Kingdom of Shadows (35 page)

Behind them a figure was standing in the shadowy archway. Robert stepped away from her abruptly and the figure vanished, but not before Isobel had seen it too. She clenched her fists with a tremor of panic, fighting the longing which swept over her as he moved away from her, and with as much dignity as she could muster she drew back. There was a physical pain somewhere beneath her ribs which made it hard for her to breathe and she found that she was fighting back her tears. ‘Must you go?’

‘You saw. Someone was there.’

‘It was no one. Please, Robert –’

‘No, my love. I have to go. This was madness, you know it as well as I.’

‘Madness?’ She stared at him for a moment, blindly, then without another word she turned away from him and fled back through the arch into the bright courtyard. Behind her the abbey bell stopped ringing.

The palace was full of people. Her head low, her veil down across her face, she hastened back towards the Buchan quarters, not noticing the slight figure who watched her, slipping out of sight into a doorway as she passed.

Mairi was in the bedchamber waiting for her with three of her other women. There was no sign of Alice.

‘Lord Buchan is looking for you, my lady,’ Mairi said in a whisper as Isobel slipped into the room.

‘So?’ Isobel stared round, half blind in the darkness of the room after the bright sunlight outdoors. She pulled off her veil, conscious that her hair was in disarray beneath it and seeing Mairi’s raised eyebrows she blushed. ‘Find a comb if you please, instead of standing there staring. I was at the lists, and it is windy.’ Her voice was unaccustomedly harsh.

‘Of course, my lady.’ Mairi rummaged in the coffer at the end of the bed. She jumped as the door swung open and stood back with a curtsey, the comb in her hand, as Lord Buchan appeared on the threshold.

‘Leave us.’ He gestured the four waiting women towards the door with his thumb, then he turned to his wife. ‘Did you give Lord Carrick my message?’

Isobel could feel her face burning. ‘No, my lord. I haven’t spoken to him –’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been with him, madam. You were seen.’ He pulled off his gauntlets and unpinned his mantle, flinging it down over a joint stool near him. ‘You fawn and cling to him like a common whore! Were the circumstances different I would kill Carrick for what he did today, but he can wait. As matters stand perhaps I shall kill you.’

Isobel went white. ‘My lord––! I only said goodbye to him. He is my cousin – there was no dishonour.’

‘No dishonour? When you allow your cousin to fondle your breasts and you kiss him like a drab! You have a strange idea of honour.’ He gave a cynical laugh. ‘Were you trying to dissuade him from his new marriage? You thought perhaps to be a widow soon with your games of poisons, and available for him yourself?’

‘His new marriage?’ Isobel echoed faintly, not even noticing the implied accusation as the shock of his words sank in. ‘Lord Carrick is to marry again?’

‘Did you expect him to stay single? He needs sons, just as I do.’ He emphasised the words deliberately. ‘Oh yes, to seal his new-found friendship with the King of England, he is to marry Lord Ulster’s daughter. Richard de Burgh is one of Edward’s closest followers, and his daughter, as I’m sure you have heard, is reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in Ireland.’ He waited a moment, allowing the information to sink in. ‘Surely he told you his plan? He is riding tomorrow to meet his bride.’

Somehow she managed to control her face. He must not see how hurt and angry she was. He must not have the satisfaction of knowing how much she was in pain. Walking slowly to the coffer she picked up the comb Mairi had thrown down, and slowly she began to draw it through her tangled hair. Her face was white and her hand shaking as she dragged it through the half unravelled braids. ‘What Lord Carrick does is of no concern to me,’ she said at last. ‘He had no reason to tell me. We merely exchanged farewells.’

‘Farewells indeed.’ He gave a cruel smile. ‘I intend to see to it that you do not see him ever again. Tomorrow at dawn you will return to Buchan, and you will remain there.’

‘But, my lord, the tournament –’

‘You are not going to the tournament. Do you expect me to watch my wife give her favours on the field to Carrick in front of all the people of Scotland? Do you expect me to watch her fix her eyes on him, cheering when he wins and going so prettily pale when he loses? Do you expect me to hear myself called cuckold before the whole world?’ He was speaking very quietly. ‘No tournament, Isobel. You go back north under guard and you remain there.’ He turned and picked up his mantle again. ‘And don’t try to leave this room until it is time to set out. I am going to place a man-at-arms at the door.’

She stood quite still for a few seconds after he left, stunned, then, picking up a hooded cloak, she flew to the door and pulled it open. He had not locked it, and to her relief there was no one there yet. In his hurry and his anger he had come to their room without an escort, and now he had to go to look for one of his men to stand guard over his wife.

Without thought of the consequences she ran out into the courtyard and towards the lodgings where she knew she would find Lord Carrick’s quarters.

He was standing in his room, dressed only in his tunic and hose, dictating a letter to a clerk while his servants busied themselves with his belongings.

There was a gasp of astonishment as she flung back her hood. ‘Go! I have to speak to Lord Carrick alone!’ she commanded.

Without a word the men dropped what they were doing and fled.

Robert’s face had darkened. ‘Are you out of your mind? To come here, like this, to my chamber? Isobel, for the love of the Holy Virgin, go! Now. Quickly! I’ll call my men back –’

‘No!’ She stood with her back against the door, her hands outstretched as if to hold it shut. ‘Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re not going to marry the Lady Elizabeth!’

‘I see!’ He scowled. ‘So that’s what this is all about. Who told you?’

‘My husband told me. Tell me it’s not true!’

‘It is true.’ He was becoming impatient. ‘I have to marry again. It is five years since my Isabella died. My daughter needs a mother and I need sons.’

‘And is it true she’s beautiful?’ Her voice had risen in her despair.

‘Yes.’ He gave a boyish smile. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘More beautiful than me?’

Robert shook his finger at her. ‘Such a vain question, my love. She is different. She is burnished copper, you are black, glittering coal. You are as beautiful as each other. I make no distinction in degree!’

She could see he was teasing her and it hurt. ‘But you chose to marry her.’

‘Isobel. You are married to another. Besides, we are within the prohibited degree. Your mother was niece to my grandmother. Even if you were free we could not marry without dispensation. But you are not free. Our love is forbidden by God and the church, and forbidden by man. You must forget me.’ He came towards her, and reaching past her took hold of the door handle. ‘Leave. Quickly. I have to try to find my men and stop them talking. Your husband must not find out you were here –’ Gently he pulled her hood back up over her hair. ‘Go, Isobel, now.’

She stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears. For a moment neither of them moved, then she turned and ran from the chamber.

She did not go back to the Buchan rooms. Instead she walked out towards the deserted lists. The wind was soft. It lifted her hood and stirred her hair, cooling her hot face. Beneath her gown her body was cold. She was shivering. In the shadow of the hedge there was a clump of gillyflowers, clinging to a pile of old stones, and she stood staring at the sweet-smelling orange and yellow blossoms, trying to blink away her tears. The field which so recently had been crowded and noisy as the men practised at the quintain, was completely silent.

She knew they would come for her. She knew her husband’s patience was exhausted, but she didn’t care. She was numb. Had she, in her heart, prayed for Lord Buchan to die, so she might marry Robert? Did she feel betrayed because she had thought he would wait until she were free, as she would have waited for him, forever? She had never allowed the hope conscious form – or had she? She had dreamed. She had dreamed of freedom, of love, love with the lean muscular frame of Robert of Carrick, never the knotted, scarred body of her husband. And she had dreamed of passion and of tenderness, not of cold-blooded rape.

Three figures were making their way towards her across the field. Two men-at-arms, and one of her husband’s knights. She could see the golden wheat sheaves on their surcoats in the sun.

Slowly she turned towards them, her fists clenched, her head high. Every nerve and muscle in her body was tensed to run, but she would not flee. She was the Countess of Buchan, daughter of the ancient house of Duff. And never again would she let anyone see her cry.

David and Gillian Royland lived in an elegant Georgian manor house on the far side of Great Headham from Bucksters. Surrounded by acres of newly ploughed, hedgeless fields, the house, with its neat gardens and manicured lawns, seemed desolate and isolated in the dusk as Paul drove up the long treeless drive with its post and rail fencing. The house front was in darkness save for three identical uncurtained rectangles of light on the first floor. The senior Roylands were taking tea in the drawing room.

‘As always you’ve picked your moment meticulously,’ Gillian commented sarcastically as he was shown in. ‘Would you bring another cup, please, Ilona darling.’ She smiled vaguely at her eldest daughter, who was hovering in the doorway. ‘As soon as she’s done that we’ll lock out the young and you and David can start hitting each other.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You have come about the beastly trust?’

Paul sat down on the very edge of one of her matching armchairs. ‘I’ve come about Clare.’

David and Gillian exchanged glances. With difficulty Gillian hauled herself upright. She took the tea cup from her daughter, then, following her to the door, closed it firmly behind her. She turned. ‘Is what your housekeeper told David the truth, Paul?’

‘Sarah wouldn’t have lied to you.’

‘Then God help you. Clare needs to see a psychiatrist! I can’t believe it of her! She always seemed so nice before. David rang Geoffrey and they had a long talk about it, didn’t you, David?’

Her husband nodded. ‘But your wife has always had an unstable side, in my opinion, Paul. I noticed it at once, when you first married her. Her whole attitude is iconoclastic.’

‘You only say that because she makes fun of your title, darling,’ Gillian put in. ‘After all, her grandfather’s went back centuries.’

David shifted in his seat near the fire. ‘Shut up, Gill,’ he said tolerantly. ‘I can’t help thinking you’re overreacting to all this, Paul, even so. My own view is that she’s an hysteric. That Collins woman may not have been lying, but she was certainly embroidering the truth heavily. You have two women in that house, on their own, day after day, probably getting on each other’s nerves, with not enough for either of them to do. What do you expect? I’d give Mrs Collins the sack and get your wife to clean the house herself for a bit. Scrubbing floors would cut down on the visions, I’ll be bound.’

Gillian snorted. ‘My God! Men! Clare could be in real danger of losing her mind, and you suggest she scrubs the house!’

Her husband stood up. Hands in pockets he stood with his back to the crackling log fire. ‘I am more concerned with this business over Duncairn. Did she tell you that some conservationist Johnny came to see her? Threatened her if she sold up. She said he seemed to know all about it. This is a sensitive issue, Paul. I don’t want the Royland name being dragged through the press, let me make that clear now. I think we have to find out who this chap was and silence him. All your wife needs are some tranquillisers. I don’t think there’s a problem there, but you must forestall any bad publicity over Duncairn.’

‘What are you going to do about Clare, Paul?’ Gillian was not interested in Duncairn. ‘Has she seen a doctor or a psychiatrist?’

‘She has,’ Paul lied. ‘And he suggested that it may be necessary for her to go away for a bit. She has refused to take a holiday.’ His lips tightened. ‘So it may have to be to some kind of nursing home. Just to recover from the shock of finding out that she couldn’t have children. It has upset her more than she realises.’ He stared for a moment bleakly at his sister-in-law’s hugely pregnant figure. He found his hands were sweating and he wiped them surreptitiously on his trousers.

‘You shouldn’t have left her alone, Paul,’ Gillian went on.

‘I haven’t,’ he snapped back. ‘Emma and Peter are there. And Geoffrey is going to see her again.’

‘Don’t put too much faith in Geoff,’ David said after a moment. ‘He’s a good man in his own way, but his faith is very simplistic. He’s not qualified to cope with Clare, in my opinion. Not medically, and to be honest, I doubt if he is spiritually, either. Make sure she sees someone who knows what they’re doing.’ He paused. ‘You’re not thinking of getting her locked up because it would keep her out of the way when Duncain is sold, are you?’ He stared at his brother hard.

Paul looked away guiltily. ‘Hardly.’ The idea had indeed crossed his mind after he had spoken to Geoffrey. If Clare was as unstable as Geoffrey seemed to think, surely it would be easy to get her out of the way for a few months, leaving him in charge of her affairs. When she came out she would be better, and he would have sold Duncairn.

He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs with studied nonchalance. ‘She has to agree to the sale. She has agreed,’ he amended hastily. ‘She sees it will be the best thing to do all round in the end and it will take such a weight off her mind – help to get her better quickly.’ He smiled benignly. ‘She is going to sign all the papers next week.’

He almost believed it himself.

* * *

Neil’s flat on the top floor of the restored tenement on the Canongate in Edinburgh’s Royal Mile looked out over the Calton Hill and beyond it towards the Forth. Kathleen was standing at the window eating yoghurt out of a carton. Behind her the flat was deserted. Neil was, she presumed, as always, at the office, even if it was a Sunday. How could she have imagined he would be anywhere else? She glanced round the flat. Books and records overflowed the shelves on every wall. The old sofa, battered, the springs broken, was covered with a brightly coloured rug. Like his office it was the perfect reflection of his personality. Every corner betrayed his love of Scotland, his love of nature and of music, his lack of interest in creature comforts. She sighed. Walking through into the kitchen she glanced round. It was meticulously tidy, but the facilities were minimal. A small hot-water heater over a rectangular enamel sink; a gas stove which she suspected might have been new before the end of the war; a fridge, new, but plastered with stickers, like a student’s. She shook her head slowly, throwing the empty yoghurt carton into the bucket under the sink, and shuddered.