Kingdom of Shadows

  No one was expecting her; no one knew where she was. It was a wonderful feeling. The sudden complete freedom made her realise suddenly just how trapped she had been.

  She bought a tin opener at a village store, with a dog bowl and some cans of dog meat, and some ham and bread for herself, and once they had settled in she and Casta had a picnic together in the motel room, sitting on the floor in front of the TV.

  For a while she watched, then, tired and her sandwich finished, she turned off the programme and, walking idly to the window, threw it open. The night air smelt glorious after the long days in London and the drive in the car. It was soft and rich and intoxicating as she leaned on the window sill, feeling her elbows cold and damp on the mossy bricks.

  In the garden behind the reception area in the main house there were a lot of people milling around. She could hear laughter and talking, and the children’s shouts, and she could just see the flickering light crystals from the sparklers the children were holding. Suddenly there was a cheer. A sheet of flame shot upward and she saw the whole garden lit for a moment in flickering orange lights as a huge bonfire, built in the motel’s kitchen garden, burst into life. For one moment she saw the face of the effigy, strapped to an old wooden chair on the top of the fire – an impassive, round, expressionless face – then a cloud of thick smoke swept down across the garden and blocked everything from sight.

  Clare turned slowly away from the window and sat down on the floor, putting her arms around Casta’s neck. Her eyes were full of tears. For a moment the reality of the scene had been vivid. The figure, the fire, the staring, shouting crowds. ‘If only they knew, Casta,’ she whispered. ‘If only they knew what it was really like.’ She shivered.

  Standing up slowly she closed the window and drew the curtains. Tidying up the empty food bowl and the paper bags she had a shower and washed her hair, then, wearing nothing but a bathrobe, she pulled back the bedspread. Perhaps she could do some yoga to ease the stiffness in her shoulders after the long drive.

  Behind her Casta whined.

  Clare turned and stared at her. The dog was trembling. Outside in the garden a volley of deafening explosions rang out. Relieved, Clare found she was smiling. ‘Casta! You fraud. You’re not afraid of the bangs? You’re supposed to be a gun dog!’ She bent and rumpled the dog’s ruff affectionately.

  Casta backed away from her, her hackles raised.

  Clare frowned. The room was cold. She glanced at the window, but she knew she had closed it properly. The curtains hung still with no sign of a draught. Biting her lip she looked back at Casta. The dog was growling now and as Clare watched she jumped, with a little whine, on to the bed, pressing herself backwards against the headboard. She was staring into the middle of the room, her eyes tracking back and forth across the empty space as though she could see something there.

  Clare backed towards the bed too. She was suddenly very afraid; her mouth had gone dry as she stared round. The lights were on; the white-painted walls were stark, decorated with bright prints of wild flowers. There were no shadows here. It was the fireworks, that was all. They had unnerved the dog, just as the fire itself had unnerved her.

  She sat down on the bed, groping behind her for the TV remote control which she had dropped on to the quilt. She snapped it on and clicked up the sound, filling the room with the voice of the newsreader.

  Behind her Casta was trembling. Suddenly the dog threw herself off the bed and ran to the door, scratching at it frantically, trying to get out of the room.

  Watching her, Clare could feel her heart beginning to jump wildly under her ribs. She glanced at her case, lying open on the floor by the dressing table. In it were her candles – the beautiful candles she had bought to summon Isobel – and with them the oil Zak had told her about. She had gone to the shop whose address he had given her, a shop which sold crystal balls, and incense and books on all the esoteric arts, and there, feeling embarrassed and slightly foolish, she had bought the magic oil. ‘You use it to anoint the candles, like this.’ He had shown her how. ‘And yourself, on the forehead and heart and palms, like this, to keep away any evil spirits.’ He had smiled. ‘Just in case your brother-in-law is right. Just incase …’

  She had bought the oil, but she had never used it. It seemed so silly and superstitious. And she had never used the new beautiful silver candles either.

  The case was a few feet from her. She had only to stand up, find the small bottle and open it.

  But she couldn’t move.

  Desperately she raised the volume on the TV again, the remote control clutched in her hand. ‘Please go away. I don’t want to know what happened to you. Please …’ Her voice was shaking as she spoke out loud, the sound lost beneath the measured tones of the newsreader booming round the small room. ‘Leave me alone. Please …’

  18

  ‘Lord Buchan is in Perth, my lady,’ the man said handing Isobel the letter. ‘He commands you to join him there without delay.’

  Gilbert of Annandale had guided her back to Buchan without mishap, but at Duncairn she had found the messenger waiting. A silk scarf wound about her throat to hide the purple bruise left by Robert’s teeth, Isobel took the letter reluctantly and she shivered.

  Her body still glowed from Robert’s touch; every nerve and every sinew seemed to have come alive. The countryside seemed brighter, the huge, overpowering hills beneath the purple heat haze seemed more beautiful, the flowers in the long whispering grasses beside the tracks were glowing like jewelled enamels. Once, on the ride back, she had started singing. Gilbert had glanced at her from his thin, raw-boned horse, and grinned, but he said nothing. He knew the effect his master had on the ladies. Let her think she was the only one, poor lass. She was by far the most beautiful. Then he had sighed. She was also the most dangerous.

  Turning from the messenger Isobel unfolded the letter and read her husband’s curt message. She was commanded to join him in Perth and from thence they were to ride south to England.

  Her hand shook as she read the brief lines. To England, when at last Robert was back in Scotland! How could she bear to be parted from him now?

  But there was no choice, and with a heavy heart she obeyed. She organised the household of the earl for travel and turning her back on Buchan she rode south, her bruise now hidden beneath an elegant fine linen wimple, at the head of an escort of his men.

  The Earl and Countess of Buchan arrived at their estates at Whitwick in Leicestershire in early August, and it was there that the summons came to attend the court of King Edward. The English parliament would meet in the second week of September and Buchan, as one of the representatives of the land – no longer the kingdom – of Scotland, was to be there, but for some reason Edward had decided that he required Lord Buchan’s presence at Westminster a month early.

  They arrived in London on Sunday 22 August. It was hot and crowded, the narrow stinking streets noisy as they rode at last out towards Westminster. Nervously Isobel edged her horse nearer to her husband’s, conscious as never before that these people were the enemies of Scotland. The crowds were restless, volatile, excited, surging around their horses, sharp eyes watching the wheat sheaves of Buchan on the surcoats of the retainers, questioning, exchanging insults with their escort. Beside Isobel one of the knights loosened his sword in its sheath with a rattle. Nerves were tense.

  ‘What is it? Why are they so hostile?’ Isobel asked her neighbour.

  He shrugged. ‘The Scots are not popular in England, my lady. Did you think we would be?’ He grinned humourlessly.

  They rode slowly out across the marshy ground which separated the City of London from Westminster, and clattered across one of the bridges which led across the Tyburn and on to the Isle of Thorns where the Palace and the Abbey of Westminster huddled together amidst a crowd of houses and spreading streets on the muddy tidal banks of the broad River Thames.

  King Edward received them in one of the small painted rooms in the Palace. He had aged visibly since Isobe
l had first seen him at Duncairn, and he looked very tired. As she knelt to kiss his hand she glanced up at the grey, lined face. His eyes were unchanged. They studied her shrewdly. ‘Lady Buchan. Welcome to England.’ His fingers as she touched them with her lips were ice cold.

  Silently she rose and stepped back to her husband’s side, but he was still speaking to her. ‘Your brother, madam, is here at Westminster.’ The King’s lip curled. ‘You will wish to see him while you are here. He is a member of my son’s household. I do not entertain my son’s friends however hard he tries to persuade me, as no doubt you have heard, but you will probably find young Fife somewhere around. We are overrun with Scots, it seems.’ He pulled his velvet mantle around his shoulders more tightly, shivering in spite of the hot airlessness of the room, then he turned to Lord Buchan. ‘You will have heard, no doubt, that Sir William Wallace has been captured at last and is being brought to London.’ He glanced sharply back at Isobel, hearing her quick intake of breath. ‘Indeed, madam. The rebellious traitor and outlaw.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘He is being held tonight at the house of William de Leyre, then tomorrow he will be brought out here to Westminster to stand trial. You will no doubt be glad to hear we have at last apprehended such an evil man, my lord.’ The king eyed Lord Buchan closely.

  Isobel felt her husband shift uncomfortably from foot to foot as he stood beside her. ‘Indeed, your grace.’

  ‘He will die, of course,’ Edward went on. ‘I do not permit opposition and treachery, particularly from small men. You can hear the crowds.’ He raised his hand to the leaded window and it was just possible to hear the muted roar of the rabble which was roaming the tracks between Westminster and the Palace of the Savoy.

  ‘You were merciful, your grace, to others of the Scottish army,’ Lord Buchan put in uncomfortably.

  ‘And I pardoned them. Yes, even you.’ Edward’s thin lips parted in another smile. ‘You did what you no doubt thought was right at the time, Lord Buchan, but you saw the error of your ways and came into my peace. This … this upstart knight has persisted in his opposition to me for too long. When I might have given quarter he rejected it, so now he must pay for his temerity.’ He stood up abruptly and went to stand close to the fire which smouldered fitfully in the small grate. Two of his attendants at once rushed to his side, but he waved them away.

  ‘Take heed of what happens to Wallace, my lord,’ he went on slowly. ‘And see to it that there is no more rebellion in Scotland.’ He turned away.

  Lord Buchan bowed. ‘Indeed, your grace,’ he murmured. ‘I shall take heed.’

  ‘You attend our parliament soon, I think?’ Edward addressed him without turning round.

  ‘There are ten Scots representatives coming, your grace.’

  ‘With twenty good Englishmen, to draw up a new constitution for the land of Scotland.’ The king smiled unpleasantly. ‘Just so. We shall talk again, my lord, once this affair with Wallace is settled, about the obedience of the Scots.’ He looked at Isobel again suddenly. ‘You seem pale, Lady Buchan. Can it be that you feel sorry for this leader of the rebels?’

  ‘Sir William is a brave man, your grace,’ Isobel said clearly. ‘And he is no traitor to you. He is a Scotsman born. He has never paid allegiance to the king of England.’

  ‘Unlike you, my lady, if my memory serves me right.’ The sallow face was pinched. She could feel his eyes boring into her. Nervously she straightened her shoulders.

  ‘I did what I had to, your grace,’ she murmured defiantly.

  His mouth twisted into a half smile. ‘Against your will, it seems. Can it be that your wife, too, is a rebel at heart, Lord Buchan?’

  ‘Indeed not, your grace.’ Behind her Lord Buchan’s face had gone first white and then red. ‘She is an ignorant woman, your grace, and very foolish. She doesn’t know what she is saying.’

  There was a long silence as Edward scrutinised Isobel’s face, and she looked away, suddenly terribly afraid. At last he spoke. ‘I think you underestimate your wife, Lord Buchan,’ he said slowly.

  Isobel’s brother found her later in the quarters the Buchans had been assigned in a distant wing of the palace. The Earl of Fife was a tall, slim boy of sixteen, very like his father and head and shoulders taller than his sister. Isobel felt her heart miss a beat as he came into the room which they were using as a solar. They were all there: the same colour hair, the same hard grey eyes, the same negligent charm she remembered so faintly in her father all those long years ago. ‘So, my big sister. How are you?’ He kissed her hand and then gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  ‘I am well, Duncan.’ Isobel eyed him critically. She had last seen her brother as a screaming red-faced baby. Now he was a court dandy. Her eyes rose slowly from the ornate spurs and exquisite embroidered shoes to the parti-coloured hose, the padded doublet, emblazoned with the arms of Fife, with rows of buttons on the sleeves from wrists to elbows and the jewelled dagger at his belt. His hair was cut and rolled in the modern fashion.

  ‘I hear you are a friend of Prince Edward,’ she said at last. She sat down on a carved stool.

  Duncan smiled. ‘I am in his household certainly. As no doubt you have heard his highness is not in favour with his father; his highness’s friends even less so. So, I follow the prince. I find life at the English court amusing.’

  Isobel scrutinised his face. He was still a carefree child. Like a child he caught her hand suddenly. ‘Come on, let us walk a bit. I shall show you round. You must see everything there is to see while you are here. Would you like to see the great hall where the Wallace will be tried tomorrow?’

  Isobel’s eyes widened. ‘You make it sound like some kind of show.’

  ‘And so it will be. The best thing that has happened in months!’

  Scandalised, she clutched his arm. ‘Duncan! Do you realise what you are saying? Sir William fought for our country! For our freedom from … from …’ She glanced around. ‘From England, and King Edward.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper.

  Duncan was horrified. ‘For love of the Holy Virgin don’t say such things!’ He looked over his shoulder in terror. ‘His grace is overlord of Scotland. Anyone who fights him is a traitor –’

  ‘Duncan, how can you say such a thing! You, the Earl of Fife!’

  ‘Of course I can say it. You don’t understand, sister.’ Testily he shook off her arm. ‘Come on.’ He changed the subject quickly. ‘Do you want to see the sights of Westminster or not?’

  Slowly she followed him through a maze of passages and courtyards to the great hall of Westminster where they slipped in unnoticed amongst the crowds of workmen who were putting up benches for the forthcoming trial. On the dais the chairs of the judges were already in place. Isobel stood and looked up in awe at the vast beamed roof where sunbeams strayed amongst the oak timbers and shadows played on the distant painted decoration. Even in Paris she had not seen such a great hall as this. Two men pushed past her, carrying trestles, and for a moment she and her brother were separated. She looked round wildly, then she saw him, a colourful caricature of a figure, hand on hip, leaning against the wall. There was a supercilious curl to his lip.

  Finding her way back to his side she looked at him challengingly. ‘When are you coming back to Scotland, Duncan?’

  ‘Scotland?’ He looked horrified. ‘Not for a long time, I hope! This is the centre of the world, Isobel! This is where I want to be! When the king dies –’ He lowered his voice with a hasty look round him. ‘When the old man dies, Prince Edward will be king and then I shall be in a position of influence.’

  ‘You?’ Isobel couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. ‘You are only a boy!’

  ‘Prince Edward likes boys!’ Duncan stared at her defiantly.

  Isobel gasped. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she whispered. ‘Are the rumours true, then, about Edward of Caernarvon?’

  ‘What rumours?’ Duncan raised an eyebrow. He smirked archly at his sister. ‘How shocked the Countess of Buchan looks!’

 
Isobel had gone pale. She began to walk back towards the door. ‘I have to go back to our rooms –’

  ‘Oh come on!’ Duncan was suddenly contrite. ‘I didn’t mean anything. We’re friends, that’s all. He’s not that many years older than me!’ He stared at her anxiously, a little boy suddenly, for all his towering stature.

  Isobel frowned. ‘Well –’

  ‘Oh please, come on. I’ll take you to see the shrine of St Edward.’ He caught her hand again. ‘The abbey is so close. Come, I’ll show you. It is more beautiful than anything you’ve got in Scotland, I’ll wager!’

  Outside, the air was thick with dust. They threaded their way back through the noisy, crowded alleys and courtyards until they came to the great Abbey of St Peter where an endless stream of pilgrims queued to enter and pay homage at the shrine of St Edward the Confessor. Standing in the porch, out of the blinding sunlight, Duncan once more caught her hand. He gave a wry smile. ‘I didn’t mean to shock you, Isobel,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I’m not one of Edward’s boys. Not like that. I’m no catamite.’ He glanced down at his dusty embroidered toes. ‘In fact,’ he looked up again, suddenly all smiles. ‘I am betrothed. To Marie de Monthermer, daughter of our cousin Gilbert’s guardian. We shall marry next year when the dispensation comes through from the Holy Father, if Lady Gloucester agrees.’

  All around them there were booths, selling souvenirs of the shrine, tiny phials of holy water, pieces of the true cross, fragments of St Thomas’s cloak and of his shin bone, gold medallions, miniature reliquaries, beads and pilgrim badges. At one of the stalls Duncan bought candles for himself and his sister, to offer before the shrine, and with them a gold and enamel brooch which he pinned carefully to her mantle. All round them the vendors were crying their wares until they were hoarse, each one vying with the others for the pilgrims’ custom as the often weary travellers, many of them sporting the traditional staff, scrip and cloak, queued in the sun.