Kingdom of Shadows (30 page)

Still upset and shaken after the news of Macduff’s death, Isobel felt herself go completely cold. ‘But has no one gone to help them? Do you leave Lord Carrick to fight the whole might of England alone?’ She saw Alice look up warningly, but she ignored her, the words tumbling out as she rose to her feet. ‘Why didn’t anyone go after them? Why have you come back here? The fight isn’t finished! For the love of God, did King Edward alarm you so much that you had to come and lick your wounds in the north and leave others to throw out the English invaders?’

There was a moment’s horrified silence. The page, returning with more wine, froze in his tracks. Slowly Alice stood up, the embroidery silks falling unnoticed from her lap. The servants and men-at-arms in the hall, sensing something of the atmosphere, stopped whatever they were doing and stared, first at the earl, then at his countess as she stood before him, hands clenched, eyes blazing, her beautiful face pale with anger.

‘Well, my lord?’ Oblivious of the watching faces she swept past him, taking the jug from the page with a shaking hand. ‘Here, let me refill your goblet. Wine will no doubt restore your courage –’

He took the jug from her before he hit her, a blow which sent her reeling across the floor. His face taut with anger, he drank deeply, then tossing the jug back to the page he strode towards his wife and caught her arm.

‘No one, no one, has ever called me coward,’ he said, his voice deceptively calm. ‘I returned north with other lords of the realm to plan the future and to elect new guardians. Lord Carrick’ – his voice was acid – ‘will undoubtedly be one of them. He has more than proved his worth. He does not need your championship of him. Sir William Wallace has failed us; he cannot continue as Guardian of Scotland, even in John Balliol’s name. The task belongs with men of high rank. No mere gentleman, however fine a soldier he may be, can rule Scotland. In the meantime, your task, wife, is to serve and support your husband, not’ – he paused, his breath hissing between his teeth – ‘accuse him of cowardice.’

‘I spoke too hastily, my lord, forgive me.’ Fear and anger, as so often, vied with each other as she faced him.

‘You did indeed.’

Each time he saw her he found her more to his taste, this strange rebellious child bride who was now a woman. The trouble in the winter had matured her, both physically and mentally, even though it seemed to have hardened her resolve to fight him. Again he felt the faint stirring of desire as he looked at her, and the new respect. He knew she was afraid of him – he was a large man, still in his prime, and yet she refused to be cowed; she had proved that now, and before Falkirk. She was a woman of courage and intelligence; she would make a good mother for his heir. He frowned. It was many months now, since she had lost the child and still there was no sign that she was breeding again. He crossed himself suddenly as he looked at her, unaware that every pair of eyes in the great hall of Slains Castle saw him do it, and read the thought that again and again crossed his mind. His wife was a sorceress and using her art against him.

He shook away the thought. Two nights he could spare at Slains before riding inland to Mar, to break the news, among other things, to Countess Eleyne of her son Macduff’s death, two nights to get his wife pregnant and dissuade her from further attempts to avoid the destiny for which every married woman was intended.

Slains, like so many of the Buchan castles, was never free of the sound of the sea. That night was one of violent storm. In the darkness the never-ending waves thundered up the lines of cliffs, reverberating against the hollow rocks, casting spray high in the air as a violent summer storm and a southeasterly gale hurled itself at the east coast of Scotland. Time and again the sky was split open by forked shafts of lightning, to be followed by crack upon crack of thunder. The lookouts cowered behind the walls, straining their eyes against the dark, whilst in the hall men huddled around the huge fire, banked up despite the heat and hissing as the heavy rain fell five storeys through the long chimney.

Isobel had told the boy to leave the windows unshuttered. She stood watching the rain on the stone sill, not flinching as the lightning sliced into the boiling waves below, turning the sea an eldritch green. There was no fire in the hearth in the earl’s chamber; two of the sconces had blown out. Only the candles remained, sheltered by the hangings of the great bed. The storm was exhilarating.

The room was empty; she had dismissed her attendants an hour before as the storm began. Slowly she pulled off her head-dress and unpinned the long braids from her head, undoing them slowly and methodically, her eyes on the sea, feeling the wind lift her loosened hair about her shoulders. Shrugging off her gown she let it slide to the floor. The air was cool on her hot skin as she stood staring out of the window in the pale linen shift. Almost without realising it she allowed that too to fall, and stood naked in the embrasure, her hand on the carved stone, not flinching as another crack of thunder reverberated across the neighbouring cliffs and echoed inland.

On the deep sill, soaked with rain, stood a small jar. In it was an ointment of honey and beeswax and salt, thrice blessed beneath the moon. Mairi had made it for her; Mairi who had brought her an hour before the precious water in which a red hot iron from the forge had been dropped.

‘Drink it, my lady. The savine from the south is finished, but this will make you barren without making you ill as the savine did,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that no one overheard. Isobel did not hesitate. She drank the water and gave Mairi the goblet, then Mairi had reached into the pocket of her apron. ‘Before your lord comes,’ she whispered, ‘you must place this ointment inside yourself. He’ll not guess if you do it quickly without him seeing. If the iron water fails, this will protect you,
Iseabail, ma chridhe
.’

Throwing open the door, Lord Buchan caught his breath at the sight of his wife, silhouetted against the flickering sky beyond the window. He stood watching her for a moment, conscious of the chill which had touched his spine. Again the lightning flickered and he saw her white skin take on a blue, ethereal glow. She didn’t move. All her attention was fixed on some point far out at sea. If she heard her husband she gave no sign. Beside her the jar was empty.

He stared at the angle of her shoulders, the line of her spine, the soft curve of her buttocks, shadowed by the pale flickering candlelight behind her and, slowly, despising himself for doing it, once more he made the sign of the cross.

Abruptly he stepped into the room and hurled the door shut behind him. She didn’t move. Only the slight tightening of her knuckles on the stone beside the window showed that she knew he was there.

For a moment the moon showed behind the streaming clouds. It was full, low in the east above the black jumble of the heaving water. Isobel stared at it, feeling the gentle touch of its light on her body, then as the cloud thickened again and darkness cloaked the sea, she turned and faced her husband.

11

Sarah Collins always walked to church on Sunday, following the long winding road into Dedham from Great Headham, allowing forty minutes for the three-mile journey. She never asked Clare if she would like to go too and Clare had never suggested it. As she left she looked back at Clare’s bedroom window, and shivered. In the church she glanced around as the congregation filed quietly in and took their places, then slowly she sank to her knees on the tapestry hassock and folded her hands in front of her face. She was still praying when the organ began softly to play the introit.

Clare wasn’t sure what had brought her back to the present. One minute she was there in the dark, shadowed room at Slains and the next she was staring round her own sun-filled bedroom. The figures had gone, the past had retreated and she was alone again. Slowly she climbed out of bed. Her body was tense and excited, her heart thumping painfully beneath her ribs as she walked in her nightdress to the window and pushed it open. She leaned out, taking deep breaths of the fresh cold air, feeling it cool her burning face and body beneath the thin silk. She was trembling violently. Why? Why had it happened? She had not done any yoga; she had not meditated. She had had no candle, no thought of Isobel. She had been thinking of Duncairn admittedly, but in the present, not the past. She swallowed hard. Dear God! Was Geoffrey right? Was she possessed?

Her knuckles whitened on the window sill. Had this happened to Aunt Margaret too? She put her head in her hands, then slowly she straightened. If it had happened to Aunt Margaret then it wasn’t just her; she was not mad; she hadn’t courted some kind of evil. Isobel was part of her family, as much a part of her inheritance as was Duncairn. She was returning for a reason. There had to be a reason. Clare bit her lip, staring round the room. What reason could this woman, dead now for nearly seven hundred years, have for haunting her descendants? Why was she returning again and again to tell her story?

Slowly she forced herself to get dressed. Fawn cords, a thick sweater against the cold wind, then she brushed her hair hard almost as if she were trying to clear her head by the fierce wielding of the hairbrush. She ran downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. A faint smell of cooking was coming from the oven. Sarah must have put something on before she left for church. Only then did she call Casta. The dog came at last, peering sheepishly round the door, and after a moment’s hesitation bounded into the room, tail wagging. Clare gave her a hug. ‘We’ll go for a walk across the fields as soon as I’ve had my coffee,’ she whispered. ‘Then Sarah will be back from church and we needn’t be alone.’

The wind was whisking leaves across the gravel, tossing the branches of the trees to and fro as she walked across the drive towards the gate, and the roar and rustle of the leaves completely masked the sound of the car driving slowly towards her up the drive. It drew to a halt near her and the driver sat still for a moment staring at her.

Casta raced back across the lawn and jumped the low fence, barking, as Clare turned to face her visitor.

They stared at one another for a moment then slowly Neil opened his car door and climbed out.

‘Mrs Royland?’ He made it sound like a question, though he had recognised her at once. He eyed the slacks, the heavy sweater, the brogues. Even in country clothes, her hair tangled by the wind and with the bare minimum of make-up she managed to look elegant. He could feel his resentment welling up again.

The decision to drive up via Suffolk had come to him suddenly, in his hotel room after the dinner in Long Acre with his two London colleagues. Even as he drove through Dedham and found the turning which led to Great Headham he had not made the decision to go in. He just wanted to look at the house and see for himself what kind of extravagant lifestyle the Roylands led, trying to justify his irrational dislike of Clare.

From the lane all he had been able to see was the long drive, the cluster of warm red roofs, the old peg tiles glowing beneath the blustery sunshine, and the trees around the front of the house and on the lawns which surrounded it. Almost without realising it he had turned the Land Rover in through the gates. And then he had seen her.

‘My name is Neil Forbes.’ He held out his hand to her formally. ‘I wonder if I could speak to you for a few minutes?’ His voice was coldly polite.

Ordering the dog to be quiet she shook his hand warily. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t quite remember where –’

‘At Duncairn. We didn’t meet, but I was there.’

‘Of course. You were at the castle.’ She remembered him clearly now. He had watched her, intruded on her privacy and Isobel’s …

She pushed her hands deep into her pockets. She didn’t want to speak to him; she didn’t want to speak to anyone yet. Isobel was still too much with her. The memory of that moonlit room and the naked defiant woman still overwhelmed her, and in a strange way it still excited her. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Forbes, but it is not a very good time. As you see, I am just going out.’

‘It’ll only take a few minutes, Mrs Royland. And it is important.’ He folded his arms. The sexy bitch had been in bed with someone. He could see it in her eyes, in the glow on her face. And it hadn’t been her husband. Paul Royland was in Zurich. ‘I think you would want to hear what it is that I have to say to you.’ The slight undercurrent of threat in his tone was obvious. ‘It is about Duncairn.’

Clare studied him coolly. ‘What about Duncairn?’ She was on the defensive now, wondering if he was from the oil company, or if he was somehow connected with Paul. In either case she had no wish to speak to him.

‘You have been offered a very large sum of money for the estate, Mrs Royland. I should be interested to know just how long it took you to accept.’ His voice was heavy with scorn. ‘I can’t believe you need the money that badly.’ He glanced disparagingly over his shoulder at the beautiful old house. ‘Did you think at all about the repercussions on the people in the village up there? Did you consider the environmental ramifications which the development of the area will bring? Did you think about Jack Grant at the hotel? Or the castle? Or the birds and the plants and the other wildlife? Did you, Mrs Royland?’ He took a step nearer to her.

Clare, for a moment so astonished by his attack that she didn’t answer, was suddenly furiously angry. ‘What I do is none of your business, Mr Forbes! How dare you! It is none of your business at all! Please leave! I assure you I don’t need a stranger to point out my responsibilities at Duncairn!’ She was white with anger.

‘Someone obviously has to, Mrs Royland!’

‘No! No one has to! Least of all a complete stranger. Please leave, Mr Forbes, or I shall call the police!’

To her fury he smiled suddenly. ‘I think it would take your local flying squad quite a time to arrive here. And you would have to reach the telephone first.’ He waited, watching with detached interest as the colour in her face, one minute animated and glowing with anger, drained away, leaving her white as before. But her eyes did not lose their courage. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Forbes?’