Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Asleep!’ The woman stared at her. ‘With that noise even the dead couldn’t sleep!’ And she turned and flounced down the corridor, disappearing into a room two doors up, slamming the door behind her.

  As Clare stood staring after her Casta slipped out of the room and fled down the passage, her tail between her legs.

  ‘Casta!’ Clare called frantically. ‘Come back.’

  The dog was scratching at the outside door into the car park. Pulling her bathrobe around her Clare ran after her but already Casta had pushed open the door which hadn’t been properly latched and had run outside. Clare followed her.

  The tarmac of the car park was cold and rough under her bare feet, and the wind icy. Shivering violently Clare called again and again as she groped her way between the parked cars, but the dog had disappeared into the darkness. She stared round, the wind whipping her hair into her eyes. There were no lights on in the hotel now and she had no idea what the time was. She took a few steps forward, blindly peering into the wind, and then suddenly she felt a muzzle pushing against her hand.

  ‘Casta!’ She crouched down and hugged the dog, burying her face in the animal’s fur. ‘They’ve gone. They’ve gone, darling. They’ve gone. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.’ There were tears on her cheeks as she wound her fingers into Casta’s collar.

  The hotel bedroom was hot and stuffy. She couldn’t imagine how she had ever thought it cold as she threw open the window. She turned and looked round the room, half expecting for one terrified moment to see the figures of the earl and his wife waiting in the corner, but they really had gone. Casta would not have come back if they were still there. Locking the bedroom door Clare climbed into the bed, still wrapped in her bathrobe, and patted the pillow beside her. The dog jumped up with alacrity and licked her face. ‘What am I going to do, Castie?’ Clare murmured. She could feel the cool breeze now from the window, lowering the temperature of the room. ‘I didn’t want her to come. I didn’t want it to happen. She’s haunting me.’ Every light in the room was on.

  She lay back, her arms around the dog’s neck, and tried to sleep, but the first pale glow had begun to show in the sky behind the stand of dying elms on the edge of the road outside the hotel before she nodded at last into an uneasy doze.

  She had breakfasted at ten and then set out on the road once more. This time the bottle of magic oil was in her pocket. Behind her Casta lay on the back seat, eyes closed, her tail occasionally thumping the black leather up-holstery.

  There was no hurry: she could take all day or all week. Slowly. Clare’s happy mood of yesterday had returned. Perhaps she would stay in Edinburgh for a few days before deciding where to go. Paul and London were far behind her. No one knew where she was. No one, that is, except Isobel. She frowned, slipping her hand into the pocket of her cords, and her fingers closed around the small bottle. That morning she had self-consciously put a small dab of the oil on her forehead, and on her hands and on her heart, as Zak had told her. It smelt rich and exotic, like an expensive, but slightly crude perfume. Strangely Casta, who hated all perfumes and acted as though they hurt her nose, seemed to like it. She sniffed appreciatively and nuzzled Clare’s hand. Clare had looked down at her. ‘Do you think it will keep them away?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘It is a special oil, to protect us.’ And gently she had anointed the dog’s head with a small cross.

  She stopped the car at Carter Bar and climbed out. Standing at last on the top of the summit after the long drive up over the Northumberland hills, through the evergreen forests, and past the dark, sinister stretch of Kielder Water she stretched her arms above her head and stared around over the brown hills as she took deep breaths of the clear cold air. Once more she felt suddenly incredibly happy. Her heart was singing. She had come home.

  A coachload of tourists had pulled into the lay-by behind her and were climbing out, rushing to pose with one foot on either side of the border as they had their photos taken, half in England and half in Scotland. She watched them for a moment, amused, as Casta ran, tail wagging, towards a small larch wood near the road, on the scent of a rabbit. The Border. It ran for miles across the desolate hills, marked only in places by signposts or as here by a huge stone. How many people had died fighting over and around this mystical line? She shivered suddenly and turned back to the car.

  She stopped in Edinburgh for lunch, leaving the disgruntled Casta in the car, then she set out again. The roads out of Edinburgh were busy and, tired after the long drive, she found herself concentrating with extreme care as she guided the car out along the Queensferry Road towards the Forth Bridge.

  The water of the firth was white-topped, whipped into spinsdrift by the wind, and as she queued to pay her toll she watched a yacht sail close hauled out of Queensferry, heel over steeply and cream into the thick green water below the twin bridges. She paid her toll at last and drove slowly across and on to the motorway, glancing eastwards with a shudder towards the high chimneys and flares at Mossmorran. Was that what they wanted to do to Duncairn? Bring to yet more of the quiet countryside of Buchan the roar of the flares and the nights that were never dark?

  The countryside was brilliant now in the sunshine, the clouds still racing across the sky, their shadows streaming black along the ground. Clare felt for her sunglasses in the glove pocket as she swung the heavy Jaguar around the roundabout at the end of the motorway and headed up the A9 towards Dunkeld. She had made up her mind. She was going to Airdlie. There, at least for the time being, she would be safe from Paul.

  Emma was sitting on the bed watching Peter pack. ‘I could still come with you, I suppose,’ she said miserably.

  Peter lifted a pile of shirts and threw them into the case. ‘We’ve been through this a dozen times before, Em. If you want to come with me you must make up your mind in good time. You can’t just decide on the spur of the moment and you know it. There’s Julia and your gallery to consider.’ He folded a pair of white flannels into the case and walking to the cupboard pulled it open. ‘It’s not as though I’m going for very long this time.’

  ‘I know.’ She got up restlessly and walked over to the dressing table.

  ‘So. Is something wrong?’ He glanced at her. ‘It’s not like you to care one way or the other. I thought you said you were too busy with the gallery even to miss me.’ He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  ‘I am busy.’ She shrugged. ‘But I do miss you.’

  Peter put down the jacket he was holding. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked over to her and awkwardly gave her a hug. ‘I tell you what. Next time we’ll get our act together properly. We’ll send Julia to stay with Geoffrey and Chloe and get the gallery organised and then we can have a week or two on our own somewhere nice after I’ve finished with work. Go up to Penang perhaps, or even to Australia. How does that sound?’

  Emma sniffed. ‘It sounds like a placebo. Always next time. Never this.’

  ‘Oh, Em!’ Exasperated, Peter turned away. ‘I can’t win with you, can I? If I ask you to come you don’t want to. If I tell you you can’t, you sulk!’

  ‘I am not sulking.’

  ‘It sounds like it to me. Look, I have to do this job! I enjoy it, and I’m good at it and I’m not going to change it, so you’d better get used to it. God knows, you’ve had long enough to get to know what I do by now! Come or don’t come! Make up your mind. But don’t leave it till a few hours before the plane takes off!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, do you and Julia want to come to Gatwick with me? We could have dinner on the way –’

  Mutely Emma shook her head. ‘You know I hate seeing you off.’

  Peter sighed. Snapping his case shut he slotted the key into the lock and turned it. ‘OK. Well, I’ve done all I can. You’ll just have to cope for a couple of weeks, that’s all. Anyway, I thought you and Chloe were going to have a wonderful time interfering in Clare’s life. That will keep you busy.’

  He was speaking with a false, almost patronising heartiness and
Emma frowned wearily. ‘Peter –’

  ‘Have you found her yet? Or has your brother done her in?’ Peter smiled. ‘You must admit that the way you were talking to Henry it sounded as though you thought Paul capable of it. Not that I’d necessarily blame him.’ He leaned forward and kissed Emma on the head. ‘It’s no good at this stage telling you not to get any more involved, I suppose?’

  Emma shook her head mutely.

  ‘Well then, be careful. And be good.’ He glanced at her suddenly. ‘No assignations with rich American oil magnates while I’m away, OK?’ He smiled at her again, hesitantly. ‘Come on. I’d better get my briefcase together, then I’ll have to go.’

  Emma watched him carry the suitcase out of the bedroom. She could hear it bumping heavily beside him down the narrow staircase. Idly her eyes strayed to the pad by the telephone. Her cleaning lady had taken the message that morning. ‘Please ring Rex Cummin as soon as you can.’

  She went over to the pad and tore off the page. Angrily she crumpled it up and hurled it across the room, then throwing herself down on the bed she began to cry.

  Between Perth and Dunkeld Clare turned off the main road. She drove up a long narrow lane, and then brought the car to a halt at the end of a ride on the edge of a hillside forest. Pulling on her Burberry she climbed out of the car. Casta rushed ahead of her up the track, her plumed tail waving as Clare slowly began to climb, her boots sinking into the soft pine needles.

  Now that she was so near home her nerve had begun to fail. Her mother had as good as told her not to come. Her stepfather loathed her. Aunt Margaret wasn’t there any more. The house belonged to James, and it was the first place Paul would think of looking if he wanted to follow her. So why was she going there?

  Raising the collar of her raincoat against the increasingly sharp wind she pushed her hands firmly into her pockets, feeling the crunch of fircones beneath her feet as she stepped off the muddy track and on to an outcrop of rock. The air was sharp with resin. Ahead of her she could see the hillside, here and there still splashed purple with late heather. The sun was dazzling after the dark shadowy track of the fire break between the trees.

  Where did she belong? She had no one and nowhere to go to. Even at Duncairn Jack Grant had made it clear that he did not want her at the hotel, thanks to that interfering man from Earthwatch.

  Stepping out of the shadow of the trees she stared round her at the panorama of rolling Perthshire hills, patchwork coloured in the sunlight, cloaked on their lower flanks by the dark green scented spruce. Following Casta, she picked her way through the heather to an outcrop of sun-warmed rock and sat down, staring round, feeling the wind tugging at her hair. With a yelp of excitement Casta disappeared over the shoulder of the hill on the trail of some rabbits. Far below she could just see the green metallic glint where the car was half hidden by the trees. She was completely alone.

  Wishing passionately that she could stay here for ever, relaxed, safe, hidden from the world, she stooped and, picking up a stone from the mossy grass at her feet, she tossed it idly into the heather. In the distance she could hear the warbling call of a curlew and near by the sharp metallic not of a stonechat. This was the country where Isobel had been happy: the country of her birth. Clare frowned, pushing the thought of Isobel away. She shivered as the wind tugged at her raincoat.

  Don’t you want to know what happened? Don’t you want to know what my husband did?

  The words spun out of the air, almost lost in the sound of the wind in the heather and the trees behind her.

  Clare swallowed, glancing round. ‘No! I don’t want to know. Leave me alone. Please!’ She put her hands to her head, tugging at her hair, shaking her head. ‘Leave me alone. Leave me alone!’

  She scrambled to her feet, groping in her pocket for the oil. With shaking hands she unscrewed the top and slopped some of the oil on to her hand. A little spilled on to her Burberry and she saw the dark stain spreading on the pale fabric.

  ‘Go away! Keep away from me! I don’t want to know. Please …’

  She backed away from the rocks, smearing the oil across her forehead, holding the bottle in front of her like a talisman.

  Don’t you want to know what happened? Don’t you want to know …?

  The voice was stronger now, inside her head. Insistent. Desperate. Pleading …

  Isobel had turned away from her husband, her mind numb with fear, her nerves already stretched to breaking point by the sight of the man on the hurdle and the baying crowd around him.

  ‘Well, madam, have you lost your tongue?’ Lord Buchan was immediately behind her. ‘Do you not have a reply to these charges?’

  Isobel turned slowly to face him. ‘Would you believe me if I denied it?’ she said. She felt completely calm. She gazed up into his face and the sudden absence of fear disconcerted him.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I wouldn’t believe you. You have sinned with this man a thousand times in your heart which makes you guilty in the eyes of God. Now you have sinned with your body and you are guilty in the eyes of the world.’

  She expected him to hit her. She almost wanted him to hit her. Then at least his vengeance would have begun. This sudden icy calm was more frightening than anything she had ever seen.

  Thoughtfully he turned from her. ‘Lord Carrick is a friend of the king at present. He is a powerful influence here at court. I do not wish to jeopardise Scotland’s position in the coming parliament by fighting him openly. Not yet. You are not worth it.’ The disdain in his voice was cutting. ‘But one day I shall kill him.’ The words were spoken with a venom so quiet that she wondered if she had heard them aright.

  He turned back to her and his face was once more taut with anger. ‘But you are a different matter. It seems that you do not learn by your mistakes. My mother said she feared you were untamable. It appears she was right.’ He sat down heavily once more with a deep sigh. ‘Was your maid’s death not warning enough for you? Are you not afraid to die at the stake as she did?’

  In spite of herself Isobel gasped. ‘You cannot mean to have me burned?’ she cried. ‘I’ve done nothing to deserve that!’

  Buchan smiled. ‘Not even ensnared a nobleman of Scotland by your spells? Not even made mockery of your marriage vows and defied God and the Holy Church? Not even, once again, resorted to magic to prevent the conception of a child?’ His voice dropped to a hiss.

  Isobel went white. He couldn’t know that! No one could know that. ‘That’s not true,’ she stammered. ‘None of that is true.’

  ‘No?’ He gave a cold smile. ‘So, you deny throwing a web of enchantment around the Bruce? I’ll warrant he wants none of you. And why’ – he sat forward suddenly – ‘have you not conceived a child unless you have avoided it by sorcery?’

  ‘That is God’s will –’ she whispered.

  ‘I think it is more the will of the devil.’ He stood up. ‘It is my intention, madam, to see that you never get the chance to see the Bruce again. Or Scotland, since so much temptation lurks there.’ He paused, his eyes on her face and he gave a tight smile at the sudden pain he saw there. ‘I have no time for you at present. The affairs of Scotland are pressing and I have to stay here at Westminster. While I am here I will decide what to do with you, but it seems to me that if I need an heir I must be free to remarry.’ He was still watching her thoughtfully. ‘In the meanwhile I will see to it that you do not – ever – have the chance to betray your vows to me again.’ He turned and left the room, turning the key in the lock behind him.

  Isobel sank on to a stool. Her knees were trembling and she felt very sick. Slowly the afternoon passed and it began to grow dark. There were no fresh candles in the room and gradually it became cold. Huddling on the window seat Isobel could see little through the leaded coloured glass. She was hungry and very afraid.

  It was pitch dark when the door was unlocked. Her husband stood outside, a flare in his hand. ‘Come,’ he ordered curtly. Isobel rose stiffly to her feet.

  He took her
to their bedchamber. Bolting the door he thrust the flare into a bracket on the wall, then he turned to her. ‘An escort awaits to take you back to Whitwick where you will remain a prisoner until I decide what best to do with you, but before you leave there is something I must do.’

  It was a long time since he had beaten her. He struck her repeatedly with the flat of his hand until, barely conscious, she collapsed on to the bed. Somehow her pride sustained her and she managed to bite back her screams, but she was scarcely aware of what was happening as at last he began to pull off her clothes, ripping her gown and kirtle from her back and tearing her shift in two, waiting with some shrinking part of herself for the rape which she knew would follow.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard him laugh as she huddled away from him, her eyes closed, her arms wrapped around her aching body, too dazed and bruised to react even when she heard the rattle of metal. He pulled her back towards him and she felt the cold iron around her waist, then the cruel tongue of metal between her thighs and heard the snap of the lock. ‘That, madam, will ensure you are never unfaithful to me again,’ he whispered; then he caught her arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘Now get dressed.’

  She rode in a litter, thrown uncomfortably from side to side as the horses sped north through the darkness, their way lighted by the streaming flares of the armed escort. It grew light and they stopped for food and water at St Albans. Isobel refused to eat. In agony from the bruises and welts on her body and desperately conscious of the vicious cruel manacle clamped to her body beneath her torn shift she lay dazed in the litter for the whole of the long journey north.

  At Whitwick she was carried to the bedchamber by her husband’s steward and there, alone in the great curtained bed, still fully clothed, she allowed herself to cry.

  She expected to die. Each meal as it was brought to her was suspect. He would have ordered her to die by poison, there, far away from London, then he would be free to marry again. At first she refused to eat, but her hunger forced her to try the food, and to her own surprise it was good. She was not kept locked up. There was no more punishment. Far away in London Lord Buchan was distracted by affairs of state. For the time being he had put his wife out of his mind.