When she lifted her head she was spluttering and laughing. ‘Why don’t you come in too? It’s beautiful!’ she called. She raised her arm and beckoned. Around her the brown water rushed at her playfully, slapping against the smooth rocks, combing the weed into tresses which streamed out in the tide.
Sister Eleanor stood, still wearing her shift, in a moment of agonised indecision at the edge of the sand. Standing up, the water streaming from her body, Isobel laughed. ‘Come on! It’s wonderful!’ She raised her hands to shade her eyes, looking up at the cliffs, but they were still reassuringly deserted save for the wheeling, calling gulls. Eleanor took a step forward into the water, and Isobel thought she was going to walk into the sea still partly clothed but suddenly the woman turned, and in one swift movement, like a man taking off his shirt, she pulled the shift up over her head. Modestly Isobel averted her gaze, but not before she had seen the woman’s body which was covered in scars. Eleanor, too, gasped at the vicious coldness of the water, but within seconds she was beside Isobel, her body hidden beneath the rippling water. She stared back towards the beach. ‘I hope no one looks for us.’ She sounded afraid.
‘So do I.’ Isobel giggled. ‘Aren’t you afraid you’ll be damned forever?’ She knelt again in the water, feeling it take her weight, lifting her gently. She had never learned to swim.
Eleanor shrugged. Her face went suddenly very still. ‘I am already.’ She sighed. There was bitterness in her voice. ‘But I can’t believe to bathe in the sea is so very wrong.’
Isobel turned away from her sharply. Her sins were so much greater than any Eleanor could have committed. The murder of her child; the death of Mairi; how could she ever atone for them? Was she damned for ever, or would her hair shirt and the scourge and the hours on her knees before the shrine of St Drostan save her from the agonies of hell?
It was too cold to stay in the water long. Shivering violently the two women waded back to the beach, both eyeing the castle walls nervously. Eleanor made her way up to the foot of the cliffs, where the overhang of sandy rock hid her from above, and there she dried herself hastily with her bleached linen shift, and pulled it on, damp as it was, dragging her gown over it. Then she spread her tunic out on a sandy patch amongst the stones and sat down in the sun, pushing her hair back off her thin face. She would leave her veil off a little longer.
Isobel had remained near the water. Picking up her shirt she dropped it in the shallow ripples, then she stamped up and down on it, grinding the rough stiffness of it into the sand and pebbles with her feet.
Leaning up on her elbow Eleanor watched her. ‘You’ll never get it dry again,’ she called with a nervous laugh.
‘I want to drown the fleas!’ Tossing her dripping hair back over her shoulders Isobel straightened for a moment to look at her. Standing up to her knees in the clear water, her black hair streaming down her back, her skin cold and smooth from the sea, she looked like a graceful water nymph. Nervously Eleanor drew her knees up and put her arms around them, smoothing the linen of her skirt down around her ankles. She had not yet put on her shoes and hose.
It was a long time before Isobel was satisfied with her washing. At last she walked out of the water and, shaking the shirt as hard as she could, she laid it on a rock in the sun before sitting down next to Eleanor. Already the sun was drying her back; she could feel the sting of the salt.
Eleanor was still watching her. She swallowed nervously. ‘I’ve some salve in the pouch on my girdle. Shall I put some on your wounds for you?’
Isobel nodded. ‘I can’t put that thing on again.’ She clenched her fists. ‘I can’t!’
‘You’ll have to. Sister Julian must never know you’ve taken it off!’ Eleanor’s voice rose in alarm. ‘Look, let me put some of this on your back. It will soothe you.’ She scrabbled beneath the tunic. In the small leather purse which she carried on her belt was a phial of ointment. ‘Lie down here, on my tunic, I’ll put some on your poor back.’
Obediently Isobel lay down, cushioning her head on her arms. The salve was cool and fragrant, and Eleanor’s hands were very gentle. Almost at once the sting of the salt was eased. Sleepily Isobel felt the warmth of the sun soothing her and her troubles began to recede. She felt tired and warm and clean and happier suddenly than she had for a very long time.
‘Turn over and I’ll put some on your front.’
She hardly heard the whispered words in her ear. Sleepily she rolled over and put her arm across her eyes to block out the sunlight.
The soothing fingers roamed on, anointing the bites on her throat and shoulders, then they strayed down, stroking her breasts and her stomach, cool and soft with the lavender scented salve. It was a pleasant sensation; enjoyable. Sleepily Isobel smiled. Eleanor, watching her face with intense concentration, saw the smile and her own face relaxed in triumphant happiness. Isobel’s body was very beautiful. Even the thinness, the ugly red marks of the insect bites, the coarse rubbing of the hair and the trailing welts from the scourge which she herself had inflicted on the white skin could not hide the youth, the taut uplifted breasts, the rounded hips, the unconscious allure of the woman lying beside her. Slowly Eleanor’s hands roamed further down, over Isobel’s stomach towards her slim muscular thighs. As her fingers, still stroking on the scented balm, slid gently into the silky hair between them, Isobel gave a small moan of pleasure. Her body was drugged by the sunlight and the mesmeric motion of the woman’s hands. She could feel herself floating, carefree, buoyed up by the unaccustomed rapture spreading through her body. Her breathing quickened, and she could feel the muscles in her legs tightening. Eleanor’s face sharpened with excitement. Unable to stop herself she leaned towards Isobel, seeking her lips with her own.
With an exclamation of surprise Isobel rolled away from her and sat up. ‘That’s enough!’ Her voice was sharp. She stared at Eleanor. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing!’ Eleanor had coloured violently.
Isobel stared at her in sudden revulsion, her hands folded across her breasts defensively. ‘We must go back,’ she said more gently.
‘Not yet.’ Eleanor’s face betrayed her bitter disappointment. ‘We’ve time still. Sir Donald said we had several hours before we need return. No one will miss us …’
‘We’ve been here long enough.’ Isobel rose to her knees, her long hair swinging forward to hide her breasts. She frowned as she looked at Eleanor’s face. ‘What were you doing?’
Eleanor blushed. ‘Only trying to soothe your skin.’ She hesitated. ‘I know how to give women pleasure, my dear. No man can know how to treat a woman. You of all people must realise that. They are rough and ugly and unclean –’
‘What you are doing is a sin,’ Isobel whispered.
The nun looked down. ‘I do penance every day with the scourge; to mortify the flesh.’
Isobel stared at her horrified, thinking of the scars all over the woman’s body – on her breasts, her shoulders, her back. ‘If you knew it was evil, why did you do it?’ she asked quietly.
Eleanor shrugged. ‘It was seeing you there, with no clothes. You are so beautiful … In the convent we never see one another naked. It is known to be too much temptation for some of the sisters …’ She turned away from Isobel and stared out to sea. ‘You won’t tell Julian.’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘There is nothing to tell.’ Isobel reached down and picked up her shirt.
‘Don’t put that on. Not yet!’ Eleanor scrambled to her feet. ‘Please. Let me take off my shift. You could wear it underneath. We could tuck it up so it won’t show, and it will save you so much pain.’ She made as if to drag off her gown again.
‘No!’ Isobel looked at her with distaste. ‘The time of pain for me isn’t over,’ she said sharply. Then more gently, seeing the other woman’s distress, she went on. ‘But thank you, Sister.’ She pulled on the stiff, damp garment, gritting her teeth as it settled on her shoulders. ‘I still have penance left to do. And yours, Sister, has to begin all over again, I thi
nk.’
Without waiting for Eleanor who was desperately trying to pull on her hose and shoes, she began to walk back up the cliff path towards the castle.
It was late summer when the Earl of Buchan arrived with his retinue. He greeted his wife in the solar where she sat alone waiting for him. In the great hall he had given the two nuns letters for their abbess and gold for her abbey, then he had dismissed them. In spite of Eleanor’s timid plea he did not consider it necessary for either of them to bid his wife farewell. Amongst the retinue he had brought with him were four ladies, picked by Alice, to serve Isobel and with them chests of linen and gowns.
Her penance, he announced without preamble, was over.
The last weeks had not been so bad. For forty days she had had to wear the shirt and submit to the scourge. After that the nuns had dressed her in a simple black gown like their own habits, and covered her hair with a black veil. Her fast was over and she could eat again; the scourging was over; the long hours of prayer in the chapel were reduced by half. Now she was allowed again to ride with the sisters at her side, and to turn her hand to spinning and embroidery as the long summer evenings stretched out towards autumn.
She had seen to it that she and Eleanor were never alone together again; Julian had taken on, without comment, the daily task of wielding the scourge in the chapel and to Isobel’s surprise her hand had been the lighter. She never knew that Eleanor’s pale face and downcast eyes hid the anguish of a hair shirt of her own beneath the black gown; a penance with which she would persist until the day she died.
When her husband at last appeared Isobel rose to her feet and curtseyed low as he walked into the room. She was very afraid.
He looked her up and down. ‘So. Your lesson is learned, I trust.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘You will find that clothes for you have been taken to the earl’s chamber, and new ladies await you there. If you will change into something more befitting a countess we shall dine together in the great hall.’
Her new ladies bathed her in a tub of rose water, then dried her still-scarred skin with soft towels. They put on her a shift of cool rich silk and over it a fine linen gown of sapphire blue and over that a scarlet tunic. Then she sat down on a stool whilst one of them brushed and braided her hair.
It was the job Mairi had performed a thousand times. For a moment she thought she would betray herself as the choking sobs rose in her throat. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes against the tears.
Gentle hands touched her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, my lady.’ The girl, whose name she did not even know, smiled.
Lord Buchan was grim-faced at the table. ‘The situation in France is critical. King Philip has been defeated by a rabble in Flanders near the town of Courtrai and I hear he is so weak now he is going to have to make an alliance with Edward of England. If he does it is imperative that Scotland is included in any treaty they make. A delegation led by de Soules and myself is leaving at once to go to France, to put the case before the French king.’ He waved aside the hovering servants with their steaming bowls of rich vension stew and platters of salmon and chicken stuffed with ground pine kernels. ‘Philip is a friend to our King John who is now living in comfort on his own estates in Picardy. He recognises him as our king, but he must not be allowed to forget his commitment to Scotland as a whole.’
Isobel, sitting quietly at her husband’s side, stared round the shadowy hall. The sun, low now in the west, threw only the slimmest of lights through the narrow windows. Already the pages were lighting the candle branches and the flares. The room was unbearably hot and stuffy. ‘When do you leave, my lord?’ She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. An ambassadorial trip to France would mean that her husband would be away for weeks, perhaps months.
‘Soon. King Edward is going to give us safe conduct, it seems. Perhaps he too is anxious for peace at last. We ride for Perth tomorrow; we shall sail within weeks, I hope.’
‘And I, my lord? Am I to stay here?’ She kept her voice low, aware of Sir Donald sitting beside her, his elbows on the table amongst the trenchers and goblets. He was idly cutting his gravy-soaked manchet into squares with his dagger and throwing the pieces to the hound which lay beneath the table at his feet.
‘You?’ Lord Buchan turned to her with a look of scornful amusement. ‘You think while I am away to chase after Lord Carrick again, perhaps? Didn’t you know that he is now married to Lord Ulster’s daughter, and confirmed as a traitor to Scotland’s cause?’
He was watching her closely. Isobel held her breath, not allowing a muscle to flicker in her face as she met his eye. ‘So I believe,’ she said. ‘What Lord Carrick does, my lord, is of no interest to me.’ She managed to keep the defiance out of her voice. ‘My only concern now is to serve you, my husband.’ Meekly she lowered her eyes. Below the linen napkin on her lap her fists were clenched so tightly together that her knuckles cracked.
On her knees before the altar in the chapel of St Drostan, who had built his cell upon the promontory of Dundarg hundreds of years before the first Comyn keep was built there, she had in the long weeks of the summer begun to pray. There she had prayed for the soul of her beloved Mairi and there she had vowed to forget Robert the Bruce, Earl of Carrick, with his handsome, easy charm. She could never win against her husband. Her only hope of an even tolerable existence would be to make up her mind to obey him – even to wheedle him a little if she could. Now she forced herself to smile at him and she saw with a small flicker of hope the answering widening of his eyes.
He stared at her. The months of hardship and fasting had made his wife intolerably thin – but her face with its fine nose and mouth and high cheekbones was more beautiful than ever. The suffering had changed her. She had grown calmer, more controlled and, in his eyes, infinitely more interesting. He felt a sudden wave of desire. ‘Eat.’ He beckoned the food forward again. ‘You’re a bagful of bones. Then we’ll go to bed.’ He didn’t meet her eye, not wanting to see the fear and loathing he knew would be there.
Isobel picked up her spoon with a shaking hand. ‘I’m glad to see you, husband,’ she said in a whisper.
She had already gathered the herbs she needed against this day. There would be no child this month. Almost cheerfully she began to eat.
‘Good.’ He dropped his knife, and put his arm around her shoulders awkwardly. ‘Because we will be seeing a great deal of one another from now on. I have decided to take you with me to Paris, to see the King of France!’
Henry Firbank raised his glass in a slow, heartfelt toast. ‘Here’s to your husband. It was very gracious of him to let me take you out to dinner.’
Clare, wearing a deep-blue silk dress, with sapphires at her ears and throat was looking exceptionally beautiful and far happier than when he had seen her the week before.
It was three days since that last vision of Isobel and since then she had had no dreams, and no visitations from the past, spontaneous or otherwise. She had not felt threatened in any way, and so she was much calmer. Even Paul had been bearable. She had had time to think and to plan.
‘Paul has been in a strange mood these last few days.’ She clinked glasses with Henry with a smile. ‘When I came down to London on Thursday I was terrified he’d do something awful when he found out that I’d torn up that document.’
‘And did he?’ Henry tried hard to make the enquiry sound casual.
She shook her head. ‘We had words, but not too bad. Then he became terribly civilised, even solicitous. He bought me these,’ her hands strayed to her throat, ‘to wear to the party on Saturday.’
Henry resisted the urge to stretch out to touch them. ‘I thought money was a problem,’ he said.
‘Apparently not now.’ She smiled. ‘And he hasn’t mentioned Duncairn again. We went out for lunch with friends of his on Sunday and that was fine as well, and then yesterday when he found out that he had such a late meeting in the City he suggested this dinner tonight to make up for it.’
‘And now he’s una
voidably detained at the last moment so you have to put up with me as understudy.’ Henry grinned ruefully. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not.’ She touched his hand lightly. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have dinner with.’
‘Really?’ For a moment he allowed the eagerness to show.
‘Really.’ She picked up her fork again. ‘How is Diane? I haven’t seen her since you both came to dinner.’
‘And you went into a trance before the hors d’oeuvres.’ Henry chuckled. ‘She’s fine. OK. Nice lady.’
‘But not special?’ She looked at him sympathetically.
‘There’s only one special woman for me, Clare.’ He stared ruefully down into his glass.
There was an awkward silence. ‘Paul oughtn’t to have asked you to take me out tonight, Henry. It isn’t fair,’ she said quietly after a moment.
‘No, he oughtn’t.’ Henry’s fingers whitened on the glass. ‘He knows damn well how I feel about you. He’s thrown it at me often enough!’
She stared at him. ‘Paul knows?’
‘He knows. He also knows you’d never be unfaithful to him. I wish I could prove him wrong, the bastard!’
Clare looked away unhappily. ‘We shouldn’t be talking like this. And we shouldn’t meet again. Not alone. It isn’t fair to you.’ She crumpled her napkin between her fingers. ‘Look Henry, there’s something you ought to know.’ She fixed her gaze on the creased linen, studying it with concentration. ‘I’m going away next weekend; back home to Scotland, and I’m not telling Paul.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m just going. Leaving him.’
‘You mean you’re going for good?’ Henry put down his knife and fork abruptly. He was surprised how much her news shook him.
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