Barbara Erskine - Kingdom of Shadows

‘But Robert –’ She looked up at him pleadingly.

‘No, little cousin. He has seen how worthless the Balliol is as king, yet still he supports his claim to the crown against that of my father because the Comyns and the Balliols are kin. He even arranged that John St John should place the crown of Scotland on John Balliol’s head in the name of your young brother.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Your house of Duff has power indeed, my Isobel. The hereditary right to crown a king! It was that crowning which gave weight of custom to Edward of England’s choice for Scotland’s king.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps when the people of Scotland come to their senses, we can bring your brother back from his place at the King of England’s side, and then, one day, he can crown me! But until the Bruce claim is recognised and Balliol dispossessed your betrothed and I cannot agree. Now,’ he smiled at her in the darkness, ‘what is so urgent you have to see me alone?’

‘They have fixed our wedding day.’ Her whisper was anguished. ‘If the king gives his permission we are to be married at Martinmas. Oh, Robert, I can’t bear it. It mustn’t happen. You have got to help me.’

For a moment he looked down at her, his face sorrowful, then, almost reluctantly he drew back. Briefly he touched her cheek with his hand. ‘Poor Isobel. There is nothing I can do, you know that.’

‘But there is. There must be.’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘That is why I wanted us to meet here. It is the only place in the castle where we can be alone. Please, Robert, you have to think of something. You have to get me away.’

She took a few paces from him towards the altar, then turned back, her red skirts sweeping the stone flags impatiently. Behind her the candles flickered and smoked. ‘Please, Robert. Any moment Father Matthew may come back. You’ve got to think of something.’

He studied her gravely – the beautiful, anxious face beneath the long curling black hair, the huge grey eyes, the slight but undeniably feminine figure beneath the figure-hugging red cloth. She was close to him now, and he could smell the sweet musk of her skin and the slight scent of lavender from her gown. Unexpectedly he felt a wave of intense desire sweep over him and, surprised and embarrassed, he took a step back.

‘Isobel, nothing can be done. You have been betrothed to Lord Buchan since you were a child. A betrothal is binding, you know that.’

‘But it can be broken. Somehow it must be broken. If you are going to be king, you can do anything! You must marry me instead, Robert. Please. You like me, don’t you?’ She took a step towards him, putting her hands on the front of his surcote, her eyes pleading.

‘You know I like you,’ he whispered, his hands gently covering hers. ‘Isobel, this is foolish. It cannot be.’

‘Why?’ Instinctively she knew what to do. Gently, standing on tiptoe, her hands still pressing against his breast, imprisoned in his own, she kissed him on the mouth. It was the first time she had kissed a man.

He groaned, and pushed her away violently. ‘Isobel, don’t you understand? It can never be. Never. I too am betrothed, remember? And I too have fixed my marriage date. It was one of the reasons I went to Kildrummy. Isabella of Mar and I will marry at Christmas.’

Stunned, Isobel stared at him. ‘Isabella of Mar,’ she echoed, dully. ‘You prefer that milk sop to me?’

‘Aye, I do.’ He looked at her coldly. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.’

He tried not to see the hurt and rejection in her eyes, hardening his heart against the pain he knew he had caused her. He had in fact spoken only half the truth. He loved his betrothed; she filled him with tender protectiveness, making him feel strong and chivalrous, her knightly protector, a role which appealed to him greatly; but, he had to admit, he felt very strongly attracted to Isobel of Fife too, although in quite a different way. He closed his eyes. He was a man, not a boy. He knew the difference between courtly love and lust. What he felt for his gentle, beautiful betrothed was the former. Isobel of Fife, on the other hand, stirred him to passionate longing. She was exciting, a temptress, though she scarcely knew it yet herself, and undoubtedly she was trouble. The feelings she aroused in him shocked him. One should not feel desire such as that for any lady of high birth, never mind one so young and destined to become another man’s wife.

With an exclamation of anger he turned from her, staring hard instead at the serene painted wooden face of Our Lady in the niche.

‘You are making yourself unhappy,’ he said curtly. ‘There is no point, can’t you see that? There can be nothing between us, ever. And there can be no escape from your betrothal.’

He saw that his blunt words had stung her. She straightened her slim shoulders. ‘Oh but there can, Robert,’ she retorted, her eyes flashing rebelliously.

He wasn’t sure to which of his two statements she was referring. Perhaps both, he thought, and in spite of himself he felt a little shiver of excitement. But his voice remained firm. ‘You can’t escape, Isobel. Make up your mind to accept it.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t accept things,’ she retorted. ‘Even if you do. I’m a fighter, and I’ll fight this. If you won’t help me, then I’ll manage alone. Now, you’d better go, or your men will miss you in the hall.’

He hesitated. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

She tossed her head. ‘I don’t intend to.’

‘You won’t try and ride anywhere alone?’ Almost unwillingly he had stepped closer to her again. His hand strayed to her shoulder, touching her hair.

‘It’s none of your business where I go or what I do,’ she replied softly. ‘Not now.’ Her mouth was close to his. He saw the tip of her tongue for a moment between her lips, unconsciously teasing.

Unable to stop himself, he held out his arms and drew her to him, his mouth urgently seeking hers, crushing her breasts against his chest, imprisoning her arms against her sides.

‘Oh God forgive me, but I do love you,’ he breathed.

‘Then help me.’ Somehow she freed her arms, winding them around his neck. ‘Please, Robert.’

‘And make you my little queen, love? I can’t. Don’t you see, I can’t.’ Anguished, he kissed her again, stifling her words.

Isobel stiffened, then with a sob she tore herself free of his arms. ‘Then go!’ she cried. ‘Go now. I never want to see you again! You shouldn’t have come here! To kiss a woman in here before Our Lady is wicked – it’s sacrilege!’

‘Then it is a sacrilege I gladly commit.’ Gravely Robert took a few steps towards the door. ‘May Our Lady protect you always, Isobel, my love. I wish I could,’ he said. Then he was gone.

The ground-floor office in the sixteenth-century building on the north side of the Grassmarket in Edinburgh was untidy, piled high with books and pamphlets; files overflowed from shelves and chairs on to the floor, and posters covered more posters on the walls. Sitting at the desk in the centre of the room, Neil Forbes paused in his writing and, dropping his pen, stretched his arms above his head with a sigh. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after 9 p.m. Behind the blind, the Grassmarket was deserted, the dark street wet in the wind-swept rain.

He gave an exclamation of irritation as the phone rang.

‘Neil? I’m so glad you’re still there. I didn’t have any other number –’

He frowned momentarily, not recognising the voice.

‘It’s Sandra Mackay. You remember. I came to the Earthwatch meeting when you were talking about pollution. We had a drink afterwards – I’m a friend of Kathleen’s –’ Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

‘Of course I remember.’ He squinted up at the ceiling, noting a new place where the lining paper was beginning to peel away. ‘What can I do for you, Sandra?’ He had a pleasant voice, deep and musical with a slight Scots inflection.