At the table on the dais Robert sat in splendour dressed in rich robes, a gold crown upon his head, and beside him sat his queen, Elizabeth, her red hair gleaming beneath a veil of silk and a circlet of gold. At the high table with him were his brothers, one of his sisters, his daughter Marjorie, and some of his closest friends and supporters, amongst them, Lord Atholl, and the Earl of Lennox, the Lord of Menteith, and close to Robert, his ward and nephew, Donald, the young Earl of Mar. She could see the bishops there and the two abbots with them.
At first no one noticed the newcomers in the doorway, then as table after table spotted the upright pale figure in the mud-plastered fur, silence began to fall over the hall.
Slowly she began to walk towards the dais, pushing back the hood from her hair, feeling her soaking skirts catching in the soft scented herbs which were strewn between the tables. At the top table conversation faltered to a halt and at last Robert looked up and saw her. Slowly he rose to his feet.
In complete silence she approached the high table and walked round it. In front of Robert she stopped at last and knelt.
‘Your grace, I bring you the allegiance of the House of Duff. I bring my brother’s greeting, and his blessing, and I claim the right, in his stead, to set you on the throne of Scotland.’ Her voice carried clearly around the entire hall.
Robert stretched out his two hands to hers and clasped them for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Your allegiance I accept, and gladly, Lady Buchan. But I am already crowned.’
‘Sire!’ Behind him Bishop Lamberton clambered to his feet. The old man stared fiercely down at the kneeling exhausted woman, his blue eyes intense. ‘The Countess of Buchan brings you the seal of tradition. The ancient right of the earls of Fife to enthrone the king is not to be denied.’
Robert turned. ‘Would you have me crowned twice, my Lord Bishop?’
There was a guffaw from behind him. ‘Why not! By God, that would be a splendid start to your reign, Robert!’ Lord Atholl stood up too. ‘Of course she must enthrone you!’
‘But where?’ Next to him the Earl of Menteith was shaking his head. ‘The earls of Fife have always enthroned our kings upon the Stone of Destiny, and that has gone with so much else to England.’
Isobel straightened. ‘I have the power of the stone in my hands,’ she said, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. ‘I went to St Edward’s shrine at Westminster, and I laid my hands upon it, where it lies in the chair Edward of England has had carved to hold it prisoner, and I prayed for its power so that I could pass it on to you, my king. And the stone gave me its blessing. I felt its power!’
There was a moment of total silence. Robert, who was still clasping her hands, let go of them abruptly.
Slowly she stood up and she raised them before her. Every eye in the great hall was riveted to her fingertips.
Bishop Lamberton swallowed. He glanced at his colleague, Bishop Wishart. ‘This is part of the sacred inheritance of Scotland,’ he said at last, his voice hushed with reverence.
The other nodded. ‘We should ask the countess to perform the ceremony without delay. Tomorrow. It will be Palm Sunday.’ The old man’s face was solemn. ‘Thus may our king, Robert, enter his kingdom twice, and in the steps of Our Lord.’
The awed silence which followed Wishart’s words was broken by a muffled snort from Elizabeth, at Robert’s side. ‘These are the games of children!’ she murmured audibly. ‘Do you seriously expect this woman to crown you again? Surely one such farce is enough!’ She pulled her mantle of rich furs around her, her green eyes fixed on Isobel’s face.
For once Isobel did not react. The horrified intake of breath from those at the table who had heard the words of their new queen was enough. She dropped her gaze modestly to the floor. ‘I am here to serve my king if he desires it,’ she said.
‘And he does desire it!’ Robert took her hand again with a gallant bow. ‘Tomorrow, my lady, you shall enthrone me in the ancient manner upon the sacred hill outside the abbey, before the people of Scotland.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Tell me, my lady, does the Earl of Buchan know what you are doing?’
Isobel bit her lip. ‘I have no doubt that by now he knows, sire.’ She glanced up at him suddenly. ‘I hope this time you won’t tell me to go back to him.’
He shook his head. ‘Not this time, my lady. This time I shall keep you with me.’ His words were spoken so quietly no one heard them but Isobel.
Beside them Elizabeth scowled. Pushing back her heavy chair, she stood up. ‘My lord, it is time for us to retire,’ she said sharply. She had not heard their words, but like everyone close to them she had seen the sudden tender intimacy between them.
Robert glanced at her. ‘It is too soon, madam. Please sit down,’ he said curtly. ‘All of you, sit down and make a place for Lady Buchan. It seems our celebrations are only half over after all!’
That night Isobel could not sleep and tired though she was she paced the floor of her chamber in the palace for hours after she had withdrawn exhausted from the noisy hall. The touch of Robert’s hands, his eyes, his whispered words, the thought of him, here beneath the same roof, all set her heart lurching beneath her ribs.
At last she pulled off her clothes and lay down, but it was no use. Getting up almost at once she dragged a fur-trimmed gown out of one of the two boxes she had brought with her and pulling it on over her chilly nakedness and knotting a girdle around her waist, she went to the door at last, and listened. Easing it quietly open she crept out of the chamber. The passages of the palace were draughty and ill lit. At every corner there were men at arms. She felt their eyes follow her as she tiptoed down the long winding stair towards the royal chapel. She must not think of him as a man. Not today. Now he was her king, and she was here to perform a sacred act. Before the altar in the chapel she would kneel and try to compose her thoughts.
The chapel was in darkness, save for the ever-burning sanctuary light which showed up the newly painted walls and the carved and gilded cross above the altar. Crossing herself she knelt before the crucifix, staring up at its outline in the dim light, and fervently she began to pray. The gods who had blessed the stone of Scone and sanctified it had walked this sacred spot a thousand years before Christ and they were here still, even in this chapel, to give their blessing to the new King of Scots.
‘Isobel?’
Her name was whispered so softly she thought it part of the silent echoes. For a moment she didn’t move, then, startled, she scrambled to her feet. There was a movement from a faldstool at the side of the altar, and she saw a figure materialise out of the darkness.
‘Robert?’ Her heart thumped uneasily as he approached her. ‘What are you doing here?’ He was dressed only in a simple tunic. He had laid aside his robes and crown.
He smiled. ‘I came to keep vigil as I did the night before I was given my spurs. See,’ he nodded towards the altar and she realised for the first time that a naked sword lay on the altar cloth. ‘I came here yesterday before my crowning and I have come again to pray and keep vigil before my enthronement. I need all the strength that my prayers can give me.’
‘It will be a hard task winning Scotland back from the English,’ she said quietly.
The simple words conveyed clearly just how much he had to accomplish. For a moment they were both silent, contemplating the enormity of the undertaking upon which he had embarked.
‘No, it won’t be easy. But I shall do it,’ he said at last. ‘I have God and the right behind me.’ He spoke softly, but his voice was very certain. He caught her hands suddenly. ‘I am glad you came to me. I wanted you to be here. I wanted you to be the one to enthrone me.’
They stared at each other. In the semi-darkness their mutual longing was tangible.
Isobel drew away. ‘Not tonight,’ she whispered. ‘Tonight you belong to Scotland. Later you will belong to me.’ She smiled up at him, and falling on her knees she kissed his hand. ‘Good night, your grace. May the gods be with you always. I shall leave you to your
vigil now.’
Rising she turned away and silently she let herself out of the chapel.
The following day dawned fine. The sky was a vivid cold blue, torn with racing puffy clouds. Clusters of early daffodils danced in the wind and the air was sharp and clear. In the distance the mountains still showed their caps of snow. On the Moot Hill, outside the abbey, on the sacred place of enthronement they had placed another stone, a lump of granite carved from the living rock of Scotland. The bishops blessed the stone and sprinkled it with holy water, then they anointed it with oil. In England the king himself was anointed, but here, in Scotland, where the ceremony was more ancient and more primitive, the crowning and the enthronement of the king were the more important acts. When the men of God had finished, Isobel knelt before the stone and placed her hands upon it, willing into it the power and the magic which she had felt flow through her in the shrine of St Edward the Confessor. Around her the watching crowds fell silent. There was a breathless hush.
Rising, she stood back for a moment, looking beyond the palace and the abbey and the forests which surrounded it towards the distant hills. She was dressed now in velvets and rich furs, her kirtle trimmed with silk embroidery, and on her head was a diadem of Scottish silver found for her amongst what survived of the royal regalia, so carefully hidden through the wars by the Bishop of Glasgow. Every eye was on her now.
She drew herself up and taking a deep breath she turned towards her king. Stepping towards him proudly she took his hand and led him to the stone, covered now by cloth of gold, and after he was seated on it she placed the crown upon his head once more. All the people who were watching, crowded dozens deep around the strange flat-topped manmade hill which was the most sacred place in Scotland, roared their approval and their assent until the echoes rang.
Several paces from Robert stood his queen, dressed in blue, scarlet and gold. She was scowling. ‘This is asinine,’ she hissed at the Earl of Atholl, standing at her side. ‘We shall be king and queen for the summer if we are lucky! Robert cannot defeat Edward of England. No one can!’
The earl, who had been watching the scene attentively, glanced at her with obvious anger. ‘This king will reign for longer than a summer, madam. Be sure of that!’ he retorted tartly. He wasn’t the only one that day to compare the beautiful dark Countess of Buchan with her wild silver eyes and her passionate loyalty, to the silent golden Queen, and find the latter wanting.
The new King of Scots summoned the Countess of Buchan to his presence that evening as the sun set in a blaze of crimson The tractor had s behind the western hills. He was standing alone in one of the antechambers, staring out across the forests, his face lit by the dying sun.
‘Isobel! We have only a moment before I have to meet my counsellors. I just wanted the chance to tell you that I was proud of you today.’ He stepped towards her into the shadowy room. ‘Scotland will remember you for ever.’
She smiled. ‘And so, I hope, will Scotland’s king.’
He smiled. ‘Isobel.’ He was suddenly very serious. ‘I am under no illusions about what lies ahead. Nor must you be. If you follow me there will be hardship and danger. My family already know it and they have chosen to support me. Will you do the same?’
‘Do you really have to ask?’ She smiled at him. ‘I will follow you to the edge of the world if you ask me, my love.’ She put her arms around his neck, and standing on tiptoe, she reached up to kiss him.
He gathered her into his arms hungrily. ‘Dear God, Isobel, but I want you! It will be so hard having you near me. I’m not sure I am going to be strong enough to bear it –’
‘You won’t have to bear it, your grace.’ Her lips were on his neck, his ears, his throat, and then again claiming his mouth. ‘I shall be there every time you summon me. I am yours to command. You will find a way.’
‘I’ll have to find a way, my love,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘God, but I want you now!’
Behind them the door opened suddenly and fell back against the wall with a crash: Elizabeth de Burgh, the Queen of Scots, stood there. She was smiling. ‘So, the private conference his grace is engaged in, and which his fawning subjects are so anxious I should not disturb, is with the daughter of the Duffs, a murderess and a witch by all accounts.’ She folded her arms as Isobel drew guiltily away from Robert. ‘What have you to say, my lord? Or has she bewitched you as well?’
Robert eyed his wife coldly. ‘If she has, madam, it was a long time ago. I have known my cousin of Fife since she was a child.’
‘And loved her as a cousin, no doubt.’ Elizabeth’s voice was sarcastic. She moved away from the door. ‘As well it is nothing more,’ she gave Isobel an acid-sweet smile, ‘because I shall see to it she never has the chance to be alone with you again, my lord!’
The tractor had stopped right in front of the car. Climbing slowly down from the cab a man walked towards it, a torch in his hand. Casta, who had been cowering trembling in the back seat of the Jaguar began to bark sharply and Clare started violently. She could still see the shadowy room, the three motionless figures, and streaming candles, but as well she could see the outline of the windscreen, opaque with frost, and beyond it the cautious wavering beam of torchlight.
Desperately she pulled herself together, trying to regain some kind of a grip on reality. With numb fingers she groped for the ignition key and turned on the power, then she fumbled on the dashboard to find the lights. The powerful headlights flooded the field, bathing the tractor in a silver spotlight. She tried to lower the window, but it was frozen solid. Putting her whole weight against it, in sudden panic, she pushed open the door.
‘Hello?’ A voice greeted her at once. ‘Are you all right? I saw the car there, from the road.’
‘I skidded!’ Clare climbed out stiffly, gasping at the cold. She winced at the pain from her bruised shoulder. ‘And I couldn’t get back on the road. The car is stuck.’
‘Is it damaged?’ The torch beam shifted abruptly from her face back to the dented wing.
‘I don’t think so, or only superficially. Oh please, can you help me?’
‘I reckon I can.’ The man nodded thoughtfully, his words slow and ponderous. ‘I can drag you out easily enough with the tractor. I’ve a rope in the cab. Just you hold on now. It’s luck I was passing.’
It took him half an hour in the icy wind to attach the rope and gently ease the Jaguar round and back on to the road. Then, having given all her tyres a hearty kick, presumably to test their soundness, he offered Clare a drink from his Thermos. The tea had been fortified by about half a pound of sugar and a large measure of whisky. Clare gasped, her eyes watering, but it was just what she needed to kick the blood back into circulation around her veins.
She was back on the road at ten past five. It was still pitch dark.
She stopped for coffee at an all-night café in Aberdeen before setting out on the last leg of her journey. Exhausted, still numb with shock, she pulled the car out on to the road and headed north again. This time there was a slight lightening of the darkness in the sky across the sea to the east.
21
Neil stirred and opened his eyes. Beside him Kathleen lay on her face, her hair spread across the pillow, her naked shoulders looking somehow very defenceless. He leaned across and drew the tumbled blankets over her before getting up and walking over to the window. Streaks of green light were illuminating the sky above a haze of rose. High up he could see a flock of white gulls, their wings stained crimson by the sun he couldn’t yet see. With a quick glance at Kathleen he began to pull on his trousers, a shirt, two sweaters and his thick jacket. He could see the white frost on the grass now.
He let himself silently out of the hotel and, hands in pockets, made his way across the crisp grass into the teeth of the wind, towards the sunrise.
He saw the dog first. The retriever, nose down, tail wagging, exploring the stand of trees behind the hotel. He stopped. She had a dog like that. Clare Royland. He frowned.
Walking briskl
y across the uneven frosted ground he headed towards the castle through the first hollow cold of winter. The sky was losing its green; the crimson was spreading upwards now from its intense centre, where any moment the sun segment would appear above the sea, staining the waves into a vast inverted V of colour.
She was sitting on a fallen lump of masonry, the fur coat wrapped tightly around her, the collar up, hugging herself against the wind, her eyes on the sunrise, her hair blowing wildly back from her face.
He stood for several moments watching her, trying to make sense of the emotions which swept over him. Hostility, resentment, anger, they were all expected, but also that strange sense of rightness; the feeling that she belonged, and something not unlike pleasure at seeing her again.
Slowly he walked up to her. The howl of the wind drowned the sound of his steps sighing through the ice-crisped grass. He stopped behind her.
‘Good morning, Mrs Royland.’
She jumped violently. ‘Mr Forbes!’ As she looked up at him he saw she had been crying; or perhaps it was the wind bringing the tears to her eyes.
She remembered his name at once, he noticed. She didn’t have to grope for it. But then perhaps she had been expecting to see him up here.
For a moment they were both silent, staring out across the cliffs towards the sea as the first small rim of the crimson sun appeared, an intense unwatchable centre to the flaming sky. Below them the sea was crashing on to the rocks, the white foam luminous on the black water.
Neil tore his eyes away from the sunrise and glanced back towards the road. Was that the green Jag parked in the shadows beyond the castle walls?
Clare hadn’t moved. She hunched her shoulders defensively, not looking round. ‘Are you here on behalf of Earthwatch, Mr Forbes?’
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