Kingdom of Shadows (83 page)

She saw Lord Atholl’s face, near hers, grim in the starlight. They had left it too late; they should not have waited until dark. The enemy were already here. They could hear subdued voices now and a laugh, cut off short from somewhere behind them in the trees. The English were flanking the castle, having slipped north through the broad valley as dusk fell.

Behind them Kildrummy appeared to slumber. The castle was in darkness, the walls patrolled by the garrison, silent as they watched and waited.

Lord Atholl glanced upwards, and Isobel, following his gaze, saw the rim of the moon appearing above the trees. He looked back towards the castle and Isobel, beside him, could feel his indecision, his panic in the darkness. Somewhere close by they heard a horse’s hoof strike a rock and a subdued curse from one of the men. Isobel swallowed, her mouth dry with fear. She glanced at Atholl. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and began to move on.

They reached the end of the ravine. Ahead of them the track sloped away across open meadows before plunging once more into the forest which covered the lower slopes of the hills. Once in the forest they could breathe again perhaps, but the meadowland in between was open and clearly visible in the starlight. Behind them the moon was growing brighter by the second as it swam above the trees on the ridge. The small band of men and women halted beneath a clump of whispering aspen and stared across the tussocky ground. There was no sign of life. The English too had taken cover. Soundlessly Lord Atholl pointed up. A mass of cloud was streaming towards them, black against the starlight. ‘When it covers the moon,’ he mouthed, ‘get ready to ride.’ Silently they all mounted, glad that the wind in the aspens and the water on the rocks masked any sounds they might make, then they all stood watching the sky as the patchy clouds blotted out the stars in their race towards the moon. In a moment they reached it and the meadow slowly disappeared into the darkness.

As silently as they could, in single file, they cantered across the meadow, holding their breath, hearing the movement of the horses through the long grasses and the thud of the hooves on the dry earth, but no one saw them. There was no warning shout, and long before the moonlight spread again across the silvered meadows they had gained the forest, and were climbing steadily towards the hills.

The first attack on Kildrummy came at midnight. From their hiding place in the mountains north of the castle they watched the fires flare, and heard the shouts of men and the scream of horses as the huge army launched itself upon the castle. Under cover of darkness Prince Edward’s men had dragged siege engines into place and already the huge machines were hurling rocks at the great walls. As first dawn broke Atholl and the women with him looked back at the distant grey-pink granite walls of the castle, so long secure in its pocket in the hills, and around it the tiny black figures moving to and fro, setting up tents, drawing siege engines closer, all the signs of a huge army, settling in for a long siege.

Lord Atholl was tight-lipped as he stood and looked down, his eyes straining in the glare of the sunlight. He had nearly led his precious charges straight into the enemy’s jaws. He murmured a prayer for Sir Nigel and the garrison of Kildrummy, then he turned his back on the castle and headed north.

He did not let them rest, even at night. Beneath the huge, red harvest moon they rode on through the mountains, threading their way north-west through the glens towards Strathspey. They forded the Spey in the heat of the midday sun, setting the horses into the broad river above a series of cataracts where the smooth granite glittered blue and rose and white beneath the torrents of water. Around them the air was fragrant with pine and soft uncut hay and wild autumn roses.

Then it was on into the higher mountains and over the empty heather moors, purple as far as the eye could see. They passed a lonely loch, set in a ring of hills. On an island in the centre a castle stood sentinel in water black with wind ripples. Gulls swooped and screamed but still they dared not stop. Reining their horses towards the north they skirted it, watching for signs of life, and headed once more upwards towards the high forest, the mountain passes and the moors, the haunt of snipe and dotterel, deer and on the high passes ptarmigan and eagle.

On they went through the long hot September days. They slept on the ground, wrapped in thick plaids on the springy heather, chilled by the cold nights as summer slowly dipped towards autumn. Lord Atholl and his two male companions caught fish and once or twice stalked and shot a deer with the long bow they carried with them, helping the women cook the flesh over their lonely camp fires, keeping an eye forever on the far horizons lest the thin wisps of white smoke be spotted by their enemies.

The women did not complain. The three Bruce ladies and the child rode bravely on behind Lord Atholl and Isobel who invariably rode side by side, the two other men behind them. They all suffered. They were hungry and exhausted and afraid, their lives made misery by the midges and horseflies which plagued the moors, either too hot beneath the blistering sun, or wet and cold beneath heavy penetrating rain as they turned north again towards Inverness, to which they gave a wide berth, and on over the low-lying fertile ground of the Black Isle. Isobel no longer cared where they were going. So many times they had tried to break out towards the coast and every time they had been headed back inland by marauding parties of soldiers, or bands of travellers whom they did not wish to meet; for the more populated countryside around the coast was in ferment, with farmsteads and villages burned or deserted, and the people up in arms.

When at last they saw the welcome gleam of water in the distance it was the Dornoch Firth, grey, slate green, red brown in the changing light of a windy sky.

Lord Atholl halted them at last. ‘Maybe we can find a ship here.’ He smiled wearily at them. ‘Courage ladies. God is good. We are in St Duthac’s country here. It may be that he will bless us and send us safely on our way to Norway.’ He stooped and caught Marjorie’s hand as she sat on the ground, her eyes closed, her head resting wearily against the rough bark of a pine tree. ‘Not much further, sweetheart, I promise.’

She looked up and gave him an exhausted smile. She liked her father’s friends, with their brusque kindness and gentleness. John of Atholl had carved her a doll out of an old piece of wood with the dirk he carried in his belt. She kept it wrapped in a scrap of cloth, tucked into her girdle. Surreptitiously she touched it now. It was the only thing she had to call her own.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle John.’ She gave him a wistful smile, adult far beyond her years. ‘I’m a nuisance because I’m so young.’

‘A nuisance!’ He looked at her in mock horror. ‘How can the charge of the Princess of Scotland be a nuisance? It is an honour your Uncle Nigel and I had to fight for!’ He bowed gallantly.

He glanced at the women over her head. Mary and Christian too had their eyes closed. Isobel was standing supporting herself with one hand on her horse’s saddle, her eyes fixed on the broad firth beyond the ancient burgh of Tain. Across the water, streaked a deep blue now beneath the shadows of the clouds, the northern shoulders of Caithness humped into the pearly mist.

‘Will we go into Tain?’ Elizabeth glanced at him. She was the least tired of all of them, still upright, still clear-eyed, but her face was taut with worry.

‘I’ll go in on my own.’ Lord Atholl glanced around. ‘You must all rest. We have to find somewhere you can get some food and sleep.’

When he returned his face was grim. He looked from one woman to the other, still undecided whether or not to tell them what he had learned in Tain, where people had not recognised the ragged traveller wrapped in a plaid as an earl, one of the exiled rebels’ closest friends, and had gossiped freely to him as he bought bread and cheese and smoked fish. He distributed the food amongst the others, and sat watching them as they ate.

It was Isobel who questioned him first. Waiting until Marjorie had snuggled into her plaid and fallen asleep in the shelter of a clump of whin she walked over and sank to her knees beside him. ‘What news, John? I can see in your face it is not good.’

He shrugged, unable to keep it to himself any longer, shaking his head with misery. ‘Kildrummy has fallen.’

‘Fallen?’ She stared at him white-faced, and hearing her cry the others came and squatted beside them. ‘It can’t have fallen!’

‘They were betrayed. The blacksmith, you remember that surly bastard, Osbourne, may he rot in hell for ever! He fired the corn in the great hall. The fire spread –’ He shook his head, unable to go on. ‘The castle fell. They were all taken.’

‘Nigel?’ Mary whispered.

He nodded. ‘Tain is full of it. Osbourne was killed by the English – they had promised him gold for his betrayal and the story is they gave it to him, pouring it molten down his throat.’ He gave a grim humourless laugh. ‘They have a fine sense of irony, the English, I give them that. Nigel has been taken to King Edward.’ He shook his head again.

‘And great grandmama?’ Isobel asked, her mouth dry with fear. ‘What has happened to her?’

He shrugged. ‘There was no mention of her,’ he said.

There were tears in all the women’s eyes. Frightened, they huddled together in the shelter of the bushes as a shower of rain swept up from the firth, soaking them. Nearby Marjorie slept on, unaware.

Lord Atholl swallowed. ‘Prince Edward will know we were there,’ he said softly. ‘They will already be looking for us. We must find a ship.’

Twice they saw people as they made their way cautiously down towards the shore, once a party of travellers, almost as ragged as themselves, and once a group of men cutting peats on the moor. The peat cutters stopped work and watched them as they rode past, then, with a surly greeting, they bent again to their back-breaking task.

A little later they saw two horsemen standing on the crest of a rise about half a mile from them. Atholl ignored them, but the men remained, watching them carefully for some time before they turned away and rode fast towards the town.

Isobel clutched Mary’s arm. ‘Why were they watching us? Did they recognise us?’

‘How could they?’ Mary had dropped the reins on her horse’s neck as they rode at last down on to the shore beyond the walls of the burgh, letting her tired cob follow the horse in front. ‘No one up here would recognise us. They don’t know where we come from.’

She spoke too soon. Barely half an hour later they saw a troop of horsemen riding out of Tain. Lord Atholl stared at them, narrowing his eyes in the glare of the sun on the water as another shower sped across the firth and vanished south across the low hills. The three gold lions rampant on a scarlet ground told him all he wanted to know. He looked round wildly. There was no shelter here, no hiding place save the chapel of St Duthac standing foursquare on its grassy hill against a wind which was whipping up the waves in the shallow sandy water of the firth.

‘In there. Quickly!’ He brought his hand down on the rump of Marjorie’s horse, making the exhausted animal leap into a canter. ‘We may pass ourselves off as pilgrims.’

They threw themselves from the horses outside the chapel and went inside. Out of the wind it was very silent; the thick stone walls and narrow pointed windows kept out every sound of wind and water. A dozen candles burned before the shrine.

‘Who is it?’ The Queen touched his arm. ‘I couldn’t see the banners –’

‘Lord Ross, madam. No friend to your husband, I fear.’ He spoke in an undertone, but his voice seemed to fill the hush of the chapel.

‘Are we safe here?’ Isobel looked at him intently.

‘I doubt it.’ He put his hand on his sword.

‘No.’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Do not shed blood in this holy place. My husband has already committed sacrilege enough. It may be that they have not recognised us.’

Behind her Christian put her arms around Marjorie and hugged her close. The echoing cry of a gull rang through the chapel as the four women, the child and the three men waited. Elizabeth knelt before the shrine. Stooping she kissed the cold stone of the saint’s tomb. Slowly Mary and Christian followed suit.

Only Isobel was standing now. She was clutching the torn remains of her cloak round her. The chapel was chill after the blustery autumn sunshine. She could hear the horsemen now, on the shingle. They weren’t hurrying. They knew their quarry could run no further.

It was Earl William himself who entered the chapel, drawn sword in his hand, bending to avoid the low archway. He stopped and straightened, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim candlelight inside. Behind him two knights stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway blocking out the sun.

‘So. My lookouts were right. I must reward them for having such sharp eyes.’ He smiled, then he bowed mockingly towards Elizabeth. ‘The so-called Queen of Scots, if I mistake not, and Lady Buchan?’ He turned sharply to Isobel who stood proudly erect near the wall. ‘Who would have thought to see you here?’ He went on with a chuckle. ‘I was speaking to your husband but a week ago.’

Isobel clenched her teeth. Her skin was crawling with panic; she felt very sick. The man was playing with them. She glanced at the others. They were all motionless, white-faced, staring at the earl as though mesmerised. Suddenly Lord Atholl made a move to draw his sword. In a second the two knights behind Lord Ross had sprung at him and it was wrested from his hand together with his dirk.

‘That’s better.’ Lord Ross smiled. ‘So. Now the question is, what do I do with you?’

Elizabeth straightened. ‘This place is holy ground. You cannot take us from here. I claim sanctuary, in the name of Christ –’

‘Whose holy name your husband did not hesitate to abuse with blood when it suited him,’ Ross snapped back. ‘Do not think you can claim sanctuary here, madam, nor anywhere else in Scotland.’

He made a move towards the women and Marjorie let out a little cry of fear.

‘Dear God, save us!’ Isobel closed her eyes, a vision of the dragon banner floating before her, the token by which any woman who supported the rebel cause could be taken and raped and murdered with impunity. Mary was standing as though stunned, so she moved to Marjorie and putting her arms around the child held her close. Outside they could hear the horses snorting impatiently, the chink of harness, the restless hooves on the shingle amongst the grass.