Kingdom of Shadows (47 page)

Lord Buchan was yet again with de Soules, Bishop Lamberton of St Andrews and Matthew Crambeth, Bishop of Dunkeld in the audience chamber at the Palais with King Philip and his advisers.

‘A small reward, perhaps, for my care of the document?’ He was watching her intently.

There were a great many Scots in Paris at the moment, hangers-on with the Scots delegation, messengers, servants. She hesitated, then she felt at her shoulder for the gold and enamel pin which was fastened there. ‘Here. You’ll have to sell it; it might be recognised otherwise. It’s worth several sous.’

The man took the brooch and held it up to the light. ‘Would the beautiful countess wear anything but gold? I shall trust you, my lady. Here.’ He groped in his scrip and produced a folded letter. The seal was intact. Thrusting it into her hands he glanced over his shoulder, then with a wink, he was gone.

Isobel clutched the letter, her heart beating fast. It was inscribed in Robert’s own hand. She had heard nothing from him since his marriage to Elizabeth de Burgh. No messages, no letters, no news save of his treachery to Scotland.

It was eighteen months now since she had sailed with the Scots delegation to France and ever since their arrival they had been living in one guesthouse after another in Paris and in Picardy near the château where John Balliol, still titular king of Scots, lived in frustrated exile.

Their mission had failed in that when the treaty between England and France had been signed at last it had not included Scotland, but in spite of that the Scots had still been optimistic. Philip had promised that they would eventually be part of the settlement, and to achieve that end the delegation had waited on in France. But almost at once King Edward, sure at last that France would not oppose him, had renewed his attacks on Scotland, shipping siege engines and weapons up the coast of England, bent on reducing the country to obedience once and for all, and from that moment the news from Scotland had become increasingly dire. Castle after castle had fallen and one by one the leading Scots were submitting to Edward. In February the delegation received the final blow to their hopes when they had heard that John Comyn of Badenoch, who had been left as Guardian of the Realm, had made his submission too to Edward and negotiated a peace settlement. Scotland was defeated once more.

The delegates were dismayed. Storms in the Channel had delayed further news and it was not until the letters from the north came at last that they heard the outcome of the Parliament which had met at St Andrews. Comyn had demanded that the rights and freedoms of Scotland be preserved and Edward, statesmanlike, and for once cool-headed about his northern neighbour, had apparently agreed, but only after demanding allegiance and fines and terms of exile for the leading Scots who had opposed him. For the Earl and Countess of Buchan it meant that they would stay in France. Their diplomatic mission ended, they were now in exile; the earldom and their lands were confiscated.

Now they were back in Paris again, camped in the Abbaye de St Germain which was convenient for the King of France’s two favoured residences, the Château du Louvre and the Palais on the Ile de la Cité. They had not given up hope of being able to influence the French king in their favour, and in the meantime all they could do was wait.

Tucking the letter into her gown Isobel pulled her cloak around her cautiously. First she must attend Queen Joan and while away an hour or two with their hostess, mindful ever of the need to stay in favour with King Philip’s wife, then she could return to the guesthouse. There, in one of the small chambers of ease let into the walls of the old building, she would be able to make use of one of the only places to find privacy in this crowded city and at last she could read his letter.

She read it and read it again, holding it up to the light of the narrow window where the last scarlet streaks of sunlight still hung above the mellow roofs of the abbey, turning the clouds to green and gold as they raced across a sky torn to ribbons by the strength of the March gale.

The man who bears this letter I would trust with my life and yours – nevertheless burn this at once lest it fall into the wrong hands. He will carry your reply and serve you as you wish …

Desperately she scanned the letter for terms of endearment, for enquiries as to her health and happiness; there were none. His questions were all about the delegation; about King Philip and his true feelings about Scotland and the treaty with King Edward, and finally about the opinions of her husband and his fellow delegates about the course events had taken over the last few months.

He was asking her to spy for him.

Slowly she walked back into the main room of the guesthouse, and out into the abbey gardens. She stood for a while watching two of the brothers, their sleeves folded up to their elbows, raking rose prunings into a pile. As they kindled them into a bonfire she stepped forward and dropped the letter on to it, watching it shrivel and curl in a haze of wisped blue smoke.

Once she would have betrayed her husband without a second’s thought, but the long months in France had matured her. She had realised that what he did, he did for the sake of Scotland. She still hated and feared him but she had watched and listened and learned to respect him too. He was an able statesman, and an intelligent man, sincere in his belief that what he did was for the good of his country and his king, his cousin, John Balliol. On only two matters was he irrational and prone to fly into ungovernable rages: Isobel’s failure to give him an heir, and the Earl of Carrick.

Never again had Isobel trusted anyone with the secret of her concoctions or allowed anyone to hear her prayers. She gathered her herbs in secret, sometimes after dark in the lonely monastery gardens, sometimes covertly collecting them on their stops on the long rides through the French countryside between châteaux. Month after month she repeated her spells and curtseyed to the moon and prayed to the Queen of Heaven alone and in secret, and month after month her prayers had been answered as her womb was washed clean of her husband’s seed.

During the daytime she saw little of Lord Buchan. At first she had been overwhelmed by the crowded busy life of the delegation; she had been homesick and miserable in Paris, longing for the moors and the cliffs and seas of home, but slowly she had grown used to the life. She had no friends – she trusted no one – but she had no enemies either. She was popular amongst both Scots and French for her beauty and her small kindnesses to anyone who crossed her path. Most of the delegation knew of her maid’s death as a heretic, and of Isobel’s long weeks of penance; none spoke of it. They were sorry for her and respected her unbowed spirit. No one ever whispered now of Robert the Bruce.

Robert’s messenger sought Isobel out once more the next day after mass in the Sainte Chapelle. Slyly he beckoned her into an alley below the soaring buttresses. She glanced round, but her ladies were gossiping amongst themselves, enjoying the unexpected soft spring sunshine after a week of storms.

‘I have nothing for you,’ she whispered to him. ‘Tell Lord Carrick I will not betray Scotland. His allegiance may have changed, mine has not!’

The man’s eyebrows seemed to shoot up into his hairline. ‘It is because Lord Carrick knows your allegiance to be unswerving, my lady, that he asks your help. Do you think he does not feel the same?’ The man’s whisper was indignant.

‘He has sworn allegiance to Edward of England!’ She could not keep the scorn from her voice.

‘So has nearly every noble in Scotland at some time or another,’ he said with slow deliberation. ‘And there have been many these last few weeks. So, my lady, did you, when it was expedient. And so might you again.’ His eyes were intense.

She took a deep breath. ‘You know a lot about me.’

He smiled. ‘My lord speaks of you sometimes.’

‘He does?’ She could not keep the eagerness from her voice.

‘He admires you, my lady. He finds you courageous and astute.’ He was watching her closely. ‘He believed you would understand that he too works for Scotland. The time is not yet right for him to show his intentions openly. When it is he will act.’

Behind them a crowd of court ladies swathed in brilliant silks and velvets appeared, chattering and giggling as they hurried towards the river. Isobel pulled her velvet hood nervously around her face.

‘Trust him, my lady,’ the voice whispered again. ‘Help him. He needs to know the way the wind blows.’ He ran his fingers through the air expressively. ‘One day he will be your king, my lady.’ The intelligent eyes had not once left her face; the lilting voice was almost crooning. ‘Believe in him.’ He moved closer to her. ‘When he wrote that letter to you he was waiting for his sick father’s death. On my way to embark for France the messenger caught me up. Lord Annandale is finally dead, my lady. Robert Bruce, Lord of Carrick, is now our rightful king.’

Isobel caught her breath sharply. ‘So. It has happened at last. He has waited a long time for this.’

‘Aye.’ The man’s eyes were glittering. ‘And knowing this, will you help him?’

Isobel walked away from him slowly towards the low wall at the end of the alley. It bordered some steps which led down to the Seine. She leaned on the stone, her eyes fixed on the glitter of water. He followed her, still hovering behind her. Any moment her ladies would join her.

She bit her lip. ‘Please tell Lord Carrick that he has my friendship,’ she said guardedly, ‘and that when he is crowned king he will have my allegiance. But I dare not betray my husband. Like Lord Carrick himself I have to move with time and tide.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Time and tide, madam, will bring you home to Scotland soon.’ He drew himself up suddenly. ‘If you change your mind, I lodge in the château. Ask for Gilbert of Annandale. Most people know me. May I at least take your good wishes to my lord?’

Isobel smiled. ‘He knows he has those always.’

Below the wall a flock of swans was swimming majestically up river, stemming the ripples made by the gusty wind. She glanced up, but he had gone. She was alone beside the river as a heavy shower swept across the turrets and spires of the Sainte Chapelle and drenched her velvet cloak.

In May Edward laid siege to Stirling Castle, the last garrison in Scotland to hold out against him; and in May he agreed to restore to the Earl of Buchan his earldom and all its rights and lands, and to give him safe conduct to return to Scotland on condition that he come into his peace with a personal oath of loyalty.

‘Do you mean to pay allegiance to him?’ Isobel was standing with her husband in the audience chamber in the king’s château.

‘I am of no use to anyone if I stay here,’ he retorted, angry at her silent implied criticism. ‘The important thing now is to get the administration organised and persuade Edward to allow John Balliol back into his kingdom.’

‘He will never do that.’ Isobel was watching with half an eye a band of musicians settling themselves on stools in a corner. They were picking up their instruments and gently tuning them.

‘Edward is a clever man. He does what is just.’ Lord Buchan shrugged. ‘It appears he is to pardon most who stood out against him, as he has agreed to pardon us. All seem to have at least a hope of some kind of restitution, save Sir William Wallace whom he seems determined never to forgive for his rebellion.’

‘Poor Sir William.’ Isobel dodged as a small child hurtled past them towards the musicians. ‘He was a true patriot. Have they captured him?’

Her husband shrugged. ‘I think not. No doubt Lord Carrick will hunt him down in time. I hear he is organising the siege of Stirling at the moment, but once that is over no doubt he will spare some men for Sir William.’ His voice was full of bitterness.

Isobel turned away sharply. She would not rise to his taunts and anyway she could not justify Robert’s actions even if she wanted to. If the news were true and he was not only now in Edward’s peace but also one of the besiegers, then she could neither understand nor forgive him.

‘Give orders to the household to pack our things,’ Lord Buchan said abruptly. ‘Now that our exile is over we can ride for the coast as soon as we have made our farewells.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ She was half elated, half afraid.

He glanced down at her suddenly and smiled wearily. ‘Perhaps a return to Scotland will help you to conceive at last.’

She looked away quickly. ‘Perhaps it will,’ she said quietly. ‘Perhaps it will, my lord.’

It took them six long weeks to return to Scotland. Isobel enjoyed the journey. Her husband, distracted by meetings with the people through whose lands they passed, and then the arduous sea journey with its complete lack of privacy, left her completely alone. She loved the sea. Ever since she was a small child she had never for long been out of the sound of the waves: first in Fife, on the edge of the Forth, and then from the age of four in one or other of the remote clifftop castles of Buchan. Now she spent hours at a time on deck, clutching the rail below the billowing straining sails, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun on the water. She was dreaming about Scotland and Scotland’s future king.

There were no guards now, no orders as to her behaviour. She resumed her position as mistress of her husband’s lands without opposition and almost at once he had left her alone, riding to join his colleagues in Perth, so it was easy for her to ride forth from Buchan that summer with an escort of men, ostensibly to visit her great grandmother at Kildrummy Castle. At her side rode Gilbert of Annandale.

There were no obstructions, no problems. Eleyne, Dowager Countess of Mar, was waiting for her in the south-facing solar in the Snow Tower. At the age of eighty-two she was still as erect and graceful in her movements as a woman half her age and she almost ran to greet Isobel, hugging her and pulling her down to sit beside her on the cushioned seat in the window embrasure. ‘It has been so long child! Come, tell me about France …’

They talked about Scotland, about Isobel’s trip to the court of France, about the loss of her baby, and about the death of Mairi, who had come from Mar. It was a relief for Isobel to speak to someone she could whole-heartedly love and trust, and she found herself weeping into her great grandmother’s lap, Robert temporarily forgotten.