Kingdom of Shadows

by Barbara Erskine

  A boy had thrown some dead fruit wood on the fire and its sweet scent had drifted across the chamber, almost neutralising the fetid stench which even the autumn winds could not quite disperse from the stagnant moat below. Quite soon they would be moving south, leaving behind them the Fife castles with their stinking piles of refuse and exhausted storerooms, all the evidence that remained to show where her household had passed the months of the long summer.

  Behind her the sound of a shrill childish giggle rose suddenly above the muted sounds of talking which had been reaching her but faintly from the fireside behind her where several of her women were seated on stools around the leaping flames. The boy was carefully feeding the greedy licking lights with the dried twigs, slipping them one by one into the red hot embers to be devoured with a quick crackling sound, and as each crumbled into hot dust the flame would reflect in the bright red kirtle of the child’s gown.

  Mairi had been young then, and nervous in her first position in the countess’s household. ‘Now, my lady, will you leave the poor little creature alone!’ Her frightened voice was raised at last in sheer desperation. At once, the chatter ceased and several pairs of reproachful eyes were raised from finely-stitched needlework. The only sound came from the crisp crackle of the fire and the mournful notes of a muted harp. Then, after a hasty glance towards the countess, the women had resumed their quiet gossip.

  Joanna watched them all for a moment. The child was on her knees at the nurse’s feet, her dark ringlets hanging around her shoulders, her scarlet gown a patch of brilliance against the drab dusty heather which strewed the floor. She seemed to be trying to bury something beneath Mairi’s long skirts as the unsuspecting young woman picked up her spindle. Another piercing giggle reached her mother’s ears as Mairi sharply pulled the sweeping folds of material away from the little girl.

  Again there was an uneasy silence. Joanna had shown herself to be possessed of an uncertain temper in the last few months and she had made it quite clear that her high-spirited daughter should be kept as much out of her way as possible in this, the smallest of the earl’s castles, where they were all forced to share the same restricted living space.

  Only the old man, sitting in the corner, did not seem to notice the strained atmosphere in the room. His long frail fingers stroked the harp strings soothingly, but his eyes were fixed on the embrasure where his mistress stood silhouetted in the bright evening light. Master Elias had been harper to King Alexander in the old days, but since the king’s death he had returned to the service of the Fife family, from whose lands he had come so many years before. His music was said to be the best in the whole of Scotland. Joanna had noticed his gaze. It disturbed her to see his eyes, which had been for so long completely blind, fixed unerringly on her face. She was certain he could read every thought which passed through her mind and with a superstitious shiver she turned away from him, directing her attention once more to her daughter.

  ‘Isobel! Come here and show me what you’ve got,’ she called out suddenly, sitting down on the narrow stone seat. The child paused in her play, uncertain, but then as the gentle reassuring sounds of the harp continued, she rose and gathering something up in her arms danced with it across the floor, out of a last small patch of sunlight near the fire, across the darkening room and back into the mellow light near her mother. She dropped a slightly unsteady curtsey and held out her arms to let a tiny kitten fall on the waiting lap. Joanna suppressed the urge to smile at the eager little face and surveyed her daughter gravely. Someone had woven a little wreath of cornflowers into the dark hair and they had begun to wilt sadly. The girl looked like a small wood nymph with those mischievous eyes and laughing mouth.

  By the fire the women had watched with interest as mother and daughter confronted one another. The little girl was looking up shyly through her dark lashes, in awe of this beautiful young woman who was her mother. She was well aware that Joanna had ordered Mairi to keep her away from her. Joanna had half smiled, however, as the child put her hand on the scrap of fur that was lying exhausted in her lap. She was a pretty child, with the flecked grey hazel eyes of her Celtic ancestors. Drowsy in the heat of the fire Joanna, lost in a dream, was brought back to the present only when the kitten, stretching, began energetically to knead at her knees, its claws hooked into her gown. Catching hold of it impatiently she threw it on to the floor where it landed on its feet, spitting with fright and indignation. Isobel had been standing watching her mother’s face with wide-eyed intensity, but now she fell on her knees beside the kitten, gathering the tiny creature up in her arms and soothing its ruffled feelings. She had looked up at her mother, her eyes blazing with uncontrollable temper although she had said nothing, and Joanna did not notice the child’s anger. She had risen from her seat and was gazing from the window once more, lost in thoughts of her husband’s return.

  Mairi had not, however, missed that look in Isobel’s eyes. Leading her charge back to the fire she shook her head sadly. There was temper there which must be curbed for Isobel’s own sake. She had seen too many signs of it over the three years she had had charge of the child.

  Mairi had first come to Isobel from a village high in the mountains of Mar. The Earl of Fife’s grandmother, who was now Countess of Mar, had found the girl and arranged that she come to Joanna’s service. She was a quiet, introspective young woman, whom some had thought simple. But she had soon picked up a smattering of the Scots which the household of her new mistress spoke, while she still spoke her native Gaelic to the child when they were alone together. Isobel, avid for stories, and with the quick ear of the very young, did not care what language they were in as she clamoured for more and more, as long as they came fast and ever more exciting. Mairi was clever at relating, with wide eyes and expressive gestures, the hair-raising tales of her own mountains, with their attendant ghosts and demons, sprites and fairies, and Isobel had absorbed them all.

  The boy began lighting the torches with a brand from the fire. They flared wickedly for a moment as each caught, then settled to a steady flame. Joanna turned from her place at the window at last and went back to her seat near the fire.

  ‘My lady, there are riders coming.’ The boy had been drawing the heavy shutters across the window. Joanna looked up, trying to steady the sudden excitement in her heart.

  ‘Let us hope they are here before darkness comes,’ she said as calmly as she could. She turned to the harper. ‘Pray, play something more cheerful for us before we retire to bed.’

  Isobel knew instinctively that her mother was excited; she knew she hoped for her father to return soon, but she did not care. Small as she was she had nursed in her heart her father’s scorn and it had festered.

  ‘Well, sir, are you not to play for us tonight?’ Joanna turned sharply on the harper, who had continued merely to stroke out gentle meaningless chords from his instrument. He turned his face in the direction of her voice and opened his mouth as though to say something, then he changed his mind. Instead he began to play a soft haunting melody, stroking sounds of loneliness and mourning from the golden wires of his instrument. It was a sound so desolate that after a few moments all conversation came to a stop, and the women turned, troubled, towards him. Even Isobel, playing sleepily with the doll Lord Buchan had given her, had turned from examining the exotic green silk in which its limbs were swathed and looked up from her toy. She had been filled suddenly with a terrible, inexplicable feeling of dread, a feeling she did not even understand. Climbing to her feet she had gone over to the musician, and stood for a while, gazing intently into his face. He had at once sensed the child close to him, and turned to smile at her, although he did not cease playing. ‘Stop playing that sad tune!’ she ordered suddenly. He took no notice. ‘Stop it!’ she cried again, stamping her foot. ‘Stop it, stop it, I don’t like it. Make him stop!’ She turned tearfully to the fire.

  Mairi hastily rose to her feet. ‘With your permission, my lady, I will take her to bed,’ she said nervously.

  Be
fore she could reach the child though, Isobel had leaned forward and wrenched the old man’s hand from the strings. ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ she screamed again. There was an anguished arpeggio of notes from the instrument, and then silence.

  Joanna straightened, horrified.

  ‘Take her upstairs,’ she ordered. ‘Take her upstairs and whip her!’ She looked at the old man almost in fear. His fingers were gently feeling the frame of his instrument, nursing the sharp ends where two wires had been torn from their anchorage.

  At her words, however, he looked up and put out his hand to Isobel who had not moved. ‘Do not punish the child,’ he said softly. ‘She and only she understood the message of my tune. Do not be angry because it struck terror into her heart. I spoke to her of destiny and of death; of duty towards men and towards kingdoms. As yet she does not understand, but she felt fear at what life holds in store for her. Fear which you too should feel, madam, for all you bear a son in your womb!’

  ‘A son!’ Joanna put her hand to her belly in wonder. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  She shook her head, still shocked and distressed by what had happened. ‘But your harp! She has broken your harp.’

  Master Elias put the harp down on the floor beside him and, groping for his stick, he rose to his feet. Making his way towards the door, the old man paused for a moment beside her. ‘My harp can be mended, Lady Joanna,’ he commented tersely. Without another word he made his way to the door, feeling before him gently with his stick. The boy rushed forward to open the heavy door for him, and the old man disappeared slowly down the dark draughty stair, the sound of the tapping of his stick, and the soft shuffling of his fur robe on the stone steps, coming up to them long after he had gone.

  There was a moment of silence, then Mairi had taken Isobel by the hand. ‘Come along, my little love,’ she said softly. ‘Trobhad seo, Iseabail, tha thîd agad dhol dhan leabaidh. We’ll away to our bed.’ Silently they too crossed to the door, but as they reached it, the sound of hasty footsteps came up to them from below and the ring of spurs on stone.

  Pulling Isobel to her, Mairi waited. Joanna had risen from her chair at the sound, her cheeks pale, and her own breath coming sharply as the steps came panting up the stair. Behind her the other women rose looking at one another in consternation. Mairi put her arm around the child’s shoulders protectively, and looked at the countess, who was standing clasping the back of her chair as two men appeared at the top of the stairs. They wore the livery of the Earl of Fife, but their clothes were torn and spattered with dried mud and dust.

  One, the taller of the two, stopped abruptly, and remained by the door, awkwardly fingering his sword hilt; the other strode straight to where Joanna stood, and went down on one knee before her. His face was lined and tired and his expression was grim. There was a moment of silence as he knelt unspeaking, his eyes fixed on the hem of her gown.

  Looking down at his heaving shoulders, Joanna had hardly dared speak. Her own heart was thumping with fear as she waited for him to say something. ‘Well?’ she cried at last, unable to bear his silence.

  ‘My lady, I have dreadful news.’ The man made a visible effort to collect himself, then paused again, uncertain how to continue.

  ‘You bring word from the earl my husband?’ she prompted.

  He winced as though she had struck him. ‘My lady, we were riding towards Brechin. It was growing dark, and the men were tired. The earl wanted to reach the burgh before dusk. My lady, we were ambushed.’ His voice was scarcely audible as he continued with a rush. ‘There were so many of them, hiding by the roadside. We stood no chance, my lady! We shouted at them! There must have been a mistake.’ He was appealing to her now. ‘They were lying in wait for someone else. It was twilight and hard to see. We shouted, my lady! They were the earl’s kinsmen, my lady! They wore the livery of the Abernethys. We fought them off as best we could, my lady, but two of our comrades were killed and … and …’

  Joanna was no longer listening. The words washed over her with the icy rush of a mountain waterfall. Everything inside her had gone cold and the room was silent.

  Isobel held her breath. It was as if the whole world had stopped breathing with her. Then she heard the man again. He rushed on, talking desperately into the silence. She barely understood his words, but she knew what they meant. Her father was dead. And she was glad.

  ‘… He did not stand a chance … they did not give him a chance to fight fair! He was murdered … murdered by his own kin.’ The man was blubbering now, like a child. His companion remained, as though stunned, rooted to the spot by the door.

  Suddenly Joanna turned on the kneeling man, her eyes blazing, half in tears, half in anger.

  ‘And how, sir, does it happen that you are still alive? Did you flee from aiding my lord to save your own skin?’ She almost spat the words at him.

  The man looked up with indignation. ‘The moment he was dead they fled, my lady. We could not follow in the darkness. And we could not leave … we could not leave him lying there.’

  She stood looking down on him in silence.

  ‘The body is being conveyed to the abbey of Coupar Angus, my lady countess.’ The man by the door spoke at last. ‘We shall be pleased to help escort you there at daybreak.’

  * * *

  ‘Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.’

  The mournful voices echoed back and forth, high in the shadowy vaults of stone in the abbey chapel across the garth. To Isobel in the guest house, it was the sound of doom. At her mother’s side she had ridden behind Mairi to the abbey the day before and despite Mairi’s protests, she had been made to accompany her mother to look at the Earl of Fife’s body.

  It lay on a bier in the shadowy nave, covered by the earl’s own banner, surrounded by tall candles. Joanna walked slowly towards it, holding Isobel’s hand tightly in her own. The rest of the church was dark and empty. The praying monks, their heads covered by their cowls, withdrew silently to the shadows as the widow approached.

  ‘I want to see him.’ Her whispered command sounded harsh in the silence.

  ‘It would be better not, my lady.’ The knight at her side put out a hand as if to restrain her.

  ‘I want to see him,’ she repeated stubbornly. She stepped towards the bier. Isobel hung back, suddenly afraid, but her mother pulled her forward.

  Duncan’s face, smoothed of its petulance by death, looked young and handsome in the steady candlelight; to Isobel, so small beside her mother, it looked already like stone. She wondered for a moment why her father lay so still in this cold, dark church; then she remembered. He was dead. She had seen death before, often, in her short life, but never so close; never so immediate. She stared curiously, resisting the temptation to reach out to touch him.

  Joanna moved forward suddenly and caught the silken banner, with its rippling rampant lion, pulling it completely from the body. She gave a strangled gasp. The earl’s clothes were soaked in blood, the encrusted hands, crossed so reverently on his breast, mutilated almost beyond recognition.

  With a shrill scream Isobel tore her hand free of her mother’s and ran blindly into the darkness of the abbey. No one saw her go, for Joanna, with a moan, had fallen to her knees, clutching in agony at her stomach as the first labour pain tore through her body.

  Mairi found Isobel in the end: the child was huddled in the choir stalls, her hands over her ears. At least in the darkness after her mother had been carried outside, it had been quiet but she had been too frightened to follow, conscious of the silent figure, once more hastily covered by its silken pall, lying so still in the candlelight.

  Mairi took her back to the guest house and left her, with firm instructions not to move, with one of Joanna’s ladies. She herself was needed by the countess.

  Joanna’s moans had continued all night. The next morning, as the monks began to sing their requiem, the first of the woman’s screams echoed round the small square building.

  Isobel cowered bac
k, her small face white, her eyes enormous. The woman with her glanced at the child. ‘Outside, my lady. Go outside and play.’ She ushered her towards the door. ‘Go on, quickly. I must go to your mother.’

  But Isobel hadn’t gone. Cautiously she had followed, creeping towards the door of the small guest chamber where Joanna had been lodged, and there, unnoticed by the panicking, frantic women, she saw and heard it all. There were no midwives to take charge. Joanna, still a month from the expected date of her confinement, had not thought to bring any. Her escort had consisted only of armed men, three of her ladies – all unmarried – and three servants, only one of whom had had a child of her own. This woman, thrust suddenly, trembling and terrified, into the role of midwife, could think only of what would happen to her if the countess should die. Mairi was the only one in the end to keep her head. Calm and reassuring she had bathed Joanna’s face and held her hands as the countess lay propped up in the high bed, cursing the mournful chanting which could be heard so clearly from the open door of the chapel.

  In numb, terrified silence, Isobel stared into the room. She saw and smelt the blood; only this blood wasn’t black and clotted like that which had stiffened on her father’s embroidered tunic. It was red and alive. It soaked the sheets and covered the women’s arms, and it seemed to pour from her mother’s body endlessly as again and again Joanna screamed.

  And then the baby came. Her brother. Duncan. Her father’s heir. The new Earl of Fife. A tiny, blood-stained, ugly doll, the chord still hanging from his belly as someone held him up. He was mewling like a puppy. And they were pleased. Even her mother, exhausted as she was, was smiling now through her tears, holding out her arms for the boy.