Life at Whitwick was ordered and calm. They heard little news. The men and women of the household were wrapped up in their own affairs and they had no interest in Lord Buchan’s except where they touched him personally. Isobel’s wounds healed, her natural resilience returned and she found herself slowly falling into the pattern of life at the manor as the long autumn days shortened and grew cold.
It had been made very clear to her that although she was not locked up she was nevertheless a prisoner. She was not to ride – that anyway she realised in rueful embarrassment would have been too uncomfortable to contemplate. She was not allowed to walk beyond the immediate gardens of the manor with their ordered beds of herbs and the rose bower the steward’s wife had made over the years for her own pleasure, and even there she was never alone. There was nothing for it but to wait and occupy her time as best she could, and to dream. At first her daydreams were all of escape; she would picture herself riding through the heather, or standing on the cliffs of Buchan listening to the sea. She had not thought it possible to miss the sea so much: the smell, the sound, the vitality of the wind and spray, the power of the waves. The forests and fields of Leicestershire were gentle and the air was soft, even the people so very different from the rugged loyal men and women of her northern home.
She filled her time with sewing and taught herself to weave; she sat spinning in the evenings with the steward’s wife and the three ladies who served them and by the light of the candles she read. There were three books at the manor: a book of hours, a book of psalms and an exquisitely illuminated copy of Le Roman de la Rose which Isobel herself had brought and left there on one of her previous visits.
The first soft snowflakes were falling from the sky when she had her only visitor. Alice, now married to Sir Henry Beaumont, rode into the manor courtyard with an entourage of men and horses at the beginning of December.
‘Aunt Isobel?’ She kissed Isobel cautiously, as though doubtful of her reception. ‘How are you?’ Her nose was pink with cold, her figure very obviously pregnant. ‘Uncle John said I could come and visit you.’
Isobel raised an eyebrow. ‘I had thought he’d forgotten I existed,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘In fact I hoped he’d forgotten I existed.’ She gave Alice a hug. ‘Come in, my dear. I am so very glad to see you.’
They sat together by the roaring fire in the solar whilst her ladies mulled them some wine.
‘So. You are expecting a baby!’ Isobel took her niece’s cold hands. ‘When will it be born?’
‘In the spring,’ Alice hugged her again. ‘It’s going to be a boy, I know it.’ She eyed Isobel critically. ‘You have grown so thin. Have you been ill?’
Isobel smiled ruefully. ‘No. Not ill. Just lonely and bored.’
‘Uncle John wouldn’t tell me why he’d had you sent here.’ She glanced away. ‘Is he still angry with you?’
‘Still angry?’ Isobel gave a hollow laugh. ‘You could say so, my dear. But let’s not talk about me.’
‘No. We must.’ Alice glanced over her shoulder at the women by the hearth, then she rose and took Isobel’s hand, leading her to the window embrasure. They could both feel the wind beating against the polished horn screens which served in some of the windows in this old manor house instead of glass. ‘What happened? What did you do?’
‘Something bad enough.’
‘Before, when Uncle John sent you to Dundarg to do that dreadful penance …’ Alice bit her lip. ‘Aunt Isobel … It was me that betrayed you. I was stupid and self righteous and I wanted Uncle John to be pleased with me so he would help to arrange my marriage with Henry. I told him I’d seen you with Lord Carrick in the garth. I didn’t realise. I didn’t know he would be so angry. I just thought he would rebuke you. I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry.’ She was crying suddenly, kneading her skirt between her fingers.
Isobel stared at her, her face pale. She took a deep breath as though she were about to say something, but she changed her mind. She turned away. ‘Oh Alice,’ was all she said.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I don’t know.’ She felt completely stunned. ‘And are you here to spy on me again?’
‘No.’ Alice shook her head violently. ‘No, I swear it! If I can ever make it up to you, I will. Oh, please, Isobel, forgive me.’ She caught Isobel’s hands. ‘Please. And tell me why you are here. Perhaps this time I can help.’
‘I am here because I was spied on again, it seems.’ Isobel’s voice was flat. ‘Someone sent your uncle a letter saying I had been seen with Lord Carrick in the summer.’
‘And was it true?’ Alice spoke in a whisper.
Isobel smiled. ‘I don’t think I should tell you that, should I?’
Alice glanced away. ‘I am not a spy.’ She had heard the rumours. Everyone at Westminster had heard the whisper that the Countess of Buchan had been unfaithful to her husband with the Earl of Carrick. They had waited with bated breath for Robert to put in an appearance at Westminster when the parliament met in the autumn, but he seemed content to stay in Scotland and he had never appeared. And Isobel, banished into Leicestershire, had not been there to confirm or deny the rumours.
‘Please. Let me be your friend.’ Alice turned back to her. ‘Please. Let me make it up to you somehow.’
Isobel gave a wan smile. ‘Just your being here is enough, Alice dear. I have been so lonely.’
‘Can we talk later, in bed?’ Alice whispered, with a glance at the women by the fire as the warm rich scent of wine and herbs began to percolate through the room.
It was the custom for relatives and guests of the same sex sometimes to share the great bed if the man of the house was away and after a moment’s hesitation Isobel nodded. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said.
So, that night, Alice, cheerfully naked in spite of her bulky belly, jumped on to the high bed and held back the covers for Isobel to join her.
Isobel eased herself on to the mattress, still wearing her long linen shift. She could not bear Alice to see the iron belt which still, in spite of her thinness, so cruelly clamped her flesh. But Alice had guessed. She touched Isobel’s waist gently in the darkness and then hugged her close. ‘Did Uncle John do that?’ she whispered.
Isobel nodded. ‘I was unfaithful.’
Alice’s eyes widened in the darkness. ‘So, it is true. You do love Lord Carrick?’ They were both speaking very softly, conscious that beyond the bed curtains one of the serving women was sleeping on a truckle bed by the fire.
‘Yes. I love him.’ What was the point of denying it?
‘Dear God!’ Alice’s whisper was explosive. ‘Who gave men the right to treat us like this? We become their possessions, their property!’ She lay back on the pillows and thumped the sheet with her fist. ‘We cease to exist as people!’ She raised herself on to her elbow and looked at Isobel in the darkness. ‘Does he plan to leave you like this for ever?’
‘I think he plans to kill me.’ Isobel’s answer was barely audible.
‘What?’
‘He wants to marry again – marry a woman who can give him a child.’
‘But you could –’
No.’
There was a long silence. Beyond the curtains they could hear the fire hissing softly in the hearth. The truckle bed creaked and groaned as the sleeping woman moved, and at last there was the sound of a soft snore.
Alice put her hands up to touch Isobel’s face in the darkness.
‘Would you get rid of that belt if you could?’
Isobel stared up towards the dark curtains. ‘Of course I would. But my lord and husband holds the only key.’
‘It could be cut off.’ Alice’s words were so quiet Isobel could scarcely hear them.
‘How? There is no one here who would help me.’
Alice smiled quietly. ‘I think I know someone who would do it. For you. But do you dare? What will Uncle John do when he finds out?’
‘I told you, he will probably kill me.’ Isobel eased herself uncom
fortably beneath the warm covers. ‘But then he will probably do that anyway. I’m prepared to take the risk.’ Her heart was beginning to beat with slow, steadily mounting excitement. For the first time in many weeks she allowed herself to feel a suspicion of hope.
Alice squeezed her hand. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can arrange something.’
The something was a six-foot young man in the livery of Sir Henry Beaumont.
He came into the bedchamber the following evening lugging a trug full of blacksmith’s tools. ‘Do you remember Hugh, the farrier’s son from Duncairn?’ Alice asked with a giggle. ‘He helped you once before.’
Isobel stared. ‘Hugh?’
‘Aye, my lady. And ready to serve you again.’ He smiled, his brown eyes merry in the tanned face.
The soft lilt of the Buchan accent brought tears to Isobel’s eyes. ‘Hugh? Are you to be forever releasing me from my imprisonment?’ In her embarrassment she laughed and caught his hands.
‘As often as you like, my lady. I’ll be happy to serve you.’ He glanced up shyly, his eyes alight with humour.
Firmly Alice moved to the door and drew the bolt across. ‘Now, we haven’t much time. I’ve explained the situation to Hugh and he says he can cut you free. Come and lie down.’ Bustling nervously Alice arranged the bed covers modestly over Isobel’s body so that only the broad iron belt around her waist and the lock which fastened it was visible.
Hugh rummaged amongst his tools; then she felt the weight of his knee on the feather mattress beside her.
It seemed an eternity before, with a grunt of satisfaction, he freed the lock and she felt the heavy metal slide away. In a moment he had gathered it up with his tools. He turned his back tactfully whilst Isobel regained her feet and smoothed down her gown.
‘How can I ever thank you?’ she asked. ‘I have no money.’
‘There is no need of money. Just let me stay in your service when Lady Beaumont leaves.’ He smiled broadly. ‘She has agreed.’
The Earl of Buchan arrived unannounced at Whitwick a month later, two weeks after Alice, amidst many tears, had left. Isobel waited, heart in mouth, for him to send for her, but the summons never came. He spent six hours at the manor, checked his stables and the men he had left on his Leicestershire estates, then he left, riding north for Scotland with only three men as his escort. He spoke to Isobel when she appeared in the hall just before he left, curtly and with obvious dislike, for less than five minutes, neither touching her, nor enquiring after her health.
In London the Earl of Carrick had at last appeared for a while that autumn, and was high, it seemed, in King Edward’s favour. Lord Buchan was going to have to bide his time if he still valued Scotland’s peace above his own personal, mortal, grudge. Isobel’s fate would be decided soon, but not yet, not if he wanted to avoid offending Robert Bruce, and through him, perhaps, the King of England.
Behind him as he rode north the snow was sweeping up from the south, soft, blanketing drifts engulfing the countryside and blocking the roads. It was to last several weeks.
Christmas came and went and here and there the first snowdrops pushed through the melting ice. Conscious of an easing in the attitude of those around her and secure in the fact that her husband was hundreds of miles away, Isobel began slowly to increase the distance she roamed from the manor and, always careful to ask the steward or one of his officers to go with her, she began to ride again. Slowly her confidence returned and with it the courage to plan her escape.
The servants at the manor liked her, her husband’s men liked her and the people in the village liked her. They seemed to have forgotten she was their prisoner; to them she was the lady of the manor and more and more a trusted friend; and she promised herself that as soon as the roads opened and her plans were complete, with Hugh’s aid she would run away. Somewhere in Scotland there would be a hiding place for her, and somehow she would persuade Robert to accept her and acknowledge his love before the world.
However, in the first week in February, before she had the chance to put her plans into effect, Lord Buchan returned, and with him a huge entourage of men and horses, on his way south once more to see the King. Once more he greeted her distantly and did not try to touch her. He took to his bed, so one of her ladies told her, the widow of one of his knights.
He remained, this time, for several days, and for every moment of them she waited in terror lest he find out that she was free of his chains. But he never came near her, and at last it dawned on her that he wanted her to beg; to beg to have the belt removed; to beg to go back to Scotland. From that moment on her fear of what he would do when he found out that she was already free was almost extinguished by the secret triumph of knowing that she would never beg him for anything again.
It was a wet, monochrome day with the clouds low on the hills and the trees leaning before the thrashing gale when a sweating horseman clattered into the courtyard and threw himself from his mount. He pushed his way through to the great hall of the manor, almost collapsing with exhaustion, and went down on one knee before the earl.
‘My lord, news from Scotland!’ He shook his head, trying to catch his breath. ‘Your cousin, the Red Comyn, my lord, has been murdered!’
A puff of ragged smoke blew back down the wide chimney and filled the hall with acrid fumes.
Buchan stood up, his face white. ‘Murdered!’ He stepped forward and caught the man by the shoulder, shaking him. ‘Murdered you say? By whom? What happened, man?’ He seized the unfortunate messenger by the ear and hauled him to his feet.
The man gave a yelp of pain. ‘By Lord Carrick, my lord! Lord Carrick stabbed him! They quarrelled, in Greyfriars Kirk in Dumfries, and Lord Carrick killed him there, by the high altar! It was murder, my lord, and the most foul sacrilege.’
There was a horrified silence in the hall. Isobel, who had been sitting stitching delicate rich designs into the piece of velvet she was embroidering in a corner near a branch of candles well out of sight of her husband, rose unsteadily to her feet, the silver and gold threads with which she had been working falling unnoticed into a pool of wax on the table. She had gone cold all over.
‘Are you sure of this?’ Lord Buchan hissed at the man. He let go of his ear abruptly and the man collapsed sobbing on to his knees.
‘Aye, my lord. Quite sure. The whole of Scotland is talking of it!’
Buchan turned slowly towards his wife. ‘So, now at last we know where we stand. You see what has become of your Robert Bruce?’ He had not raised his voice, but in the intense silence in the low-ceilinged hall she heard every word. He smiled almost triumphantly. ‘He has shown his hand at last. He is nothing but a sacrilegious murderer!’
His eyes narrowed. With Robert Bruce so abruptly severing himself from King Edward’s peace, there would be no need to step warily any longer; there would be no need to pretend an alliance with the man he hated more than any other man on earth and there would be no need any more to keep his adulterous wife alive.
Her eyes holding his, Isobel could read his mind as clearly as if he had spoken out loud. She found her breath coming in short quick gasps and a pain like a stitch gripped her side, but before she could move or speak, the messenger went on.
‘There is more, my lord. Lord Carrick has declared himself King of Scots! Already he had taken Dumfries when I left, and by now he probably has other towns. The people of Scotland are rising to his support on every side!’
With an oath Buchan picked up his sword which had been lying near him on the table, and dragged it from its scabbard. Lifting it high above his head with both hands he brought it down, point first into the oak bench near him and left it quivering there for a moment before wrenching it free. ‘By Our Lady, I have sworn to kill that man, and now I shall do it! By Christ and all the Saints, in the name of King John Balliol I shall do it!’ His face had gone puce. He turned back to Isobel. ‘The people of Scotland may be rising but you, madam, will not be there. With the Bruce alive or dead, you will not be
there! Take her, and lock her up!’ He shouted the order to the steward. ‘And keep her here until I return. I shall deal with her then!’
Within an hour he had set off at a gallop, not towards Scotland, but south towards Westminster and King Edward, taking a small escort of men and leaving the rest to guard his wife and await his orders for the march north.
Isobel was beside herself. Tears and pleas and angry commands to release her were ignored by the steward, conscious of his oath of allegiance to his lord, and torn with frustration and despair Isobel was forced to pace the small room where she was imprisoned. No more news came. From the window she could see that the bulk of her husband’s men and horses were still at Whitwick. She did not know where the earl had gone, nor that King Edward, on being told what had happened at Dumfries had at first refused to believe it of his trusted servant, Robert, Earl of Carrick, and wasted precious time waiting for confirmation of his treason.
Down in the courtyard rumour was rife. The majority of the earl’s men were Scots; they were drawn from his wide estates across the length and breadth of Scotland and many, whilst loyal to the earl, were far from easy with the present situation with Scotland as England’s vassal. The thought of a native-born king, a descendant of the old kings of Scotland, grandson of old Robert Bruce the claimant, who had represented the senior male line of descent from King David was intriguing, and to many of them, infuriated by having to march side by side with the hated English, exciting.
The unrest came to a head the day Isobel was released from her chamber in the manor. The steward, with no further orders from the earl, succumbed at last to her pleading and unlocked the door.
Initially she was uncharacteristically cautious. She had to take care. She had to escape, but with the manor alive with her husband’s men it would be difficult.
Kingdom of Shadows Page 45
