Kingdom of Shadows (94 page)

‘Casta. Casta! Casta!’ Clare was shaking with sobs. She rested her face against the dog’s, willing life back into the still-warm, heavy body. Snow flakes were catching in the golden fur and on to the dog’s long eyelashes. Behind them the outside lights had come on at the hotel. Jack was striding across the dark gardens.

‘Clare – it was an accident –’ Paul stared down at the dog’s body in horror at what he had done. Blood glistened on his sleeve, oozing from the bite.

‘It was no accident!’ She looked up at him, her white face stained with tears in the moonlight. She was shaking like a leaf and her teeth were chattering suddenly. ‘You shot her deliberately. I’ll never forgive you for this, Paul! Never! You killed her on purpose.’ Her voice was thick with sobs.

‘What happened? I heard a shot.’ Jack was panting as he ran the last few yards. ‘What the hell is going on here? Clare, are you hurt?’

Wordlessly she shook her head, cradling the dog across her knees.

‘Casta?’ Jack said the name in a whisper. ‘In God’s name, man, what happened?’ He took the rifle from Paul’s hand and pulled back the bolt, ejecting the cartridge.

‘It was an accident, a stupid accident –’ Paul said at last. ‘The dog attacked me. I had the gun under my arm …’

‘You shot her, Paul. You took aim and you fired deliberately.’ Clare looked up at him, her face blurred with tears. There was a smear of Casta’s blood across her raincoat. ‘What did you bring a loaded gun out here for? Shooting? In the dark? Who were you expecting to kill?’ She broke off suddenly. ‘It was me, wasn’t it? You were going to kill me! That was why it was loaded –’

‘Clare – Clare, come on lass, you don’t know what you’re saying.’ Gently Jack bent and put his arm around her shoulders, trying to raise her to her feet. ‘Let be now. Come away to the hotel –’

‘I’m not going to leave her here, in the snow.’ Suddenly she was sobbing again, burying her face in the dog’s ruff. ‘She can’t stay out here alone –’ She wrapped her arms tightly around Casta’s body, clinging to her.

‘I’ll carry her back. Come on now.’ Jack took her arm and coaxed her to her feet. ‘We won’t leave her here.’ He stooped and heaved the dog’s heavy body up into his arms. Without another look at Paul he began to walk back towards the hotel.

Jack dug the grave in the garden near the terrace where Casta had loved to lie in the sun. Paul did not offer to help and Jack didn’t ask. ‘I’d best do it straight away, lass,’ he had said to Clare as he poured her a large brandy. ‘With the snow now and the freeze forecast for later the ground will be too hard by tomorrow.’

Wordlessly Clare nodded. Jack had wrapped the body in a tartan rug and laid it gently on the floor by the door. In the kitchen Catriona was sobbing audibly as she peeled the potatoes for dinner beside her mother.

Still wearing her bloodstained raincoat Clare stood beside the grave as Jack carried the dog outside. Already the body was growing stiff and cold. She kissed the soft fur on the top of Casta’s head once, then she turned away and went inside. She couldn’t bear to watch the cold earth slipping from the spade on to the pathetically still form lying in the bottom of the dark grave, beneath a first quick shroud of snow.

She walked slowly upstairs and into her bedroom. Pushing the door closed she moved in a daze towards the bed and threw herself down. Still wearing her boots and raincoat, her hair wet with snow, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow.

31

The patch of blood on the grass within the confines of the ancient chapel diluted slowly in the snow. It paled and ran and was washed clean. Within the castle the echoes were silent. The stones had witnessed too much blood for one more small murder to awaken them. But indoors Clare’s unhappy sleep grew restless. The dream returned. The bars; the broken bird; the eyes. She recognised it now for what it was – another woman’s nightmare.

Sleep came and went fitfully without regard to day or night. Cramped, weakened, disorientated, Isobel longed for the moment when sleep took her, but she feared it too, for to sleep meant to reawaken; meant again the sickening realisation that it had not been a dream. That the reality was the nightmare.

In her dreams sometimes there was hope. Robert would come to rescue her; he would free her somehow. She did not think about him when she was awake. Then her mind was numb.

She had no idea of time. The grisly head on the spike near her had been picked clean by the kites and crows. Now the skull was white and dry.

Two Berwick women, implacable in their hostility, took it in turns to bring her food and sometimes a change of linen. She had no privacy beyond the shelter of the privy corner and there was no room to change there. She had to wait for the dark. They seldom spoke.

The same guards seldom stayed on duty for more than a day or two at a time. Sometimes she recognised a face; more often than not she did not see them at all. She had tried at the beginning to win their sympathy; she had tried to wheedle, to plead, to threaten. Nothing worked. Now she held desperately to her last shreds of dignity and sat unmoving at the back of the cage. The nights and days came and went. Some days were cold; she shivered; some were wet and dank when her clothes and blankets were saturated and mouldy, black creeping fungus threading its way inexorably through everything around her. Then the sun would come. At first she welcomed it. Then she feared it, hanging mercilessly in the blazing sky, moving slowly into the south, and then around towards the west. There was no shelter, no shade. The sweat poured off her body and her head ached, pounding behind her eyes and between her temples. She asked often for water. Only once a day they brought it, cold from the well, in a jug.

She had no word of Robert or his followers. She knew neither of his escape nor of his return to Scotland. But she heard when King Edward died. The news flew around Berwick. Edward II was king! The young man who was her brother’s friend. Sick with excitement and hope she waited for news that the sentence of the sadistic old king would be overthrown and she would be set free. But nothing came. She begged her guards to bring her someone who would tell her what was happening, but no one came. Time passed.

The sun spun in the sky, a white blazing disc and King Edward II, embroiled in the wars with Robert, quietly confirmed her sentence. The Countess of Buchan would stay in her cage until she died. One of the women unbent enough to tell her, her eyes full of malice, that Robert’s daughter in the Tower had been held only a few weeks in her cage before the old king had uncharacteristically relented and allowed her transfer to a nunnery in Yorkshire. Mary Bruce was still being held at Roxburgh Castle, but she too, so the woman told Isobel with glee, had been released from her cage and was being held in one of the towers. Only Isobel remained caged like an animal, victim of an old man’s savage hatred and a young man’s fear of the rebellion which festered on his northern border.

It was when the weather was gentle that she learned at last to pray. The mists would rise from the broad Tweed and flights of duck and waders would angle past the castle walls to feed on the mud at low tide. She would stare at the distant hills and watch the pink haze of dawn settle over them. The field below her cage was empty then, the dew silver in the grass. The air was pure, the wind carrying the stench of the open drains of Berwick away from the castle; carrying away the smell of her own body and the pile of rags she had to beg from the attendant women to staunch the heavy monthly bleeding which drained her, leaving her with each moon more pale and drawn and exhausted until, inexplicably, nature took pity on her and the bleeding stopped. She did not ask why. She thanked Our Lady for her mercy – and found herself praying more and more. Prayer occupied her mind, ordered her thoughts, gave her something to do.

And then she started to dream.

At first she had been afraid to think of Robert. She would not let herself cry and to think of him brought tears, but slowly now she began to build her fantasies. Her mind would leave the cage and roam free. She found that when the sun beat down she could close her eyes and conjure the cold brown waters of a highland burn, and lie beside it in the lushness of the grass. When the cage was cold and the bars were rimmed with ice she built in her mind a huge, crackling log fire, a room hung with tapestries and a bed, soft with down-filled pillows and furs. And there, sometimes, her king would come to her. She sat cross-legged – it was the most comfortable pose in the small hated cage – her eyes closed, her body relaxed, while her mind sped away.

Once or twice when the guards or her women came they looked at her calm empty face, so thin now, but so beautiful, and called her name, and when she didn’t answer they knew that she had escaped their reach, and they looked at each other in fear and remembered that this woman was a sorceress.

She was clutching at her sanity now. The fantasies returned again and again, but she could no longer control them. Sometimes she was at Duncairn, walking along the walls above the cliff, peering down into the boiling sea. Once she plummeted over the edge and flew, skimming the waves for a moment before plunging into the green weight of the water. She awoke spluttering and choking, a stream of rain running from the turf roof of her privy, angled on to her face. Only then did she realise that she had been asleep. It was the first dream where she flew. Often after that she was a bird; but then she found suddenly that her wings were clipped and powerless, the muscles wasted; when she tried to stretch them they were useless and in her dream her eyes would fill with tears.

Again and again she saw herself walking the battlements of a castle, sometimes at Berwick, sometimes at Duncairn, but the castle was in ruins, the stones crumbled, overgrown with lichen and weed. Sometimes she was wearing her most beautiful gowns, silks and velvets, court dress, stitched with silver and gold; other times she was dressed strangely in woollen garments dyed bright vermilion and acid green, with hose on her legs like a man, and her hair was short. No, it wasn’t her, it was someone else – another woman, a woman from another world who looked like her. She stretched out her hand across the mists and the other woman smiled. Their hands almost touched, then the mist swept back and Isobel was alone again. In frustration and disappointment she wept, then she saw the faces, the mocking, curious faces of the crowd who still came to stare at her and she hid her tears.

One other piece of news they told her. The governor of the castle came to her and stood staring down at her as she knelt in the cage staring out at the English hills.

‘Good morning, my lady.’ As she looked up, startled by his sudden presence she felt a wild surge of hope. He saw it, and for a moment she saw compassion in his face. ‘I have some news, my lady, though not that for which you hope, I fear.’ He was uncomfortable now. He wanted to be gone. ‘Your husband, my lady, is dead.’ He stood awkwardly, feeling he should be able to say more, give some details perhaps of where or how, but he had none to give. Just the stark news that the Earl of Buchan was dead in England.

Her face was white with shock. There was no sorrow, no regret, only stark shock and the strange illogical feeling that now she was free.

Free!

Her hands clutched the bars near him, her knuckles white as she pulled herself closer to him, and suddenly, hysterically, she began to laugh.

‘I’m sorry Kath, but you can’t stay here.’ Neil had slept on the sofa again. ‘You’ve had plenty of time to find somewhere else – surely there is something suitable.’ He sounded irritated and bored.

Kathleen looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Neil, I am trying. It’s not easy just before Christmas –’ She took a deep breath. Keep calm. Don’t show you care. Don’t show him the ugly side. Don’t show him how much you hate her … She smiled and tossed back her mane of hair. ‘I’ve been distracted by the rehearsals. You know what it’s like. I’ll take a couple of days off and find somewhere straight away.’

Neil nodded. ‘Thanks, Kath. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

‘So am I.’ She smiled. ‘And I’m sorry about Duncairn. It was a beautiful place. Who would have thought that Clare would sell after all her protestations.’

‘She hasn’t sold. It’s her husband.’

‘But her agreement was needed, wasn’t it?’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Poor Neil. You never understood, did you? Her fantasies weren’t so special. Everyone has fantasies, for God’s sake! She was using you. Using you against her husband.’ She stood up and reached for her coat. ‘I’ll go out now and get the papers. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to camp over Christmas.’

‘Aren’t you going home?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve shows lined up right over the holiday. It’s all right, Neil. I don’t mind being alone. I’ll get used to it.’

He nodded. ‘Good. And, Kath –’ he smiled apologetically. ‘Please, can I have my key back this time, when you leave?’

Emma had phoned Rex at his flat. It had taken her a long time to make the decision to call him. He was sitting on an easy chair near the window staring out across the square. There had been a snowshower and the trees in the gardens were outlined in white; clean and beautiful.

‘Please, will you come with us to Duncairn, Rex? Julia and I would both like it.’

He hadn’t spoken once while she told him what had happened between her and Peter, his mind in a turmoil. Did this mean she liked him after all? That she had made a decision?

The word Duncairn distracted him. Duncairn. The bastards had bought it after all. Sigma had double-crossed him. They had only gone ahead and signed because of him; their decision had vindicated everything he had said and done. He was hurt and very, very angry.

He frowned. ‘I doubt if your sister-in-law would want me there, honey.’ Why had she sold it to them, and not to him? He cared for it; he would have restored it; he would have protected the environment when the drilling started. Was it because he was a Comyn? Was the old hatred still there?

‘She knows the sale has nothing to do with you, Rex. It’s not your fault. She knows you backed off because I asked you too. She’d like to thank you.’ Emma’s voice was pleading.