Kingdom of Shadows (60 page)

Antonia was hovering in the hall. ‘Where will you go, Clare?’ She looked as though she had been crying.

Clare shrugged. ‘I’ll find a hotel somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll phone you. Perhaps when Paul has gone and Archie is away, I’ll come back.’ She gave her mother a hug. ‘I’ll be all right. I’m a lot tougher than I used to be.’

Casta leaped into the car with a yelp of excitement as Clare threw her case into the boot. Then with a quick wave to her mother, standing forlorn and alone on the cold steps, she was on her way. There was no sign of Archie.

The headlights lit up the long rhododendron-lined drive, showing a sparkle of frost already on the rough tarmac. Clare slowed cautiously as she turned out on to the road, feeling the car wheels chassé sideways slightly on some hidden ice. She glanced at the car clock. It was 9.15 p.m. If she made good time she should be at Duncairn in about three hours or so.

She turned east towards Blairgowrie, pushing the car as fast as she dared on the narrow winding road. She caught glimpses of water, reflecting in the moonlight on the right, then the car swept on, plunging between woods of pine and beech and thick clumps of rhododendron. Every now and again the road climbed on to barren moor and the lights caught patches of gorse at the road side. There the sparkle of frost was thickest.

Twice the car skidded and she fought, heart in mouth, to hold it on the road. Slow down. Slow down. There was no need to hurry. Paul wasn’t anywhere behind her, and Jack Grant would have to let her in no matter what time she arrived.

It was just after ten when the rabbit leapt off the verge and stood for a moment, blinded, in her headlights. Automatically and without thought of the consequences she slammed on her brakes. The car spun out of control across the road, ploughed up the verge and slewed into a rutted field.

For a moment Clare didn’t move. She was faint with shock. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, feeling her legs dissolving as the adrenalin coursed unpleasantly through her.

There was a whimper from the back seat. Clare released her seat belt and turned stiffly, aware suddenly that her arm and shoulder were throbbing painfully. The dog had been thrown down and wedged into the narrow gap between the seat. Whining and panting, she scrabbled her way off the floor, ripping great grooves into the upholstery with her claws. She seemed to be unhurt. Relieved, Clare turned back and, pushing open the door, climbed out.

The moon was hovering on the horizon, almost gone, the car headlights cocked up in the air by the angle at which they had stopped. All round, the countryside was deserted and completely silent. They were about twenty feet from the road.

Still shaking, Clare walked slowly round the car, trying to see what damage had been done. There was a dent in one wing and a long scratch on the driver’s door, otherwise there seemed to be nothing much amiss. Stiffly she climbed back in and tried to restart the engine, but the wheels wouldn’t grip. One of them was completely off the ground. Without help there was no way she could move. Sobbing with shock and cold and misery she climbed out and looked around again. The moon had gone, sliding out of sight almost as she watched. Icy starlight lit the fields and beyond them the moor. As far as the eye could see there were no houses anywhere; no lights. As far as she could remember they hadn’t passed a house for more than two miles. Shivering violently she climbed back into the car and tried to think.

Someone would come, surely. It wasn’t so late.

But nobody came. The road remained deserted.

Twice she started the engine to warm the car, hugging Casta, the fur coat draped around them both. Her immediate instinct had been to get out of the car and to start walking, but she wasn’t sure where she was exactly. In the dark and stupidly without a map she might be miles from help of any kind. Desperately she tried to picture the road, but it was months since she had driven up here, and she couldn’t remember where the next farm or village was. From the high field she could see for what seemed like miles in the starlight. The road stretched away a lonely ribbon in both directions, completely deserted.

Slowly her eyes began to close. She thought briefly about the candles in her case in the boot. Should she light them to keep her warm? Beside her Casta stirred restlessly. She flattened her ears and growled softly in her throat. Condensation had misted the windows. Outside, the fields were lonely and very still.

‘What is it, love? There’s no one there.’ Clare rubbed at the windscreen with the heel of her hand and peered out. Under the starlight the ground was suddenly full of shadows. Clare’s hand tightened convulsively on the dog’s collar.

‘She won’t hurt you, darling,’ she whispered into the dog’s ear. ‘She’s not real. She’s part of me. She’s part of my dreams.’ She had begun to shake with fear.

The temperature was dropping fast as the icy night air began to penetrate the car. Clare was shaking. She buried her face in the dog’s neck. ‘Help me, darling. Help me to make her go away! I’m going to save Duncairn for her. Isn’t that enough?’ She was sobbing out loud.

With a growl Casta wrenched herself free of Clare’s arms and hurled herself across the passenger seat into the back of the car. The condensation had closed across the windows again, trapping them in the darkness. The only sound was the frightened panting of the dog.

Clare lifted her head. A pattern was forming slowly in the condensation on the windscreen. Back lit by the starlight she could see the flowers and whorls as the ice came. And behind them she could see the horses, eyes red, manes and tails streaming, as Isobel led the men of Buchan north across the Perthshire moors.

The horses were exhausted after the long miles on the snow-covered Cheviots beneath livid skies, thundering across moors where the snows had gone and only the blackened heather stems remained, galloping till their flanks were black with sweat and their nostrils flared scarlet, screaming for air.

Isobel was frantic. She had to reach Robert. She had to be there for his coronation. Gossip roared across the land like a fire in the heather. Scotland had risen at last; the English were being routed on every side. Word had gone round, the fiery cross was travelling the length and breadth of the nation and the people were bidden to Scone the traditional sacred place of crowning.

The King of Scots was to be crowned there without delay. ‘But not without me. I have to be there. He can’t be crowned until I get there. I have to be there.’ Isobel murmured the words again and again in her head like a prayer. He had to wait for her; he couldn’t be crowned without her.

Her hair was loose beneath her hood, her face streaked with dirt. Her gown clung to her, soaked with sweat beneath her cloak.

Again and again she glanced behind, terrified she was going to see her husband’s horses in pursuit, but the horizon to the south, purple and heavy with storm, stayed empty. She allowed neither men nor horses time to rest, driven by her desperate need to reach Robert before it was too late.

On they rode, north towards Perth and then at last, on the twenty-sixth day of March, they arrived at Scone. From far away they could see the crowds even though it was nearly dark for already the flares and fires had been lit, and by their light they could see the tents, the horses, the banners in the chill wind, and above them all the royal lion of Scotland, a burnished flag against a bruised sky, flying proudly over the partly dismantled Abbey of Scone.

Isobel slid from her horse at last after threading her way through the shouting crowds, her eyes on the standard, her men around her. She was unaware of her wild hair and ragged dirty clothes as she saw a lone figure walking towards her through the shouting singing crowds. Gilbert of Annandale stopped short a few feet from her.

‘He is crowned, my lady. Yesterday. By the Bishop of St Andrews in the Abbey.’

She stared at him. ‘No. No! That can’t be! He can’t be crowned!’

‘He was, my lady. He is now our king. There were three bishops and two abbots in the abbey, my lady. He is crowned beyond all doubt.’

‘No!’ She pushed past him. ‘That cannot be! He cannot be crowned without me. Where is he? I have to see him! Without me he cannot be king! Without the Earl of Fife’s blessing his crowning will not be valid. He knows that. I have to see him!’

‘He is feasting, my lady –’ Gilbert called after her, but already she had pushed past him, her heart heavy with despair.

With the men of Buchan behind her, she ran towards the hall where Robert and his followers were at table. Torches and candles threw a thousand flaring lights about the great hall of Scone Palace. The noise was deafening and the heat intense. The hall was packed to the doors. For a moment she stood staring across the crowds, then she saw him.

At the table on the dais Robert sat in splendour dressed in rich robes, a gold crown upon his head, and beside him sat his queen, Elizabeth, her red hair gleaming beneath a veil of silk and a circlet of gold. At the high table with him were his brothers, one of his sisters, his daughter Marjorie, and some of his closest friends and supporters, amongst them, Lord Atholl, and the Earl of Lennox, the Lord of Menteith, and close to Robert, his ward and nephew, Donald, the young Earl of Mar. She could see the bishops there and the two abbots with them.

At first no one noticed the newcomers in the doorway, then as table after table spotted the upright pale figure in the mud-plastered fur, silence began to fall over the hall.

Slowly she began to walk towards the dais, pushing back the hood from her hair, feeling her soaking skirts catching in the soft scented herbs which were strewn between the tables. At the top table conversation faltered to a halt and at last Robert looked up and saw her. Slowly he rose to his feet.

In complete silence she approached the high table and walked round it. In front of Robert she stopped at last and knelt.

‘Your grace, I bring you the allegiance of the House of Duff. I bring my brother’s greeting, and his blessing, and I claim the right, in his stead, to set you on the throne of Scotland.’ Her voice carried clearly around the entire hall.

Robert stretched out his two hands to hers and clasped them for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Your allegiance I accept, and gladly, Lady Buchan. But I am already crowned.’

‘Sire!’ Behind him Bishop Lamberton clambered to his feet. The old man stared fiercely down at the kneeling exhausted woman, his blue eyes intense. ‘The Countess of Buchan brings you the seal of tradition. The ancient right of the earls of Fife to enthrone the king is not to be denied.’

Robert turned. ‘Would you have me crowned twice, my Lord Bishop?’

There was a guffaw from behind him. ‘Why not! By God, that would be a splendid start to your reign, Robert!’ Lord Atholl stood up too. ‘Of course she must enthrone you!’

‘But where?’ Next to him the Earl of Menteith was shaking his head. ‘The earls of Fife have always enthroned our kings upon the Stone of Destiny, and that has gone with so much else to England.’

Isobel straightened. ‘I have the power of the stone in my hands,’ she said, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. ‘I went to St Edward’s shrine at Westminster, and I laid my hands upon it, where it lies in the chair Edward of England has had carved to hold it prisoner, and I prayed for its power so that I could pass it on to you, my king. And the stone gave me its blessing. I felt its power!’

There was a moment of total silence. Robert, who was still clasping her hands, let go of them abruptly.

Slowly she stood up and she raised them before her. Every eye in the great hall was riveted to her fingertips.

Bishop Lamberton swallowed. He glanced at his colleague, Bishop Wishart. ‘This is part of the sacred inheritance of Scotland,’ he said at last, his voice hushed with reverence.

The other nodded. ‘We should ask the countess to perform the ceremony without delay. Tomorrow. It will be Palm Sunday.’ The old man’s face was solemn. ‘Thus may our king, Robert, enter his kingdom twice, and in the steps of Our Lord.’

The awed silence which followed Wishart’s words was broken by a muffled snort from Elizabeth, at Robert’s side. ‘These are the games of children!’ she murmured audibly. ‘Do you seriously expect this woman to crown you again? Surely one such farce is enough!’ She pulled her mantle of rich furs around her, her green eyes fixed on Isobel’s face.

For once Isobel did not react. The horrified intake of breath from those at the table who had heard the words of their new queen was enough. She dropped her gaze modestly to the floor. ‘I am here to serve my king if he desires it,’ she said.

‘And he does desire it!’ Robert took her hand again with a gallant bow. ‘Tomorrow, my lady, you shall enthrone me in the ancient manner upon the sacred hill outside the abbey, before the people of Scotland.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Tell me, my lady, does the Earl of Buchan know what you are doing?’

Isobel bit her lip. ‘I have no doubt that by now he knows, sire.’ She glanced up at him suddenly. ‘I hope this time you won’t tell me to go back to him.’

He shook his head. ‘Not this time, my lady. This time I shall keep you with me.’ His words were spoken so quietly no one heard them but Isobel.

Beside them Elizabeth scowled. Pushing back her heavy chair, she stood up. ‘My lord, it is time for us to retire,’ she said sharply. She had not heard their words, but like everyone close to them she had seen the sudden tender intimacy between them.

Robert glanced at her. ‘It is too soon, madam. Please sit down,’ he said curtly. ‘All of you, sit down and make a place for Lady Buchan. It seems our celebrations are only half over after all!’

That night Isobel could not sleep and tired though she was she paced the floor of her chamber in the palace for hours after she had withdrawn exhausted from the noisy hall. The touch of Robert’s hands, his eyes, his whispered words, the thought of him, here beneath the same roof, all set her heart lurching beneath her ribs.

At last she pulled off her clothes and lay down, but it was no use. Getting up almost at once she dragged a fur-trimmed gown out of one of the two boxes she had brought with her and pulling it on over her chilly nakedness and knotting a girdle around her waist, she went to the door at last, and listened. Easing it quietly open she crept out of the chamber. The passages of the palace were draughty and ill lit. At every corner there were men at arms. She felt their eyes follow her as she tiptoed down the long winding stair towards the royal chapel. She must not think of him as a man. Not today. Now he was her king, and she was here to perform a sacred act. Before the altar in the chapel she would kneel and try to compose her thoughts.