Kingdom of Shadows Read online

  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.’

  He saw that his blunt words had stung her. She straightened her slim shoulders. ‘Oh but there can, Robert,’ she retorted, her eyes flashing rebelliously.

  He wasn’t sure to which of his two statements she was referring. Perhaps both, he thought, and in spite of himself he felt a little shiver of excitement. But his voice remained firm. ‘You can’t escape, Isobel. Make up your mind to accept it.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t accept things,’ she retorted. ‘Even if you do. I’m a fighter, and I’ll fight this. If you won’t help me, then I’ll manage alone. Now, you’d better go, or your men will miss you in the hall.’

  He hesitated. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  She tossed her head. ‘I don’t intend to.’

  ‘You won’t try and ride anywhere alone?’ Almost unwillingly he had stepped closer to her again. His hand strayed to her shoulder, touching her hair.

  ‘It’s none of your business where I go or what I do,’ she replied softly. ‘Not now.’ Her mouth was close to his. He saw the tip of her tongue for a moment between her lips, unconsciously
teasing.

  Unable to stop himself, he held out his arms and drew her to him, his mouth urgently seeking hers, crushing her breasts against his chest, imprisoning her arms against her sides.

  ‘Oh God forgive me, but I do love you,’ he breathed.

  ‘Then help me.’ Somehow she freed her arms, winding them around his neck. ‘Please, Robert.’

  ‘And make you my little queen, love? I can’t. Don’t you see, I can’t.’ Anguished, he kissed her again, stifling her words.

  Isobel stiffened, then with a sob she tore herself free of his arms. ‘Then go!’ she cried. ‘Go now. I never want to see you again! You shouldn’t have come here! To kiss a woman in here before Our Lady is wicked – it’s sacrilege!’

  ‘Then it is a sacrilege I gladly commit.’ Gravely Robert took a few steps towards the door. ‘May Our Lady protect you always, Isobel, my love. I wish I could,’ he said. Then he was gone.

  The ground-floor office in the sixteenth-century building on the north side of the Grassmarket in Edinburgh was untidy, piled high with books and pamphlets; files overflowed from shelves and chairs on to the floor, and posters covered more posters on the walls. Sitting at the desk in the centre of the room, Neil Forbes paused in his writing and, dropping his pen, stretched his arms above his head with a sigh. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after 9 p.m. Behind the blind, the Grassmarket was deserted, the dark street wet in the wind-swept rain.

  He gave an exclamation of irritation as the phone rang.

  ‘Neil? I’m so glad you’re still there. I didn’t have any other number –’

  He frowned momentarily, not recognising the voice.

  ‘It’s Sandra Mackay. You remember. I came to the Earthwatch meeting when you were talking about pollution. We had a drink afterwards – I’m a friend of Kathleen’s –’ Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

  ‘Of course I remember.’ He squinted up at the ceiling, noting a new place where the lining paper was beginning to peel away. ‘What can I do for you, Sandra?’ He had a pleasant voice, deep and musical with a slight Scots inflection.

  She gave a strange half sigh. ‘It’s difficult. I know I shouldn’t tell anyone this – it’s breaking the rules of the office. I’m supposed to keep everything I see and hear confidential. I always have, but –’ He could hear the indecision in her voice.

  ‘Sandra, if it is something that worries you, and you think Earthwatch should know about it, then you have done the right thing in ringing me. Personal loyalty is a wonderful thing, but not at the expense of the environment or the safety of the people as a whole. These days we must all learn to accept that.’ It was what he always said. Trite, but true, and something he passionately believed. ‘Now, can you tell me over the phone, or would you like to meet me somewhere?’

  ‘No, no.’ She sounded terrified. ‘Listen, I’ve only five minutes to talk before my mum gets back.’ She paused for a moment, then began in a rush.

  ‘I typed out a letter last week to a Mrs Clare Royland in England. We were transmitting a client’s offer to buy her estates. She owns about one thousand acres up on the coast at Duncairn, including the village and the old castle. Today she wrote back refusing to negotiate. She said the estates were not for sale and never would be. Well, Mr Archer called me in to dictate a reply without even consulting the client again. They are offering more money than you can imagine!’ She paused. ‘When I’d taken down the letter he told me his client was prepared to go much higher if necessary to get it.’

  Neil had risen to his feet. Still holding the telephone he walked across to the map of Scotland pinned on one wall of the office. The phone in one hand, the receiver in the other, he peered at the map, even though there was no need. He knew only too well where Duncairn was. ‘Mr Archer said there were rare birds and plants on the cliffs there and he thought they had some sort of development in mind, and he said he didn’t like the sound of the offer at all,’ she went on.

  Neil scowled. ‘Neither do I,’ he said grimly, ‘and I would guess they are offering well over the normal market price. Do you happen to know the name of the prospective buyer?’

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘You have already told me most of it, Sandra.’ He was at his most reassuring. ‘And no one will ever know how we found out any of this, I promise.’

  ‘Well,’ she sounded only half reassured. ‘It was a man called Cummin. He works for something called Sigma Exploration.’

  Neil stood staring at the map for several minutes after she had hung up, then slowly he returned to his desk. He took a file out of one of the drawers and opened it. So it was true, the rumour that someone had been carrying out surreptitious geological surveys along that stretch of coastline. And it looked as though the worst had happened. The surveys had been encouraging.

  ‘Gossip has it that it is onshore oil, Neil,’ Jim Campbell had said in his note. ‘I can’t believe that, unless the geological structure of Scotland has changed recently, but for what it’s worth someone has been surveying pretty thoroughly up and down the coast over an area of several miles. And doing it far from openly. It is an area that contains several SSSI and some of it is owned by the NTS and is protected coastline …’

  ‘And some of it is owned by Mrs Clare Royland,’ Neil murmured to himself. He threw down the file and, standing up again, began pacing the short space of empty floor between his desk and the window. He was remembering the visit he had paid to Duncairn in June shortly after Jim had sent in his report.

  It was a place he knew well, a place he had visited on several occasions as a student, a beautiful place, ruinous – including the hotel, he thought wryly – wild, unspoiled, peaceful, with several miles of rocky, dramatic coastline, which had to be preserved at any cost. He had wandered around all morning, going to the hotel for a pint of Export and some sandwiches for lunch, then, drawn back almost against his will, he had walked back to the sprawling ruins of the castle for one more look before driving back to Edinburgh.

  It was then that he had seen her. He was certain it had been Clare Royland. Who else could it have been? She had arrived in a flash green Jag, dressed for a London garden party, even to the high-heeled shoes. Young, beautiful, oh yes, undeniably beautiful, rich, aristocratic – looking at him as though he had no right to be there, which, strictly speaking, he hadn’t, and then, later, looking through him as though he wasn’t there at all. Bitch. He remembered how the whole place changed after she arrived. The joy had gone out of his visit. It was as if her arrival had released strange, unhappy memories in those ancient stones. He shivered at the thought. The haar had come in off the sea, drifting up the cliffs and cutting off the sunlight, and he had left her to it.

  She was the type who would sell, damn her. She might protest her love of the place, but in the end she would sell, if only because Paul Royland would see to it that she did. Neil smiled grimly as he turned off the desk lamp and began to pull on his patched tweed jacket. He had good reason to remember Paul Royland of old.

  * * *

  Henry Firbank paid off the cab at the bottom of Campden Hill and began to walk slowly up the road. When he had met Paul at the Guildhall, Paul was deep in conversation with Diane Warboys, one of the new brokers at Westlake Pierce, but he had paused long enough to explain that Clare had had a fainting fit at the office and decided to go home rather than come to the reception.

  Later, when Paul had offered to take Diane out to dinner, Henry had made up his mind. He wasn’t being disloyal to Paul. It was merely natural concern to see how Clare was. He would knock, perhaps not even go in, just see she was all right … It never crossed his mind to telephone instead.

  He could see a faint light showing at the crack in the heavy pale aquamarine silk curtains. Straightening his tie he lifted the knocker and let it drop, wishing he had thought to stop off and buy some flowers somewhere on the way. He waited, then he knocked again, louder this time. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in front of the television.

  He was
n’t sure, afterwards, what made him do it, but when she failed to answer his third knock he found himself slinging one long leg over the low railings at the side of the steps and stepping into the paved front garden so that he could peer across the narrow barred area which lent light to the basement window and through the crack in the curtains.

  Clare was seated cross-legged on the floor in front of a guttering candle. She was facing the window and he could see her clearly. Her face was serene, blank, her eyes closed; her whole attitude completely relaxed as the flickering candlelight played over her, illuminating her features, turning them to alabaster, picking out the glint of gold at her throat and wrists and on her fingers, sending darting shadows into the deep folds of green silk piled so carelessly around her on the floor.

  Henry caught his breath. He watched her, fascinated, unable to tear his eyes away, as the candle slowly died, leaving her sitting in darkness alleviated only by the thread of light thrown across the floor by the street lamp behind him, and it was only the sound of footsteps walking down the road behind him in the distance which made him straighten suddenly, realising how he must look to a passerby, doubled up with his eye to a crack in the curtain.

  Vaulting back over the railing, he stood uncertainly on the step, wondering what to do. Tentatively he knocked again, then, bolder, he rang the door bell. It pealed through the house, making him jump and he waited breathlessly. Minutes later a light came on in the hall and the door opened.

  ‘Henry?’ Clare stared at him, dazed.

  ‘Clare.’ He bent forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m sorry to call so late. If you’d rather, I’ll go away at once. Only Paul asked me to look in on my way home and see that you were all right. He has met up with a client, I gather, and he’ll be a bit late back – you know how it is.’ Paul hadn’t asked him to do anything of the sort.

  Clare bit her lip. She looked tired and strained in the harsh light of the hall.

  ‘That was good of you, Henry. You’d better come in.’ She backed away from the door.