Kingdom of Shadows (18 page)

He climbed up into the tower and stared out to sea, feeling the strange throbbing power of the wind and waves in his very soul. Dear God, he had to save this place!

‘What’s wrong with me, Zak? Am I going mad? I don’t understand. I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a child, but like that! In Harrods! With hundreds of people watching! I made such a fool of myself!’ Clare put her face in her hands for a second, then she straightened and looked at him. ‘What is the matter with me?’ she whispered.

Zak sat down slowly and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Nothing’s the matter. People often feel like that in crowds. You’re reading too much into a fairly common reaction. Think cool, remember?’

‘Think cool! How can I? The only thing I had to help me was the meditation, and you told me not to do that any more.’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Clare.’

‘And?’

‘And more than ever I am certain that you must stop doing it. I’ve been talking to someone about you, someone who knows about these phenomena. He agrees that the way you are approaching the exercise is wrong. Wrong for you. It is too risky. I still feel meditation could help you, Clare, but not this kind, please believe me.’

‘Zak?’ She sat down near him suddenly. ‘The nightmares, the claustrophobia. Do they have something to do with Isobel? Is this all connected?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know, Clare. Everyone has nightmares – they are externalisations of one’s inner fears and worries –’

‘Are my worries that terrible?’

‘They are to you, Clare. But you are facing them with your conscious mind now, and that should help. They should get better. Meditation, real meditation, the kind you think is boring. That will help.’ He looked uncomfortable.

Watching him, Clare suddenly felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth. She had leaned on him too far. What for him had been a straightforward exercise without complications, without questions, had turned out to be for her a tortuous path. He could not help her any more and he was frightened by what he had started.

Standing up restlessly she turned away from him. She should tell him to go; tell him it was all over; tell him she wouldn’t be tempted to meddle with the past again. Get on with her life. And yet he was in a sense her only lifeline.

‘Tell me one thing, Zak.’ She faced him, her voice calm. ‘Have I been conjuring up the spirits of the dead?’

‘I think you were well on your way towards it.’ He refused to meet her eye.

‘You think I’m a medium of some sort?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And you think Isobel would hurt me if I went on contacting her?’ Her fists were clenched tight.

‘She seems to have a very powerful personality –’

‘More powerful than mine, you mean.’ Clare raised an eyebrow.

‘I didn’t say that –’

‘But that is what you meant.’

‘Look, Clare. This is crazy.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t advise you.I’ve told you what I think. I’ve told you it is dangerous to meddle in this. I think you should stop, but I can’t force you to. Only please, be warned by what I’ve said. It may be that you are actually contacting the spirits; it may be that you’re only producing some powerful thought forms; either way what you are doing is dangerous!’

‘Are you sure you’re not the one that’s crazy, Zak?’ She smiled sadly, shaking her head. ‘All this could be rubbish, absolute rubbish, couldn’t it? You can’t conjure real people out of daydreams. Daydreams can’t hurt you!’

‘No?’ He grinned back amiably, standing up. ‘Well, I hope not, for your sake.’ He held out his hands to her. ‘Whatever I say you’ll do what you want. Take care, Clare. I have to catch my train. You know where I am if you need me. I’ll be thinking of you, OK?’

‘OK.’ She gave him a wan smile. And that was that. He had gone, leaving her alone. They both knew she wouldn’t ring him.

Instinctively she knew that she had to go to Duncairn. There she would find the answer to all her questions. Perhaps. She longed to be there, to feel the wind on her face, to hear the sea birds, to taste the North Sea spray on her lips. There she would find peace.

She never gave a thought to the menace of the oil. As far as she was concerned it was over, settled by her letter to Alec Mitchison.

On Thursday she rang Jack Grant. ‘I’ll come up to Duncairn next week. If you could give me a room for a few days, perhaps we can discuss the position, sort out our plans for the future.’

He could hardly refuse to have her, but after she had hung up she sat thoughtfully gazing at the phone. Had she imagined it or had there been suspicion and hostility in his voice? She shrugged. She had always liked Jack Grant when she was a child and the thought of him there at the hotel when she went back to the castle was reassuring. And she had to go to the castle. That much she knew.

They had asked six guests to dinner on Saturday night: Sir Duncan and Lady Beattie, George Pierce, who had been senior partner of Westlake Pierce, with his wife Susan, Henry Firbank and Diane Warboys.

Diane was sitting on the window seat, her legs elegantly crossed, dressed in a tight black skirt, slit to the thigh with a lace camisole beneath her black silk jacket. With her shoulder-length blonde hair she looked dramatic and very sexy. Henry could not take his eyes off her. She had eyes only for Paul.

As Paul poured the rest of the guests their drinks and handed them round, Clare stood by the fire with Henry. Dragging his gaze away from Diane he gave her a conspiratorial grin. ‘How are you?’

‘All right. Thank you for coming round the other night.’

Henry threw a quick glance towards Paul. ‘It was a pleasure. I hope you haven’t had any more turns like that one in the lift.’

For a fraction of a second she hesitated then she smiled. ‘I haven’t been in any more lifts. It’s usually possible to avoid them, thank goodness.’

‘I heard about your getting stuck in the lift, my dear.’ Lady Beattie’s sharp ears had picked up their conversation. ‘I am so terribly sorry. Duncan has told the lift company to come and check every single nut and bolt on the wretched things.’

Henry grinned. ‘I don’t think it was the lift, Lady Beattie. There was a short power failure, I understand.’

‘Whatever it was,’ Clare managed a bright social smile, ‘I shan’t go near those lifts again. Next time I have to go to the conference suite I shall take crampons and a pickaxe and climb the outside of the building.’

‘What a riveting thought,’ Henry applauded. ‘If ever you need an anchor man, Clare, don’t hesitate to ask me.’

Amidst the general laughter Clare saw Paul turn and look speculatively at his partner. There was something in his expression which made her shiver.

Diane moved forward from the window seat and sat down next to him, her glass dangling from red painted fingertips. In the office she wore black too, but sober, high-necked black, and her hair was usually drawn back into a tight, slim queue, held with a velvet ribbon. She eased her position imperceptibly so that her thigh was touching Paul’s. ‘One should never allow one’s life to be run by phobias,’ she said into the silence. ‘Have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist, Clare?’

Clare swallowed. She glanced at Paul. There was a slight smile on his lips. ‘No, Diane.’ She managed a quiet dignified laugh. ‘I have never felt sufficiently mad. Not yet.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean –’

‘Of course she didn’t.’ George Pierce broke in. ‘I expect Diane was thinking of psychotherapy. Everyone is into that these days, aren’t they? Making people stroke spiders – that sort of thing!’

In the corner of the room Sir Duncan Beattie emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. He had been watching Paul closely, a speculative frown on his face. ‘Aversion therapy, I believe it’s called,’ he said. ‘There are many ways of trying to cure phobias, and I suspect claustrophobia is one of the commonest. I must confess I dislike those lifts myself.’ He gave Clare a kind smile as Paul got up to take his glass.

Clare smiled back. She had seen Diane edging closer to Paul on the sofa and she had seen Paul’s seeming indifference. She sighed. It was going to be a strained evening. A few minutes later she excused herself so that she could go downstairs to put the finishing touches to the food.

It had been fun preparing a dinner party herself again. These days Sarah Collins was always there when they had a party, and she had been content to allow the woman to do everything once she had chosen the menu. This time, to Paul’s annoyance, she had refused to ask Sarah to come up to London to take over the organisation of the food and for the last three days she had thrown herself into the preparations, doing even the shopping and cleaning. She had her reasons, of course. She was still desperately trying to keep herself occupied; to fill every moment and to fall into bed each night so tired that she slept, dreamless, at once.

To her surprise she had enjoyed it. She was a good cook and she had forgotten the fact. She resented Paul’s unspoken hint that Sarah could do better, and if she was tired, that was her intention. She had not wanted to allow herself one single second to think.

She glanced round the kitchen. Outside, in the garden, it was foggy and dank. She peered through the blind and shuddered. Inside it was warm and bright. The hors d’oeuvres were laid out neatly on the kitchen table ready to take into the dining room; the casserole was in the oven, the vegetables ready, the salad and dressing prepared. She walked through and glanced around the dining room. The wine had been opened an hour before; the last of the cream roses filled a silver bowl on the centre of the table; the glasses sparkled under the lights. All was ready. She picked a box of matches off the sideboard and leaned across to light the candles in the silver candelabra, then, exhausted, she sat down in Paul’s chair at the head of the table. One quiet moment was all she needed before she went back upstairs and marshalled her guests for dinner.

But Isobel was waiting in the shadows in the corner of the room.

7

Mairi stared at her young mistress suspiciously. ‘What are you doing there all by yourself, and so quiet, my lady?’ She wondered for a moment if Isobel had been crying.

The girl turned away sharply. ‘I shall ride again this afternoon, Mairi. Tell Hugh to bring a fresh horse.’

Mairi scowled. ‘My lady, don’t do it. You’re just exhausting yourself. It’ll not help.’

‘It will.’ Isobel put her hands on the almost imperceptible swell of her stomach. ‘It has to.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘A fresh horse, please, Mairi.’

They no longer stopped her leaving the castle. A countess, with her retinue, might ride where she willed, it appeared, once she carried her lord’s heir in her belly. And ride she did, galloping across the moors, regardless of the weather, until her horse was exhausted and her followers gasping. She jumped the animal over burns and gullies, and returned home aching and exhausted at dusk day after day. But still the baby inside her grew.

It filled her with horror and disgust; she could not bear to think that anything of Lord Buchan’s could be growing inside her, that any part of him could become a part of her. Besides that, she was terrified of even the idea of childbirth. It was one of the few things of which she was truly afraid. The fear went back to when she was four years old and her brother Duncan was born.

She remembered the time vividly – a few beautiful days at the beginning of September in the year 1289 which would remain in her mind forever as a time of blood and terror.

The Earl of Fife had been sceptical about his wife’s joyful news of her pregnancy when she had told him. He had gazed at Joanna with hard grey eyes, scarcely a flicker of response on his youthful face, not allowing himself any hope from what would surely be yet another false alarm. It had been more than three years since the birth of their first child, and even then his wife had disappointed him. It had been a girl. Joanna had shivered, and pulled her mantle more closely around her shoulders, remembering her husband’s anger and frustration as he stood looking down at the puny mite which had for a moment been placed in her arms. But this time it would be different. She had prayed to St Margaret and to St Bride and to the Blessed Virgin herself and surely they would not let her down. With a son at his side Duncan would once again, she felt sure, become the debonair young man to whom she had come a bride from England. Then he had been thrilled to receive her as his wife, dowerless though she was, as a daughter of the Earl of Clare, Hertford and Gloucester, and close kinswoman to England’s great King Edward. Then he had treated her as precious gold.

The whole of that long hot summer after the young earl had ridden away they had waited. Then, one day Isobel’s secure world had changed. It had been a beautiful day, but it was drawing to a close. Outside the narrow castle windows a light breeze had sprung up, bringing with it a suspicion of early autumn chill. To Joanna de Clare, standing at the window, the afternoon had seemed long and dreary, and she had welcomed the cool air after the heat of the hall where they had taken their evening meal. Now from behind the distant hills the sunshine slanted low across the misty shores of the Forth, staining the tide race with carmine and gold. Any day now her husband would return, and she, now heavily pregnant, could show him the reassuring evidence that this time her promise of a child had been well founded.

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.