Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  Paul laughed harshly. ‘The ministrations of the Church! Oh but she does, Chloe! Twice over. Not only does Geoffrey have to retrieve her sanity if he can and reclaim her from whatever ghosts have possessed her, but he also has to remind her now of the sanctity of the marriage vows she made in front of him when he married us, and stop her running off with the first man who is stupid enough to take her on. My wife has proved herself to be a whore; a fitting mate for a crook like me, I’m sure you’ll agree!’ He pushed past her and out into the hall.

  He was conscious momentarily of several pairs of eyes watching from the open door of another room, then he was out in the porch. Glowering, he set off down the path. He had the car and he had Clare’s address in his pocket. If Geoffrey and David thought he was going to sit back and let them get to Clare first they had another think coming. Oh, they could have her, and welcome, and force her to dress up in a sober black dress and jacket with pearls at her throat and ears when she sat in the visitors’ gallery at his trial at the Old Bailey or wherever they dragged him, but he was going to get to her first, and by the time he came to trial he would be a rich man. Rich with the money from Duncairn, because Sigma had at last come back with a yes.

  The castle at Berwick-upon-Tweed is almost gone. Above the angle of the river, near the towering arches of Stephenson’s railway bridge, there are some walls, the remains of the sixteenth-century Water Tower and some steps, known locally as the Breakynecks. Above them a wall built by Edward I climbs almost vertically up the hill and there more masonry rears up. Beyond it – everywhere else the castle used to be – there is the railway station, monument to a Victorian disregard for history.

  Standing on the remains of the Water Tower Neil and Clare stared south across the broad River Tweed towards the low hills of Northumberland. The tide was low and seaweed stained the shingle beaches. Out in the centre of the water three swans swam majestically upstream against the current.

  All the way there in the car, next to Neil, she had found herself wanting to touch him; she felt herself charged with excitement. Her body had been alive, a separate entity of its own, not listening to her brain. It had been conscious only of the man so close beside her behind the wheel of the old Land Rover, not touching her, perhaps not even aware of her in the long silences as they drove south from Edinburgh down the A1. Now they were here he put his arm around her at last as they stood staring out across the river towards the south, but it was too late. The horror, the memories were closing in around her again.

  She shivered. Slowly she turned and stared up the wall which climbed the steep hillside. Neil watched her.

  It was a cold day; the wind was biting, carrying with it the salt smell of the sea. Behind the grey stone of the wall, smoke from the chimneys of Berwick, sweet with the scent of burning fruitwood and pine, rose and mingled, shredded, with the patchwork of torn, ragged clouds. Neil pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket.

  Clare turned back to the river as, high above them, the 125 crept cautiously across the old bridge into Berwick station. It brought the twentieth century only momentarily into focus. Both were thinking of the past.

  Neil touched the stones of the wall experimentally. They were very cold. He glanced at Clare. ‘How did she survive the winter?’ he asked quietly. He had known the moment that she was no longer conscious of him as a man.

  She was staring at the bank of the river opposite. Some oystercatchers were working their way up the shingle beach, their black and white plumage and red beaks bright against the muddy stones. ‘They were going to keep her outside in the cage,’ she said after a moment. Sometimes she found she could remember things, things that she had not yet seen in the story, as though Isobel’s memories and her own were one and the same. ‘Until they realised she would die. That wouldn’t have done at all. They wanted her alive. So when the deep cold came eventually they took the cage inside. But they never let her out.’

  ‘Bastards.’ Neil shrugged deeper into his coat. ‘She must have been a very brave lady.’

  Clare smiled. ‘She was. She never let them see her cry. She was a Scots noblewoman, and she never let them forget it. Even when the spring came and they took the cage and hoisted it back on to the walls, and all the people came out to see how she had fared through the winter and to taunt her because her king had not come back to rescue her.’

  Neil frowned. ‘Do you think she haunts this castle?’

  Clare stared back at the high walls. For a moment she didn’t say anything, then she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. I think I would, in her shoes.’

  Privately Neil agreed. ‘I’m glad there’s so little of the castle left. Shall we go to the hotel now?’

  Clare was still staring up at the wall above them. ‘I’d like to climb up there first. There is a tower there, at the angle of the wall –’

  ‘It’s not the same date, Clare. The old castle has gone.’

  She shook her head. ‘Some of it was there then – this high wall down to the river – the tower we saw by the station. They were there, Neil, when she was here.’ She faced him, feeling the wind tug at her hair as they stood above the river. ‘Do you still want me to do it, Neil? Shall I sit down here, on this seat, and summon her back to Berwick?’ Her voice had tightened unsteadily and Neil frowned. He didn’t like the wild note he heard there.

  He shook his head. ‘I want us to do what Zak suggested on the phone. Quietly at the hotel, tonight. I want you to try to dismiss her. Send her away. You have been to Berwick now. You’ve faced the castle. You’ve seen where it happened and it means no more to you than it does to me – an awful, tragic, romantic story, but a story. From the past. Nothing to do with today. Zak thinks, and I agree with him, that having been here your nightmares will stop and that, given determination on your part, Isobel will leave you alone.’

  ‘Particularly as the story is nearly over,’ she said sadly. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I am right.’ He put his arm around her shoulders again. ‘You’ll see. You’re going to banish poor Isobel back to where she belongs – the land of shadows and dreams – and then you’re going to get on with your own life.’

  Geoffrey turned on the lights in the chancel, and closing the vestry door behind him walked slowly towards the altar. The body of the church was in darkness. He could smell the flowers, Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums – autumn flowers – mixed with lilies and exotic cream imported roses and dahlias banked around the lectern and on either side of the altar. They had had a wedding that afternoon and the church was glorious. He smiled. St Andrew’s Day tomorrow and the church would be en fête. Thoughtfully he walked to his accustomed seat at the end of the choir stalls and sat down. Above him the elegant white-painted pillars of the Regency church soared upward into the darkness. He couldn’t see the gallery or the organ at the far end of the church – merely sense the lightness and space which he loved. Chloe had been sad that they didn’t have a medieval church – the other church in his parish was Victorian and the third was modern. He hadn’t told her yet about the hint from the bishop that if he were to apply for a certain canonry at a cathedral in the west country he might be offered the position; he hadn’t made up his mind.

  Chloe was right of course. Clare had been leading him on. It wasn’t true about the Satanism and the spells. How could it be? She had been teasing him, he realised it now. She had always teased him, always sent him up. He didn’t resent it. He was really very fond of Clare, and he knew he was too intense sometimes – probably in her eyes he was impossibly pompous. It only made him sad that he fell for it every time, just as he had this time. Why? Why had he believed her? He wasn’t gullible. He was an experienced pastor and he had sensed her desperation and her despair. They were real enough and that was why she still needed his help, that was why he had said a heartfelt Eucharist for her. Had it helped? He had no way of knowing.

  His thoughts turned to Paul and he cursed silently. His brother was a fool. But what to do about it
? And what to do next about Clare? What to do for the best for all of them?

  He sat back and closed his eyes, letting the blessed peace of the church enfold him and soothe him. He loved it in there at night, with the darkness all around him, and the noise of the traffic quieter now outside. It saddened him that during the day his parishioners could no longer come into the church to pray, that he had to keep it locked against the thieves and vandals. If they could share this peace, this closer communion with God, the world would be a better place for everyone. Slowly and heavily he slid forward off the seat and knelt on the tapestried hassock and, burying his face in his hands, he began to pray.

  It was St Andrew’s Night. The public rooms at the hotel were hung with flags and Clare found herself staring at them blankly as Neil signed the register and collected the key to their room. There was no dog with them for once. Casta had been left with Jack at Duncairn. ‘They’re having a party later,’ he said as he guided her towards the stairs. ‘The receptionist said we might be a bit disturbed by the noise, but we’re invited to it if we want to go. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise what date it was.’

  Clare laughed suddenly. ‘Oh Neil! The archetypal Scotsman, and you didn’t think of St Andrew!’ Her nerves were at breaking point and she was almost hysterical with laughter suddenly. ‘You, of all people!’

  He smiled gently. ‘We’re not in Scotland, Clare. Berwick is English for the moment, remember?’

  She sobered abruptly. ‘Yes. I remember. How could I forget? I don’t feel much like a party, do you?’

  He glanced back at her and shook his head. ‘Not tonight. No.’

  The room was small and white-painted, with a wardrobe, a narrow double bed and a large, much mirrored dressing table next to the window. Squeezed amongst the rest of the furniture were two armchairs. Through a door in the corner they could see a bathroom with a heap of snowy towels. Near them on a low cupboard stood a kettle and a tray with cups and saucers and little sachets of tea, coffee, sugar and powdered milk. There were two wrapped wafer biscuits, two apples and two oranges in a bowl.

  Neil smiled at her. ‘A feast seems to be included! Will this do?’

  Clare was standing looking round. ‘It’s fine.’ She walked over to the window and threw it up, letting in a blast of cold damp air. They could see over the rooftops towards the river. Neil came and stood behind her. He frowned. They could just see the outline of the Constable Tower behind the leafless trees. He put his arms around Clare. ‘Do you want to change? I’ll take you out to dinner first if you like?’ Her body was tense, unresponsive, as she shook her head. ‘I want to do it now. Straight away.’

  Neil frowned, uncomfortable now that it had come to the moment. ‘Doesn’t it have to be dark or something?’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘It has to be neither dark, nor anything else.’

  ‘And you’re sure you can do it with me here?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve brought the candle …’ Her voice tailed away. ‘I do need you here, Neil. You won’t leave me?’

  ‘Of course I won’t leave you.’ He took her hand. ‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Clare.’

  ‘But I do, don’t you see? She’s going to torment me for the rest of my life if I don’t stop her – appease her – send her away – whatever I have to do to get rid of her.’ Her voice rose desperately. She moved away from him abruptly and sat down on the end of the bed. She felt strange, remote, still unaware of him as a man. All the sexual charge which had been between them had gone. Her body was cold, centred within itself, closed once more to every emotion but the emotions of that other woman from the past.

  Silently she pulled her case on to the bed and opened it. From the bottom she extricated one of the silver candles, wrapped in tissue. She took out the small candleholder and set the candle in it and put it on the bedside table, then she glanced at him for the first time. ‘Have you got any matches?’ Her face was white and strained. Isobel had refused to come to her when Zak was there in Edinburgh. Perhaps she sensed that Clare was going to try and finish it. Perhaps she would refuse the summons again this time. She half hoped she would.

  Neil shook his head grimly, then he raised his hand and touched her arm. ‘I saw some in the bathroom.’ A packet emblazoned with the hotel’s name and crest lay in a small straw basket with soaps and shampoos and tissues.

  He lit the candle for her and realised that his hands were shaking. Silently he backed away and sat down on one of the chairs in the corner as Clare picked up the candle and set it on the floor. The flame flickered in the draught from the open window and she turned and stared out for a moment. Darkness was almost on them now. Opaque, windswept, the river had gone, as had the shadows of the castle. There were no stars. Rain spattered in on the cold wind and with it the dank salt stench of the North Sea.

  The room was growing dark.

  Isobel did not have to be summoned. She was there. Waiting. Staring into the past and into the future.

  She had been put in an underground cell beneath the castle. No one spoke to her. No one told her what was happening. Twice a day they brought her food. The place was completely dark. They did not give her a candle. There were no blankets, only a bed of musty damp heather which rustled slightly in the darkness. By the dim light which flooded in when the door opened she had time to see the dungeon – low-ceilinged and foul – then all was darkness again. They gave her a bucket to relieve herself and a jug of water to drink, that was all. She had to find both by groping in the darkness.

  When the sentencing was over there had been total silence in the chapter house at Lanercost. Then Marjorie had begun to sob. At last, Mary, still stunned by the King’s pronouncements, had put out her arms and hugged the child to her. The crying stopped.

  Edward had folded his fur mantle more closely around his thin body. ‘Take them away,’ he said. His eyes had strayed to Isobel’s white face for a moment, then he smiled. He had turned to the Earl of Buchan and he slapped him on the shoulder.

  There had been no time for goodbyes, no chance to speak at all. The women were separated at once and Isobel found herself locked in one of the monks’ cells, alone. She was too stunned by the sentence to react.

  For a long time she had stood at the narrow window staring out at the bleak Cumberland moors. The heather had turned brown; it was matted and flattened by the rain. Eventually she turned away and climbed into the narrow wooden bed. Wrapping herself in the thin woollen blanket, she turned her face to the wall.

  For the journey to Berwick they put chains on her wrists. ‘Mustn’t let our little bird fly away, must we?’ The man hammering them closed didn’t trouble to be too accurate with his blows. She gasped with pain as the hammer slipped and she saw her wrist thicken and begin to colour. They put her in a closed litter – Edward had forbidden her to ride, instinctively knowing that riding was a pleasure, a freedom, and therefore denying it.

  Then the nightmare had begun.

  At first when they came for her it was an enormous relief. It was a brilliant sunny day and the glare and brightness dazzled her after the darkness. The air was sharp and fresh. They made her climb to the top of one of the towers in the walls, stooping beneath the low doorway to step out on to the warm, leaded roof. There, from the ramparts overlooking the town and the bend of the river they had hung her cage, a small wooden structure, latticed with iron, with open, barred sides so that she could be seen from every angle as the King had decreed. Only the back was closed – hanging as it was against the wall of the castle – and there there was a small enclosed cubicle, built into the ramparts, a privy for her, by order of the king. The governor of the castle was waiting for her. He swung open the door between two battlements of stone and beckoned her over. ‘Your lodgings are ready, lady.’ He gave an exaggerated bow.

  Isobel stared at the cage in horror.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’ She shook her head desperately, and looked around her, but she was surrounded now with m
en, the castle guard, the constable of the castle and the armourer, ready at last to strike off her chains. This man was more careful. He examined her bruised wrists with a frown and a professional shake of the head, then with a practised stroke of mallet and chisel he had cut off the manacles. Isobel rubbed her wrists and straightened her shoulders. With a desperate attempt to cling to her pride she smiled. ‘So special a little house! And just for me?’

  ‘Just for you, my lady.’ He didn’t hurry her. They all stood, patiently waiting.

  ‘And with such a commanding view.’

  She wanted to stretch; to hold out her arms to the sun. There in the cage it was shadowy, dappled with rays of light, sliced by the shadows of the bars lying across the floor.

  In the distance from the wall walk she could see the brilliant blue line on the horizon which was the sea.

  The men were growing impatient. She saw the governor shift his weight from one foot to the other. The sun shone on the mail at his throat and on his shoulders, blinding her. She raised her hand to her eyes.

  Behind her one of the guards moved impatiently. His sword rasped against the flints of the wall.

  Isobel swallowed. She would not let them push her in. She must keep her pride at all costs. She stepped towards the parapet. ‘I trust it is securely fastened,’ she managed to say. ‘I’d hate to fall so far.’

  ‘Never fear, my lady. That is built to last a lifetime,’ the governor replied grimly. He offered her his hand. Isobel felt herself grow cold. She had begun to shake all over. She took his hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how her own trembled, and stepped up towards the parapet, then crouching to fit through the small latticed door she climbed inside. The door swung shut behind her and she saw the key turn in the lock. The governor withdrew it. For a moment he stood looking at her unsmiling, then he turned away. He had gone several steps, followed by all but two guards who remained at attention on the wall, when he turned. ‘I forgot to tell you, madam. Lest you get bored in your new abode his grace the King has arranged some entertainment for you tomorrow.’ He gestured towards the open ground below the castle wall, then he left her.