On they went through the long hot September days. They slept on the ground, wrapped in thick plaids on the springy heather, chilled by the cold nights as summer slowly dipped towards autumn. Lord Atholl and his two male companions caught fish and once or twice stalked and shot a deer with the long bow they carried with them, helping the women cook the flesh over their lonely camp fires, keeping an eye forever on the far horizons lest the thin wisps of white smoke be spotted by their enemies.
The women did not complain. The three Bruce ladies and the child rode bravely on behind Lord Atholl and Isobel who invariably rode side by side, the two other men behind them. They all suffered. They were hungry and exhausted and afraid, their lives made misery by the midges and horseflies which plagued the moors, either too hot beneath the blistering sun, or wet and cold beneath heavy penetrating rain as they turned north again towards Inverness, to which they gave a wide berth, and on over the low-lying fertile ground of the Black Isle. Isobel no longer cared where they were going. So many times they had tried to break out towards the coast and every time they had been headed back inland by marauding parties of soldiers, or bands of travellers whom they did not wish to meet; for the more populated countryside around the coast was in ferment, with farmsteads and villages burned or deserted, and the people up in arms.
When at last they saw the welcome gleam of water in the distance it was the Dornoch Firth, grey, slate green, red brown in the changing light of a windy sky.
Lord Atholl halted them at last. ‘Maybe we can find a ship here.’ He smiled wearily at them. ‘Courage ladies. God is good. We are in St Duthac’s country here. It may be that he will bless us and send us safely on our way to Norway.’ He stooped and caught Marjorie’s hand as she sat on the ground, her eyes closed, her head resting wearily against the rough bark of a pine tree. ‘Not much further, sweetheart, I promise.’
She looked up and gave him an exhausted smile. She liked her father’s friends, with their brusque kindness and gentleness. John of Atholl had carved her a doll out of an old piece of wood with the dirk he carried in his belt. She kept it wrapped in a scrap of cloth, tucked into her girdle. Surreptitiously she touched it now. It was the only thing she had to call her own.
‘I’m sorry, Uncle John.’ She gave him a wistful smile, adult far beyond her years. ‘I’m a nuisance because I’m so young.’
‘A nuisance!’ He looked at her in mock horror. ‘How can the charge of the Princess of Scotland be a nuisance? It is an honour your Uncle Nigel and I had to fight for!’ He bowed gallantly.
He glanced at the women over her head. Mary and Christian too had their eyes closed. Isobel was standing supporting herself with one hand on her horse’s saddle, her eyes fixed on the broad firth beyond the ancient burgh of Tain. Across the water, streaked a deep blue now beneath the shadows of the clouds, the northern shoulders of Caithness humped into the pearly mist.
‘Will we go into Tain?’ Elizabeth glanced at him. She was the least tired of all of them, still upright, still clear-eyed, but her face was taut with worry.
‘I’ll go in on my own.’ Lord Atholl glanced around. ‘You must all rest. We have to find somewhere you can get some food and sleep.’
When he returned his face was grim. He looked from one woman to the other, still undecided whether or not to tell them what he had learned in Tain, where people had not recognised the ragged traveller wrapped in a plaid as an earl, one of the exiled rebels’ closest friends, and had gossiped freely to him as he bought bread and cheese and smoked fish. He distributed the food amongst the others, and sat watching them as they ate.
It was Isobel who questioned him first. Waiting until Marjorie had snuggled into her plaid and fallen asleep in the shelter of a clump of whin she walked over and sank to her knees beside him. ‘What news, John? I can see in your face it is not good.’
He shrugged, unable to keep it to himself any longer, shaking his head with misery. ‘Kildrummy has fallen.’
‘Fallen?’ She stared at him white-faced, and hearing her cry the others came and squatted beside them. ‘It can’t have fallen!’
‘They were betrayed. The blacksmith, you remember that surly bastard, Osbourne, may he rot in hell for ever! He fired the corn in the great hall. The fire spread –’ He shook his head, unable to go on. ‘The castle fell. They were all taken.’
‘Nigel?’ Mary whispered.
He nodded. ‘Tain is full of it. Osbourne was killed by the English – they had promised him gold for his betrayal and the story is they gave it to him, pouring it molten down his throat.’ He gave a grim humourless laugh. ‘They have a fine sense of irony, the English, I give them that. Nigel has been taken to King Edward.’ He shook his head again.
‘And great grandmama?’ Isobel asked, her mouth dry with fear. ‘What has happened to her?’
He shrugged. ‘There was no mention of her,’ he said.
There were tears in all the women’s eyes. Frightened, they huddled together in the shelter of the bushes as a shower of rain swept up from the firth, soaking them. Nearby Marjorie slept on, unaware.
Lord Atholl swallowed. ‘Prince Edward will know we were there,’ he said softly. ‘They will already be looking for us. We must find a ship.’
Twice they saw people as they made their way cautiously down towards the shore, once a party of travellers, almost as ragged as themselves, and once a group of men cutting peats on the moor. The peat cutters stopped work and watched them as they rode past, then, with a surly greeting, they bent again to their back-breaking task.
A little later they saw two horsemen standing on the crest of a rise about half a mile from them. Atholl ignored them, but the men remained, watching them carefully for some time before they turned away and rode fast towards the town.
Isobel clutched Mary’s arm. ‘Why were they watching us? Did they recognise us?’
‘How could they?’ Mary had dropped the reins on her horse’s neck as they rode at last down on to the shore beyond the walls of the burgh, letting her tired cob follow the horse in front. ‘No one up here would recognise us. They don’t know where we come from.’
She spoke too soon. Barely half an hour later they saw a troop of horsemen riding out of Tain. Lord Atholl stared at them, narrowing his eyes in the glare of the sun on the water as another shower sped across the firth and vanished south across the low hills. The three gold lions rampant on a scarlet ground told him all he wanted to know. He looked round wildly. There was no shelter here, no hiding place save the chapel of St Duthac standing foursquare on its grassy hill against a wind which was whipping up the waves in the shallow sandy water of the firth.
‘In there. Quickly!’ He brought his hand down on the rump of Marjorie’s horse, making the exhausted animal leap into a canter. ‘We may pass ourselves off as pilgrims.’
They threw themselves from the horses outside the chapel and went inside. Out of the wind it was very silent; the thick stone walls and narrow pointed windows kept out every sound of wind and water. A dozen candles burned before the shrine.
‘Who is it?’ The Queen touched his arm. ‘I couldn’t see the banners –’
‘Lord Ross, madam. No friend to your husband, I fear.’ He spoke in an undertone, but his voice seemed to fill the hush of the chapel.
‘Are we safe here?’ Isobel looked at him intently.
‘I doubt it.’ He put his hand on his sword.
‘No.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Do not shed blood in this holy place. My husband has already committed sacrilege enough. It may be that they have not recognised us.’
Behind her Christian put her arms around Marjorie and hugged her close. The echoing cry of a gull rang through the chapel as the four women, the child and the three men waited. Elizabeth knelt before the shrine. Stooping she kissed the cold stone of the saint’s tomb. Slowly Mary and Christian followed suit.
Only Isobel was standing now. She was clutching the torn remains of her cloak round her. The chapel was chill after the blustery
autumn sunshine. She could hear the horsemen now, on the shingle. They weren’t hurrying. They knew their quarry could run no further.
It was Earl William himself who entered the chapel, drawn sword in his hand, bending to avoid the low archway. He stopped and straightened, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim candlelight inside. Behind him two knights stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway blocking out the sun.
‘So. My lookouts were right. I must reward them for having such sharp eyes.’ He smiled, then he bowed mockingly towards Elizabeth. ‘The so-called Queen of Scots, if I mistake not, and Lady Buchan?’ He turned sharply to Isobel who stood proudly erect near the wall. ‘Who would have thought to see you here?’ He went on with a chuckle. ‘I was speaking to your husband but a week ago.’
Isobel clenched her teeth. Her skin was crawling with panic; she felt very sick. The man was playing with them. She glanced at the others. They were all motionless, white-faced, staring at the earl as though mesmerised. Suddenly Lord Atholl made a move to draw his sword. In a second the two knights behind Lord Ross had sprung at him and it was wrested from his hand together with his dirk.
‘That’s better.’ Lord Ross smiled. ‘So. Now the question is, what do I do with you?’
Elizabeth straightened. ‘This place is holy ground. You cannot take us from here. I claim sanctuary, in the name of Christ –’
‘Whose holy name your husband did not hesitate to abuse with blood when it suited him,’ Ross snapped back. ‘Do not think you can claim sanctuary here, madam, nor anywhere else in Scotland.’
He made a move towards the women and Marjorie let out a little cry of fear.
‘Dear God, save us!’ Isobel closed her eyes, a vision of the dragon banner floating before her, the token by which any woman who supported the rebel cause could be taken and raped and murdered with impunity. Mary was standing as though stunned, so she moved to Marjorie and putting her arms around the child held her close. Outside they could hear the horses snorting impatiently, the chink of harness, the restless hooves on the shingle amongst the grass.
Ross took the Queen’s arm. ‘Outside, madam. Think yourselves lucky it was I who found you.’ He glanced at Isobel. ‘Had your husband got to you first, Lady Buchan, he would not have let you live long enough to see the sunset. As it is, it is for the King of England to decide what is to be done with you all. I shall take you to him.’
28
The flat in Rothesay Place was cold and dusty. Kathleen looked around it sadly, then, dropping her two suitcases on the floor, she walked across to the window and threw it open. The taxi was just drawing away from the kerb and she stood watching as it drove out of sight. So. It was over and Neil had thrown her out. She went over to the carved oak fireplace and gazed into the mirror which hung over it. Her face looked haggard, old and hard. Her hair was lank after the cold and the wet the night before when she had paced up and down the streets, thinking.
‘God damn it, but you’re a bastard, Neil Forbes!’ She shouted at the mirror. ‘And you’ll pay. I’ll make you pay – and that English bitch. You can’t throw me out like that!’ She saw her eyes fill and brighten with tears and she turned away angrily. She had known it was coming. It had been in the cards for months now. Somehow she could have avoided it – and yet she had been swept on, carried by the tide of fate. She fished in the patchwork bag she had thrown down on the table and brought out her cards, turning them over twice in her hands, feeling the familiarity of them, the comfort, the immediate sense of certainty and rightness they gave her. She could do less and less now without consulting them – they told her everything; they were her confidant and adviser, friend and family. She bit her lip, then throwing them down she fumbled in the bag for her cigarettes. Her hands were shaking. ‘Damn you, Neil Forbes! Damn you!’ She sat down and ran her hand across the pack, spreading them face down across the table, then edging one at random out of the run she picked it up. For a moment she didn’t look at it. What was she asking of the cards? Was it Neil or herself or Clare Royland she wanted to interrogate? Slowly she turned the card face up. The Tower. She stared at it blankly. The house of God or the house of the Devil. The most complex of all the cards: disruption, imprisonment, disaster and change. But for whom? Whom had she been thinking about when she asked her question? She smiled grimly and stood up, walking slowly back to the window. Clare. That was the future for Clare.
She picked up her guitar and sat down on the window seat. Clare Royland was mad. Imprisoned by her dreams, wasn’t that what her husband had said? Quietly she began to strum the guitar:
I have a dream, a song to sing.
To help me cope with anything.
She smiled quietly to herself.
If you see the wonder of a fairy tale,
You can take the future, even if you fail …
Was that it? Was that what made Clare Royland mad? A dream which helped her cope with the world.
I have a dream – a fantasy.
To help me through reality.
So, what did she dream about, this smooth English lady with her mink coats and her flashy cars?
Not about Neil. Her eyes were always fixed on the distance, looking inwards. She smiled. Neil would soon tire of her. She was too effete, too feeble for him. He needed a woman with strength and experience – a woman like herself. Men were so naive! Did he really think she didn’t know where he had stashed Clare away! Idiot! Putting down the guitar, she stood up and stubbed out her cigarette angrily. Did he really think she would let him hide her away for his own amusement just because he had thrown her out? This time when she told Paul Royland where his wife was she would see to it he found her at once; and she would see to it that Neil never knew how he had done it! She smiled bitterly. All she had to do was find out where Paul Royland was staying.
* * *
Paul took a taxi from the airport straight to the Canongate. He stood for a moment in the windswept street, staring up at the high buildings around him then he began the long climb to the top floor.
Neil opened the door in his shirtsleeves.
‘Where is she, Forbes?’ Paul was panting heavily. It put him at a disadvantage.
Neil looked at him for a moment before answering.
‘Nowhere you will find her.’ He didn’t bother to pretend not to know whom Paul was talking about.
For a moment Paul’s face darkened then he took a visible hold on himself. ‘You’d better let me in. We have to talk.’
Neil hesitated. He had an overwhelming urge to throw Paul down the stairs but he mastered it rapidly. It made more sense to speak to him and find out which way his mind was working. For Clare’s sake. He turned and led the way into the untidy living room, wondering briefly why he wanted to do anything for Clare’s sake.
Throwing himself down in the armchair, he left Paul to stand or clear himself a space on one of the other chairs with their clutter of newspapers and books.
Paul elected to stand. ‘I know she’s in Edinburgh,’ he said slowly. ‘And she’s obviously taken you in. Look, Forbes, there are one or two things I’m going to have to tell you; information I’m going to have to trust you with.’ He hesitated, picking his words with care. ‘Clare is a very vulnerable woman. She is, or should be, under the care of several professional people at the moment, a doctor and a priest amongst them.’ He glanced at Neil. ‘I would rather not have told you this, but I must.’
Neil was watching him closely. His face was impassive.
Paul licked his lips nervously. He moved towards the window and stared out for a moment at the sheen of frost on Calton Hill, then he turned back to Neil. With his face in shadow his expression was harder to read. ‘My wife is very unstable, Forbes, and has been since she was a child. As a child her family protected her, and when I found out what I had married’ – he paused – ‘I protected her.’ It was nothing less than the truth, he realised suddenly in amazement. ‘Without me there, and without the back-up of the people who understand her, she is a dang
er, both to herself and to those around her.’ He paused again. Neil said nothing. The silence stretched out between them and Paul found he was rubbing his cheek nervously. He was beginning to sweat in the heavy overcoat. ‘She is schizophrenic; she hears voices and sees visions. She began some months ago to dabble in the occult and as a direct consequence of all this she has been in some way possessed.’
Neil stood up slowly. ‘You bastard!’ he said. ‘Do you really expect me to believe all that?’
Paul sneered. ‘You will – when you get to know her.’ He strode towards the door. ‘Bear in mind that you are keeping her from her friends, her family, her doctors and her medication,’ he said portentously. ‘You have taken a very great responsibility on yourself, Forbes. God help you if anything happens to her.’
Neil stood for a long time after Paul had left, just staring at the spot by the window where his visitor had been standing, then slowly he went to the telephone. It was several seconds before she answered. ‘Clare? I thought I’d better tell you that your husband is now in Edinburgh. He has just paid me a visit.’
There was a moment’s silence, then: ‘What did he say?’ Clare sounded subdued.
‘A few choice epithets on what would happen if I failed to tell him where you were. You’d better not come near the office or the flat today in case he’s still prowling around. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man to take no for an answer. I’ll pick you up at lunchtime and we’ll have lunch outside Edinburgh somewhere, OK?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you all right? Is the flat comfortable?’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Oh God! What’s Paul been saying?’
He heard the sudden sharp defensive note in her voice. ‘About your sleeping habits?’ Neil managed a laugh. ‘Nothing at all. Did you expect him to?’
He picked her up at one and drove her out to the Hawes Inn. Clare was very pale. He glanced at her from time to time as he drove. She was wearing a pair of trousers and a heavy multi-coloured sweater this morning; they made her look less formal, more relaxed; more approachable. And completely sane.