This time he sat up, straightening slowly in the chair, resting his wrists loosely on his knees. He frowned.
‘Tell me what you see.’
‘Scenes. From the past. Very vivid and sometimes quite horrible.’
‘Scenes?’
‘Scenes; like a film. People come and go; they talk; they fight. They are real.’ She hesitated and then gave an apologetic smile. ‘I told my sister-in-law it was as if I was conjuring up the spirits of the dead.’ She shrugged painfully. ‘That is what it feels like, Zak.’
Zak shook his head slowly. ‘First lesson, Clare, never tell other people what you are doing. So few understand.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘There may be a thousand books on meditation in the shops, and every newspaper and magazine may recommend it for everything from business stress to shop-lifting, but it still takes courage to admit you take it seriously. Yoga, yes; yoga serves the body beautiful. Meditation, no way.’ He was almost talking to himself. ‘I know a lot of people who won’t accept it or take it seriously. People who should know better.’
Clare caught the sadness of the tone and she remembered suddenly the athletic young man she had met at Zak’s side once in Cambridge. Rude health had oozed from him, but he had not been one who would cultivate the spiritual, that much had been obvious. ‘But is what I am doing right?’ Unobtrusively she brought his attention back to herself. ‘Is that what is supposed to happen?’
He pulled himself together visibly. ‘I’m sorry, Clare. Tell me some more of what happens. Or, better still, why don’t we meditate together? I can see how you prepare and what you do.’
She nodded, doubtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it will work in front of anyone else.’
‘Work?’ He looked puzzled. ‘What’s to work? You mean I might distract you? If that is the case you are not putting your full concentration into it. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘Can we do it here? Are we likely to be interrupted?’
She glanced at the front window, remembering Henry. ‘I’ll draw the curtains and lock the door. I’m not expecting anyone.’
She looked down at herself uncertainly after she had closed the curtains. She was wearing grey slacks and a cotton sweater. ‘I know you said one should bathe and wear something loose –’
‘And then relax body and mind with a session of yoga exercises.’ He nodded easily. ‘I guess we can skip that, OK? What you’re wearing is fine. Show me what you do next.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll fetch a candle.’
The box of candles was upstairs in the bedroom at the back of a drawer. Extracting one, she kicked off her shoes and ran downstairs, barefoot.
Zak was sitting cross-legged on her Persian rug. He too had removed his shoes. His hands rested on his knees; his eyes were closed. He opened them as Clare appeared. ‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘Do you always use a candle?’
She nodded. ‘It seems to help me concentrate.’
‘Fine. That’s OK.’ He closed his eyes again.
Clare set the candle down on the rug in front of him and lit it. Then she hesitated. She wasn’t sure where to sit – beside him or facing him. Suddenly she felt rather foolish.
Zak spoke, his eyes still closed, his tone soft and preoccupied. ‘When you’re ready. Take your time. Do what you usually do. Whatever feels right. Take no notice of me. I’m not even here.’
The room was intensely silent. Even the noise of the traffic outside in the street seemed to die away.
Slowly Clare sank to her knees and raised her arms before the candle, parting her hands as if opening a curtain, then gracefully she slipped into the cross-legged position and closed her eyes.
Surreptitiously Zak opened his own. His relaxed posture did not change, but every sense was alert as he watched Clare’s face and he knew the moment she had slipped away, out of the quiet Campden Hill house, and into the past.
In spite of the brilliant light of the sun, Elizabeth de Quincy, dowager Countess of Buchan, had ordered the lighting of a hundred candles. The hearth was empty. In the doorway the King of England stopped and looked around him. His followers crowded around him staring at the two women at the far end of the hall. Around the walls of the castle the household and the servants stood peering over each other’s shoulders in awe. Edward’s reputation was of a formidable and a vengeful man.
Elizabeth, who had not yet departed for her dower lands, stood on the dais in the great hall, with her new daughter-in-law at her side as King Edward entered. It was a violently hot day. Outside the sea murmured against the cliffs; the birds were silent, roosting in the shade, or rocking gently on the sleeping waves. Behind him his followers filed into the courtyard and spilled out across the bridge to the meadow beyond the castle.
He was tall, a good-looking man still, in his late fifties, his dark hair greying at the temples beneath the gold coronet he had elected to wear on his triumphant journey. Beneath the cream woollen mantle he was wearing a full suit of mail. He alone amongst his sweating followers looked as cool as an ice floe in the winter hills.
By that midsummer of 1296 the Scottish armies were scattered and in defeat. King Edward was in the ascendant.
Lord Buchan had come back briefly to Duncairn with Scotland’s elected king, John Balliol, his cousin and the Lord of Badenoch, and sat up all night grimly discussing policy with his cousins. He left with scarcely a word for Isobel. They had decided to beg for terms. The only policy possible at the moment was to be received into Edward’s peace.
The King of England’s terms were harsh. At Brechin, King John of Scotland and his followers were told their fate. The kingdom of Scotland was forfeit and its most sacred treasures, including the Stone of Scone and the Black Rood of St Margaret, were removed to London. King John and his Comyn friends and relatives were to be sent south into England, the Earl of Buchan with them. Lord Buchan was luckier than his kingly cousin. He was not destined for the Tower. Instead he was merely required to remain south of the River Trent, beyond the sphere of Scottish politics.
His new wife was not required to go with him. She had her own appointment with Edward of England.
At Duncairn the news of John Balliol’s humiliation was greeted with horror by the dowager. At Montrose, his abdication of the kingdom had been followed by the ritual tearing off of the royal arms from his surcoat – an action which was to gain him throughout the land the nickname of Toom Tabard. He was then sent south, the prisoner of Thomas of Lancaster, whilst King Edward turned his attention north. Slowly and inexorably the royal train began touring the defeated land, stopping at every town and castle of note on the way to demand the abject homage of every important person left behind after his prisoners had been sent south. On 22 July he had at last arrived at Duncairn.
‘So.’ He did not appear to raise his voice, but it carried with ease across the hall to the dais. ‘This is one of the strongholds of Lord Buchan, who is at present our guest in England. I shall require the keys of this castle, and homage from its keeper.’ His eyes strayed from Elizabeth to Isobel. He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘Lady Buchan? The keys if you please.’
The keys lay on the table, beside Elizabeth. Automatically she reached for the heavy ring. Then she drew back. ‘You are the countess now, child,’ she whispered hoarsely.
Isobel froze. Her mouth had gone dry. To pay homage to the King of England for a single stone of Scotland was heaping insult on their already pitiful humiliation, but she dared not refuse. Slowly she picked up the keys. She stepped off the dais and began the slow walk down the hall, aware that every eye was on her. She held her head high, walking with slow dignity, her eyes fixed on the face of the king.
Reaching him she dropped a deep curtsey and handed him the keys. He tossed them to the knight standing at his side. ‘So, you are Lord Buchan’s bride. My congratulations, madam. I am sorry to have had to deprive you of your husband so soon.’ His face was cold. ‘Our cousin, your mother, sends you greetings; and your brother who is in the household of our son.’
&
nbsp; ‘Thank you, sire.’ She curtseyed again. She had seen her mother so seldom in the last few years she could barely remember what she looked like; her brother she had never seen, save as a baby.
‘And your uncle, Macduff, who appealed to us at Westminster last year, if I remember right, against your late lamented King John’s decision to imprison him.’ Again the humourless smile. ‘It was astute of him to recognise us even then as overlord of Scotland.’
Isobel could feel her cheeks colouring in indignation. ‘My uncle, sire, was bitter at the injustice done him by our elected king.’ She emphasised the penultimate word. ‘Had Scotland’s true king been chosen to rule, my uncle would not have needed an arbitrator.’
She heard the gasp of horror from the onlookers at her temerity, and she felt a little clutch of fear but she kept her head held high.
‘The true king?’ Edward enquired with deceptive mildness.
‘Robert Bruce, the lord of Annandale, sire.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘The man who thinks I have nothing better to do than win a kingdom for him. His claim was dismissed as invalid at my court, Lady Buchan, with those of the other rabble of claimants to the throne of Scotland. And now that John Balliol has proved himself traitor to his overlord, Scotland can do without a king at all. I shall rule this country myself from now on. I require your homage, madam.’
She swallowed. ‘You have my homage and my loyalty, sire, for our lands in England.’
‘And now you will kneel before me for your lands in Scotland.’
There was a slight movement around them, whispering amongst the Buchan household as they watched the young woman standing before the king. Elizabeth de Quincy raised her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Her own mortification at their defeat was lessened by the sight of Isobel’s dilemma, and not for the first time she felt a secret grudging admiration for her rebellious daughter-in-law.
Isobel had clenched her fists. ‘I will give my allegiance only to the King of Scotland, sire –’ she whispered. Her courage was fast oozing away.
‘There is no King of Scotland.’ Edward was peremptory. ‘You will do homage to me as overlord of Scotland, madam, or you will be sent a prisoner to England after your husband. Choose.’
She gave in. Kneeling in the dried heather at the king’s feet, she put her hands in his and repeated the oath in a voice so quiet that he had to bend to hear her.
Twenty minutes later the King rode out of the castle, leaving a token garrison behind to hold it in his name.
It was a year before she saw her husband again.
The following summer King Edward granted Lord Buchan a safe conduct to travel north for two months only, to visit his lands in Scotland and to see his wife.
Isobel was pacing up and down the deserted tower room, kicking at the hem of her skirts with every step, her arms folded, her face set with fury. She was alone. The servants had fled downstairs. Lord Buchan had still not come to greet her.
For months she had remained alone at Duncairn. The morning after the King of England’s departure, Elizabeth had removed most of the household to Slains Castle a few miles along the coast. Isobel was left behind. It had been her husband’s orders before he left under escort for England. She was to remain at Duncairn with the garrison and a handful of women and learn the duties of a wife.
Frustrated, bored and angry, she had begged and railed and sworn at her husband’s steward, demanding to be allowed to ride out of the castle, but he was adamant. The earl’s orders were to be obeyed. She was a prisoner.
And now Lord Buchan had returned. The night before she had heard the horses and men ride into the castle and she had waited in her room, trembling, for him to come, but he had not appeared. Now her fear had passed and the anger had returned. How dare he ignore her! She was the countess – that much she had learned in her solitude in the castle, and she deserved his attention.
With a whirl of scarlet skirts she stormed back to the window and stood in the embrasure looking down at the sea, drumming her fingers on the stone. The tide was high and the waves were crashing on to the base of the rocks, casting clouds of spray into the air. The sun was shining directly into the window – a brilliant September sun, highlighting the whin on the granite cliffs and turning the dry soft grasses to gold. When the door opened behind her, slamming back against the wall, she did not turn.
‘So, this is where you hide yourself. Can you not even come down to the great hall to greet your husband?’ Lord Buchan’s voice was acid as he banged the door shut behind him.
She swung round. ‘I am not a groom to attend at your stirrup, my lord.’
‘Indeed not. You are the lady of this castle, the hostess I expect to find in the hall greeting my guests.’
‘I was unaware you had guests.’ Isobel stepped down from the embrasure. ‘As no one had the courtesy to tell me!’ She had a sneaking feeling she was in the wrong, but nothing would make her admit it, even though the sight of her husband’s tall, muscular figure beneath the dark green mantle had brought back her fear of him with a sickening jolt.
He sighed. ‘Isobel, I do not want us to be enemies,’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing will be served by your temper. Come.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let us go down now.’
For a moment she hesitated, then, reluctantly she put her hand in his. If the only way to get out of the castle and ride free was to appease him, then appease him she would.
The truce lasted until dusk. At the high table in the great hall she was seated between her husband and his guest, his cousin John Comyn. As a succession of courses came and went before them, their talk was all of politics.
‘You agree that King Edward of England is making more and more impossible demands of the Scots people. We have to find a way of being free of his ambition.’ Lord Buchan leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
Comyn nodded gloomily. ‘Our cousin, King John,’ his voice was full of irony, ‘does not dare cross him now. He is useless. We have to throw the weight of tradition and the wishes of the community of the realm into the scale. All the lords of Scotland are with us.’
Buchan frowned. ‘Nearly all. There are some who put their arrogance and personal ambition before Scotland’s good.’
Comyn nodded. ‘The Bruces, you mean. They are still with us at heart, even if they appear to support Edward. Young Carrick is a fine fighter.’ He sighed. ‘They find it hard to acknowledge that their claim to the throne was overturned and John Balliol made king. They will come round slowly if we can find a way to make them turn their allegiance back to Scotland without rubbing their noses in the act.’
Isobel looked from one man to the other. The mention of Robert’s name had set her heart beating very fast. ‘Robert will never swear allegiance to Balliol,’ she said firmly. ‘The Bruce claim was far the stronger!’
Both men looked at her in astonishment. ‘So, you are an expert on the law, little cousin!’ John Comyn smiled at her patronisingly.
Isobel could feel herself growing red. ‘I know who was the rightful heir to King Alexander’s throne,’ she said tartly.
‘But it was a representative of your own brother who crowned Balliol king, surely.’ Comyn was enjoying himself. ‘The seal of approval from the Earl of Fife himself – who else could have put the crown on King John’s head?’
‘My brother is in England, sir, and a mere child,’ she retorted. ‘He knew nothing about it. He would never have set the crown on Balliol’s head of his own choice.’
Buchan’s face darkened. ‘That is enough! John Balliol is our king for better or worse, and we must abide by the court’s decision. Now the important thing is to see that Scotland regains her independence and rights as a kingdom.’
‘To do that, she must have a strong king!’ Isobel put in.
‘And you think old Robert Bruce of Annandale is the man to fill the position?’ Comyn asked, still amused. ‘A man whose wife, if the story is true, threw him across her saddle when she took a fancy to him, and carried him off t
o force him into marriage! A strong man indeed!’ He leaned back with a roar of laughter and raised a goblet of wine in mock salute.
‘I think it is the younger Robert Bruce she means,’ John put in coldly. ‘Am I not right, my dear? It is his son, Lord Carrick, we are talking about, are we not? The one who paid you so much attention when he was here last.’
Too late, Isobel saw how she had betrayed herself; desperately she put her hands to her flaming cheeks, conscious that the eyes of both men were upon her. ‘I haven’t spoken to Lord Carrick for more than a year!’
‘But when you did?’ John was watching her face thoughtfully. ‘You spoke to him alone, did you not? It was reported that you were both seen leaving the chapel.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t remember.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘What does it matter now?’
‘It matters not at all. Now,’ he said quietly.
Alone in their chamber later he turned on her. ‘You will not see Lord Carrick again alone, do you understand?’
Isobel, wrapped in the pale green bed gown Mairi had given her after helping her undress, shivered. The room was dark now and full of shadows as the candles streamed in the draught from the window.
‘I doubt whether the occasion will arise, since you are enemies,’ she said sadly. ‘And he has no interest in me anyway. He is married.’ Her eyes betrayed her pain for a moment.
Lord Buchan saw it. ‘So. That is it. You would have preferred a young, handsome husband, a man whose father claims a kingdom. That appeals to you does it?’ His face was hard with anger. ‘Not the stable boy my mother thought you were involved with, but an earl! So much more fitting for the great Lady of Duff. Far more to her tastes, although not, perhaps, to Carrick’s, as you came to me a virgin! Or was he still so recently knighted that he was mindful of his vows! Well, you are married now, madam, and to an earl of ancient lineage. To me! And you will play the part of my wife in every particular until the day you die, do you understand me?’ He caught her shoulders. ‘Your first duty being to provide me with an heir!’