The servants had been given no orders about her, and the surly ostler was leading out her palfrey in response to her imperious demands when from the gatehouse they heard the sound of the watchman’s horn. She froze as the heavy gate opened, staring at the white mist of rain beyond it, her mouth dry with fear, and hope died as she saw the band of horses milling around the gate. More than half of them wore the livery of the Earl of Buchan.
Sir Patrick Gordon looked her up and down as he dismounted from his horse. ‘So, the rumour is true.’ He turned to the grim-faced man who waited, still mounted, at his side. It was Sir Donald Comyn, steward to the household of the Countess of Buchan. ‘It appears, sir, that the Lady Isobel is indeed our guest, but not, I think, an unwilling one.’ He glanced at the doorway behind her where his son had appeared. ‘We have resolved our differences with Lord Buchan,’ he said curtly. ‘The matter has been settled. And now I am glad to see that we can give his lordship earnest of our good intentions by returning to him his lady. There was a rumour at Scone that she had been kidnapped. I knew that could not be the case. I am glad to see that she found a friendly roof to shelter her until Lord Buchan’s men could come for her.’
Behind her in the doorway Isobel heard the sharp hiss of breath as the younger Gordon turned towards his father.
The young man glanced at her, and for a moment Isobel was terrified he was going to tell them her story. He looked at her thoughtfully and she saw his eyes soften. Whatever he had been prepared to do to her to get his own way, he was not going to betray her now.
‘I understand Lady Isobel was lost on the moors whilst flying her hawk,’ he said slowly. ‘It was lucky she found her way here. Because of the mist we had not yet managed to dispatch a message to Duncairn to say that she was safe.’
Isobel saw the naked relief in Sir Patrick’s eyes. Turning to his son she gave him a grateful smile, then slowly she began to descend the stairs towards the horsemen.
‘I have summoned my son from the south.’ Lady Buchan was standing by the table sorting through a pile of bright silks as Sir Donald ushered Isobel into the solar. ‘He shall know of your escapade in person.’
Isobel raised her chin a fraction. ‘I got lost on the moors. The Gordons were most hospitable and kind.’ She turned to Sir Donald in mute appeal.
He nodded. ‘I gather the little lady was out with her bird,’ he said. ‘She became confused in the mist. She was lucky to have found shelter.’
‘Rubbish.’ Lady Buchan swept the silks together into an untidy heap and turned her back on them. ‘You do not have to leave the castle alone at dawn in order to go hawking. Were you running away, my lady? Trying once more to avoid marriage with my son? He does not meet your requirements, I gather.’ There was no humour in the cold eyes.
Isobel clenched her fists. She held Lady Buchan’s gaze as firmly as she could. There would be another beating, but the pain would soon be over and then there would be another chance to escape. ‘I do not wish to marry anyone, my lady,’ she said.
Lady Buchan gave a harsh laugh. She glanced at her steward then back at Isobel. ‘Indeed. So you intend to enter a convent?’
‘No! Yes …’ For a moment Isobel looked away from her, confused.
‘There is no other use for a woman. Either she belongs to God or she belongs to a man.’ Lady Buchan walked thoughtfully towards her accustomed seat and sat stiffly down. ‘If I thought God had called you to his service, Isobel, neither I nor my son would dispute the right of the church to take you. But you have no such calling. You are destined for a man. Your father and he settled it many years ago, and the king has agreed.’ She gave Isobel a cold smile. ‘You belong to my son.’
‘I shall belong to your son at Michaelmas, my lady. Until then I belong to no one but myself.’ To Isobel’s surprise her voice sounded determined, even defiant.
Lady Buchan smiled. ‘A Michaelmas wedding would have been very pleasant,’ she said quietly. ‘As it is, I think a summer wedding would be even better.’
Isobel’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do you think my son is returning? To reprimand you again? To punish you? I can do that without his presence. He is returning so that the marriage can be brought forward. There is no need for delay, and once you are his wife you will have no further opportunity for these rash sorties into the hills.’ She smiled coldly. ‘I understand that the bishop of St Andrews will be accompanying him to perform the ceremony.’
‘No!’ Isobel stared at her, terrified. ‘No, he can’t do it so soon, he can’t –!’
‘He can and he will.’ There was no pity in Elizabeth’s eyes as she looked at her future daughter-in-law’s face.
* * *
There was a guard on her door. For three days they had kept her a prisoner at the top of the keep, alone but for one of Lady Buchan’s waiting women, who sniffed and moaned and sat huddled and unmoving over the empty hearth. Even her friend, Alice, had been forbidden to come near her.
Isobel was standing at the eastern window. It was unshuttered, looking directly out to sea, and the cold wind was funnelling through the deep embrasure into her face, making her eyes run, but she did not move. It seemed terribly important to watch the shifting grey slopes of the water as the night fell, with the white specks which were the gulls, wings folded, seemingly asleep on the heaving ever-changing mass. The room was full of the sound of the waves. She pulled her cloak more tightly round her and shivered.
The door opened, and she turned, her face setting automatically into an expression of stubborn wariness.
The Countess of Buchan stood in the doorway for a moment, fighting for breath after the long climb, one hand braced on the doorpost, the other still gathering up the folds of her heavy dark red skirt after ascending the stairs.
‘My son and the bishop have arrived,’ she announced as soon as she could speak. ‘The chapel is being made ready for the nuptial mass. My ladies will dress you now.’ Behind her three figures had appeared carrying armfuls of clothing.
For one wild moment Isobel thought of escape as the women laid the heap of bright fabrics on the bed, but there was nowhere she could go; nothing she could do, save submit with every ounce of dignity she possessed as they gathered around her, chattering happily amongst themselves, to pull off her everyday woollen gown and replace it with shift and gown and kirtle of silk and velvet in crimson and azure and gold whilst Elizabeth watched, her face curiously abstracted.
The chapel was lit by a hundred candles, and crowded. Isobel gasped. She stopped in her tracks, conscious of the three women closing around her, realising that she could not breathe, again feeling the tight panic closing over her as Elizabeth took her arm. ‘My son is waiting for you,’ the countess whispered.
Isobel could feel her heat beating unsteadily beneath her ribs; her mouth had gone dry and she felt very sick.
‘No.’ She whispered desperately, ‘Please, no.’
The fingers on her elbow tightened. ‘He is waiting,’ Elizabeth repeated.
The Earl of Buchan, his constable, Sir Donald, the chamberlain, and the bishop of St Andrews, followed closely by the castle chaplain, were standing now near the door to the chapel. John stepped forward and took her hand.
‘The time has come sooner than expected, it seems, for us to exchange our vows, my lady.’ He looked at her impatiently.
She felt the bishop’s eyes on her, and she looked up at him, half hoping that he would see the monstrousness of the act he was about to perform and refuse; but the stern unsmiling gaze swept over her almost without interest and lighted on the countess at her side. The bishop gave a slight bow, then he turned back to the earl.
Isobel gritted her teeth, her hand cold in that of her betrothed. She was determined he would not feel her tremble.
The vows took only a few minutes to exchange. She thought of remaining stubbornly silent, refusing to say a word, but she knew it was no use. They would find a way of making her swear or they would ignore her altoget
her. She was there at the earl’s side before the bishop. That was enough.
Together she and Lord Buchan made the short walk to the altar to hear the hasty mass. Then it was done. When she rose from the faldstool it was as the new Countess of Buchan. Elizabeth, standing so tight-lipped behind them, was relegated finally to the position of dowager.
There had been no bridal attendants, no flowers for her hair, no lucky charms to bless her with, and now there was to be no celebration banquet. He took her straight to the bedchamber in the high keep and dragged the door closed behind them.
‘So, to bed with my new wife.’ Up until now he had not even looked at her. Now he turned and glanced at her face. It had lost its customary defiance. The expression he saw there was full of fear.
He frowned. ‘Shall we call the bishop to bless the bed with holy water? It might be fitting to double-bless this union, unwilling as it seems to be.’ Slowly he lifted his heavy mantle from his shoulders and threw it down on a stool. Beneath it he wore a long tunic, fastened by an ornate girdle.
‘Our union will never be blessed, my lord.’ Isobel stepped back from him, feeling the solid oak of the door behind her. ‘You have married me under duress. You know I have no wish to be your wife.’
‘I think few women go happily to their husbands, if the truth were known,’ John said slowly. ‘But in the end they get on well enough. It is not so bad to be Countess of Buchan, is it?’
He made no attempt to touch her. Turning away he walked to a side table and poured himself some wine. Her face had shaken him. He had always thought her a child, playing with his niece to whom she was so close in age; so alive, so vibrant, so happy. Beneath her silken veil her pinched, unhappy face was transparent with emotion. He could see the fear and doubt and defiance chasing each other through her eyes. She was like a little trapped bird, pressed there against the door of his room. He gave a deep sigh. She looked very young and vulnerable. Too young. His tastes were for more mature women. Yet he had to bed her, and at once, then he could get back to more important matters, like the war with England in the south.
He downed the wine and set the goblet with a bang on the carved wood of the side table, then he turned to face her. ‘You look cold, my dear. Why don’t you take off that gown and climb into bed. Let me bring you some wine.’
‘No.’ Her voice was tight with fear.
John sighed again. ‘Isobel. You know what must be done. Come.’ He held out his hand.
Stubbornly she shook her head.
He caught her arm, exasperated. ‘I shan’t be a cruel husband, Isobel. If you obey me, we shall be content together. Come.’ As he pulled her towards him his hand strayed to her face. ‘You aren’t a child any longer, sweetheart. There is strength here, and beauty. I’m a lucky man.’ Leaning down towards her he kissed her on the forehead.
Isobel stiffened, and with a little cry, stepped back, but he tightened his grip on her. ‘You mustn’t be shy with me. Come, show me a proper kiss. I am assured you know how.’ He was beginning to grow impatient. His moment of concern had passed. He was remembering his mother’s warnings; her insistence that Isobel had a lover somewhere out in the hills, her reiteration that the girl had bad blood and that she was a devil’s tease, sent to tempt men from their wives. Her skin was soft and yielding beneath his fingers. At last he was beginning to desire her.
He released her abruptly and turned back to the wine. ‘Drink.’ He handed her the goblet. ‘Now. Every drop.’ He put his hands on her shoulders as she raised the goblet to her mouth. The rough Gascony wine was warm against the cold metal beneath her lips. She sipped it, then obediently sipped again, feeling the warmth travelling through her veins. ‘And again.’ He fetched the jug and filled her goblet anew, watching as she drank it. She felt a wave of nausea and protested, and he pushed it to her lips again. Her head was beginning to swim, and the room spun around her, but still he forced the wine down her. Then he took the cup from her fingers.
She felt him lift her off her feet and lay her on the bed, and she thought she raised her hands to defend herself. But nothing seemed to happen. The room was growing dark.
The branch of candles on the table was dripping wax on to the embroidered cloth in the cool breeze which was blowing in from the sea. Outside, the long summer evening was drawing to a close as bats flitted past the high narrow windows. In the room there was a deep silence, broken only by the sound of the earl’s heavy breathing as he held his young wife down and began to remove her clothes.
5
Clare sat completely still. She was numb from head to foot. Disorientated, she stared around her, then she heard it again. Someone was ringing the doorbell.
Beyond the curtains it was dark now. In the shadowy bedroom the only light came from the flickering candle. She was shivering violently.
Emma was standing on the doorstep. ‘I was just going,’ she said as Clare opened the door. ‘I thought you must have forgotten and gone out.’ She was a tall, striking young woman with glossy chestnut hair and the dark Royland eyes. Beneath her coat she wore a pale blue silk shirt and skirt. ‘Are you all right?’ She peered at Clare suddenly. ‘You look frightful. Is anything wrong?’
Clare laughed uncomfortably. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I forgot you were coming this evening.’ She stepped back to allow her visitor inside. ‘I don’t even know what the time is.’
‘After seven. What have you been up to? You weren’t asleep?’
Clare hesitated, then impulsively she clutched at Emma’s arm. ‘I’ve got to tell someone. It was awful – so … so real.’ Suddenly she buried her face in her hands.
‘Clare?’ Emma stared at her in horror. ‘Come on, what’s the matter? Is it Paul? What has that bloody brother of mine been doing now?’
Wordlessly Clare shook her head.
‘Then what?’ Emma’s voice was gentle. ‘Come on, Clare. You must tell me. Is it – is it about those tests you and Paul went for?’
Slowly Clare raised her face from her hands. She sat down limply in the Victorian chair near the fireplace. ‘Oh that!’ Could she really have forgotten that? ‘The results have come back, I can’t have children.’
‘Oh, Clare.’ Helplessly Emma stared at her. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She didn’t know what else to say.
‘I was so sure there was nothing wrong.’ Clare stared straight ahead of her at the pattern on the rug near her feet. ‘It’s strange, but I thought I would know if it were me; know in some subconscious part of myself. But I didn’t. I can’t come to terms with it yet.’
‘Are you going to think about adoption?’ Emma asked cautiously.
Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. Paul was foul about it.’
‘The bastard!’ Emma threw herself down on the sofa opposite her. ‘He has got to be the most insensitive, unfeeling, boorish man I’ve ever met!’
In spite of herself Clare smiled. ‘So much for sisterly love.’
‘You know there’s not much of that lost between Paul and me. We’ve always hated each other.’ Emma grinned. ‘I never could see what you saw in him. But you know that.’
Clare smiled. ‘Oh, he has his moments.’ She hesitated, then she frowned. ‘But he has changed lately. He seems to have a lot on his mind and it’s not just the baby business. At least, I don’t think so. He seems to have got some sort of an obsession about money at the moment, almost as if he’s worried –’ she stopped abruptly, shaking her head. ‘Maybe there are problems of some sort at the bank. He never talks about what goes on there.’ She sighed, leaning back in the chair. ‘I’ve been trying to think of ways of taking my mind off everything. And I think I’ve found one. It’s not a permanent solution but it’s a sort of temporary counter-irritant. Inflicting one kind of pain to distract oneself from another worse one. That is what I was doing when you rang the doorbell.’
Emma frowned. ‘I take it that this is something to do with the yoga I’ve been hearing about.’
‘Who on earth told you about tha
t?’ Clare stood up restlessly. ‘But, yes, it’s to do with that. Meditation. It’s the most incredible experience, Em. It’s exciting, frightening sometimes – mind-bending. One empties one’s mind and concentrates, in my case on Duncairn, and after a bit all these images start to appear: people, places from long ago. It is an amazing way of escaping reality!’ She grinned suddenly. ‘It’s as if I were conjuring up the spirits of the dead!’
Emma stared at her, her eyes wide. ‘You’re not serious! What happens?’
‘First I do some yoga to put me in the right frame of mind, then I have a little ritual with a lighted candle that Zak – that’s the man who has been teaching me the technique – taught me. It is a way of opening the doors to some sort of altered state of consciousness. I’m going to buy some incense while I’m up in London – that helps, too, apparently. It’s great fun. Then I begin to meditate, and it all starts to happen – scenes from the past, with real people who talk and move and seem as solid as you or me, and it’s so vivid I feel as if I were there. It is as if, if you had been here, you would have seen them too – seen every thing that happened.’
‘It sounds incredible! You’re loopy, Clare! You do know that?’ Emma grinned fondly.
Clare smiled. ‘I know, it’s frightfully shocking isn’t it? I dread to think what Paul would say if he knew.’
Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘What makes you think he doesn’t?’ She grimaced.
‘There’s no way he could. I’ve never told him. Oh, he knows about the yoga. He thinks that’s one of my typically crackpot schemes. The virtue of yoga is that lots of people do it, and it’s good for the figure.’
‘Even I’ve done yoga,’ Emma said thoughtfully.
‘Well, there you are then. It must be all right.’ Clare smiled at her teasingly. She was beginning to feel better.
‘What you’re doing frightens you, though, doesn’t it?’ Emma was not to be distracted. ‘You were in quite a state when you opened the door earlier.’