Rex walked into the bathroom and found his bottle of Maalox in the cabinet. ‘I’m not going to change my mind, Mary. I’m going to buy it! It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
‘I won’t see, Rex. I won’t be there to see.’ She said it so quietly that in the bathroom he didn’t hear her.
After she left Chloe, Clare stood for a moment outside Harrods, wondering whether or not to go in, but the memory of the dress show and her terrifying attack of claustrophobia still haunted her and tired as she was she kept walking, avoiding the crowded shops, back along the Brompton Road, up Beauchamp Place and down again, and finally across and into the Victoria and Albert Museum where she browsed for a couple of hours in the vast empty halls of stone before making her way at last to the restaurant, where she bought herself a cup of tea and a Danish pastry.
Her feet were aching by the time she got back to Campden Hill and she was exhausted. There was a note for her in the hall.
‘Mr Royland said I could take the evening off as he won’t be coming home. I didn’t know what time you’d be back so I’m taking the dog with me to Richmond and my sister and I will give her a run in the park. I should be back by eleven. SC.’
Poor Casta. Guiltily Clare took off her coat and hung it up. She hadn’t given a thought to the dog that afternoon, concentrating as she was on trying to find reasons not to come home.
Wearily she walked upstairs and kicked off her shoes. The house was immaculately tidy as usual. Sarah had dusted and Hoovered every inch before going out. Not a cushion was out of place. Sitting on the bed, Clare looked at the phone, but she didn’t touch it. She wished Chloe could have spent the afternoon with her, but Chloe had had a thousand things to do. Emma was at her gallery. Everyone was busy. Now there was nothing to stop her thinking about the thing she had been avoiding all day: the thing which blotted out the terrible centre of loneliness inside her. She was fighting a battle inside herself. Fear was battling against curiosity; loneliness and boredom against the thrill of doing something forbidden and dangerous. Half of her wanted to go back; to see what happened to Isobel. The other half was very afraid.
She stood up and walked over to the window, staring out into the darkness beyond the light of the street lamps. She could see the wind tossing the dead leaves around in the pools of light on the pavement near the parked cars. Listlessly she drew the curtains and turned back into the room. The whole evening stretched out before her, empty.
At the desk in the drawing room she pulled her address book towards her and began idly to leaf through the pages. It was full of names, people she used to know. Why ‘used to’? Why did she not know them any more? She stared at the wall above the desk where a small Cotman watercolour hung. Because she had lost touch with them, that was why. At the beginning, when she and Paul were first married, she had had a great many friends but slowly, one by one, they had dropped away; either everyone was too busy to meet, or too tired, or now they had small children – her mind shied away from the thought – or it was too difficult as people moved and scattered around the country, or Paul had vetoed them, crossed them from the list. He had killed off a lot of her friendships like that – jealous of the time she spent with others, jealous of any time she spent with anyone but himself, and yet not filling the gaps with anything else, just expecting her to be there when he wanted. She looked at the book, and idly she dialled a number at random. The phone rang and rang, but there was no reply.
Biting her lip, she threw the book to the floor and stood up restlessly, walking round the room once more before she turned and went down to the kitchen. She made herself a sandwich she didn’t really want and turning on the television sat at the counter, staring at it blankly, not hearing it, not seeing it, just letting the sounds flow over her and fill the room.
When she heard the crash of the door closing in the empty house, she thought it must be upstairs. But it was an oak door; a heavy door; the door of the chapel at Dundarg. She stood up, and the stool on which she was perched toppled to the ground behind her. She was shaking suddenly with cold. Oh Christ! Let it not be happening again! She was going mad. She must be going mad!
‘No. No, please, go away! I don’t want to do it any more. Don’t you see? I don’t want to know!’
She buried her face in her hands as she backed against the counter. Opposite her the television crackled violently from electrical interference and the picture blurred.
‘No please, please, go away!’
At first Isobel hadn’t minded the hair shirt. She wanted to suffer; she wanted to atone. The long ride north in the hot sun, bareback on the bony horse; her head uncovered, her flesh naked beneath the harsh prickling shift they had made her wear – she deserved it all. She could feel the perspiration trickling down between her shoulderblades, the raw itching bumps where the fleas had bitten her, the sharp agonising pricks as they went on biting. Through every town and village she was paraded slowly, the earl’s wife, the repentant sorceress, conscious of hundreds of eyes watching her. Some were pitying, some jeered.
They rode on north, through the Forest of Deer, then followed the Ugie Water, skirting the foot of the Mormond Hill. Isobel was scarcely conscious of the watching eyes any more. Her mind was numb; her body a fiery mass of sores. Every step of the horse dragged the rough cloth across her back and shoulders again and when at long last they reached Dundarg they had to help her dismount. Master William Comyn stood before her and looked her up and down. There was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he met her gaze. ‘The Lord will look with mercy on your contrition,’ he said.
Isobel straightened. For a moment the rebellion returned: the urge to retort, the longing to spit in his eye, then it retreated again. She would not give him the excuse to use force on her again. She would not give him the pleasure of binding her wrists – for it had given him pleasure, of that she was sure.
Stiffly she walked before him into the shadowy keep. It was cold inside, after the heat of the sun. She shivered gratefully, welcoming even the ache of her bare feet on the flagstones beneath the coarse heather which was strewn over them.
In the chapel of St Drostan, musty with cold incense, she knelt obediently before the altar, unaware that she was alone. The attendants who had followed her from Ellon had dispersed. In the bailey the knight who had headed the escort pulled off his helm and handed it to his esquire. Stooping over the horse trough he reached for a dipper and poured scoop after scoop of water over his head.
The door of the chapel opened and closed softly as Master William entered the dark sanctuary. He walked silently on sandalled feet to stand behind Isobel. In his hand there was a leather-thonged scourge.
Lifting her face from her hands Isobel glanced at it, then raised her eyes to his with undisguised scorn. ‘So. Do you intend to whip me as well in the name of your God?’
William glanced at her disdainfully. ‘That is your husband’s duty, my lady.’ He genuflected before the altar and laid the scourge reverently on it. ‘The penance I have laid on you calls for the mortification of the flesh. It calls for the lesson of obedience. Here, at Dundarg, at the very edge of my brother’s demesne, where you will find there are no distractions, you will suffer and you will pray. Sir Donald Comyn will remain here to guard you with his attachment of men – men, my lady, whom your husband can ill spare in this time of trial for Scotland. Master David, the chaplain here, will oversee your spiritual needs, and two sisters from the Abbey have arrived already to attend you. I must return south at once.’
Isobel gripped her hands together as she knelt on the chancel steps, trying to hide the elation which swept over her. She could feel her brother-in-law’s eyes on her face but she had no clue as to his feelings; his expression was completely bland. She knew she was ugly and dirty in the stinking, itching garment he had forced her to wear; her feet were bare and bleeding from the stops they had made on the journey between towns and villages where she had been forced to seek out what moments of privacy she could to relieve herself in private in the ba
re, scrubby landscape with its tortured heather stems and twisted, bent trees. She did not guess that he was trying to master an unaccustomed surge of desire as he stared at her slim body and shapely legs and fine ankles with the narrow torn feet, ill concealed by the ugly shirt. He raised his eyes thoughtfully to her tired face with the wild tangle of black hair and swallowed hard. She had seen his lust as he held the scourge. He had indeed intended to use it on her himself, but he had seen the danger in time. He would leave that duty to the sisters. He bowed stiffly towards her. ‘I shall leave you to your prayers. Later you will be taken to your chamber.’
As the door crashed shut behind him she rose painfully to her feet, fighting off the longing to tear off the filthy shirt and press herself naked on the cold stone flags to try to ease the rawness of her skin. To be found naked in the house of God would convince them finally of her depravity and bring her, like Mairi, to the stake.
Sir Donald Comyn watched Master William leave Dundarg with unconcealed relief. As soon as the priest’s horses were out of sight he turned to the chapel. As he pushed open the heavy door and peered into the darkness he thought for a moment she had gone, then he saw her standing near the altar.
‘My lady? Master William has gone. Shall I show you to the solar?’
She turned to him and he saw the relief on her pale face; he also saw the pain she had in walking as she stepped towards him.
The small solar, high in the keep, had two arched windows, which looked south over the windswept valley. The two nuns were waiting there for her, sitting talking quietly in one of the window embrasures. They rose as Isobel came in. The elder, a tall, thin woman with a gaunt pale face, smiled. ‘Lady Buchan?’ She held out her hands kindly. ‘We arrived this morning after Master William sent messengers to the Abbey. This is Sister Julian and I am Sister Eleanor. We will be happy to serve you.’
Isobel had hoped to be alone, to have the chance of stripping off the hated shirt, but she greeted the two sisters with a tired smile. Sister Julian was younger and prettier than her companion, but her face had a coldness which Isobel found disturbing.
‘Master William sent us instructions for your care.’ Sister Julian’s words, though polite, were spoken with an edge of sharp authority. ‘The hair shirt is to be worn for forty days, and for each of those days you will suffer the penitential scourge. If you cannot bring yourself to inflict it on yourself, as we do, then one of us will do it for you.’ Her eyes were hard.
Even at night she was not to be alone. She stretched out, still wearing the hated shirt, on a low board bed in the corner of the room. Near by, the two nuns, removing their gowns and veils but still clothed in their shifts, also slept in the same room.
Only in the chapel was she permitted to part undress; there before the altar the hair shirt was pulled down to her waist so that her back, raw and bleeding from the bites and sores of the fleas and lice, could be further lacerated by the leather thongs of the scourge, wielded with a strange mixture of compassion and enthusiasm by Sister Eleanor. When it was over she helped Isobel on with her shirt again, only once lightly touching her back. Isobel did not see the strange expression on her face.
Ten days after she arrived Sister Julian fell ill. Isobel was woken in the night by the sound of the woman retching. Groping for the flint in the darkness Eleanor was trying to light the candle.
Isobel sat up. She was tired all the time now, prevented from sleeping properly by the constant pain, but wearily she dragged her aching body from her bed and made her way across to the nuns. ‘What is it, Sister?’
‘Hush.’ Sister Eleanor raised her hand. She was stroking Julian’s damp forehead. ‘She is feverish. Go back to your bed, my lady. I shall take care of her.’
All night the woman vomited and groaned, but by dawn she had at last fallen into a restless sleep and with one long look at the pale, exhausted face Sister Eleanor beckoned Isobel outside on to the stone stair. ‘We’ll leave her to rest, my lady,’ she whispered. ‘Sleep is the best cure for what ails her.’
In the narrow bailey still shadowed behind the perimeter walls of the small castle it was very cold and light was still dim. Only the high walls of the keep were bathed in sunlight. Automatically Isobel turned towards the heather-thatched lean-to kitchen against the wall. Her fast meant she could eat first thing when she was given some bread and some water from the spring; after that she was allowed no more food until dusk.
As she turned away Eleanor touched her shoulder. ‘Sir Donald is in the great hall. He wishes to speak to you,’ she whispered. She was smiling.
Isobel stared at her. For a moment she hesitated, then, slowly she returned the smile.
Sir Donald was standing before the fire. On the table near him stood a huge bowl of hot, steaming brose.
Near it stood a jug of cream and a goblet of Gascon wine.
‘My lady.’ He bowed to her formally. ‘Whilst Sister Julian is unwell, it might be a good idea to eat a proper meal or two.’ He winked at her. ‘Here.’ He reached out towards her, a silver spoon in his hand. ‘Sit down, lass, and start eating!’
Isobel stared at him. Then she looked at Sister Eleanor. The nun smiled, and nodded encouragingly. ‘Go on, my dear. I’ll not tell Master William. It’s Julian who writes long letters to him every evening, not I.’
Isobel did not wait for a second invitation. Her stomach was crying out for hot food. Picking up one of the carved wooden bowls from the table she scooped herself a helping of the rich spicy brose and began to eat. Only when she had finished, and drunk the wine, did she turn back to Sir Donald. She smiled. ‘That was most welcome, Sir Knight. Thank you. Do I take it that you do not write regular letters to my husband either?’
He grinned. ‘Indeed not, my lady. At least, when I do they are about the castle and its garrison. I do not presume to comment on your ladyship’s affairs.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.’ He smiled at the two women. ‘The gates of the castle will be open for a few hours while the hay is brought up from the fields. If you wish to walk by the sea for a while you will be undisturbed.’
When he had gone Isobel turned to the nun at her side. ‘Walk by the sea? What does he mean? What about my penance?’ Her voice was bitter.
Eleanor shook her head. ‘You’ve done enough penance for the moment, my dear. Sister Julian will never know if you miss a day or two.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I think we can be certain she will be tied to her bed for a while yet.’ She looked down innocently, tucking her hands into her broad black sleeves.
Isobel stared at her. ‘You made her ill,’ she whispered. ‘You gave her something to make her sick!’
‘Nothing so very bad, I assure you. It will not harm her.’ The nun’s aquiline face was alight with humour suddenly. ‘Just bad enough to keep her in her bed for a while and give us a holiday, that’s all!’
Dundarg Castle was built in front of a rocky promontory of red sandstone, the keep surrounded by a high red stone wall, a second gatehouse across the neck of the promontory itself. As the two women walked out of the southern gate house and turned back along the walls towards the low cliffs and the sea they felt indeed as though they were on holiday. It was a glorious day – hot and already hazy. Above the cliffs gulls circled over the sea, their laughing cries echoing from the rocks. Eleanor led the way, gathering up her long black skirts as they caught on the wiry sea grasses and the clumps of speedwell and saxifrage. At the edge of the low cliffs she stopped. The North Sea was the colour of amethyst in the haze, shading to aquamarine and then to a dazzling shimmer to the west where the coast led round towards the Moray Firth. Below them there was a small stony beach, and beyond it the bay. Transparent green water lapped and sucked around flat pinkish rocks draped with weed. Further out the water was the clear brown of a peaty burn. The air was heavy with the scent of the hay they were cutting in the small exposed meadows behind the headland.
Eleanor turned to Isobel and smiled. ‘Round here, on the west side of
the castle. We can scramble down to the beach. No one can see us from the walls.’
Isobel glanced over her shoulder. There were no signs of guards on the gate house; no one had followed them. The sandy soil was warm beneath her feet as she followed the nun down the narrow track, sliding the last few feet down to the beach. There the stones were hot. Sheltered from the gentle onshore breeze the beach was private and very warm. Isobel wriggled her toes in a patch of fine reddish sand and stretched her arms above her head, lifting the weight of her hair from her neck. Already she could feel the sweat beginning to sting her back.
Beside her Sister Eleanor sat down on a rock. She was groping at her head-dress, removing the pins. Within moments she had lifted off veil and wimple. Beneath them her dark hair, streaked with grey, was cropped short. She shook her head with a laugh, then she removed her shoes and proceeded to roll down her hose. After that she took off the heavy tunic she wore over her gown. ‘Come on! Surely you can’t wait to take off that monstrosity you’re wearing,’ she called to Isobel who was standing at the edge of the water. She was pulling at the lacings on her gown now, easing them undone with swift, nimble fingers. Isobel turned and laughed, half embarrassed, half afraid, glancing up, eyes narrowed in the sunlight, at the castle wall high on the cliff behind them. But still there was no sign of life.
The other woman seemed to have shed her austerity with her wimple and as she slipped off her black gown, Isobel, suddenly excited, began to pull open the neck of her shirt. As she dragged it over her head and flung it down she gave a groan of ecstasy. She stood for a moment, naked on the sand, feeling the sun on her tortured skin, and the weight of her hair on her shoulders, unconscious, in that wonderful moment of freedom, of the sudden still gaze of the woman at her side. As Eleanor stood slowly up, still dressed in her shift, Isobel ran the few steps down towards the sea.
The water was ice cold but she did not hesitate. In she went, cautiously feeling her way over the slippery rocks and stones, making her way out into the bay until the shallow water deepened. The initial agonising sting on her skin had gone almost instantly, to be followed by the cool soothing silken lap of water. She knelt, feeling it rise to her waist, to her breasts, then to her shoulders, and at last she laid her hot face in the waves, feeling the water closing cold and clean over her hair.
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