Kingdom of Shadows (7 page)

‘It doesn’t sound boring from what I’ve been hearing.’ Peter laughed. ‘She’s having personal private lessons in bodybuilding from a continental lothario.’

James had been rummaging in his sports bag for a shirt. Abruptly he straightened. ‘Oh, come on. That’s one of Emma’s stories!’

‘No, you ask Clare.’

‘I will.’ James laughed. ‘Good old sis. Perhaps she’s finally kicked over the traces. I always knew she would in the end. I wonder what Paul thinks?’

‘He’s horrified. He was the one that rang Em. He wants her to talk Clare out of it all. Apparently he thinks it’s all some sort of compensation for not getting pregnant.’

‘What a load of crap.’ James had finished putting on the white socks and shoes. Stowing the last of his things into his locker he picked up his squash racquet. ‘It’s Paul who is neurotic about having a son. I don’t think Clare gives a screw. Come on. I’m going to thrash you tonight, then last man to finish twelve lengths of the pool pays for dinner.’

James looked distastefully round at the disordered living room of his flat in the Barbican when he got home that evening and sighed. The cleaning woman had failed to come for the second time running, and it was thick with dust. Dirty plates and glasses littered every free surface and there were clothes scattered on the floor. The air smelt stale. Throwing open the windows he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty of food. Tonics, cans of lager, two bottles of Bollinger, that was all. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t hungry. Peter had gone home to Emma for supper in the end. James had been invited, but he hadn’t wanted to go – there was always tension in the Cassidy house. He helped himself to a can of Pils and, going back into the living room, threw himself down on an easy chair, picked up the phone, and extending the aerial, began to punch out a number.

It was several minutes before she replied, and when she did she sounded depressed.

‘Hi, Clare, how are you?’

‘James?’ From the slight sniff he wondered suddenly if she had been crying and he frowned. Deep down, beneath all the aggression, he was very fond of his sister.

After Penny had dropped her off at the house an hour earlier, Clare had gone straight upstairs to lie down, not even bothering to remove her dress. Still indignant at Paul for sending her home like a child who has been forbidden a party because it has misbehaved, she was even more cross with herself for allowing him to do it. She had been lying gazing up at the ceiling, still feeling very shaky, when James rang. Now slowly she sat up, and, the receiver to her ear, swung her feet to the carpet, pushing her hair back from her face.

‘It’s a long time since you bothered to ring. What do you want?’ she asked, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

That was more like it. He grinned to himself as he lay back in his chair, resting his ankle across his knee. ‘I don’t want anything. I can afford my own, now, remember?’ he said maliciously. ‘No, seriously, sis. I’ve been hearing weird stories about you and your body-building. What gives?’

There was puzzled silence, then Clare laughed. ‘Bodybuilding? Who told you that?’

‘A reliable source. Come on. Tell me about it.’

‘It, James, is yoga, that’s all.’

‘What, no dumb-bells? No rippling muscles and black satin G-strings?’

‘No.’ It was her old infectious laugh.

‘And no continental lothario?’

There was a pause. ‘No, Californian actually.’

James whistled. ‘What does Paul say?’

‘He’s not interested, and if he was I wouldn’t care.’ She sounded rebellious. She didn’t want to think about Paul. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘James, you haven’t had any letters about selling any of the estate, have you?’

‘No. Why?’

She hesitated. ‘I had one from a solicitor in Edinburgh – Mitchison and Archer – saying they had a client who wanted to buy Duncairn.’

James gave a soundless whistle. ‘I wonder why. Did they name a price?’

‘No. They said it would be negotiable.’

‘Are you going to sell?’

‘Of course not. That’s my inheritance. All there is of it,’ she couldn’t resist adding.

James ignored that. ‘I can’t think why anyone would want Duncairn,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘unless –’ He stopped suddenly. ‘You know, there were some rumours in the City last month about the oil companies sniffing round the north-east coast again. Maybe they’re looking for somewhere to put a new terminal.’ He was intrigued. ‘That would be a turn up, Clare, if old Duncairn turned out to be worth a fortune. Whatever they want it for, if it is an oil company, they would offer serious money.’

‘Even if they do, I’m not selling.’ Clare was appalled at the thought. ‘Listen James. Don’t mention this to anyone. I haven’t told Paul about the letter and I don’t intend to. There’s no point.’

‘There would be if they offered you enough money, sis. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out for you.’

Clare walked across to the window after James had rung off and drew back the curtains. The night was cold now, after the hot day. She could smell smoke. Someone had been burning dead leaves in one of the squares and the scent flavoured the night with autumn.

With a sigh she closed the window and walked slowly downstairs still wearing her green dress. The skirt dragged on the steep uncarpeted staircase behind her with an exotic rustle. She went down the second flight to the basement kitchen, wondering if she should find herself something to eat – she hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast that morning, but she wasn’t really hungry.

Damn James. She hadn’t wanted to think about that letter any more. And damn Paul. She had been looking forward to the reception. And damn the lift! She shivered. Baines had been amazed when Penny asked him about the power cut. None of the building seemed to have been affected except the top floor. Of course none of the other lifts had been in use at the time, but he would call the engineers at once, and have them checked. He had been indignant, asking why they hadn’t called him on the internal phone, and scolded them for using the lift again. Clare had clenched her fists tightly as they waited for the taxi, her eyes firmly on the locked glass doors. Only when she was out on the pavement once more did she begin to relax at last.

She went back upstairs into the living room. The original two rooms had been knocked through into one, so there were windows at both ends. She walked across and drew the front curtains briskly, then went to stand looking out into the darkness of the back garden beyond her own reflection. It was probably damp and misty in the country by now, but here the night was clear and luminous even where it lay beyond the reach of the light from the window. She could see the pale, blighted rose buds clearly, clinging to the trellis behind the oak garden seat. She missed Casta desperately.

She brought the candle downstairs and set it in the middle of the Persian rug in the front half of the room and lit it, then, kicking off her shoes, she turned off all the lights. As an afterthought she unplugged the phone, then, quietly shutting the door into the hall, she turned back to the candle, and closing her eyes raised her arms above her head.

She was going to try it again; try and see whether she could enter Isobel’s life once more with the uncanny reality of last time. Half afraid, half excited, she began to empty her mind.

If she could not go to the Guildhall, perhaps she could retreat to this strange other world of the past where she could forget her own troubles and lose herself in someone else’s life.

Bit by careful bit she began to construct her picture of Duncairn as it used to be.

This time Isobel was wearing a beautiful deep-red full-skirted gown with a long train. It was held in place with a plaited girdle and she wore a gilded chaplet over her hair which hung loose over her shoulders. She was a little older now.

She was standing in the shadows at the back of the great hall, watching eagerly as the page made his way to the Earl of Carrick’s side as he sat talking with a group of men. She saw the boy sidle up to him and whisper in his ear, and she saw Robert look up, his eyes quickly scanning the great hall. He couldn’t see her, hidden as she was in the shadow of one of the pillars which soared up into the darkness to support the massive roof timbers. Outside night was falling.

The moment she saw Robert stand up, she turned and slipped out of the hall, picking up her skirts to run, threading her way swiftly through the crowded passages of the castle towards the chapel.

The door was heavy. Grasping the iron handle she turned it with an effort and slipped inside. The chapel was almost dark, but a candle burned before the statue of the Virgin in a niche beside the altar, another on a ledge beside the door. The air was sweet with incense. There was no one there. Breathing a quick prayer of gratitude that the place was empty she curtseyed before the statue and crossed herself, then she waited, her eyes fixed on the huge arched window above the altar. With darkness outside she could see none of the colours in the patterned glass, only the fluted stone tracing which held it in place.

When the door opened again with a slight creak she gave a little gasp, but it was he.

‘Robert!’ She flew to him. ‘I had to see you. Why have you come back to Duncairn? Where is Lord Buchan?’

Robert caught her as she threw herself at him, holding her at arms’ length. ‘I came here to meet with him, Isobel, but he and I could not agree.’ He tightened his lips. ‘I leave now and I do not intend to return to this castle or any other held by Lord Buchan.’

‘But Robert –’ She looked up at him pleadingly.

‘No, little cousin. He has seen how worthless the Balliol is as king, yet still he supports his claim to the crown against that of my father because the Comyns and the Balliols are kin. He even arranged that John St John should place the crown of Scotland on John Balliol’s head in the name of your young brother.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Your house of Duff has power indeed, my Isobel. The hereditary right to crown a king! It was that crowning which gave weight of custom to Edward of England’s choice for Scotland’s king.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps when the people of Scotland come to their senses, we can bring your brother back from his place at the King of England’s side, and then, one day, he can crown me! But until the Bruce claim is recognised and Balliol dispossessed your betrothed and I cannot agree. Now,’ he smiled at her in the darkness, ‘what is so urgent you have to see me alone?’

‘They have fixed our wedding day.’ Her whisper was anguished. ‘If the king gives his permission we are to be married at Martinmas. Oh, Robert, I can’t bear it. It mustn’t happen. You have got to help me.’

For a moment he looked down at her, his face sorrowful, then, almost reluctantly he drew back. Briefly he touched her cheek with his hand. ‘Poor Isobel. There is nothing I can do, you know that.’

‘But there is. There must be.’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘That is why I wanted us to meet here. It is the only place in the castle where we can be alone. Please, Robert, you have to think of something. You have to get me away.’

She took a few paces from him towards the altar, then turned back, her red skirts sweeping the stone flags impatiently. Behind her the candles flickered and smoked. ‘Please, Robert. Any moment Father Matthew may come back. You’ve got to think of something.’

He studied her gravely – the beautiful, anxious face beneath the long curling black hair, the huge grey eyes, the slight but undeniably feminine figure beneath the figure-hugging red cloth. She was close to him now, and he could smell the sweet musk of her skin and the slight scent of lavender from her gown. Unexpectedly he felt a wave of intense desire sweep over him and, surprised and embarrassed, he took a step back.

‘Isobel, nothing can be done. You have been betrothed to Lord Buchan since you were a child. A betrothal is binding, you know that.’

‘But it can be broken. Somehow it must be broken. If you are going to be king, you can do anything! You must marry me instead, Robert. Please. You like me, don’t you?’ She took a step towards him, putting her hands on the front of his surcote, her eyes pleading.

‘You know I like you,’ he whispered, his hands gently covering hers. ‘Isobel, this is foolish. It cannot be.’

‘Why?’ Instinctively she knew what to do. Gently, standing on tiptoe, her hands still pressing against his breast, imprisoned in his own, she kissed him on the mouth. It was the first time she had kissed a man.

He groaned, and pushed her away violently. ‘Isobel, don’t you understand? It can never be. Never. I too am betrothed, remember? And I too have fixed my marriage date. It was one of the reasons I went to Kildrummy. Isabella of Mar and I will marry at Christmas.’

Stunned, Isobel stared at him. ‘Isabella of Mar,’ she echoed, dully. ‘You prefer that milk sop to me?’

‘Aye, I do.’ He looked at her coldly. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.’

He tried not to see the hurt and rejection in her eyes, hardening his heart against the pain he knew he had caused her. He had in fact spoken only half the truth. He loved his betrothed; she filled him with tender protectiveness, making him feel strong and chivalrous, her knightly protector, a role which appealed to him greatly; but, he had to admit, he felt very strongly attracted to Isobel of Fife too, although in quite a different way. He closed his eyes. He was a man, not a boy. He knew the difference between courtly love and lust. What he felt for his gentle, beautiful betrothed was the former. Isobel of Fife, on the other hand, stirred him to passionate longing. She was exciting, a temptress, though she scarcely knew it yet herself, and undoubtedly she was trouble. The feelings she aroused in him shocked him. One should not feel desire such as that for any lady of high birth, never mind one so young and destined to become another man’s wife.

With an exclamation of anger he turned from her, staring hard instead at the serene painted wooden face of Our Lady in the niche.

‘You are making yourself unhappy,’ he said curtly. ‘There is no point, can’t you see that? There can be nothing between us, ever. And there can be no escape from your betrothal.’