead he began to play a soft haunting melody, stroking sounds of loneliness and mourning from the golden wires of his instrument. It was a sound so desolate that after a few moments all conversation came to a stop, and the women turned, troubled, towards him. Even Isobel, playing sleepily with the doll Lord Buchan had given her, had turned from examining the exotic green silk in which its limbs were swathed and looked up from her toy. She had been filled suddenly with a terrible, inexplicable feeling of dread, a feeling she did not even understand. Climbing to her feet she had gone over to the musician, and stood for a while, gazing intently into his face. He had at once sensed the child close to him, and turned to smile at her, although he did not cease playing. ‘Stop playing that sad tune!’ she ordered suddenly. He took no notice. ‘Stop it!’ she cried again, stamping her foot. ‘Stop it, stop it, I don’t like it. Make him stop!’ She turned tearfully to the fire.

Mairi hastily rose to her feet. ‘With your permission, my lady, I will take her to bed,’ she said nervously.

Before she could reach the child though, Isobel had leaned forward and wrenched the old man’s hand from the strings. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ she screamed again. There was an anguished arpeggio of notes from the instrument, and then silence.

Joanna straightened, horrified.

‘Take her upstairs,’ she ordered. ‘Take her upstairs and whip her!’ She looked at the old man almost in fear. His fingers were gently feeling the frame of his instrument, nursing the sharp ends where two wires had been torn from their anchorage.

At her words, however, he looked up and put out his hand to Isobel who had not moved. ‘Do not punish the child,’ he said softly. ‘She and only she understood the message of my tune. Do not be angry because it struck terror into her heart. I spoke to her of destiny and of death; of duty towards men and towards kingdoms. As yet she does not understand, but she felt fear at what life holds in store for her. Fear which you too should feel, madam, for all you bear a son in your womb!’

‘A son!’ Joanna put her hand to her belly in wonder. ‘How do you know?’

‘I know.’

She shook her head, still shocked and distressed by what had happened. ‘But your harp! She has broken your harp.’

Master Elias put the harp down on the floor beside him and, groping for his stick, he rose to his feet. Making his way towards the door, the old man paused for a moment beside her. ‘My harp can be mended, Lady Joanna,’ he commented tersely. Without another word he made his way to the door, feeling before him gently with his stick. The boy rushed forward to open the heavy door for him, and the old man disappeared slowly down the dark draughty stair, the sound of the tapping of his stick, and the soft shuffling of his fur robe on the stone steps, coming up to them long after he had gone.

There was a moment of silence, then Mairi had taken Isobel by the hand. ‘Come along, my little love,’ she said softly. ‘Trobhad seo, Iseabail, tha tha thîd agad dhol dhan leabaidh. We’ll away to our bed.’ Silently they too crossed to the door, but as they reached it, the sound of hasty footsteps came up to them from below and the ring of spurs on stone.

Pulling Isobel to her, Mairi waited. Joanna had risen from her chair at the sound, her cheeks pale, and her own breath coming sharply as the steps came panting up the stair. Behind her the other women rose looking at one another in consternation. Mairi put her arm around the child’s shoulders protectively, and looked at the countess, who was standing clasping the back of her chair as two men appeared at the top of the stairs. They wore the livery of the Earl of Fife, but their clothes were torn and spattered with dried mud and dust.

One, the taller of the two, stopped abruptly, and remained by the door, awkwardly fingering his sword hilt; the other strode straight to where Joanna stood, and went down on one knee before her. His face was lined and tired and his expression was grim. There was a moment of silence as he knelt unspeaking, his eyes fixed on the hem of her gown.

Looking down at his heaving shoulders, Joanna had hardly dared speak. Her own heart was thumping with fear as she waited for him to say something. ‘Well?’ she cried at last, unable to bear his silence.

‘My lady, I have dreadful news.’ The man made a visible effort to collect himself, then paused again, uncertain how to continue.

‘You bring word from the earl my husband?’ she prompted.

He winced as though she had struck him. ‘My lady, we were riding towards Brechin. It was growing dark, and the men were tired. The earl wanted to reach the burgh before dusk. My lady, we were ambushed.’ His voice was scarcely audible as he continued with a rush. ‘There were so many of them, hiding by the roadside. We stood no chance, my lady! We shouted at them! There must have been a mistake.’ He was appealing to her now. ‘They were lying in wait for someone else. It was twilight and hard to see. We shouted, my lady! They were the earl’s kinsmen, my lady! They wore the livery of the Abernethys. We fought them off as best we could, my lady, but two of our comrades were killed and … and …’

Joanna was no longer listening. The words washed over her with the icy rush of a mountain waterfall. Everything inside her had gone cold and the room was silent.

Isobel held her breath. It was as if the whole world had stopped breathing with her. Then she heard the man again. He rushed on, talking desperately into the silence. She barely understood his words, but she knew what they meant. Her father was dead. And she was glad.

‘… He did not stand a chance … they did not give him a chance to fight fair! He was murdered … murdered by his own kin.’ The man was blubbering now, like a child. His companion remained, as though stunned, rooted to the spot by the door.

Suddenly Joanna turned on the kneeling man, her eyes blazing, half in tears, half in anger.

‘And how, sir, does it happen that you are still alive? Did you flee from aiding my lord to save your own skin?’ She almost spat the words at him.

The man looked up with indignation. ‘The moment he was dead they fled, my lady. We could not follow in the darkness. And we could not leave … we could not leave him lying there.’

She stood looking down on him in silence.

‘The body is being conveyed to the abbey of Coupar Angus, my lady countess.’ The man by the door spoke at last. ‘We shall be pleased to help escort you there at daybreak.’

‘Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.’

The mournful voices echoed back and forth, high in the shadowy vaults of stone in the abbey chapel across the garth. To Isobel in the guest house, it was the sound of doom. At her mother’s side she had ridden behind Mairi to the abbey the day before and despite Mairi’s protests, she had been made to accompany her mother to look at the Earl of Fife’s body.

It lay on a bier in the shadowy nave, covered by the earl’s own banner, surrounded by tall candles. Joanna walked slowly towards it, holding Isobel’s hand tightly in her own. The rest of the church was dark and empty. The praying monks, their heads covered by their cowls, withdrew silently to the shadows as the widow approached.

‘I want to see him.’ Her whispered command sounded harsh in the silence.

‘It would be better not, my lady.’ The knight at her side put out a hand as if to restrain her.

‘I want to see him,’ she repeated stubbornly. She stepped towards the bier. Isobel hung back, suddenly afraid, but her mother pulled her forward.

Duncan’s face, smoothed of its petulance by death, looked young and handsome in the steady candlelight; to Isobel, so small beside her mother, it looked already like stone. She wondered for a moment why her father lay so still in this cold, dark church; then she remembered. He was dead. She had seen death before, often, in her short life, but never so close; never so immediate. She stared curiously, resisting the temptation to reach out to touch him.

Joanna moved forward suddenly and caught the silken banner, with its rippling rampant lion, pulling it completely from the body. She gave a strangled gasp. The earl’s clothes were soaked in blood, the encrusted hands, crossed so reverently on his breast, mutilated almost beyond recognition.

With a shrill scream Isobel tore her hand free of her mother’s and ran blindly into the darkness of the abbey. No one saw her go, for Joanna, with a moan, had fallen to her knees, clutching in agony at her stomach as the first labour pain tore through her body.

Mairi found Isobel in the end: the child was huddled in the choir stalls, her hands over her ears. At least in the darkness after her mother had been carried outside, it had been quiet but she had been too frightened to follow, conscious of the silent figure, once more hastily covered by its silken pall, lying so still in the candlelight.

Mairi took her back to the guest house and left her, with firm instructions not to move, with one of Joanna’s ladies. She herself was needed by the countess.

Joanna’s moans had continued all night. The next morning, as the monks began to sing their requiem, the first of the woman’s screams echoed round the small square building.

Isobel cowered back, her small face white, her eyes enormous. The woman with her glanced at the child. ‘Outside, my lady. Go outside and play.’ She ushered her towards the door. ‘Go on, quickly. I must go to your mother.’

But Isobel hadn’t gone. Cautiously she had followed, creeping towards the door of the small guest chamber where Joanna had been lodged, and there, unnoticed by the panicking, frantic women, she saw and heard it all. There were no midwives to take charge. Joanna, still a month from the expected date of her confinement, had not thought to bring any. Her escort had consisted only of armed men, three of her ladies – all unmarried – and three servants, only one of whom had had a child of her own. This woman, thrust suddenly, trembling and terrified, into the role of midwife, could think only of what would happen to her if the countess should die. Mairi was the only one in the end to keep her head. Calm and reassuring she had bathed Joanna’s face and held her hands as the countess lay propped up in the high bed, cursing the mournful chanting which could be heard so clearly from the open door of the chapel.

In numb, terrified silence, Isobel stared into the room. She saw and smelt the blood; only this blood wasn’t black and clotted like that which had stiffened on her father’s embroidered tunic. It was red and alive. It soaked the sheets and covered the women’s arms, and it seemed to pour from her mother’s body endlessly as again and again Joanna screamed.

And then the baby came. Her brother. Duncan. Her father’s heir. The new Earl of Fife. A tiny, blood-stained, ugly doll, the cord still hanging from his belly as someone held him up. He was mewling like a puppy. And they were pleased. Even her mother, exhausted as she was, was smiling now through her tears, holding out her arms for the boy.

Isobel turned away. Tiptoeing towards the room where she had slept some of the night, she crawled under the covers of one of the beds and began to cry.

It was Mairi who had told her that she need never have a baby of her own; Mairi who had promised there were ways for women to stop it happening and that if need be she would show her how; Mairi – who now said it was God’s will – who had dragged the child Isobel back almost from the edge of madness that September day.

Isobel looked at her now reproachfully and wondered if she remembered those days too. She caught Mairi’s eye and held it, and knew that she did. It was Mairi who, shamefaced, turned away.

‘May I ask what has happened to our dinner?’

Paul’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Clare stared at him blankly, then horrified, she rose to her feet. The candles in the candelabra had burned down more than an inch; the room was full of the smell of cooking.

‘Paul! I’m sorry. I … I must have fallen asleep.’

‘Indeed, you must.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘I warned you you would be too tired if you did everything yourself.’

‘It’s not that –’

‘No?’

He knew what she had been doing. Her eyes had been shut, but her whole posture, though relaxed had been attentive, alert, as though she were listening to something far away. He wondered momentarily why Sarah Collins found it so alarming. Clare was daydreaming, that was all, but was it normal to sit daydreaming for nearly an hour when you had six important guests upstairs? He thought not.

‘Is the food spoiled?’ he asked coldly.

Clare shook her head. ‘The casserole needed another half hour anyway.’

‘I see. But you didn’t think to return to your guests. They bore you, I suppose.’

Clare could feel herself colouring. ‘You know that’s not true, Paul. I just sat down for a moment to … think –’

‘To think!’ Paul repeated the words, his tone deliberately insulting. ‘And may I ask what you were thinking about so hard that you gave every appearance of being asleep?’

‘You were watching me?’

He could see she was uncomfortable.

‘I watched you.’ His eyes narrowed slightly.

Clare turned away from him abruptly. ‘If you want to know I was thinking about babies. Childbirth.’ She gave an involuntary shiver. She hadn’t been thinking about their own predicament, the dream was too immediate, too real, but Paul saw the shiver and misinterpreted it. ‘Clare, I have told you to stop dwelling on that.’ The sudden twinge of guilt made him angry.

‘One can’t just stop, Paul. Not after all you and I have been through in the last few months.’ Clare had realised suddenly that they were at cross purposes.

‘You have to, otherwise you will make yourself ill.’

Ill. Was that it? Was that what was happening to her? She had not sat down to meditate. She had not summoned Isobel. She had constructed no ashram to frame a meditation. The dream had come unbidden, a nightmare of blood and fear and pain to put an end forever to her own special little fantasy of a beautiful sterile birth with a tiny, powdered, pink and white baby as the end product. She took a deep breath, trying desperately to master her sudden cold fear. ‘Shouldn’t one of us go back upstairs?’

‘Both of us, Clare.’ Paul took her arm. ‘Are you sure the food is all right?’

She nodded, dragging her mind back fully to the present, and pulling away from him she went towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the starters on the table, if you’d like to bring the others down.’

‘Are you sure you feel well enough?’ Paul asked grudgingly.

‘Of course. No one will know anything. I promise.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Go on, Paul. Fetch them now.’

‘A crisis, dear?’ Lady Beattie smiled at her graciously as she led the other guests into the room a few moments later. ‘You should have called me. I’m an old hand at coping with disasters.’ She was peering round the room as though expecting to find evidence of calamity pushed under the table.

‘It must be a frightful bore when your staff let you down.’ Diane’s drawl cut the air like a knife. ‘Paul was saying that your cook is stuck down in the country.’

‘She’s not stuck.’ Clare took her place at the table with a smile. ‘I told her not to come. It was hardly necessary for her to make the effort for a small dinner party like this.’ She was aware of the scandalised expression on Paul’s face and felt a sudden surge of triumph. ‘And there wasn’t any crisis. I was just putting the finishing touches to one or two things.’

She had seen Henry’s gaze go to the candles, already burning, translucent with heat, then back to her and she knew that he had guessed. She refused to catch his eye.

Kathleen leaned on the bar, watching Neil with narrowed eyes. She was drinking tomato juice. The Cramond Inn was packed. He was standing near her, a glass of whisky in his hand, lost in thought; then he glanced at his watch.

‘She’s not coming.’ She sat down on a bar stool near him.

‘She will.’

Kathleen raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s too big a risk for her. Anyway, why should she? You know enough.’

‘I don’t know enough!’ Neil slammed his hand down on the bar. ‘All I know is that Clare Royland turned down the first offer. I have to know what happened when she received the next one.’

‘Does her reaction affect the campaign then?’

‘Of course it affects the campaign. Are we on the side of the owners, fighting the oil moguls and the government, or are we against private individuals exploiting the environment to enrich their own purses?’ He was speaking quietly but his voice was passionately intense. ‘The whole angle of this campaign is going to depend on what Sandra has to say.’

‘They might not have heard anything yet.’

‘They’ve heard. She told me that much on the phone.’

Kathleen gave a slow smile. ‘You want her to accept that offer, don’t you? You want to fight this beautiful Mrs Royland.’ She narrowed her eyes again, cat like. ‘Don’t let her get to you too much, Neil.’ Raising her hand to his cheek for a moment, she flexed her fingers, stroking his face for a fraction of a second with her nails. ‘You mustn’t lose the cool impersonality for which you’re so famous.’

Neil stepped back slightly. ‘I won’t.’ He was visibly irritated. Turning his back on her he surveyed the crowds in the room. Sandra had arrived while they were talking and was standing nervously just inside the door.

‘There she is. You stay here.’ His voice was curt. Putting down his glass he threaded his way towards the girl who was staring short-sightedly around her.

‘I’m sorry. I took a wrong turning.’ She greeted him anxiously. ‘I’m not used to driving on my own. Can we go outside. I don’t like pubs.’

Neil opened the door for her and ushered her outside without a word. The car park was cold and very silent after the noise of the pub. It was slightly foggy. ‘Wouldn’t you rather I bought you a drink?’ He was wondering why she had chosen to meet there if she didn’t like pubs.

She shook her head. ‘I was thinking that none of my mum’s friends would go somewhere like that, but I might be recognised by anyone – one of Mr Mitchison’s or Mr Archer’s clients. I’d forgotten that that is the sort of place they would go on a Saturday night –’

‘Let’s walk down to the river. No one will see us there.’ Neil pushed his hands down into the pockets of his jacket, with a quick shiver of excitement. Her air of frightened conspiracy was contagious.

They stood in silence at the end of the causeway which led out towards the sleeping hump of Cramond Island. The receding tide had left darker patches in the darkness where the mudflats glistened. Lights showed every now and then from the towns strung along the distant coast of Fife, then the mist would drift back and they would disappear, only to reappear, strafed into whiteness by the monotonous lighthouse beam out in the Forth. Neil could hear the quiet confidential chatter of birds in the distance.

Slowly they walked up the Almond, staring across into the darkness of the Dalmeny woods. Water was lapping gently below the sea wall.

‘I’m sorry to be so silly,’ she said after a moment. ‘But my job means a lot to me.’

‘Your job is safe, Sandra,’ Neil said firmly. ‘You have my word. No one will see us here.’ Behind them the village was empty and deserted, the black and white houses of the winding street and the quay floodlit by street lamps which showed the wet reflection on the road. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

She moved closer to him. ‘Mr Mitchison had a letter back from Mr Royland. Apparently his wife is ill but he is interested in the offer, and’ – she glanced over her shoulder – ‘Mr Mitchison has set up a meeting between Mr Cummin and Mr Royland.’

Neil let out a soundless whistle. ‘So! I knew it! When are they meeting?’

‘Next Friday. I typed out the letter confirming it yesterday. They’re going to meet for dinner in London.’

In the darkness Neil was staring out across the cold water. ‘Do you by any chance know where they’re meeting?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled. ‘Good,’ he said.

Casta was ecstatic. Yelping with excitement she leaped around Clare as her mistress climbed out of the car on Sunday morning. The fog was still thick and the fields around the house were dank and silent.

Without a word Paul went to the rear of the car to find their cases.

‘Paul –’ Clare followed him.

‘No, Clare. I need you in London.’ He didn’t even bother to look at her. ‘It’s not convenient for you to go to Scotland at the moment. I’m sorry.’

‘It would only be for a few days.’ She could hear herself pleading and she despised herself for it. She felt trapped.

‘No!’ He slammed down the boot lid. ‘God knows, Clare, I’d have thought after last night’s fiasco you would have wanted to make amends. Sonja Beattie was scandalised by your behaviour.’

Clare stooped to give the dog a hug, hiding a half smile in the golden fur. ‘I don’t think she was at all,’ she said defiantly. ‘I think she was amused. Anyway why call it a fiasco? They didn’t know what happened. And the food was good; the wine was good; there were no awkward silences. In fact,’ she straightened and looked at him, ‘I think it was a successful dinner party all round. You should be pleased.’ She turned and walked into the house.

Paul’s eldest brother was waiting in the drawing room. Sarah Collins had lit the fire and the room smelled richly of the old dry apple boughs she had thrown into the inglenook fireplace. There were new bowls of chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, beautiful amongst the silver frames of the photographs on the tables scattered around the room.

Throwing her jacket down on the sofa Clare went straight to the fire and knelt before it, holding out her hands. ‘How are you, David? Where’s Gillian?’ She did not wait to kiss her brother-in-law or take his hand.

Sir David Royland put down the business section of the Sunday Times and stood up. He was a tall man, like his brothers, his hair a uniform grey. He wore a dilapidated cashmere sweater over baggy cords, and his feet were clad only in socks. The Member of Parliament for the Stour Valley was off duty. He put his cup down on the low coffee table and then straightened again, looking at her closely. ‘I’m fine, my dear. And so is Gillian. She thought she’d take it easy this morning though, with the baby so imminent. Where is Paul?’

She shrugged. ‘He’ll be here in a minute.’ She was staring into the flames.

Sir David walked across to the silver tray on the grand piano. ‘Can I pour you some coffee? It’s still hot.’ He smiled at her. ‘The excellent Mrs Collins brought enough cups. She was expecting you.’ He handed her one, and stood looking down at her. ‘We were sorry not to see you at the party on Saturday.’ He paused. ‘I hope you’re feeling better. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a chair, my dear?’

Clare hunched closer to the fire, holding the porcelain cup and saucer against her chest. ‘I’m fine, thank you. For God’s sake, sit down, David. Don’t hover! You’ve come to see Paul, I suppose?’ She looked up at him suddenly.

‘I did, as a matter of fact.’ He studied her face, noticing the signs of strain, and he frowned.

Clare always made him feel uneasy. He found her extremely attractive, he had to admit, and yet she irritated him and put him on the defensive, mocking him and all he stood for from behind those innocent grey eyes. He knew she found him pompous and she teased him openly, especially about his recent knighthood, and he wished he could dismiss her as a silly young woman of whom he could take no notice. But he couldn’t. Whenever she was in the room with him he found himself drawn towards her. Also he respected her brain – something his own wife appeared to be able to do without – and he found himself wondering, often, how she and Paul conducted their sex life. He had frequently suspected his brother of being totally uninterested in sex. For this vivacious, beautiful woman to see anything in Paul at all was a conundrum upon which he pondered with a frequency for which he despised himself.

He sat down on a chair near her and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin cupped in his hands. Whatever he felt about Clare he had never before found himself feeling sorry for her, but now suddenly there was a wistfulness in her face which made him feel strangely protective.

‘Paul has asked me whether I would be prepared to break the children’s trust fund.’ He looked thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I take it that that was your idea?’

‘My idea?’ Clare sat back on her heels and looked up at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t you?’ He looked pained. ‘Paul feels that Father’s will, because it was so heavily weighted towards his grandchildren, actual and potential, is grossly unfair. My children, and Geoffrey’s and Em’s, will inherit the bulk of Father’s estate when they grow up.’ He glanced at her. ‘Paul feels we should split up the money so that he can take a quarter.’

Clare put her cup and saucer down on the hearth and climbed to her feet. ‘And you think that is my idea?’

David hesitated, scrutinising her face, then he shrugged.

‘I thought it might be. It seems strange that Paul should suddenly want the money.’

‘And you thought it must be the grasping wife?’ Clare bent to pick up a log from the basket and threw it into the fire, watching the flames lick round it. She swung round. ‘Well, it wasn’t, but I can guess why he’s done it.’ She was suddenly on the defensive. ‘He wants it because he knows he will never have any children to inherit anything, at least not as long as he’s married to me.’ She clenched her fists. ‘But no doubt he told you that. Perhaps he feels this is just compensation for having a barren wife. It is his share of the inheritance, I suppose, so why shouldn’t he have it?’

‘Exactly.’ Behind them Paul had appeared in the doorway. ‘So, is that why you’ve come, David? To give me your decision?’

He strode into the room and leaned against the oak chest near the door, his folded arms concealing his agitation. ‘Have you and Geoff talked it over?’ His voice was heavy.

‘Geoffrey is away at some conference.’ David adopted a soothing tone which managed to sound patronising. ‘But I’m sure we’ll be able to agree about this when he gets back.’

His tone visibly irritated his brother.

‘And how much do you suppose you will be able to spare me after your deliberations?’

‘That is rather up to the four of us, as trustees, and to the accountants, don’t you think?’ David said dryly. ‘If you feel you are entitled to a particular percentage, you’d better say so. The money you’re talking about is at the moment to be divided equally between the children as they reach the age of eighteen with a capital sum remaining to give each of them a small income and to cover any late arrivals.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘We four are supposed to have had our share when Father died, remember?’

‘Of course I remember.’ Paul turned away sharply. He went across to the window and stared out at the mist. The chestnut trees were dripping dankly on the lawn, their golden leaves mud-coloured without the sun.

His brother was watching him closely through narrowed eyes. ‘Well, if you still want to go ahead with this, I suggest we call a meeting of the trustees to discuss it.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll ring Geoff tonight and see if he’s back. I think I should tell you, Paul, that Gillian and I are not very happy about this.’

‘I’m sure you’re not!’ Paul didn’t look round. ‘Your bloody kids get the lion’s share.’

‘They will get an equal amount each.’ David was tight-lipped as he strode towards the door. ‘I’m sorry Paul is putting you through all this, Clare –’ as he opened it he glanced back at her. She was still standing by the fire, her face set. ‘You deserve better, my dear.’

Clare watched until her brother-in-law’s old Bentley had disappeared up the drive, then she turned towards Paul.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to break the trust?’

He left the window and threw himself down with a sigh into the chair his brother had just vacated. ‘There is nothing to tell as yet. But Geoffrey will agree with me because it’s the Christian thing to do and Em will agree because it’s fair.’ He gave a grim smile.

Clare bit her lip, trying to fight down the guilt and unhappiness which were threatening to swamp her. She was watching him closely, and she realised suddenly through her misery that the strained transparency of the skin around his eyes and the loss of weight in his usually solid face had not just happened in the last few days. His concern about money, and his bad temper, had been going on now for months; since the end of June when they had learned that she would not inherit any money from Margaret Gordon’s will. Yet Paul was a rich man – both from his father’s money which, as David had pointed out, had been considerable, and through his investments. She frowned. ‘Are you worried about money for some reason, Paul?’ she asked wearily. ‘Nothing has gone wrong in the City has it?’

‘Gone wrong?’ He stared into the fire. ‘Of course not. Did it look as if anything were wrong last night?’

‘No.’

‘Well then.’ He flung himself back in the chair and closed his eyes. ‘There is nothing to worry about, is there?’

The helicopter hovered for several minutes over the field, then it circled the castle, the huge rotor blades fanning the branches of the rowan and birch, parting the grasses until they bent and streamed like water. On the cliffs the birds flew up in clouds, screaming, their cries drowned by the roar of the engine.

Rex Cummin leaned forward, staring down, his eyes fixed on the pile of grey stone which had been the tower of Duncairn. He had a note pad on his knee and there was a pen in his hand, but he made no attempt to write. Out at sea the fog banks were a pearly white, obliterating the horizon, but inland the ground was bathed in sunshine. His eyes gleamed. Far below the sleeping rock, below the matted bracken and heather and dry grass there was oil. He knew it in his bones.

In the hotel Jack Grant stood at the office window watching as the helicopter circled. He frowned, noting the logo painted on its side, then he reached for the phone and dialled the number Neil had given him.

He consulted his notes. ‘Does the Greek letter Sigma mean anything to you?’ he asked as the line connected.

In Edinburgh Neil cursed.