When she woke again it was daylight. She climbed, aching, out of bed and went to stare out of the window at the gardens. The blustery winds of the day before had torn most of the last of the leaves from the trees on the far side of the river; they lay on the ground, a crisp blanket of colour. There was a suspiciously frosty sheen on the grass below the pines, but the sun was out and the sky was an intense steady blue. She shivered violently, putting her hand tentatively on the radiator. She had already guessed that it would be stone cold. Putting on her cords, a silk shirt and two sweaters she made her way downstairs.
Her mother was in the kitchen. She looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink. ‘Good morning, darling. Would you like some coffee?’ She didn’t ask if Clare had slept well, and Clare wondered briefly if she had heard her screams. When she was a child her mother had stopped coming to comfort her after her nightmares soon after she had married Archie, leaving Clare to cry herself to sleep. Archie had forbidden her to go to her daughter and Antonia had not dared then, at the start of their marriage, to disobey him. It was one of the first ways Archie had shown his resentment of his step-children.
Antonia gestured towards the Aga where a coffee jug was warming. ‘Archie has taken the dogs for a walk.’
Clare helped herself to coffee and sat down at the long pine table. The kitchen was the only warm place in the house.
‘Is something wrong, Mummy?’ She poured some cream from the heavy earthenware jug.
‘No, darling, of course not.’ Antonia turned away sharply.
‘There is.’ Clare looked up. ‘I know you told me not to come till Archie was away, but I had nowhere else to go. I’ve left Paul.’
For a moment there was silence then slowly Antonia turned. ‘Left him?’ she echoed. ‘For good?’
Clare shrugged. ‘Well, for the time being, anyway.’ She sipped her coffee gratefully, feeling its warmth slowly flowing through her chilled body. ‘I won’t go into it now, but things have been pretty bloody lately.’
‘Oh, Clare!’ Her mother sat down opposite her. ‘Paul is such a nice man. What has gone wrong?’
Clare smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps he isn’t such a nice man as we thought. Anyway, I’d like to stay if you’d let me. Until I sort something out.’
‘Of course. You can stay as long as you like.’ Impulsively Antonia put her hand on Clare’s.
‘Will Archie be furious?’ Clare met her mother’s eyes steadily.
‘Probably.’ Antonia shrugged. ‘I’ll deal with him. Have you told James all this?’
‘I haven’t seen James for ages.’ Clare drank some more coffee. ‘You know him. He thinks Paul is the cat’s whiskers, so I would hardly confide in him.’
‘I suppose not.’ Her mother grimaced. ‘Poor Clare, has it been awful?’
Clare nodded. She stood up abruptly. ‘Damn Archie. I need my dog to go out with. Where has he taken them?’
Antonia shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. I should avoid him if I were you, darling. If you want a walk go towards the village. He never takes them near the road.’
Clare didn’t see her step-father again until that evening. It was as they were sitting again in the formal dining room, the three dogs lying under the long D-end table, that he cleared his throat. He put down his knife and fork, his salmon almost untouched. ‘Clare, I think you should know that your husband rang us.’
Clare looked up. ‘I thought he must have,’ she said guardedly. She looked from one to the other.
Her mother was clutching her fork as though her life depended on it, stabbing randomly at a piece of crumbling fish. ‘Clare, I don’t believe a word of what he said,’ she burst out defiantly.
‘No more do I, I think.’ Archie reached for his glass of wine. ‘But he did say some strange things, Clare, and your mother and I have the right to know whether there is any truth in them.’
Clare took a deep breath. She put her hands in her lap nervously pleating the stiff linen napkin between her fingers. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you hadn’t been well, darling,’ Antonia said firmly. ‘That’s all. He says you’ve been under a lot of strain.’
‘He said,’ Archie went on, frowning, ‘that you have become involved in some kind of black magic cult.’
‘Black magic?’ Clare echoed. She felt a sudden shiver run down her spine. So, the stupid story had come full circle. ‘What rubbish! I have taken some yoga lessons from a man I met in Cambridge, that’s all.’
‘He said you were involved with some strange people,’ Archie continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Strange, evil people who consort with the devil.’ He swallowed, his eyes shifting in spite of himself to the sideboard where he had left the cross, wrapped in an old spotted cravat.
‘That’s not true,’ Clare cried. ‘For God’s sake! You don’t believe him?’ Silently she cursed herself for leading Geoffrey and Chloe on. She had played into Paul’s hands. ‘Mummy! You don’t believe this do you? There is nothing strange or evil about Zak! Paul is angry because I’ve left him. We’ve had some dreadful quarrels and he is feeling very spiteful, that is why he is making all this up. He is trying to get even with me; to discredit me. Surely you can see that?’ So that they wouldn’t believe her if she told them what had happened in the lift. It was so obvious what he was doing. She took a deep breath. He needn’t have worried, she would never tell anyone about it.
Casta, hearing her mistress’s agitated voice, got up and came and put her head on Clare’s knee. She whined quietly.
‘Tell me you don’t believe him!’ Clare looked at them both in turn.
‘Well, I don’t.’ Antonia took a defiant mouthful of food. ‘Come on Archie, neither do you. And your supper is getting cold.’
Archie glared from one woman to the other. He was not sure what to do next. On the one hand he was extremely relieved that he had brought it all out into the open. They had discussed it calmly and Clare had not turned on him with sulphur and brimstone. The cross had not been needed. On the other hand he kept hearing again Paul’s words: She is clever at hiding the truth … Don’t trust her … She will deny it … He had never liked Clare, and he did not trust her. Neither she nor his wife would ever guess that, of course, but there was something strange about her …
He shrugged. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear there’s nothing in it,’ he said at last. He gave an embarrassed smile.
‘Does Paul know I’m here?’ Clare was looking straight at him.
‘No, dear, he rang before you arrived,’ Antonia answered.
‘Does he?’ Clare’s eyes were fixed on her step-father’s face.
He nodded defensively. ‘I rang him today. He has a right to know where you are, Clare. He is your husband.’
‘Is he coming up here?’ Clare clenched her fists.
‘He said he would fly up tomorrow.’ Archie didn’t dare look at his wife.
‘You know why he’s doing all this, don’t you?’ Clare flung her napkin aside and stood up. ‘This is all because of Duncairn. He wants the estate transferred to his name because there is oil there and I’ve been offered a lot of money for it. I refused to sell, and he is furious.’
‘Oil? At Duncairn?’ Her mother’s mouth had fallen open in astonishment. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oh, it’s true, and Paul needs the money. He needs a lot of money.’ Clare’s voice had risen in desperation. ‘He could sell his shares in the family firm, but he won’t. He wants my money to pay his debts and I refused.’ Her anger had brought a touch of colour to her face. ‘I will never sell Duncairn!’
There was an astonished silence. ‘Paul can’t have any debts!’ her mother said at last. Her glance at Archie was full of doubt. ‘Paul is a very rich man, darling.’
‘I should know, I am his wife.’ Clare walked across to the fireplace. She put her hand up to the high mantelpiece and rested her head on it. ‘What is he going to do when he gets here? Try and persuade me to sell again? Twist my arm? Try and make you change my mind?’
/>
There was an awkward silence. ‘I think he wants you to go back to London with him,’ Archie said at last.
‘No. I’ve told you. I’ve left him, and I’m not waiting here to have yet another argument with him! I’m leaving. Now.’
‘No! No, Clare, you can’t!’ Both her parents were appalled.
‘Darling, you mustn’t drive anywhere tonight,’ Antonia said pleadingly. ‘At least wait and go in the morning.’
‘And risk Paul turning up? No thank you.’ Clare turned to face them. ‘Please understand. I don’t want to see him again. Not now. I’ve come up here to Scotland to think. If I can’t avoid him here at Airdlie then I must go somewhere else.’
Archie had risen to his feet, agitated. Paul had told him to keep her there at all costs. ‘Clare, your mother is right. Wait till morning.’ He eyed her, wondering for a brief moment whether he should try to lock her up somewhere as Paul had suggested. One glance at his wife made up his mind that he couldn’t. He sat down again, defeated.
Clare ran up to her room. She threw her clothes back into her case, grabbed her fur coat from the cupboard and put on her Burberry. The undrawn curtains showed a crescent moon low in the sky above the river between the trees. She could feel the chill off the glass. It was a very cold night. With one longing look around the room she walked out, snapping off the light, and lugged her case down the broad flight of stairs.
Antonia was hovering in the hall. ‘Where will you go, Clare?’ She looked as though she had been crying.
Clare shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll phone you. Perhaps when Paul has gone and Archie is away, I’ll come back.’ She gave her mother a hug. ‘I’ll be all right. I’m a lot tougher than I used to be.’
Casta leaped into the car with a yelp of excitement as Clare threw her case into the boot. Then with a quick wave to her mother, standing forlorn and alone on the cold steps, she was on her way. There was no sign of Archie.
The headlights lit up the long rhododendron-lined drive, showing a sparkle of frost already on the rough tarmac. Clare slowed cautiously as she turned out on to the road, feeling the car wheels chassé sideways slightly on some hidden ice. She glanced at the car clock. It was 9.15 p.m. If she made good time she should be at Duncairn in about three hours or so.
She turned east towards Blairgowrie, pushing the car as fast as she dared on the narrow winding road. She caught glimpses of water, reflecting in the moonlight on the right, then the car swept on, plunging between woods of pine and beech and thick clumps of rhododendron. Every now and again the road climbed on to barren moor and the lights caught patches of gorse at the road side. There the sparkle of frost was thickest.
Twice the car skidded and she fought, heart in mouth, to hold it on the road. Slow down. Slow down. There was no need to hurry. Paul wasn’t anywhere behind her, and Jack Grant would have to let her in no matter what time she arrived.
It was just after ten when the rabbit leapt off the verge and stood for a moment, blinded, in her headlights. Automatically and without thought of the consequences she slammed on her brakes. The car spun out of control across the road, ploughed up the verge and slewed into a rutted field.
For a moment Clare didn’t move. She was faint with shock. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, feeling her legs dissolving as the adrenalin coursed unpleasantly through her.
There was a whimper from the back seat. Clare released her seat belt and turned stiffly, aware suddenly that her arm and shoulder were throbbing painfully. The dog had been thrown down and wedged into the narrow gap between the seat. Whining and panting, she scrabbled her way off the floor, ripping great grooves into the upholstery with her claws. She seemed to be unhurt. Relieved, Clare turned back and, pushing open the door, climbed out.
The moon was hovering on the horizon, almost gone, the car headlights cocked up in the air by the angle at which they had stopped. All round, the countryside was deserted and completely silent. They were about twenty feet from the road.
Still shaking, Clare walked slowly round the car, trying to see what damage had been done. There was a dent in one wing and a long scratch on the driver’s door, otherwise there seemed to be nothing much amiss. Stiffly she climbed back in and tried to restart the engine, but the wheels wouldn’t grip. One of them was completely off the ground. Without help there was no way she could move. Sobbing with shock and cold and misery she climbed out and looked around again. The moon had gone, sliding out of sight almost as she watched. Icy starlight lit the fields and beyond them the moor. As far as the eye could see there were no houses anywhere; no lights. As far as she could remember they hadn’t passed a house for more than two miles. Shivering violently she climbed back into the car and tried to think.
Someone would come, surely. It wasn’t so late.
But nobody came. The road remained deserted.
Twice she started the engine to warm the car, hugging Casta, the fur coat draped around them both. Her immediate instinct had been to get out of the car and to start walking, but she wasn’t sure where she was exactly. In the dark and stupidly without a map she might be miles from help of any kind. Desperately she tried to picture the road, but it was months since she had driven up here, and she couldn’t remember where the next farm or village was. From the high field she could see for what seemed like miles in the starlight. The road stretched away a lonely ribbon in both directions, completely deserted.
Slowly her eyes began to close. She thought briefly about the candles in her case in the boot. Should she light them to keep her warm? Beside her Casta stirred restlessly. She flattened her ears and growled softly in her throat. Condensation had misted the windows. Outside, the fields were lonely and very still.
‘What is it, love? There’s no one there.’ Clare rubbed at the windscreen with the heel of her hand and peered out. Under the starlight the ground was suddenly full of shadows. Clare’s hand tightened convulsively on the dog’s collar.
‘She won’t hurt you, darling,’ she whispered into the dog’s ear. ‘She’s not real. She’s part of me. She’s part of my dreams.’ She had begun to shake with fear.
The temperature was dropping fast as the icy night air began to penetrate the car. Clare was shaking. She buried her face in the dog’s neck. ‘Help me, darling. Help me to make her go away! I’m going to save Duncairn for her. Isn’t that enough?’ She was sobbing out loud.
With a growl Casta wrenched herself free of Clare’s arms and hurled herself across the passenger seat into the back of the car. The condensation had closed across the windows again, trapping them in the darkness. The only sound was the frightened panting of the dog.
Clare lifted her head. A pattern was forming slowly in the condensation on the windscreen. Back lit by the starlight she could see the flowers and whorls as the ice came. And behind them she could see the horses, eyes red, manes and tails streaming, as Isobel led the men of Buchan north across the Perthshire moors.
The horses were exhausted after the long miles on the snow-covered Cheviots beneath livid skies, thundering across moors where the snows had gone and only the blackened heather stems remained, galloping till their flanks were black with sweat and their nostrils flared scarlet, screaming for air.
Isobel was frantic. She had to reach Robert. She had to be there for his coronation. Gossip roared across the land like a fire in the heather. Scotland had risen at last; the English were being routed on every side. Word had gone round, the fiery cross was travelling the length and breadth of the nation and the people were bidden to Scone the traditional sacred place of crowning.
The King of Scots was to be crowned there without delay. ‘But not without me. I have to be there. He can’t be crowned until I get there. I have to be there.’ Isobel murmured the words again and again in her head like a prayer. He had to wait for her; he couldn’t be crowned without her.
Her hair was loose beneath her hood, her face streaked with dirt. Her gown clung to her, soaked with s
weat beneath her cloak.
Again and again she glanced behind, terrified she was going to see her husband’s horses in pursuit, but the horizon to the south, purple and heavy with storm, stayed empty. She allowed neither men nor horses time to rest, driven by her desperate need to reach Robert before it was too late.
On they rode, north towards Perth and then at last, on the twenty-sixth day of March, they arrived at Scone. From far away they could see the crowds even though it was nearly dark for already the flares and fires had been lit, and by their light they could see the tents, the horses, the banners in the chill wind, and above them all the royal lion of Scotland, a burnished flag against a bruised sky, flying proudly over the partly dismantled Abbey of Scone.
Isobel slid from her horse at last after threading her way through the shouting crowds, her eyes on the standard, her men around her. She was unaware of her wild hair and ragged dirty clothes as she saw a lone figure walking towards her through the shouting singing crowds. Gilbert of Annandale stopped short a few feet from her.
‘He is crowned, my lady. Yesterday. By the Bishop of St Andrews in the Abbey.’
She stared at him. ‘No. No! That can’t be! He can’t be crowned!’
‘He was, my lady. He is now our king. There were three bishops and two abbots in the abbey, my lady. He is crowned beyond all doubt.’
‘No!’ She pushed past him. ‘That cannot be! He cannot be crowned without me. Where is he? I have to see him! Without me he cannot be king! Without the Earl of Fife’s blessing his crowning will not be valid. He knows that. I have to see him!’
‘He is feasting, my lady –’ Gilbert called after her, but already she had pushed past him, her heart heavy with despair.
With the men of Buchan behind her, she ran towards the hall where Robert and his followers were at table. Torches and candles threw a thousand flaring lights about the great hall of Scone Palace. The noise was deafening and the heat intense. The hall was packed to the doors. For a moment she stood staring across the crowds, then she saw him.