Kingdom of Shadows (100 page)

‘Is she? What about the cage you were talking about –’

There was a long silence then slowly Clare sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘
I
was in the cage. Me.’ She clenched her fists tightly, fighting the wave of fear that swept over her as the confused memories swirled inside her head.

Chloe frowned. ‘Don’t be silly, love.’ She took a step towards her. ‘Don’t you see, Clare, you need help! You don’t know what is real and what is imaginary now. You’ve trapped yourself in some strange, masochistic dream! Please, let Geoffrey help you.’

‘Geoffrey thinks I’m a witch.’ Clare leaned forward suddenly and snatched the cross which was dangling from Chloe’s fingers. ‘Doesn’t he?’

Chloe shook her head. ‘No. He knows you were making that up,’ she said cautiously. Her hand had gone to her own small gold cross, nestling on her chest beneath her blouse. ‘But he believes in Isobel and he thinks you may have been experimenting with some dangerous practices to make her come to you.’

‘Dangerous practices that make me imagine things.’ Clare sounded almost thoughtful for a moment. ‘Like Paul shooting my darling dog!’ Her eyes filled with tears again.

‘Clare, that was real.’

‘And so was the cage!’ Clare threw the cross on to the bed beside her. ‘It was real, Chloe. Real!
I
was in it, not Isobel. It’s out there now, in the stable yard. Go and see for yourself if you don’t believe me! Dear God, do you think I could imagine that?’ Her voice had risen hysterically. She slumped suddenly backwards on the bed. ‘But I have, haven’t I? It’s the dream. God in heaven, it’s the dream!’ She brought her fists down on the bedcovers. ‘But it was so real. Just like when James –’ She broke off. ‘I’m so frightened and confused! I dreamed Isobel was free, and they took her to a convent where the nuns were kind. It was the end of the nightmare … But when I woke it wasn’t over – the bars were real – and Paul, Paul was there –’ She had begun to sob violently as she spoke.

Chloe leaned forward and put her arms around her, holding her tightly. ‘Clare, don’t cry,’ she pleaded. ‘Whatever it was, it’s over. You’re safe now. You’re at home, at Airdlie, and Isobel is long dead. She’s dead and gone, Clare!’

‘But she’s not, don’t you see?’ Clare shook her head, the tears streaming down her face. ‘She’s not dead!’

‘She is dead, Clare, but she is not at rest,’ Chloe said slowly. ‘And Geoffrey can help her, I’m sure he can.’

Behind them Geoffrey had appeared in the doorway and was standing listening to her. He frowned, seeing the cross on the bed.

‘Chloe,’ he called softly.

Both women looked up. Clare picked up the cross and threw it at him. ‘Take your damn cross and go away. I don’t need you!’

Geoffrey crouched and picked it up. He slipped it into his pocket. ‘Clare, you have to let me help.’

‘No! No, I don’t have to let you do anything.’ Pushing Chloe aside she stood up. ‘Go away, Geoffrey. Isobel is not evil. She prayed to the same God as you do. Not that it did her any good. She’d have done better to call down vengeance from the moon goddess she worshipped when she was young, but she didn’t. She accepted that she had been punished for her sins with Robert and she walked meekly into the chapel with the nuns!’

‘Do you worship the moon goddess?’ Geoffrey’s voice was very quiet. ‘Is that how you summon her spirit to you?’

Clare laughed bitterly. ‘You really do want to believe it of me, don’t you, Geoffrey! All right, then, if that’s what you want, why not? After all it’s a free country; people don’t get burned for heresy any more, do they? Your lot haven’t got a monopoly of belief. Yes, I believe in the moon goddess. After all, she represents the feminine principle, doesn’t she? She is all the vogue again these days. How apt. For a woman to summon a woman. Do you want to see me do it?’

‘No, Clare!’ Geoffrey’s voice sharpened.

‘Why not? After all, Isobel is happy now. She didn’t die in her cage. She didn’t die! She’s still alive!’ She faced the window suddenly and raised her arms. ‘Isobel! I want to hear you; I want to see you. I want you to tell them what happened. Come!’

Behind her Chloe screamed.

‘Leave it, Chloe, it’s all right.’ Geoffrey swallowed hard. ‘Clare? Clare –’

Clare did not hear him. Already she could see the old monastic buildings, hear the chanting of the nuns in the chapel. ‘Come to me! Come to me, Isobel. Now!’

Crossing her arms gracefully on her breast she sank to her knees, her eyes on the pale sun which was shrugging itself out of the mist, dazzling on the settled snow beyond the window.

33

Wrapped in her warm cloak, her hood pulled low over her face, Isobel walked the cloisters and the gardens whatever the weather, feeling the cold air catching at her lungs. She hated to be inside, and the sisters did not insist.

In Berwick winter had come early. Snow drifted across the hills and into the town, covering the dirty streets with a sheen of glittering white. The walls, black against the sky, were outlined with renewed clarity and the roofs of the houses were suddenly neat and uniform, beautiful until the ugly, melting grey began to creep across them from the heat of the fires beneath and drip off the reeded thatch. In the convent the herb garden was shaggy beneath the snow. Clumps of dead fronds arched above the ground and twigs and branches clustered over tiny nests of new green leaves, curled and blighted by the cold.

They had not tried to make a nun of this once-wild beautiful woman. When Isobel attended divine service the sisters made room for her as the smoke of incense wreathed around them and gave thanks. When she attended meals she was given her share and more of the simple fare. She was made welcome by the single fire in the warming room, and ushered towards the light of the cressets as the dark afternoons drew in. Only the portress, who had official custody of the keys, was unkind, turning her away from the door in the wall which led out into the streets of the town, and making it clear that she was still, and would remain, a prisoner.

She made no special friends, asked no favours, not even of God. Inside her heart there was a terrible numbness which she dared not even question. From time to time she tried to pick up some embroidery or weaving, but they were not skills she had ever enjoyed. Occasionally she would sit by the cresset in the library, trying to fix her attention on an exquisitely illuminated book of hours, but her head would ache and her vision, once so clear, would blur and she would find herself rising restlessly and, pulling her cloak around her, opening the heavy door to walk out into the coldness of the still night and continue her slow patrolling of the sleeping herb beds.

She was stronger now; she could walk three times around the cloister without growing tired and slowly her flesh was filling out and the shine was coming back to her hair. After a year, hesitant and scant as those of a twelve-year child, her courses had resumed.

But still she had the nightmares.

As month succeeded month and the seasons turned full circle a second time she was once more tall and light in her gait, composed and calm. She thought about escape; but she no longer had the courage or the strength to put the thought into action. That would have been the response of the younger Isobel. Now she was resigned to her captivity. She tried not to think of Robert. News of his exploits reached her almost daily, and her heart twisted with pain when she heard his name but she merely smiled silently and hid her deepest feelings.

And still the nightmares came.

‘My lady. The Countess of Buchan is here to see you.’

The words made her smile. Holding her heavy veil close around her pale face for warmth, she stared at the novice who had stopped beside her seat in the frozen garth. ‘I am the Countess of Buchan, child.’

The girl looked at the ground, abashed. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. That’s what I was told. She’s waiting in the parlour.’

Isobel sighed. It didn’t matter. Any variety in the awful monotony of her days was welcome. She made her way quickly through the dark passages towards the parlour near the main door and found the mother superior standing in the centre of the room in earnest conversation with a woman, fashionably dressed in a velvet surcoat and pellison lined with squirrel furs, her hair hidden beneath a goffered fillet and a gold circlet. As Isobel appeared both women turned to face her.

‘Alice!’ Isobel’s cry of astonishment turned into a sob of joy as she ran towards her husband’s niece and hugged her. ‘Oh, Alice!’ Suddenly she was shaking like a leaf. It was the first time she had seen a familiar face in many years.

‘You are to be released into Lady Buchan’s custody, my dear. I am so pleased for you.’ The mother superior was smiling broadly.

‘Released –?’ Through her tears Isobel stared at Alice incredulously. ‘You mean I am to go free?’ She did not even notice this second use of the Buchan title.

‘Not quite free.’ Alice’s face was sober. ‘Sit down, let me explain.’ She took Isobel’s hand and drew her to the window seat, her bright silks and velvets a sharp contrast to the sober gown and cloak which Isobel wore. ‘After Uncle John died, Henry was given the title of Earl of Buchan, since you and uncle had no heirs.’ Alice looked down suddenly.

‘Given?’ Isobel looked at her, puzzled. ‘By Robert –?’

‘Not by Robert. By King Edward of England. Remember,’ Alice smiled ruefully, ‘my husband is King Edward’s man. You are to live in our custody.’ She shifted uncomfortably on the uncushioned stone seat then hurried on. ‘But that means nothing. You shall be my guest – my honoured guest! You will live with us, and meet my children – I have two daughters now – and you will get really well and strong.’

‘She is well and strong,’ the old nun put in tartly. ‘We have cared for her and given her every consideration, Lady Buchan!’

‘I’m sure you have, but it’s not the same as family!’ Alice rushed on, not giving Isobel time to speak. She caught Isobel’s hands in hers. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I was when Henry told me we were to look after you. It’s so wonderful! And you’ll be able to leave Berwick at last!’

‘And where are you taking me?’ Isobel’s voice was quiet. ‘Are we going north into Scotland, or do the Buchan lands lie only in England now?’

There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Henry holds lands in the north,’ Alice said at last, cautiously. ‘But Buchan itself was laid waste most terribly by the Bruce. He ravaged the country and its people, and destroyed most of the castles, Isobel.’

Isobel was silent. She had heard again and again now the story of the herschip of Buchan – and the romantic rumour that it was for her sake that Robert had wreaked such terrible vengeance on her husband’s lands.

After a long pause she looked up. ‘Has Duncairn gone then?’

Alice smiled. ‘Duncairn still stands.’

Their eyes met. Isobel bit her lip. If he had harried Buchan for her sake, he had spared Duncairn for her sake too.

‘Where are you taking me, then?’ Her voice was husky.

‘South, into England.’ Alice’s face mirrored the anguish she saw in Isobel’s. ‘But at least you’ll be free.’

‘Free?’ Isobel was bitter. ‘I’m to be released into your custody, my lady,’ she emphasised the words, ‘and I’m to be taken to the heart of the country of my enemies. Is that to be free?’

‘You can ride. You can feel the wind in your hair and sun on your face. You can walk and run and laugh with my children. You can stop being afraid.’ Alice was reproachful. ‘Is that not something to thank God for?’

Isobel gave a little grimace. ‘Forgive me, Alice. It is just that I have thought myself so near –’ Her voice broke. ‘From my cage, I could never see the hills of Scotland, but I could feel them, and they are still there, so close beyond these walls… When the wind comes from the north it carries the smell of the heather, the salt of the seas which lap the cliffs below Duncairn. It is hard to turn my back for ever on the land of my birth.’

‘You’ll go back, one day,’ Alice whispered. ‘I’m sure you will.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Come. You must collect your belongings and make your farewells. Our escort is waiting, and we have a long ride ahead of us.’

It was the fear that the King of Scots might soon be strong enough to turn his attention to the liberation of Berwick which had made King Edward, in a fit of spite which would have done credit to his father, give the order that his prisoner should be moved south, for ever beyond her former lover’s reach.

The warm days of summer in the south far from the Scottish wars, not touched even by the near civil war which racked England, were good for Isobel. Her health improved a little and her strength with it. She rode out with Alice often and flew her niece’s hawks, revelling in the untamed beauty of the birds, touching the glossy silk of their feathers and feeling her spirit soaring with them towards the sky. These birds had never known a cage.

She even tried to ride with the huntsmen as the autumn colours turned the forests of England to copper and gold, but the autumn brought mists and cold too and suddenly, unexpectedly, her strength began to fail again, and her robust energy disappeared. Time and again, as winter drew on, she was forced to take to her bed at Whitwick as fevers and coughs racked her body.

Alice watched by her in anguish, seeing each fever take a little more of Isobel’s precarious new-found vitality away, listening at the bedside as, in her delirium, Isobel cried again and again the two names she had never mentioned from the day they left Berwick, the names of her country and her king, and in secret, at last, torn by fear and pity and love, and, still, by the guilt which would always haunt her for her betrayal of Isobel all those years before, Alice wrote a letter.

It took two months for the reply to come, carried by a messenger almost too tired to stand.

Alice read it and, smiling, threw the letter on the fire in her solar, watching the parchment blacken and curl to nothing before she went to find her aunt.

‘Henry has been granted the stewardship of Duncairn,’ she said, clutching Isobel’s hand. ‘The last of the Buchan lands. We can go back.’