Kingdom of Shadows (107 page)

‘And the others? The visions?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘She’s still there, but I can’t see her. It’s as if she’s waiting for something. Waiting for the baby. My baby.’ She bit her lip.

‘Rubbish! Why should she want your baby?’

‘Perhaps her own died.’

‘It can’t have. After all, we are descended from it, aren’t we?’ Seeing her rising panic now that the subject had been faced at last, James was crisply practical. ‘Aunt Margaret was so proud of our descent from Robert the Bruce and that was the way it came, wasn’t it, through Isobel’s daughter, so the child can’t have come to a gory end. Listen, why don’t you let me drive you down to Edinburgh in the Porsche? To be with Neil.’

In spite of herself Clare smiled. ‘A recipe for a very gory end, the way you drive.’

‘OK. You drive.’

‘James, it’s sweet of you –’

‘But –’

‘But Neil is coming here.’

It was the beginning of June when Isobel returned. Clare had spent the morning sketching on the cliffs. Neil was coming to join her that evening and she was looking forward to seeing him. The lengthy legal delays involved with appeal and counter-appeal meant that there had been no sign of any activity at Duncairn from Sigma. Everything was as it always had been.

The grass around the castle was neatly mown, and the walls hung with rambling roses in full flower. It was a place of peace and happiness. She had never asked anyone where Paul had died and no one had told her. Once, alone, she had brought a rose for him and laid it in the window of the chapel. That was all. A tribute to the years they had been happy before he had become a changed man.

It was a warm day; beautiful, a slight mist hanging over the sea. Walking back towards the hotel slowly at lunchtime she had paused within the circle of the castle walls and stared around. And suddenly she knew that she was not alone. The atmosphere had changed. The peace and tranquillity had gone. In its place she could feel a charge in the air. In the distance there was a low rumble of thunder.

Isobel heard the thunder and shivered. It was Midsummer’s Eve. Outside, the air smelt of hay and meadowsweet, was still very shaken of scented thyme and wild roses. Inside the solar, where she sat idly playing with a skein of embroidery silks, the air was heavy and rancid. Her ladies were gossiping quietly by the windows, and already someone had lit candles in the darkening room.

Abruptly Isobel stood up, throwing her silks to the floor. Silence fell on the room. ‘My lady, you should rest –’ A voice querulous in the heat, came from the window.

‘Time enough to rest later.’ Isobel put her hand to her belly as a twinge of pain from the restless baby shot through her. ‘I want to be outside. I want to ride.’

‘You mustn’t ride, my lady!’ Cries were raised in horror all around her. ‘You’re not strong enough! Please, rest –’

But rest was something she could not do. All her thoughts were with Robert. Her prayers, her remaining strength, all had gone to him with the departing messenger. Restlessly she left the room, walking slowly down the stairs, her hand on the stone newel post to steady herself, feeling even the drag of her gown on the steps behind her as an intolerable burden. She walked out into the courtyard, and wearily bade the gateward open the postern gate. She was too tired for the wall walk tonight.

Outside a huge yellow moon was swimming up out of an aquamarine sea. The evening was luminous, scented, completely still. Not even a bird’s cry broke the silence now. The sea itself seemed to be holding its breath. It was as if, if she strained her ears against the silence of the intervening mountains, she would hear the chink of harness and the rasp of weapons eased in the sheath as the armies waited for the day to dawn, after a night without true darkness, like the night so long ago at Methven.

It was as she stopped and bent to pick a delicate bluebell from the grass near her feet that the pain hit her. Unable to stop herself she let out a cry. At once her attendants, who had been following at a respectful distance, ran towards her and within minutes she was being carried back towards the castle as the first bright blood began to stain her kirtle.

Her body which had been through so much had no strength left for this last ordeal. The pain lifted her, carried her, till she was floating somewhere beyond its reach. She never saw the attendants who clustered round her; never felt the hands of the midwives as they probed beneath the stained sheets; nor did she hear the indignant wail of her tiny daughter as the baby slipped at last, two months too soon, from her exhausted body.

As the sun slipped upwards in a crimson haze from the sea, far away on the banks of the Bannock Burn Robert prepared to face the greatest battle of his life. At Duncairn the first red rays of light pierced the narrow windows of the great bedchamber where Isobel was scarcely breathing. The chaplain stooped over the bed; he was admonishing her to confess her sins. Dimly she heard his voice, coming and going from a great distance; she barely felt the man’s finger trace a cross on her forehead. She could no longer see.

Shadows surrounded her now, shadows from the past; faces of people long dead, and with them other faces from the future – the faces of her child and her child’s children. The shadows were growing darker now and, at last, she understood.

Her last vestige of strength rose in a wave of anguish and frustration and despair at the cruelty which was depriving her of life and love now, after she had lived through so much. She wanted to curse, to pray, to call out to her child and her child’s children to live for her.

On the huge curtained bed where she had lain with her husband and then with her king she lay locked in silence alone and afraid and angry as the sunbeams crept across the floor towards her. Then at last she lifted her head from her pillow and, throwing off the hands of the priest and the women who crowded round her, she let out one last cry, a cry that contained all her hope and love and fear, and all that was left of her life.

Clare was still very shaken when Neil arrived. Secure within the circle of his arms she managed to tell him at last what had happened. ‘It was so awful, Neil.’ At the thought her eyes filled with tears again. ‘Poor Isobel. She had lived through so much, and to die then, just as Robert was winning his greatest victory – it was so unfair!’

‘It explains why she has never been at rest.’ Neil pulled her close. ‘Is it all over now?’

Clare nodded. ‘It is all over. She has gone.’

‘Do you want to go back to the castle to make sure?’

She nodded.

The castle was bathed in a pearly mist from the sea. Clare walked slowly to the cliff’s edge and looked over. Neil watched as she stood for a while staring out into the distance, then she turned and smiled at him. They walked slowly hand in hand over the newly mown turf.

‘Do you think she came back to try to save Duncairn?’ he asked as they walked inside the ruins.

‘I think perhaps that was part it. She loved this place.’ Clare smiled again. ‘But mostly she just wanted to tell her story.’

Neil sat down on a low wall and pulled her down next to him. ‘Was it Isobel who guided you in the snow?’

Clare nodded sheepishly. ‘I’d like to think so.’

‘She couldn’t save herself, Clare, at the end of her life, but I have a feeling she’s on your side now. You’ve nothing to be afraid of, you know.’ He too had felt her fear.

They sat silently for a while watching as the sun fought to disperse the mist and it was some time before Clare realised that they were not alone. She glanced at Neil and saw that he had seen her too. A child, a little girl, playing in the grass in a patch of warm sunlight near them, a pretty, dark-haired child, with large grey eyes and a happy tinkling laugh. As they watched a man appeared, walking out of the mist, a tall, grave figure who played with her and made her giggle and then took her on his shoulder and walked with her back into the shadows and out of sight.

Clare glanced at Neil. ‘Did you see them too?’ she whispered.

Neil nodded.

‘Were they real?’

He was staring at the spot where they had disappeared. ‘They were there –’ he replied cryptically.

‘The King and his daughter?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘She married Patrick Gordon, in the end, you know, and Robert gave them Duncairn.’

‘It was the least he could do.’

‘Oh, Neil.’ Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck. They were silent for a long time.

‘My ancestors fought at Bannockburn,’ he said at last. ‘Did I ever tell you?’

She smiled. ‘About a thousand times.’

He stood up slowly and helped her off the wall. ‘He was a fine figure of a man, wasn’t he?’ he said at last as they walked slowly on. ‘For a king.’

35

It was Midsummer’s Eve. Neil and Clare had finished dinner and were alone in Clare’s private flat in the hotel. ‘Are you sure you want to go out there tonight?’ he said. ‘You look so tired, Clare. Why not leave it until morning?’

She shook her head. ‘I want to show her we remembered the date; show her we still care. It must be tonight.’

They planted the little rowan tree in the shelter of the wall which had once formed a part of the great hall, then they opened a bottle of champagne and toasted the tree and poured a little of the wine around its roots, and then they toasted Isobel.

‘Rest in peace,’ Clare whispered, towards the moon. ‘Be happy now, wherever you are –’ She broke off abruptly, staring at the ground, her face white in the moonlight.

‘Clare, what is it?’ Neil called sharply.

She had dropped her glass, clasping her hands to her back as a wave of pain swept over her. ‘Oh Neil –’ She was suddenly terrified. ‘Oh, Neil, the baby –!’

‘Christ!’ Neil let the bottle fall. ‘It’s all right, darling, don’t worry. I’ll get you back to the hotel –’

‘No.’ She closed her eyes and groaned. ‘No, Neil. It’s no good. There is no time.’ She was clutching the rough stones of the wall. ‘It has to be here, don’t you see? Oh, Neil, it’s me she wants … I’m going to die!’

Neil stared at her, his face white in the moonlight. ‘Don’t be silly! Don’t even think such a thing! Come on, Clare, darling, you’ve got to let me take you back inside!’

She shook her head, biting her lips as another wave of agony swept over her. ‘Go and get Mrs Fraser, Neil.’ She was sobbing now. ‘Please! Quickly –’

He stood for a moment, torn, then he turned away from her. ‘You’ll be all right if I run? I’ll only be a minute –’

‘Yes, yes. OK. Just go!’ She was breathing deeply, trying to hide her fear and pain from him.

Already Neil was sprinting across the grass.

Clare fell to her knees where she was, beside the wall, gasping as her body convulsed once more. So this was to be the end after all. History was going to repeat itself. She too would die at Duncairn on Midsummer’s Day, and Isobel would no longer be alone.

Closing her eyes she let the pain take her, Neil already forgotten, as her mind focussed inwardly on the very centre of her being and she felt herself floating upward, away from the castle ruins and into the vast eternity of the sky above her.

Neil came back at a run, and with him were Jack and Mrs Fraser and Catriona, all panting hard.

‘Clare, are you all right?
Clare
?’ Neil threw himself down on his knees beside her on the grass. ‘
Clare
–’

‘She’s fainted, man.’ Jack was directing a torch at her face with a shaking hand. ‘Poor lass.’

‘Aye, the baby’s coming.’ Mrs Fraser had laid a practised hand on Clare’s stomach. ‘It’s coming soon. Away now and phone the doctor, Catriona, lass. She was right, it’s too late to move her. Jack and I will see to things fine here.’

She glanced up as her daughter disappeared into the darkness.

‘Did you put the whisky in your pocket, Jack Grant? I think Neil there needs a wee drop, and so will you.’

Neil tried to smile. ‘It’s too early. The baby is much too early,’ he said anxiously.

‘It’s the seventh month; she’ll be all right.’ Mollie Fraser had delivered babies before now, down in Duncairn village. ‘We’ll cope fine.’ She glanced up at the luminous sky. ‘It’s St John’s Eve – a night of magic. She’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

Neil stared at her astonished. How on earth, had she, a good Presbyterian, known that?

He looked up and closed his eyes, stroking Clare’s hand as he knelt in the dewy grass. Was Isobel there somewhere in the darkness, waiting? Surely she did not want Clare to die?

‘Please, spare her. Leave her for me. I need her. Please …’ He was whispering into the silence. ‘You don’t need her. Let her live. Please, let her live –’

‘There.’ Mollie’s voice was calm. They had managed to wrap Clare in blankets to keep her warm. ‘There we go. Hold the torch, Jack, lad. You don’t have to look if you don’t want to, man!’ She chuckled comfortably. ‘One more push, lass, and we’ll be there –’

Clare was staring up at the hangings over her head as the pain took her, wave upon wave. Someone was near her, holding her hand. Robert … it was Robert. He had come after all. No, it was Neil … Neil, and beyond him she could see the sky, sewn with stars. There was no bedchamber. She was outside … drifting … almost asleep. Her body convulsed suddenly with agony worse than she had thought it possible to bear, wrenching her back to wakefulness, and she heard herself scream. Then it was over and she was floating again, floating in a painless dream.

‘There we are! It’s a little girl.’ Mollie’s soft voice was jubilant. ‘A bonnie, tiny lassie. And she’s fine.’ She was crooning now as she swaddled the crying baby warmly in a soft towel.

‘And Clare?’ Neil was almost too awed and afraid to ask.

‘Clare’s fine too,’ Mollie said comfortably. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. Just you see if it isn’t.’

‘Thank you.’ Neil stared up at the sky. ‘Wherever you are. Thank you.’

Mother and daughter were taken to Aberdeen by ambulance less than an hour later. They were both pronounced fit and well within two days.