Barbara Erskine - Kingdom of Shadows

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.

Before 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.’