Kingdom of Shadows. Barbara Erskine

Countess of Buchan, had ordered the lighting of a hundred candles. The hearth was empty. In the doorway the King of England stopped and looked around him. His followers crowded around him staring at the two women at the far end of the hall. Around the walls of the castle the household and the servants stood peering over each other’s shoulders in awe. Edward’s reputation was of a formidable and a vengeful man.

      Elizabeth, who had not yet departed for her dower lands, stood on the dais in the great hall, with her new daughter-in-law at her side as King Edward entered. It was a violently hot day. Outside the sea murmured against the cliffs; the birds were silent, roosting in the shade, or rocking gently on the sleeping waves. Behind him his followers filed into the courtyard and spilled out across the bridge to the meadow beyond the castle.

      He was tall, a good-looking man still, in his late fifties, his dark hair greying at the temples beneath the gold coronet he had elected to wear on his triumphant journey. Beneath the cream woollen mantle he was wearing a full suit of mail. He alone amongst his sweating followers looked as cool as an ice floe in the winter hills.

      By that midsummer of 1296 the Scottish armies were scattered and in defeat. King Edward was in the ascendant.

      Lord Buchan had come back briefly to Duncairn with Scotland’s elected king, John Balliol, his cousin and the Lord of Badenoch, and sat up all night grimly discussing policy with his cousins. He left with scarcely a word for Isobel. They had decided to beg for terms. The only policy possible at the moment was to be received into Edward’s peace.

      The King of England’s terms were harsh. At Brechin, King John of Scotland and his followers were told their fate. The kingdom of Scotland was forfeit and its most sacred treasures, including the Stone of Scone and the Black Rood of St Margaret, were removed to London. King John and his Comyn friends and relatives were to be sent south into England, the Earl of Buchan with them. Lord Buchan was luckier than his kingly cousin. He was not destined for the Tower. Instead he was merely required to remain south of the River Trent, beyond the sphere of Scottish politics.

      His new wife was not required to go with him. She had her own appointment with Edward of England.

      At Duncairn the news of John Balliol’s humiliation was greeted with horror by the dowager. At Montrose, his abdication of the kingdom had been followed by the ritual tearing off of the royal arms from his surcoat – an action which was to gain him throughout the land the nickname of Toom Tabard. He was then sent south, the prisoner of Thomas of Lancaster, whilst King Edward turned his attention north. Slowly and inexorably the royal train began touring the defeated land, stopping at every town and castle of note on the way to demand the abject homage of every important person left behind after his prisoners had been sent south. On 22 July he had at last arrived at Duncairn.

      ‘So.’ He did not appear to raise his voice, but it carried with ease across the hall to the dais. ‘This is one of the strongholds of Lord Buchan, who is at present our guest in England. I shall require the keys of this castle, and homage from its keeper.’ His eyes strayed from Elizabeth to Isobel. He gave a slight, humourless smile. ‘Lady Buchan? The keys if you please.’

      The keys lay on the table, beside Elizabeth. Automatically she reached for the heavy ring. Then she drew back. ‘You are the countess now, child,’ she whispered hoarsely.

      Isobel froze. Her mouth had gone dry. To pay homage to the King of England for a single stone of Scotland was heaping insult on their already pitiful humiliation, but she dared not refuse. Slowly she picked up the keys. She stepped off the dais and began the slow walk down the hall, aware that every eye was on her. She held her head high, walking with slow dignity, her eyes fixed on the face of the king.

      Reaching him she dropped a deep curtsey and handed him the keys. He tossed them to the knight standing at his side. ‘So, you are Lord Buchan’s bride. My congratulations, madam. I am sorry to have had to deprive you of your husband so soon.’ His face was cold. ‘Our cousin, your mother, sends you greetings; and your brother who is in the household of our son.’

      ‘Thank you, sire.’ She curtseyed again. She had seen her mother so seldom in the last few years she could barely remember what she looked like; her brother she had never seen, save as a baby.

      ‘And your uncle, Macduff, who appealed to us at Westminster last year, if I remember right, against your late lamented King John’s decision to imprison him.’ Again the humourless smile. ‘It was astute of him to recognise us even then as overlord of Scotland.’

      Isobel could feel her cheeks colouring in indignation. ‘My uncle, sire, was bitter at the injustice done him by our elected king.’ She emphasised the penultimate word. ‘Had Scotland’s true king been chosen to rule, my uncle would not have needed an arbitrator.’

      She heard the gasp of horror from the onlookers at her temerity, and she felt a little clutch of fear but she kept her head held high.

      ‘The true king?’ Edward enquired with deceptive mildness.

      ‘Robert Bruce, the lord of Annandale, sire.’

      ‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘The man who thinks I have nothing better to do than win a kingdom for him. His claim was dismissed as invalid at my court, Lady Buchan, with those of the other rabble of claimants to the throne of Scotland. And now that John Balliol has proved himself traitor to his overlord, Scotland can do without a king at all. I shall rule this country myself from now on. I require your homage, madam.’

      She swallowed. ‘You have my homage and my loyalty, sire, for our lands in England.’

      ‘And now you will kneel before me for your lands in Scotland.’

      There was a slight movement around them, whispering amongst the Buchan household as they watched the young woman standing before the king. Elizabeth de Quincy raised her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Her own mortification at their defeat was lessened by the sight of Isobel’s dilemma, and not for the first time she felt a secret grudging admiration for her rebellious daughter-in-law.

      Isobel had clenched her fists. ‘I will give my allegiance only to the King of Scotland, sire –’ she whispered. Her courage was fast oozing away.

      ‘There is no King of Scotland.’ Edward was peremptory. ‘You will do homage to me as overlord of Scotland, madam, or you will be sent a prisoner to England after your husband. Choose.’

      She gave in. Kneeling in the dried heather at the king’s feet, she put her hands in his and repeated the oath in a voice so quiet that he had to bend to hear her.

      Twenty minutes later the King rode out of the castle, leaving a token garrison behind to hold it in his name.

      It was a year before she saw her husband again.

      The following summer King Edward granted Lord Buchan a safe conduct to travel north for two months only, to visit his lands in Scotland and to see his wife.

      Isobel was pacing up and down the deserted tower room, kicking at the hem of her skirts with every step, her arms folded, her face set with fury. She was alone. The servants had fled downstairs. Lord Buchan had still not come to greet her.

      For months she had remained alone at Duncairn. The morning after the King of England’s departure, Elizabeth had removed most of the household to Slains Castle a few miles along the coast. Isobel was left behind. It had been her husband’s orders before he left under escort for England. She was to remain at Duncairn with the garrison and a handful of women and learn the duties of a wife.

      Frustrated, bored and angry, she had begged and railed and sworn at her husband’s steward, demanding to be allowed to ride out of the castle, but he was adamant. The earl’s orders were to be obeyed. She was a prisoner.

      And now Lord Buchan had returned. The night before she had heard the horses and men ride into the castle and she had waited in her room, trembling, for him to come, but he had not appeared. Now her fear had passed and the anger had returned. How dare he ignore her! She was the countess – that much she had learned in her solitude in the castle, and she deserved his attention.

      With a whirl of scarlet