Kingdom of Shadows. Barbara Erskine

to your clucking attendants that I intend to sleep here in the lord’s bedchamber as long as I remain at Duncairn.’

      ‘You must not touch me, my lord!’ Isobel found her voice at last. ‘It … it might harm the child.’

      ‘Nonsense. Women can accommodate a man till their bellies are too big to get near them, and even then there are ways and means!’ He laughed coarsely. ‘It seems to me that you are always trying to keep me from your bed. You have to learn to give pleasure to your husband, my dear. Your body was made to please men. You must learn how to use it. Take off that hideous robe and let me see this belly of yours.’

      ‘No!’ Isobel stepped back sharply. ‘You musn’t touch me. Please – haven’t I done my duty enough?’

      ‘Your duty is to please me.’

      He cornered her near the high curtained bed. Pulling open her robe he pushed it back off her shoulders and stared down. The slim child’s body had gone. Since he had seen her last she had become a woman indeed. Her breasts were full and heavy, her stomach, boyishly flat before, was rounded, her hips defined. He felt a wave of intense desire shoot through him.

      ‘So. You think to keep me at arms’ length, till you are delivered of my son!’ He spoke thickly as he pulled her to him. ‘Think again, sweetheart. I find you more beautiful now than ever before.’ He dropped his head to her breast, grabbing for the nipple with his teeth.

      Isobel caught her breath with pain. Desperately she pulled at his hair, trying to dislodge him, and, finally managing it, she pushed him violently away from her and dodged out of reach. Her eyes were dark with temper. ‘Curse you, John Comyn! Don’t you touch me again! Don’t you so much as lay a finger on me or I shall kill this child. By the gods I swear I shall kill this child and you will never have a son!’ She could feel the wall behind her, cold beneath its tapestry hanging, and she pressed her hands against it, her eyes fixed on her husband’s face. ‘Leave me! Leave me, now.’

      He had gone white. For a moment he stood completely still, staring at her, then he stepped towards her. His voice was very quiet. ‘Sorceress! Witch! Don’t you ever threaten me again!’ He caught her by the shoulders. ‘I knew the devil would claim you for his own one day! Be thankful there was no one here to hear your evil tongue, my lady. Be very thankful indeed.’ He shook her, then quite deliberately he released her and, raising his hand, he hit her across the face. Her head snapped back against the wall and she sagged forward for a moment, stunned, but already he had grabbed her arms and pushed her upright again, his eyes hard. ‘Did you hear me? You are my wife, madam. In the eyes of God and in the eyes of men and at the command of the king, you are my wife, and you will obey me.’

      Still stunned, she tried to push her hair out of her eyes. The side of her face was a throbbing mass of pain.

      ‘At the command of our king!’ She forced herself to stand upright, her voice mocking. ‘Toom Tabard. The king of Nowhere. The king without a country. He is not our king. Our true king would never have given me to you!’

      ‘Ah, the father of the handsome Earl of Carrick!’ Lord Buchan raised his hand again. ‘How sad that you could not marry Sir Robert, my dear. How sad that you must be forced to love, honour and obey the husband you have.’

      She dodged the next blow, trying to push past him, but he caught her easily. Pain exploded in her head as he hit her again. Blind with fury and tears of agony she clawed at his face, trying to free her wrist from his grip, then as she felt him raising his hand for another blow she sank her teeth into his fingers.

      With a growl of rage he tried to pull free, pushing her away from him with every ounce of strength he had. Unable to save herself, she was thrown sprawling across the high oak coffer which stood at the end of the bed. The iron-bound corner caught her in the stomach with the pain of a turning sword blade. With a scream she staggered to her feet, clutching at her belly and as, deep in her womb, the blood began to flow, she collapsed at his feet.

      Sarah Collins turned into the driveway and parked beneath the stag-headed oak. She turned off the engine and sat still for a moment staring at the front of the house. No lights showed and the curtains were undrawn. She frowned. Mrs Royland usually turned on the outside lights if she was going to be out late. Stiffly she climbed out of the car. The mist was thickening rapidly. She couldn’t see the lights of the village across the fields. The garden was very quiet.

      She felt guilty about leaving Clare alone in the house, but she hadn’t wanted to spend the afternoon with her. Acutely aware that sides were being drawn up in some domestic battle, and instinctively knowing that it would be Mr Royland who pulled the punches when the time came, she didn’t want him to think she was in any way on Clare’s side. She valued her job too much. Reaching into the back of the car for her handbag and two carriers, her afternoon’s shopping, she closed the door softly and began to walk across the gravel.

      The front door was unlocked. Switching on the lights she drew the curtains. ‘Mrs Royland?’ she called, suddenly nervous.

      Quick footsteps crossed the landing and Casta ran down the stairs, tail wagging. The sight of the dog reassured her.

      ‘Where’s your mistress?’ She bent and patted the thick fur.

      Deep down inside, she knew. She glanced around again uncertainly, and then she made her way into the drawing room. Closing the full-length curtains over the dark windows she put a match to the ready-laid fire. She would put on the kettle and then she would go upstairs.

      Casta followed her up, keeping close at her heels. On the broad galleried landing Sarah hesitated. The dog had stopped, hackles raised. She growled slightly and Sarah looked down. She swallowed nervously. At the end of the hall Clare’s door was standing ajar. From where she stood on the landing Sarah could see the pale glow of the candlelight.

      The pain grew in waves, flowing through Isobel’s body, carrying her to the edge of unconsciousness and then drawing her back. The room was hot; sweat poured from her and grew chill as she began to shiver. She was conscious of people all round her; hushed voices, hands holding hers, cool scented cloths on her face. Mairi was there, and Alice. Someone was piling more wood on the fire. She clutched at a hand, moaning as the pain came again.

      Mairi was bending over her, her lips moving. ‘A Mhuire mhathair! It’s what you wanted, eudail. Be brave. It’s nearly over. The child is dead. You’re losing it now. It’s what you wanted, Iseabail, eudail … It’s what you wanted!’

      When it was over she slept. The bleeding had not stopped. Around her the women glanced at one another with pale faces. Nearby the tiny body, wrapped in the silk standard of the Earl of Buchan lay in a basket. With the soil frozen they could not bury it; no one dared to throw it on the fire. No one as yet had dared to tell the earl. The foetus had been male.

      When at last he was informed of what had happened Lord Buchan, white with fury, made his way back up to his wife’s bed chamber.

      ‘Murderess! Sorceress! You killed my child!’ He bent over the bed, his face twisted with rage.

      ‘No!’ Isobel stared up at him in terror. ‘It was you –’

      ‘This entire household knows what you’ve been doing, my lady. Riding at all hours, swallowing potions to rid yourself of it.’ He towered over her, his eyes blazing. ‘In this very room you flaunted what you intended to do! And now you have achieved it. You have murdered my son. By right, you should die.’

      She shook her head desperately, too weak to rise from the pillows. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t kill him … I didn’t …’

      ‘Brother –’ Sir Alexander had followed the earl up the winding stair. He put his hand on Lord Buchan’s shoulder. ‘Leave it now. Nothing will mend the harm that’s done.’ He eyed the vicious bruises on Isobel’s temple and cheek grimly. ‘There will be other sons. I’m sure your wife will take better care of herself next time.’

      Lord Buchan was breathing deeply, the heavy blue mantle he wore falling across the bed. The brooch on his shoulder caught the candlelight