Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  He glanced up as the fierce yelping cry of the eagle sounded closer. It was very loud in the breathless air. Beneath him his horse sidestepped nervously. He looked round. He had posted outriders on both sides of the column. There were scouts ahead of them and behind, and yet still he felt uneasy. The responsibility for the women was a heavy one and he felt it deeply.

  That night they camped in a lonely glen, the women sleeping wrapped in their cloaks near a broad burn which threaded through soft grass and clouds of meadowsweet, lulling them to sleep with its quiet murmur. It was a warm night, the moon high and soft, its light spilling across the ground, casting shadows over the scree of the mountain side. Near by the horses were grazing peacefully, with two men on watch beside them.

  Isobel lay awake, gazing up at the sky. In spite of her exhaustion after the long days of riding, and the nervous tension which beset them all, she was lost in daydreams. Soon she would see Robert again. This time he had sent for her – asked especially for her, so Gilbert had told her with a wink – and somehow they would find a way to be alone together.

  She scarcely heard the rattle of stones on the loose scree up the glen and for a moment she did not react to the sound at all, then abruptly she sat up, her heart thumping with fear. She glanced at the guards. Neither of them appeared to have heard anything. They were talking quietly in the moonlight, their backs turned towards the horses. The horses had heard something though. Isobel saw a dozen heads turned, ears pricked. One or two were moving nervously backwards, pulling against their halters. She looked round. The other women were all asleep, huddled on the dew damp ground, Mary cuddled up with Marjorie in her arms. Nigel was lying with his back to them, his arm beneath his head, his sword beside him on the ground. Beyond him the men of their escort were all silent and motionless in the moonlight. She swallowed nervously and glanced back towards the horses. They were still uneasy. All around them the glen lay deserted, the outline of the mountains clear against the luminous sky.

  Somewhere far away on the high moors a curlew called.

  ‘Nigel!’ Her whisper was no more than a faint echo of the silence. ‘Nigel!’ Slowly she began to edge towards him. ‘Nigel, I think there is someone out there.’

  He stirred, then all at once he was awake, his hand on the hilt of his sword, every nerve straining as he lay still, holding his breath. A moment later a man was standing over him, the tip of his sword resting against his throat. Around them shadowy figures had sprung up everywhere seemingly out of the heather and grass. Every man of their escort was covered. The whole manoeuvre had been carried out in complete silence.

  ‘So, this is how you guard my queen and her ladies!’ Robert removed the sword from his brother’s throat and plunged it into the ground beside him, leaving it standing quivering in the soft bent. ‘I could have killed you, brother! And every man and woman here!’ Robert was furiously angry. ‘Are you out of your mind to sleep like this in the open with no guards!’

  Nigel had scrambled to his feet. ‘I did post guards –’

  ‘And they were worse than useless. For the love of the Holy Virgin, don’t you realise this country is alive with enemies? Enemies who would give anything to take any one of the people here in your care!’

  Every one was awake now. With a little cry of joy Mary scrambled to her feet. Beside her Marjorie was rubbing her eyes, staring around in the darkness in confusion. Moments later she spotted her father and with a shriek of excitement threw herself towards him. ‘Papa –’

  Robert looked down at her. For a moment he didn’t move, his face very grave, then he bent and swept her up into the air. ‘So, my little princess is camping in the mountains like a soldier!’ He gave her a quick kiss on the head and then put her down.

  Behind her Isobel was still sitting on her cloak in the shadows. She hadn’t moved. As the King embraced his wife and then his sisters she found that she was trembling.

  ‘Lady Buchan?’ Suddenly he was standing over her. ‘Are you all right?’

  She looked up. His face was grim. There was no pleasure in his eyes at seeing her.

  ‘I am all right, sire,’ she said. Slowly she climbed to her feet. He did not touch her and she was conscious of eyes watching them on every side. ‘I am glad to see you.’ She looked away from his face to the ground, sensing the despair which for a moment overwhelmed him.

  ‘And I you, Lady Buchan.’ Already he had turned away to his brother. ‘Mount your party. We must move on at once before it is light. There are men in these hills who support Edward of England, and we are not strong enough yet for a confrontation.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Nigel had recovered from his shock and humiliation. He stood beside his brother proudly now.

  ‘West. Out of reach of our enemies. Perhaps to the Macdonalds of Islay, perhaps even to Ireland. We must recoup our strength and gather our scattered supporters, then we can hit back.’ Robert’s face was hard. ‘And this time we cannot fail.’ He turned away abruptly and again Isobel felt the uncertainty sweep over him; the weight of sadness for his dead friends and the suffering which his fight for freedom must bring to Scotland. She ached to reach out and touch him, to tell him that she understood – but she didn’t move. It was little Marjorie who crept forward again and for an instant slipped her small fist into her father’s hand.

  By dawn they were five miles further westward, at the end of Loch Tay. The mountains were black against the clear dawn sky, the water shrouded in mist. All was silence, save for the soft tread of the horses’ feet on the peat tracks. The air smelt cool and sweet. Robert rode at the head of the column of men with his brother beside him. Behind them came the men of Mar and then the women huddled together, silent with exhaustion and apprehension. The rear was brought up by the men Robert had brought with him to meet them.

  Beside the track the water beneath the mist was silent. Once a fish jumped, the silver body visible for a moment in a ray of thin sunlight above the cream of drifting mist, then it was gone. The splash seemed audible for miles.

  As the sun rose the mist evaporated, leaving the loch a brilliant blue beneath the sky. It was going to be another hot day.

  ‘Where shall we stop?’ Nigel glanced at his brother. ‘The ladies haven’t slept. They must be exhausted.’ Behind him men and women were riding in a daze, their horses following one another automatically now, Marjorie, long since too exhausted to sit a horse on her own, asleep on the saddle in front of one of Robert’s companions, safe within the circle of the man’s arms.

  Robert glanced round. ‘There. There’s a sheltered bay where we can rest and eat. Then we must go on to join up with the others.’

  ‘How many are there left, Robert?’ Nigel glanced across at his brother. He had lowered his voice.

  The King shrugged. ‘Perhaps five hundred, perhaps more. Not enough.’ His face was grim.

  ‘But God is on our side.’

  ‘Is He?’ Robert eased himself in his saddle.

  ‘Can you doubt it?’ Nigel was horrified. ‘You still worry about the murder of Red Comyn?’ He frowned, upset by his brother’s unaccustomed moment of doubt.

  ‘It was sacrilege to kill a man in the house of God!’ Robert dismounted in the shingly cove, with its sheltering headland and gave the sign for the others to follow suit. They were all tired now, exhausted by the long days in the saddle under the hot sun, and by the fear of being followed.

  Pleased by the respite, the women gathered at the far end of the cove, washing their faces in the cold water of the loch, and eating some of the oatmeal cakes which were all the food they had left, before huddling up to sleep, wrapped in their cloaks.

  Isobel could not sleep. Her head ached and her limbs were stiff but her mind was racing in circles. It would not let her rest. Giving up the attempt she stood up and tip-toeing away from the others she gathered up her dusty skirts and scrambled up on to some rocks to sit, her back against the slim trunk of a rowan tree, gazing out across the loch.

  It was a long time
before Robert joined her.

  ‘You must not blame Nigel for last night. We didn’t know that Pembroke’s men were so close,’ she said as he sat down beside her. She had kicked off her thin, worn shoes and he could see her slim feet brown with dust. She wore no stockings.

  ‘Not knowing is no excuse,’ he replied sharply, lying back on the short grass. ‘He should have guessed. He should have taken no risks. You could have all been slaughtered!’

  ‘Then thank the blessed Lord it was you, and not Lord Pembroke.’ She smiled down at him. ‘God is on your side, Robert.’

  ‘You think so.’ He brushed away a fly from his face, smiling, his eyes tight shut against the sun.

  ‘I know so.’ She leaned over and picking some of the small white flowers from the saxifrage which scrambled through the fine grass, dropped them on to his face.

  He brushed them aside, then opening his eyes he reached up towards her. ‘Are all the others asleep?’

  She nodded.

  He pulled her down towards him and kissed her gently, then he let her go again, putting his arm across his eyes. ‘I shall go back. When my men are rested and regrouped we will find Pembroke and chase him from Scotland for ever.’ She saw his fists clench. ‘Then and only then will this country be safe and free.’ A breeze stirred the leaves and the small hard yellow berries of the rowan above their heads. She couldn’t see his face because of his sleeve. She ached with love for him and she was very afraid.

  For a long time they remained silent. Isobel stared out across the water, watching as an osprey plummeted into its depths out in the centre of the loch, emerging seconds later with a pike clasped in its talons. It was very hot, even in the flecked shade of the tree.

  ‘Robert.’ Her voice was very quiet. ‘Robert – I love you.’

  He did not answer. Exhausted, he had at last fallen asleep.

  The remnant of Robert’s army was waiting at the head of Strathfillan, camped near the ancient shrine to the saint. It was one of two churches dedicated to St Fillan in these mountains, a small stone chapel with, beside it, a cluster of huts and buildings where the monks who served the saint lived. As the king’s party appeared the Dewar of Coigreach, the custodian of the saint, came out to greet him. At his side was the Abbot of Inchaffray.

  ‘Welcome, my son.’ Abbot Maurice had been at the coronation, but after it had returned to his lonely mountain abbey.

  Robert knelt to receive his blessing.

  ‘We have found food for your men, and we shall find more for your companions.’ The abbot smiled. ‘You and your ladies will be welcome to use the guesthouse, small though it is.’

  Robert thanked him, but he was frowning. ‘Why are you here, my lord abbot?’

  For a moment Maurice hesitated, then he smiled. ‘I have come to be God’s instrument in your absolution, my son. Sir James Douglas came to me and told me how heavily your crime of sacrilegious murder hangs upon you. If you confess your sin before God and beg forgiveness and absolution, it will be granted to you.’

  Robert frowned. ‘Is it possible that God could forgive such a deed?’

  ‘God is merciful, my son, and with the intercession here of His blessed servant Fillan, He will hear your prayers.’

  Robert smiled. ‘Then I shall accept your offer gratefully.’ He stepped towards the chapel eagerly, but James Douglas who had been listening at his side with a frown, put his hand on Robert’s shoulder.

  ‘Tomorrow, Robert, in the open, before all your men. It will reassure them and give them courage; give them the strength to fight again.’

  Abbot Maurice nodded approvingly. ‘He is right, your grace. This must be done openly, so that all Scotland knows about it. It will remove any lingering doubts your men may have – any hint even that God does not support your cause.’

  Robert smiled, for the first time, it seemed to him, in weeks. ‘You are right. I shall beg God’s forgiveness before the world.’

  ‘Good.’ The abbot beamed. ‘And now you may eat and rest, here in the guesthouse. It is small but it is all we have to offer our king and his ladies to rest in.’

  He beckoned to the Dewar who with a solemn bow ushered the King and those with him towards the stone-built tower beside the shrine.

  Robert was sitting at a table in the upper chamber of the lonely tower house alone, when Nigel knocked on the door that evening. He pushed it open and peered in, frowning to see his brother gazing into space, the ink on the quill in his hand long since dried. The room was very quiet in the twilight.

  ‘I have a visitor for you, your highness,’ he said with a wink.

  Robert looked up wearily and sighed. He smiled at his brother ruefully. ‘I’d rather have wine than visitors, if you can find any.’

  ‘I think under the circumstances both might be in order.’ Nigel pulled the door open and ushered Isobel in. ‘The rest of the ladies have gone to the chapel – later I shall distract them and give you as long as Ican …’

  She stood before him, still barefoot, her kirtle torn and stained with blaeberries, her hair tangled on her shoulders, her face tanned by the fierce Highland sun. For a moment they stared at each other in silence, then Robert stood up.

  She curtseyed to the ground. ‘Your brother thought you might like some company for a while, your grace.’

  He smiled. In two strides he was beside her. Aiming a kick at the door to close it, he dragged her into his arms.

  They didn’t hear Nigel knock, nor see him push a jug of rough wine around the door with two wooden bowls to drink from. They did not hear him close the door behind him or know that he had posted a guard at the foot of the stairs; nor did they see him gallantly lead the Queen outside later with the Princess Marjorie and walk with them beside the river, where the King’s sisters were already taking advantage of the cool evening air, checking the fishing lines which had been laid out amongst the reeds, leading them further and further away from the tower as the long twilight stretched out into the luminous night.

  They had two hours together, two hours when they forgot the war, the dead, the prisoners, the long summer night and Robert’s queen, complaining bitterly of the midges as she walked beside Sir Nigel. They forgot the past and the danger to come, locked in the passion and the longing which flooded through them. Then at last they lay together on the heap of plaids and furs which had served them as a bed.

  ‘Where are we going next?’ Isobel stretched out, her head on his chest, her slim body cradled in his arms.

  Robert kissed the top of her head. ‘To the west – perhaps even to Ireland. We’ll gather our strength there, to fight back in the spring.’

  ‘You will fight back?’ She shifted slightly so that she could see his face in the twilight. ‘You won’t let Scotland down?’ She was thinking of his oath to Edward.

  ‘Of course I’m going to fight!’ He clenched his jaws together. ‘Methven was a setback, a disaster –’ He frowned. ‘But it was not the end. It was the beginning. Those men must not have died in vain.’

  ‘How long will it take to get to safety?’ She pushed her long hair back from her face, snuggling against him.

  He shrugged. ‘We are safe as soon as we are with friends. We must avoid battle again too soon. The men are tired and disheartened, they are in no state to fight again. Not yet. But, God willing, once we are amongst friends we can stop and regroup our forces and plan a new campaign. I will not be defeated.’

  ‘Why do you have to wait until the spring?’

  He laughed. ‘So impatient, my love? I must, then I’ll drive Edward out of Scotland for ever. I’ll chase out every man who has supported him and I shall be king in reality as well as in name.’ Gently he pushed her away and sat up. ‘Scotland will rally again beneath the lion banner, and the fiery cross will be carried from glen to glen in my name. We shall win, my love. We shall win.’

  For a moment neither of them reacted to the faint knock, then reluctantly Robert stood up. He dragged on his tunic and walking over to the door pulled it
open a crack.

  ‘Sir Nigel and the Queen have returned, your grace.’ The warning was whispered through the crack. ‘They are below.’

  Robert swore quietly under his breath. He pushed the door closed and turned to Isobel. ‘I have to go, my darling.’ He buckled on his belt and picking up his mantle he fastened it on his shoulder with the circular cairngorm brooch he so often wore, the brooch his Isabella of Mar had given him before she died. He dropped on one knee beside her. ‘We travel on tomorrow after the abbot has given me his absolution. I pray that God will give us time together again soon, my love.’ Gently he reached out and touched her breast. ‘Our time together must always be stolen. May the blessed Virgin and St Fillan guard you and watch over you. Now, dress quickly.’ He smiled again, his teeth white in the darkness. ‘It would not do for you to emerge naked from an audience with your king.’ He took her face in his hands and kissed it, then he was gone.

  The next morning his men were assembled early before the shrine of the saint. The fine weather had gone at last, and a pall of mist shrouded the mountains. Steady rain was falling as the King, bareheaded and barefoot, knelt before the abbot and made his confession for all to hear, receiving the absolution which was given in ringing tones which echoed across the valley. Soon afterwards Robert assembled his men and they began to move on, north-west up Strathfillan, a straggled band of men-at-arms and knights, the tired, dishevelled, sad remnant of a proud army, although now newly reassured and pleased by the abbot’s blessing on them all, with in their midst the Queen’s ladies, mounted and rested at last after their night in the comparative security of the guesthouse. They followed the course of the river up the broad glen, glancing now and then at the shrouded mountains in the distance on either side, the sound of the horses’ hooves and the chink of their harness masking the patter of the soft rain on the surface of the river.