Kingdom of Shadows

  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 so
ld 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.

  Heaving her case on to the double bed in Neil’s bedroom she opened it, first taking out a pack of cards, wrapped in a black silk scarf. The dresses she had worn for the concert in Belfast were crumpled now and jaded. She tossed them on to a chair and then, catching sight of herself in the mirror on his chest of drawers, she stopped. In the bright sunlight, between downpours of rain, the light in the bedroom was uncompromising. She was exhausted after the late concerts, the hassle of a cancelled flight in Belfast and now the train from Glasgow and it showed. She despised make-up, but she used it more and more now, to hide the sudden transparency of the skin around her eyes, the shadows, the lurking thickness in her jaw line. She drew her hair tentatively around her face. Her hair was still glorious: glossy, long, thick and black. She smiled. A hairdresser for tints was something she would have despised two years ago, too. Nearly five years older than Neil, she had to be very, very careful.

  She glanced down idly at a pile of papers on the chest of drawers. Topmost was the information on Paul Royland.Putting down the pack of cards, she picked up the file and sat down on the bed, flipping it open with curiosity. On the second page his two addresses were listed. Someone had underlined the second, in Suffolk, and written in pencil:

  CR spends most of her time here.

  CR. Clare Royland. Kathleen felt her stomach tighten warningly. She flipped through the rest of the file, but there was nothing of interest, and no photographs, only lists of facts about Paul Royland’s career in the City. Standing up, she was about to replace it on the chest when she caught sight of the map underneath. The Ordnance Survey map of East Anglia was folded so that Dedham was in the centre of the page. Bucksters was large enough to be marked on the map, and the name had been ringed with a red felt-tipped pen.

  ‘Hello! When did you get back?’ Neil must have come in without her hearing him.

  Kathleen turned to face him with a forced smile. ‘Only about half an hour ago. I was going to give you a ring. I thought you’d be in the office.’

  Neil gave her a perfunctory kiss. ‘I was. So, how was Belfast? I thought you were going to stay over a couple of days to see your parents. You look tired.’

  Kathleen frowned, automatically straightening her shoulders a little. ‘There was trouble with the plane. They cancelled the one I was booked on to. I didn’t go and see Ma and Pa. I couldn’t face a weekend of innuendo and recrimination about my lifestyle.’ She turned away, so he couldn’t see her face. ‘So, did you go to London?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And did you see Paul Royland?’

  ‘Only from a distance. We didn’t speak. He didn’t recognise me.’

  ‘From what I hear on the news, the oil lobby is backing down on prospecting new sites these days. These people will be withdrawing their offer for Duncairn any day now.’

  Neil frowned. ‘No. You’re wrong. Sadly it’s the easy-access on-shore sites which are in no doubt at all. It is so cheap comparatively to extract the oil.’

  ‘You went to see her, didn’t you?’ She couldn’t stop herself; the words were out before she had realised it.

  Neil frowned. She could tell instantly she had irritated him with the question.

  ‘If you mean Clare Royland’ – his eyes were on the tell-tale map beside the pack of tarot cards in their wrap – ‘the answer is yes, I went to see her. Briefly.’ Turning away he stood with his back to her, hands in pockets, staring out at Calton Hill.

  ‘What was she like?’ She couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘Arrogant.’ He hunched his shoulders uncompromisingly. ‘She ordered me off her land.’

  Kathleen’s lips twitched imperceptibly. ‘And did you go?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She could see the colour rising slightly in his face.

  ‘Forget her, Neil. She’s not worth it. This whole thing is going to blow over. You should be concentrating on real concerns like pollution and the disposal of nuclear waste. You’re letting this Duncairn business distract you from where you’re really needed.’

  She threw herself down on the bed. ‘I’ve got a gig in London next week. Are you going to come down with me?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t call them gigs!’ Neil didn’t turn. ‘It makes you sound like a cheap pop star.’

  ‘I’m a folk singer, Neil.’

  ‘And a damn good one.’ He sounded irritated. ‘You don’t take yourself seriously enough. You have class. You should exploit it.’

  Kathleen raised an eyebrow. ‘So class is important to you suddenly, is it?’ Her calm voice tipped slightly into sarcasm.

  Neil turned at last. He looked at her gravely. ‘Don’t knock it, Kath.’

  ‘That cow has really got to you, hasn’t she!’ Suddenly she was venomous. ‘My God, I hope she’s pilloried! I’m going to enjoy seeing her sweat.’ She hauled herself off the bed. ‘You do still intend to shoot her down in flames, I hope.’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’

  Behind him a rainstorm swept across Calton Hill, followed almost at once by the blustery sunshine again. He picked up his jacket and shrugged it on. ‘On the contrary, I’m even more determined. Look, I’ve had enough of the office for a bit, so I’m going for a walk in the park. Do you want to come?’

  ‘The park he calls it!’ Kathleen threw herself back on the bed. ‘Thousands of acres of wilderness, with a bloody mountain in the middle of it, and these Scots call it a park, as if it had flowerbeds and benches and statues of Queen Victoria in it! And it’s raining! No thanks! I’m going to have a beauty sleep.’

  Neil gave her an affectionate smile. ‘I’ll think of you, when I reach the top!’

  ‘You do that!’ She hunched over with her back to him. Suddenly she was sorry she wasn’t going.

  Emma was sitting on Clare’s bed. ‘Paul says he’s going back to town this evening,’ she said cautiously. ‘Things aren’t going too well, are they?’

  Clare shook her head. She was sitting on the window seat, her back to the blustery darkness. She shuddered. ‘I hate it when the clocks change. Suddenly winter comes and the evenings are dark.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up to London tonight, with us?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to, Em. I think it’s better if Paul and I see as little of each other as possible for a bit.’

  ‘So, are you still going to Scotland?’ Kicking her shoes off, Emma lay back on the lace bedspread.

  Clare shrugged. ‘Of course. I’m just not sure when.’

  ‘Yo
u haven’t let that man scare you off!’ Emma sat upright indignantly. ‘Clare! It’s none of his business. Duncairn is yours.’

  ‘I know.’ Clare sighed again. ‘I have to be here anyway for a couple of things this week, and Paul and I have a dinner in town on Saturday. Once that is all over, there’s nothing in my diary for a week or so. I think I’ll go home for a bit then. Mummy says Archie will be away for ten days, so it would be a good time to go. I can’t stand it when he’s at Airdlie.’

  ‘Will you tell Paul where you’re going?’ Emma was watching her closely, her arm bent up to support the back of her neck so that she could peer at Clare across the room.

  ‘I don’t know. I expect so. He can hardly stop me going to my mother’s, can he?’

  They were both silent for a moment.

  ‘He went to see David and Gillian this afternoon, on his own,’ Emma went on cautiously.

  ‘I know. He’s obsessed with that trust business.’

  ‘Has he lost money in the stock market, do you think? Peter thinks he must have.’

  Clare shrugged again. ‘He’s put money in the firm apparently. He says they’re having trouble …’

  Emma frowned. ‘BCWP aren’t having problems, Clare.’

  ‘Are you sure? Pete may not have wanted to tell you.’

  ‘No.’ A look of pain crossed Emma’s face. ‘No. You’re right. He might not have. He hardly talks to me these days at all, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. And when we do it’s trivia, or about Julia.’

  ‘Does he know about this other man?’ Clare asked quietly.

  Emma smiled. ‘He’s not another man. Not like that.’ She looked away. ‘He’s just a nice person who’s fun to go out with.’

  ‘So you’re seeing him again?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘When Peter’s away?’

  ‘Probably.’

  They looked at each other for a minute, then Clare gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re lucky. I wish I could find someone.’

  Emma’s eyes widened. ‘I thought you adored Paul!’