‘No!’ Isobel whispered. ‘NO!’ She was slowly shaking her head. ‘No …’
‘Yes, my lady.’ William’s voice was strident over the prostrate body between them.
‘You’ve tortured her –’ Isobel accused desperately. ‘She was forced to say those things –’
‘She spoke freely and at length to the men who questioned her,’ William answered coldly. ‘God sees to it that the truth emerges in the end.’
‘God!’ Isobel stared at him wildly. ‘God would not do this! God would not allow such vile cruelty, such bestiality!’ And yet, even as she spoke the words she knew that He would. After all, it happened all the time.
William was smiling. ‘Allow me to be the interpreter of Our Lord’s intentions, madam,’ he retorted. ‘Our Lord, whom, I believe, you do not recognise. You invoke the goddess in your prayers. Many have heard you. That is heresy.’ His eyes glittered.
‘No,’ she whispered. She was mortally afraid. ‘No. That’s not true. I swear it – by Our Lord’s Blood! By the love of the Holy Virgin!’
‘Enough, my lady!’ William held up his hand. ‘For the sake of your immortal soul you must be purged of your heresy.’
‘No –’ She was struggling desperately now, but the two men held her with ease.
‘At dawn,’ he went on, ‘your servant will burn –’ He broke off as Mairi raised her head. Her eyes had suddenly focussed.
‘No! Obh obh!’ she screamed. ‘You said if I confessed I would be spared –’
‘I said you would be saved.’ William looked down at her without expression. ‘Your soul will be saved. Purged by the Blessed Fire –’
Mairi was struggling to stand, but her legs would not support her. Frantically she was trying to drag herself away but her broken body would not obey her.
Isobel pulled desperately against the men who held her but it was no use. She was forced to stand as, at a nod from William, Mairi’s guards seized her arms and half dragged, half carried the woman away.
William did not even bother to look after her. He waited until the sound of her desperate screams was muffled by the closing of the heavy oak doors, his eyes fixed on Isobel’s face.
At last he spoke. ‘Do you wish me to hear your confession before I pass judgment on you?’
Isobel stared at him. She was beyond fear. ‘Do you intend to burn me too then, Master William?’ Her voice was cold; heavy with scorn. It seemed to be coming from someone else, someone outside herself. ‘Does my husband know the powers you have taken for yourself: the power of a bishop at least?’
He gave a slight smile. ‘He knows, my lady.’ He turned and, walking back to his seat, slowly sat down. ‘This is an ecclesiastical court, madam. I sit here with the authority of the Church and of the bishop. It is your husband’s men who will burn that wretch tomorrow, not mine. But it is my jurisdiction that decided her fate and it is my jurisdiction that will decide yours.’ He folded his arms. ‘You will not burn. We will bring you back to the Church, my lady, and we will bring you back to obedience to your husband. I believe a long and bitter penance will show you the error of your ways. Tonight you will spend in the chapel here, praying for your soul and for the soul of the woman who is to die because of you –’ He paused, letting the words sink in. ‘Then tomorrow you will be taken to the Castle of Dundarg, at the northern edge of Buchan, and there you will serve your penance until such time as my brother or I feel you are sufficiently repentant.’ He nodded curtly to the men on either side of her and at once they began to drag her from the hall.
The dowager was waiting in an anteroom near the chapel. With her were two of her serving women and two men servants. She was deaf to Isobel’s pleas. Her face sour with dislike she ordered the two men to hold Isobel while the women removed her gown. They took her head-dress and veil and her shoes and stockings, leaving her shivering in nothing but her shift, then they led her to the chapel.
At the door Master William was waiting. In his hands was a wooden cross on a leather thong. Solemnly he hung it around her neck. Isobel pulled away from him sharply.
‘You are not a holy man, William Comyn. You are evil, vindictive and vengeful,’ she cried. She took hold of the cross and pulled it off. ‘This is not the symbol of forgiveness and mercy. It means vengeance and torture!’
She flung it away from her and there was a gasp from the men and women round her. William gestured to one of his attendants to pick up the cross. He stood for a moment staring down at it, then he looked up at her.
‘It seems we must save you in spite of yourself, my lady,’ he said softly. ‘Fetch a cord!’ he ordered curtly. ‘Bind her wrists behind her.’
The dowager frowned, but she said nothing as one of the priests tied Isobel’s hands behind her back. When it was done William stepped forward once more and hung the cross round her neck a second time. He looked down at her and she thought she saw him repress a smile before he turned and led the way into the chapel.
It was lit by only four candles. Two burned on the altar, another by the reserved sacrament and a small light flickered before the statue of the Virgin. As the priests and men at arms filed into the chapel behind them the light from the torches they carried lit the chapel suddenly, making the shadows lean and contort over the high painted walls, filling the place with harsh moving shapes.
In front of the altar William stopped and genuflected, then he turned to Isobel. ‘We shall leave you here to contemplate your sins,’ he said. ‘There will be a guard on the door so do not attempt to leave.’
The sound of the door closing died in the echoes and the candles dipped and flickered. Isobel stood without moving as the shadows regrouped and steadied. Above the altar the figure on the high carved crucifix seemed to writhe, the hands and feet straining against the reddened wooden nails which held them in place. She stared up at it in terror.
The cord which bound her wrists was firmly knotted. The man who had tied it had not pulled it cruelly tight, but however much she tried she could not free herself. Slowly she backed against the wall, looking fearfully around her. The chapel seemed to be full of accusing eyes. Beneath the shift she was naked and she was shivering violently. The flagstones were icy beneath her bare feet. Outside the huge Gothic arch of the window the sky was black. Staring up at it she thought with another pang of fear of the dawn, and at last she began to pray.
She didn’t sleep. Sometimes she prayed, sometimes she walked up and down, feeling the weight of the wooden cross banging against her breasts. One by one the candles went out. As the last one guttered and flickered out, leaving the chapel in total darkness, she sat down on the altar steps, leaning against the fluted granite pillar, and slowly the tears began to slide from beneath her lids as she tried in vain to tuck her frozen feet beneath the hem of her shift. When she looked towards the window again she could see a faint greyness behind the coloured glass.
It was almost daylight when they came to collect her. She was led, bound and barefoot as she was, outside the castle wall and down towards the meadow beside the broad fast-flowing river. There the stake had been prepared.
Mairi, when they carried her to it and tied her there, was barely conscious of what was happening. Pain and fear had numbed her until she was floating in and out of consciousness. She did not see them piling the faggots and bundles of dried heather around her torn skirts, nor feel the heavy roughness of the wood against her legs. She wasn’t aware of her bruised breasts naked before the silent staring crowd, nor did she see Isobel.
High above, the small mackerel clouds were tinged pink in the brilliant blue of the sky. Rooks were cawing in the beech trees around the castle, and the light was coming to the meadows and to the sandy dunes along the river, touching the gorse with gold. The air was cold and fresh.
Standing next to Mairi, the executioner, a burning brand in his hand, waited for the signal from the black-robed priest. He might have turned her over to the secular authority of his brother for the execution of the punishment, but Willi
am Comyn intended to direct its every moment himself. And he wanted to watch Isobel’s face. She was white as a sheet. Her shift of fine lace-trimmed lawn, cut low at the neck, gave her no protection against the chill of the early morning or against the eyes of the curious people of Ellon. Where the hem trailed in the long grass with its haze of speedwell it was transparent with moisture, clinging to her legs. His eyes moved speculatively to the swell of her breasts with the heavy wooden cross hung on the rough leather thong and he smiled. Her hands were still tied behind her back.
He nodded abruptly to the man with the brand who pushed it at once into the faggots at Mairi’s feet. William saw Isobel catch her breath in agony. Her face was white.
As the smoke began to rise and spread the people standing too near the fire moved away sharply. Mairi, too weak to struggle, had begun to sob in terror as a man climbed swiftly on to the unlit faggots behind her. Quickly and silently he fitted a noose around her neck. The Church in its mercy had decided that she should be strangled before the flames could reach her.
Clare came to herself screaming. Scrambling to her feet she ran to the windows and flung them open, flinging herself out on to the terrace. It had begun to rain. The garden smelled of wet earth and dead leaves, and there was a sudden cold bite to the wind. She staggered to the low wall which bounded the terrace and sat down on it, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She was trembling all over. She closed her eyes and lifted her face, feeling the cold wet rain cleansing it, running down her cheeks, soaking her hair. Beneath her hands as she clung to the stone she felt the crawling tendrils of scarlet creeper. She shredded them and then stared uncomprehendingly down at the handful of crushed red leaves in her lap. Indoors the telephone had begun to ring.
Paul was standing at his desk staring as usual out of the window as he held the receiver to his ear, frowning. Behind him Henry was sitting in the leather arm chair, ankle on knee, a folder of papers in his lap. Paul drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk top. It was the fourth time he had rung when at last Clare picked up the receiver her end.
‘Clare?’ Paul frowned. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you for half an hour! Look, are you going to be in tomorrow morning? I’ve asked Henry to drop by with some papers for you to sign. The accountant needs them back as soon as possible.’
Clare was clutching the receiver so tightly in her wet hands that her knuckles were white. She was dripping all over the carpet. Behind her the windows still stood open, and the rain was pouring down, splashing into the room off the terrace. ‘Of course. That would be nice.’ She was trying desperately to collect her wits, grabbing for normality. ‘Does he want lunch?’
‘No.’ Paul was curt. ‘Just give him some coffee. He’ll be in a hurry.’ He slammed down the phone. For a moment he didn’t turn to Henry. She had sounded vague and withdrawn. Lonely. He should have told her to come to London to buy a new dress for the Chairman of the Stock Exchange’s party on Saturday. He should have asked her how she was. Instead all he had felt on hearing her voice had been blind rage that her stubbornness was putting his career at risk. Even the thought made him sweat. And it was her fault: entirely her fault. Without her stupidity and selfishness he wouldn’t have needed to gamble on Carstairs and his damned takeover in the first place. Without her refusal to sell Duncairn he could have paid off his debts and had change to invest. He ran a finger uneasily around the inside of his collar. He had lain awake all night thinking about Clare and the money. The time of persuasion was over. She had to be forced to sell.
The solution, when it came to him, had been staggeringly simple. He would trick her into signing over everything to him. If Henry took the papers down she would suspect nothing. He knew Clare. She wouldn’t bother to read them. He had a wad of tax forms for her anyway. One more would go unnoticed, particularly if she were sufficiently distracted. And he knew Henry. Henry Firbank would give his right arm to sleep with his wife. Well, perhaps he was about to get lucky.
14
Henry arrived at Bucksters at 10.45 a.m. It was a bright, blustery day, the brilliant golds and russets of the trees flaming against a vivid, cloud-streaked sky. Clare met him at the door. She was wearing an emerald-green cowl-necked sweater and a full, calf-length skirt which emphasised her slimness. Her eyes were shadowed and she looked very pale.
‘Would you like to walk round the garden for a bit? You must be fed up with sitting in the car.’ It was as if she could not bear to be inside the house another minute. Without waiting for his answer she came out on to the gravel, leaving the front door open behind her.
Obediently Henry put down his case and followed her on to the grass. She wasn’t wearing a coat. The wind caught her hair, tossing it wildly, and flicked her skirt, showing a froth of white lace beneath it. Henry licked his lips.
She had had the nightmare again that night. The fear; the desperate attempts to escape; the eyes peering at her. She had awakened at five in the morning, her nightgown drenched with perspiration, and, shaking, had groped her way to the window, pushing it open. It hadn’t been a cold night. The wind was fresh and salty as if it had come straight from the sea and she had sat there on the windowseat watching the day creep imperceptibly over the fields. She was terrified that now she was awake Isobel would come back to her. She had no wish to return to that violent, terrifying world, ever. As dawn broke at last, crimson and green streaked with copper, she had realised with another pang of fear that she had at least four hours to wait until Henry arrived.
‘It is beautiful out here.’ Henry followed her towards the beech hedge which hid the pool. ‘You and Paul are lucky to have such a lovely home.’
‘Yes, aren’t we?’ Her smile was artificial; brittle; unlike her.
Henry felt a wave of compassion. ‘You look tired, Clare. Is everything all right?’ He took her arm gently and to his dismay he saw there were tears in her eyes.
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. Take no notice.’ Gently she pulled away from him. ‘It’s good of you to drop in with the things for me to sign. Paul is always pushing great sheaves of papers at me and they always seem to be urgent.’ She smiled wanly.
In front of them the pool was hidden beneath its heavy cover. A drift of leaves lay, bright gold on the plastic. Clare stared down at it. ‘I hate it when the cover’s on. Do you want to swim?’
Henry put his hands in his pockets. He shivered slightly. ‘Isn’t it a bit late in the year for swimming outside?’
‘Of course not!’ She was laughing suddenly. ‘There are towels and spare trunks in the changing room. Come on! Then we’ll have coffee by the fire to warm you up!’
The cover slid back leaving the pool a brilliant ice blue in the cloud-shadowed sunshine. Henry took off his clothes in the draughty cedar-scented changing room and gingerly eased on a pair of trunks. They were a bit big and he pulled the lace tightly to adjust the waist. His skin was pale and flabby as he looked down at himself and he had a sudden moment of doubt. He didn’t want Clare to see him like this, unfit and untanned, but it was too late, already she had emerged from her end of the changing room. He watched her walk, tall and slim in a peacock-blue bikini across the concrete pool surround. For a moment she stood on the edge, nerving herself in the cold wind, then she dived in. Christ, she was beautiful! His excitement, he realised ruefully, was all too obvious in the borrowed swimming costume. He grabbed a towel from the pile on the shelf behind him and held it in front of himself as he watched her swim the length of the pool and cling to the far side.
She turned and smiled at him, pushing her wet hair back from her face. ‘Come on in.’
‘It looks cold.’ He grinned apologetically.
‘It is.’ Her eyes had lost their haunted look. ‘It’s freezing. Dive in and swim hard.’
‘Right!’ He strode to the end of the pool. Dropping the towel he stood for a fraction of a second, his toes curled over the mosaic rim of the pool and then he dived in. The coldness of the water wa
s numbing as he swam the length fast, underwater, coming up close beside her, laughing. ‘Do I get an award for speed?’
‘No chance!’ She splashed him playfully. Spluttering, he caught her wrist, and off balance in the water she swung against him. For a moment their bodies lingered against one another, warm in the cold water, then she pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, Henry –’
‘It’s OK.’ He smiled rather grimly. ‘It’s OK. I understand.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Abruptly she turned away from him. She swam towards the far side of the pool and, pulling herself out of the water, she picked up the towel Henry had discarded. Drying her face, she looked up at the sky. The clouds were sailing across the sun at high speed, torn, blustery rags of grey and white.
Henry pulled himself up the ladder. He walked self-consciously around the pool towards her. ‘I’d better get dressed, Clare. I have to get straight back to London.’
‘Of course. It’ll only take a minute to sign those silly papers of Paul’s.’
They did not speak again until they were dressed and back in the house. Her skin was still cold and clammy beneath her clothes as she poured coffee for him in the drawing room and she could feel her hair dripping uncomfortably down her neck. Putting her own cup down on the hearth she knelt in her favourite position before the fire with the brown manilla envelope Henry had taken from his briefcase. Inside were about a dozen sheets of closely typed or printed A4 paper. Clare glanced at the top one and pulled a face. ‘From our accountant. He’s always wanting me to sign boring forms.’ She unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen and signed with a flourish.
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