Kingdom of Shadows. Barbara Erskine

into the air. The sun was shining directly into the window – a brilliant September sun, highlighting the whin on the granite cliffs and turning the dry soft grasses to gold. When the door opened behind her, slamming back against the wall, she did not turn.

      ‘So, this is where you hide yourself. Can you not even come down to the great hall to greet your husband?’ Lord Buchan’s voice was acid as he banged the door shut behind him.

      She swung round. ‘I am not a groom to attend at your stirrup, my lord.’

      ‘Indeed not. You are the lady of this castle, the hostess I expect to find in the hall greeting my guests.’

      ‘I was unaware you had guests.’ Isobel stepped down from the embrasure. ‘As no one had the courtesy to tell me!’ She had a sneaking feeling she was in the wrong, but nothing would make her admit it, even though the sight of her husband’s tall, muscular figure beneath the dark green mantle had brought back her fear of him with a sickening jolt.

      He sighed. ‘Isobel, I do not want us to be enemies,’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing will be served by your temper. Come.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let us go down now.’

      For a moment she hesitated, then, reluctantly she put her hand in his. If the only way to get out of the castle and ride free was to appease him, then appease him she would.

      The truce lasted until dusk. At the high table in the great hall she was seated between her husband and his guest, his cousin John Comyn. As a succession of courses came and went before them, their talk was all of politics.

      ‘You agree that King Edward of England is making more and more impossible demands of the Scots people. We have to find a way of being free of his ambition.’ Lord Buchan leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

      Comyn nodded gloomily. ‘Our cousin, King John,’ his voice was full of irony, ‘does not dare cross him now. He is useless. We have to throw the weight of tradition and the wishes of the community of the realm into the scale. All the lords of Scotland are with us.’

      Buchan frowned. ‘Nearly all. There are some who put their arrogance and personal ambition before Scotland’s good.’

      Comyn nodded. ‘The Bruces, you mean. They are still with us at heart, even if they appear to support Edward. Young Carrick is a fine fighter.’ He sighed. ‘They find it hard to acknowledge that their claim to the throne was overturned and John Balliol made king. They will come round slowly if we can find a way to make them turn their allegiance back to Scotland without rubbing their noses in the act.’

      Isobel looked from one man to the other. The mention of Robert’s name had set her heart beating very fast. ‘Robert will never swear allegiance to Balliol,’ she said firmly. ‘The Bruce claim was far the stronger!’

      Both men looked at her in astonishment. ‘So, you are an expert on the law, little cousin!’ John Comyn smiled at her patronisingly.

      Isobel could feel herself growing red. ‘I know who was the rightful heir to King Alexander’s throne,’ she said tartly.

      ‘But it was a representative of your own brother who crowned Balliol king, surely.’ Comyn was enjoying himself. ‘The seal of approval from the Earl of Fife himself – who else could have put the crown on King John’s head?’

      ‘My brother is in England, sir, and a mere child,’ she retorted. ‘He knew nothing about it. He would never have set the crown on Balliol’s head of his own choice.’

      Buchan’s face darkened. ‘That is enough! John Balliol is our king for better or worse, and we must abide by the court’s decision. Now the important thing is to see that Scotland regains her independence and rights as a kingdom.’

      ‘To do that, she must have a strong king!’ Isobel put in.

      ‘And you think old Robert Bruce of Annandale is the man to fill the position?’ Comyn asked, still amused. ‘A man whose wife, if the story is true, threw him across her saddle when she took a fancy to him, and carried him off to force him into marriage! A strong man indeed!’ He leaned back with a roar of laughter and raised a goblet of wine in mock salute.

      ‘I think it is the younger Robert Bruce she means,’ John put in coldly. ‘Am I not right, my dear? It is his son, Lord Carrick, we are talking about, are we not? The one who paid you so much attention when he was here last.’

      Too late, Isobel saw how she had betrayed herself; desperately she put her hands to her flaming cheeks, conscious that the eyes of both men were upon her. ‘I haven’t spoken to Lord Carrick for more than a year!’

      ‘But when you did?’ John was watching her face thoughtfully. ‘You spoke to him alone, did you not? It was reported that you were both seen leaving the chapel.’

      ‘Perhaps. I don’t remember.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘What does it matter now?’

      ‘It matters not at all. Now,’ he said quietly.

      Alone in their chamber later he turned on her. ‘You will not see Lord Carrick again alone, do you understand?’

      Isobel, wrapped in the pale green bed gown Mairi had given her after helping her undress, shivered. The room was dark now and full of shadows as the candles streamed in the draught from the window.

      ‘I doubt whether the occasion will arise, since you are enemies,’ she said sadly. ‘And he has no interest in me anyway. He is married.’ Her eyes betrayed her pain for a moment.

      Lord Buchan saw it. ‘So. That is it. You would have preferred a young, handsome husband, a man whose father claims a kingdom. That appeals to you does it?’ His face was hard with anger. ‘Not the stable boy my mother thought you were involved with, but an earl! So much more fitting for the great Lady of Duff. Far more to her tastes, although not, perhaps, to Carrick’s, as you came to me a virgin! Or was he still so recently knighted that he was mindful of his vows! Well, you are married now, madam, and to an earl of ancient lineage. To me! And you will play the part of my wife in every particular until the day you die, do you understand me?’ He caught her shoulders. ‘Your first duty being to provide me with an heir!’

      He took no pleasure in her body. Her slim, almost boyish figure, her pale skin and delicate bones excited him hardly at all as he pulled open her gown and pushed her down on to the bed. Only her rebellion raised him to passion, and then it was anger, not desire which inflamed him.

      He stayed at Duncairn for three weeks as he discussed with the Scottish lords their plans for rebellion and made the decision at last to defy King Edward openly by breaking his parole and joining them. By the time he left the castle with them, Isobel knew that she hated him as she had hated no one in her life before; and she also knew that she was pregnant.

      As he rode away down the track at the head of his men she called Mairi to her.

      ‘A bath,’ she commanded. ‘Have them bring a bath up here and fill it for me!’

      ‘My lady?’ Mairi stared at her. ‘Up here? Now?’

      ‘Now,’ Isobel was imperious. For once she did not care how much work it made for the servants, or how hard it was to carry water up the high winding stairs. She waited in the chamber she had shared with the earl for the men to drag the heavy wooden tub up the stairs and fill it with bucket after bucket of rapidly cooling water, then, alone save for Mairi she began to remove her clothes.

      She heard the woman’s quickly smothered gasp of horror as she saw the bruises on Isobel’s arms and shoulders, and the lacerations where her husband’s brooch and buckles had caught at her bare skin as he took her again and again over the weeks, not even bothering to undress himself, but she ignored the woman’s unspoken sympathy. She gritted her teeth. If she wavered even for an instant in her resolve she would begin to cry, and that she would never do.

      Helping Isobel climb into the high-sided tub it was Mairi who found that she was blinking back her tears, but Isobel was uncowed. ‘Fetch me that box, standing on the coffer,’ she commanded as she lowered her aching body into the