Even so, when at last they reached Duncairn and rode wearily beneath the gatehouse arch Isobel was swaying on her horse. Gritting her teeth with determination she forced herself to walk to the cliff-top postern and she stood there, staring down at the sea far below through the whirling wings of the sea birds.
It was a long while before, at last, she let them carry her to the bed in the lord’s chamber which she had shared a lifetime ago with the Earl of Buchan.
Alice left three days later.
‘But why?’ Isobel was almost in tears. ‘I want you to stay.’
‘I can’t, my dear.’ Alice kissed her fondly on both cheeks. ‘I have to go back. You’ll understand why, I’m sure, soon.’ She smiled. ‘Take care of yourself, and may God bless you always.’ She hugged her one last time, then turned away. As she rode out and began the long journey south there were tears in her eyes. She had a feeling that she would never see Isobel again.
Behind her, Isobel stood alone in the courtyard, waving until the high iron-banded gates had swung shut and the heavy bars fastening them had fallen into place. She had no premonition that her next visitor would be the King of Scots.
‘You have to do it, Geoff. The woman will go insane!’ Paul was standing watching his wife as she knelt on the floor. ‘Go on. Do it. Now. Get out your holy water or whatever you use and drive Isobel out –’
‘Clare –’
Shaking with fear, Chloe made as if to approach her, but Geoffrey put out a hand to stop her. ‘Leave her. It might not be safe to waken her –’ He felt absurdly at a loss as he looked down at her. She was not cursing or swearing or mouthing obscenities as the men to whom the bishop had sent him had warned she might. There was no feeling of evil in the room – only the sudden, strange, unearthly cold which they could all feel pressing in around them. There was a presence in the room, of that he had no doubt, but there was nothing to see, only his sister-in-law on her knees staring up with rapt face at the window which was rapidly growing darker as the short afternoon closed in. Far from diabolic intervention he was reminded of nothing so much as the pictures he had seen of St Teresa. He shook himself sharply and quietly began to pray again, his mind reaching out to hers, trying to weave the protection of Jesus Christ around her, trying to touch the mind of the other woman who looked out now from her eyes; the woman who would not be dislodged.
Cautiously he approached her. ‘Clare. I want you to come downstairs.’ He laid his hand carefully on her arm. ‘Can you hear me, Clare?’ He couldn’t perform the exorcism here. He wasn’t strong enough to fight the atmosphere. He would pray for the house later. Now they must go to a church.
At first she resisted, then slowly he felt her taut muscles relaxing. After a moment or two she began to rise to her feet.
‘Get her something to put around her shoulders.’ Geoffrey directed Chloe quickly. ‘Paul, put my small black case in your car. We’ll take her to the cathedral, minister or no minister.’ He had his arm around her now, guiding her to the door.
In a daze Clare obeyed him. She knew he was there; the vision had gone, and yet part of it was still with her: the happiness Isobel felt as she looked around the castle home she had thought she would never see again; the joy at hearing again the sound of the sea against the rocks below; the heady scent of heather and salt and whin; the certainty at last of freedom.
She allowed Chloe to put a coat around her shoulders, deliberately clutching the daydream around her now, holding back from reality. Wherever they wanted to take her, it didn’t matter. She, the hidden essential part of herself which they could not reach, could stay at Duncairn, with Isobel, in the castle which was not a ruin, where Casta had never existed and her pain and fear of Paul were things of the distant future.
Chloe sat with her in the back of the Range Rover, her arm around her shoulders as Paul drove carefully down the snow-filled drive. The wind had changed and it was warmer suddenly. The icicles were dripping now and the trees were showering the car with soft drops of melting snow.
Paul drove slowly and carefully into the town and turned down towards the cathedral, parking outside the gates. It was almost dark. He turned in his seat and peered at Clare. ‘Is she all right?’
Chloe nodded. ‘She doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.’ Her hands were firmly clasping Clare’s which were cold and strangely still.
‘Just as well.’ Geoffrey took a firm grip on the handle of his case. ‘Come on.’
He and Paul helped Clare down from her seat, then they turned towards the wrought-iron gates. The wind was bitterly cold, the huge fir trees on the edge of the broad Tay moaning slightly as the four figures slipped through the gates, closing them behind them, and began to walk slowly up the path. Near by one of the trees had been hung with Christmas lights. It swayed and curtseyed in the wind, tossing the lights in bright arcs in the darkness.
The snow was soft, unmarked in the twilight as they made their way towards the cathedral door. The huge bulk of the building, the tower, the ruined nave with its soaring pillars and crumbling arches, and the roofed choir which was now the parish kirk, rose black against the sky.
Paul seized the door handle and turned it. It didn’t move.
‘It’s locked. Oh, Geoff –!’ Chloe bit back a sob.
Behind them the cloud was breaking up. A pale cold half moon shone down on the river, throwing the colourless shadows of the huge old trees across the snow towards the closed cathedral.
‘The key. We have to get a key.’ Geoffrey turned round anxiously.
‘There isn’t time, man, and they’d never give it to you.’ Paul had caught hold of Clare’s arm. ‘The ruin! Do it in the ruin! It must be just as sacred, surely. It’s hallowed ground, isn’t it?’ Almost at a run he dragged Clare after him as he led the way along the long wall of the roofless nave, his feet squeaking in the snow.
The massive double arches of the walls reared up in the moonlight as Paul tried the gate which led into the ruins. It too was locked. With a muttered oath he put his shoulder to it, and they all heard the sharp crack as it swung open.
‘Paul!’ Geoffrey was dismayed, but his brother dragged him inside. ‘I’ll pay for the damage. Don’t be such a fool. This is an emergency.’ He stopped, looking round awed at the huge pillars, the two-storeyed arches, the gravestones, white beneath the snow in the brightening moonlight. The place was very quiet.
‘Will it work here?’
‘It will work.’ His reluctance gone, Geoffrey set his case down on the snow and opened it. Crucifix; holy water; candles; the bread and wine. He brought them out quickly, his hands shaking with cold and then, unfolding his stole, he kissed it and hung it around his neck. ‘Clare, my dear.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Come and stand here. Chloe, I want you with her. The bishop said it was important that there should be a woman with her. Paul, you hold a candle. Here.’ He struck a match with trembling fingers and lit the candles, sheltering the streaming flames as best he could, then he pushed one into his brother’s hand.
Paul stood back, feeling the soft warm wax spill almost at once across his wrist as his brother and his sister-in-law fussed around Clare. The whole cathedral seemed to be listening as Geoffrey’s voice, losing its diffidence, rang out suddenly amongst the echoes.
The candles threw a pale flickering orange glow across the moonlit pillars of a church, part of which had been built by Bishop Sinclair, Robert the Bruce’s friend, then the moonlight strengthened and strayed even into the shadows and the candlelight was dulled.
Clare looked around her, dazed, and as if she had only just realised what was going on, she gasped. Pulling away from Chloe she made as if to run.
‘Hold her.’ Geoffrey’s voice was peremptory.
Paul put his candle down on a tombstone and caught Clare’s arm. Chloe stood beyond her in the darkness and she groped for Clare’s hand again and squeezed it.
They were both very afraid.
Geoffrey raised the crucifix and held it in front of Clare’s eyes
. ‘God our Father in Heaven, we bow in your presence … direct your angels to gather all our deceased that seem to be lost, especially your servant, Isobel …’ His voice echoed amongst the pillars, fighting the howl of the wind in the trees. ‘Bind and banish Satan and his minions to their appropriate place … Let the Body and Blood of our Lord heal all the wounds and torments inflicted by Satan and his minions, living and dead.’ He paused, his eyes on Clare’s face. ‘Isobel, Countess of Buchan, in the name of Jesus Christ I bid you leave this woman, Clare, and go from this place,’ he called.
Holy water touched Clare’s face and hair as she struggled to be free.
‘No!’ she was sobbing now. ‘No. You don’t understand. Don’t send her away. Don’t! She’s part of me. Please!’ The cross was glinting in front of her eyes, the candlelight glaring, dazzling her. ‘Please, please.’ She could feel her strength going, her legs threatening to give way.
Geoffrey loomed hugely in front of her, his hands raised, his stole blowing in the wind over his coat. She could see the sweat standing out on his forehead as he called out his prayers.
‘Oh Lord, grant rest to the soul of Your servant, Isobel, that she may repose in a place where there is no pain, no grief, no sighing, but everlasting life.’ Behind him one of his candles blew out and a stream of blue smoke escaped and dispersed across the snow. ‘O Lord, grant to this Your servant, Isobel, to rest with the righteous ones and to dwell in Your courts, as it is written. Since you are merciful God, forgive her sins and all her transgressions that she has committed by thought, word, or deed, knowingly or unknowingly, for You are the lover of mankind, now and always and for ever and ever. Amen.’
Behind them the wind was rising, making the ancient firs roar. She felt his hand, his fingers tracing a cross on her forehead, then she knew no more.
* * *
In his flat in the Barbican James was shaving; he stared at himself in the mirror, ran an exploratory hand across his chin and, satisfied, unplugged the razor. For a moment he went on standing there, staring into the mirror. There was a slight frown on his face. He was thinking suddenly about Clare. Slowly he turned away and stowing the razor in a drawer he fished out a clean shirt. He put it on, and walked across his bedroom with it still unbuttoned, fiddling his cufflinks into place. Why suddenly should he feel so uneasy? He frowned and glanced at his watch, then he reached for the phone.
There was no answer from Airdlie. As he sat listening to the sound of the tone ringing away in the silence he felt his unease increase.
At Airdlie Paul had stayed downstairs and helped himself to several stiff whiskies whilst Geoffrey and Chloe carried Clare up to her room and put her to bed. He was thinking about her panic-stricken struggling, her scream of anguish as Geoffrey had made the sign of the cross upon her forehead, and her heartbroken sobbing as they extinguished the remaining candles, before she had collapsed on the snow-covered ground. He had picked her up and silently they had made their way back through the moonlit snow towards the Range Rover parked beyond the wrought-iron gates in Cathedral Street.
When Geoffrey called him at last it was several minutes before he replied and reluctantly, glass in hand, climbed the stairs to Clare’s bedroom.
The three of them stood around her in silence, gazing down at her still form.
‘What have we done?’ Chloe whispered.
‘She’ll be all right.’ Geoffrey put his hand on Clare’s forehead. ‘She’ll be all right when she wakes up.’ He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.
He looked up startled as a log slipped in the fireplace. He had set match to the fire himself whilst Chloe was removing Clare’s snow-wet clothes and putting on the nightdress she had found in one of the drawers of the chest in the corner. The fire had caught and crackled cheerfully up the chimney, but he found that he was shivering again now, even though he still had on his heavy coat.
Paul stooped to turn on the electric heater. ‘I can’t think why this room is always so cold,’ he exclaimed testily. ‘The whole house needs a new heating system –’ He broke off abruptly as above him the light on the end of its short flex began to move jerkily from side to side.
They all stared at it speechlessly.
‘What is it?’ Chloe whispered at last. She moved closer to her husband. ‘What’s happening?’
‘It must be a draught –’ Paul strode to the window and opened the curtains. For a moment he stood staring out, transfixed, then he closed them abruptly. His face had turned a pasty yellow.
‘What’s wrong?’ Chloe said softly. She could feel herself beginning to shake.
‘Nothing. It’s stupid. I … I thought I saw someone –’
Above his head the light was moving even more violently from side to side. The bulb began to flicker in protest and the room filled with swirling shadows.
‘She’s here!’ Suddenly Chloe’s voice was shrill with fear. ‘Isobel is here!’
‘Rubbish!’ Geoffrey had paled. He took a deep breath.
Clare’s eyes had opened. She was watching them from the bed, a sad smile on her lips. ‘You’ve made her angry.’ Her voice was very distinct. Unexpectedly she began to cry.
‘My God! I’m getting out of here!’ Trying to hide his panic Paul strode towards the door.
‘Do that!’ Chloe called after him. She looked down at Clare. ‘Don’t cry, love. It’s going to be all right –’ Her hands were shaking as she glanced again at the light on the ceiling.
‘It’s all right. There is nothing to be frightened of.’ Geoffrey felt surprisingly calm as he turned away from the bed. ‘I believe it is because she has left Clare. She’s almost free …’
This time his prayers for Isobel were gentle persuasive, kind. He blessed Clare and the room, sprinkling holy water around the bed, then he had sent Chloe downstairs whilst he sat down beside the sobbing, incoherent woman to keep an all-night vigil. It was Yule, St Thomas’s Eve. The longest night.
* * *
Paul was standing in the drawing room, staring down at the dying fire when Geoffrey came down the next morning. It was ten past seven and still dark outside.
‘How is she?’ He glanced up at his brother.
Geoffrey shook his head. ‘She is still asleep. Chloe’s going to sit with her for a bit.’ He threw himself down into one of the chairs. ‘How are you?’
Paul closed his eyes. ‘Exhausted.’ He frowned. ‘Is everything quiet up there now?’
Geoffrey nodded, with a grim smile. ‘She … it … whatever it was, has gone. It’s all over. When are her parents coming back?’ He rubbed his face wearily and sipped the coffee Chloe had left for him before she went upstairs.
Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Now that daylight was returning he wanted to get away. Above all, he wanted to corner Cummin at Duncairn. He glanced up at Geoffrey who was now standing restlessly in front of the fire. ‘I’m going to have to leave you and Chloe for a few hours. I know you’ll cope.’
‘Paul! We have to get back to the parish! It’s Christmas, my busiest time –’
‘I know. Antonia and Archie will be back any moment. They will look after Clare. She doesn’t want me, you know that.’
‘Is anything really so important that you have to leave your stricken wife alone?’ Geoffrey asked tartly.
He was still badly shaken. Clare’s reaction to the service had not been what he expected. She had acted as if she had been violated – raped. He had not been sure what he really had thought would happen: a demon leaving might curse or swear or scream – he had been warned to expect that, but he had also expected a feeling of relief; a sense of evil departing.
But there had been no sense of evil in the first place, just those few angry moments when the light had so inexplicably swung to and fro below the ceiling. He shuddered, and closed his eyes wearily. Perhaps the bishop had been right. He should have left it to the experts.
Paul was fidgeting restlessly with the poker, throwing more logs on to the fire, kicking them to settle t
hem into last night’s embers. His expression was brooding. He looked up suddenly. ‘When will you know if it has worked? Really worked.’
Geoffrey didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. ‘As God is my witness, I don’t know.’
‘Shouldn’t God let you know, then?’ Paul’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘So, I gather we have to wait and see if my wife’s sanity has returned?’
‘That’s right.’ Geoffrey could feel his anger mounting. ‘And in the meantime she needs care and love and understanding.’
‘All things I’m renowned for not possessing.’ Paul straightened, dusting his hands together. ‘So, I leave her to you and Chloe who are loaded with an abundance of all three.’ He strode towards the door. ‘The roads are clearer now it’s thawing. I can be back tonight. If Archie and Antonia aren’t here by then you can leave Clare to me and your adoring parishioners will have you back in time for the first carol service tomorrow.’
Standing by the window in Clare’s room Chloe saw the Range Rover leave with relief. She had never liked Paul; now she hated him with cold, clear, unchristian loathing. She had already decided what to do about Clare. There was no way she would leave her here alone with Paul. Either Clare must come back with her to London or if she wasn’t well enough to travel, Geoff could go back on his own and she would stay in Scotland with Clare.
There was a slight sound behind her from the bed. Clare was sitting up against the pillow, clasping her knees. She looked very wan.
Chloe went towards her hesitantly. ‘How are you?’
Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know. How should I be?’ She gave a faint smile. ‘Should I feel different? Shriven? Repentant?’ She rested her chin on her knees, pulling her long nightgown around her feet and tucking it in with a shiver. ‘To be honest, I feel tired and rather sick.’
Chloe grimaced sympathetically. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
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