Kingdom of Shadows (53 page)

Reaching the pass door in the huge carved oak doors at last Duncan dived in front of her into the glowing darkness of the abbey. From behind the screens they could hear the monks singing the office, the sound of their voices rising and falling in the echoes. The air was heavy with incense and the smell of candlewax. Moving slowly in the broad untidy queue of pilgrims they made their way eastwards towards the shrine. Isobel stared around her. The abbey was indeed beautiful, the towering pillars, in the new French Gothic style, soaring heavenwards, the creamy stone painted and gilded in myriad colours by the armies of decorators brought in by King Edward’s father, Henry III, the windows glowing with their pictures in coloured glass.

Around them the crowds of tired, sweating pilgrims, dressed in a variety of clothes from the gorgeous costly fashion such as Duncan wore, to rags and pilgrims cloaks, many of them ill, and come to seek the saints’ aid, shuffled slowly forward. Immediately in front of them there was a band of black-cloaked men, their sandalled feet scuffing across the painted tiles on the floor.

In the chapel of the shrine, with all its memorabilia of the saint, like every pilgrim before her, Isobel stopped and stared at the beauty of the place, and at the shrine itself with its carved and gilded superstructure over the tomb, and high above it the shadowy carvings of the roof. The crowds did not allow her to stop for long. Once again the queue moved forward, and she, like her brother and every person who entered the place, lit her candle, and put it with the thousands of others around the shrine; then she knelt before it, and crossed herself, whispering a prayer before the saint. Then almost too soon they were moving on, Duncan at her side, with always around them the soaring voices of the monks in the body of the abbey behind the carved rood screen.

Near an altar in a niche at the east end of the chapel Duncan stopped. He crossed himself reverently and then caught at Isobel’s sleeve, pulling her into the shadows. For a moment the brother and sister stood, quietly watching the shuffling crowd of pilgrims move past them and out into the main body of the church again. At their feet the sunlight threw a pattern of glowing colour from the stained glass window above their heads on to a patch of stone flags, as yet untiled. ‘There is something here I want to show you,’ Duncan whispered. ‘Come.’

He drew her quietly into a corner of the chapel. ‘There. Look.’ The crowds shielded them, the shuffling feet, the whispers, the sounds of coughing from the sick who had come to pray for health. Duncan pointed. ‘See. Edward’s coronation chair.’

Isobel looked. The carved and gilded oak chair standing on a step in the shadows was painted with birds and exotic animals and luxuriant foliage. It was rich and very beautiful. Beside it stood two of the king’s men-at-arms in royal livery. ‘See,’ Duncan murmured. ‘In its base.’

Isobel stared into the shadows. A candle flared and dripped near by and in the sudden wildly flickering light she saw the great stone set into the chair’s base.

For a moment she didn’t understand. She frowned, seeing the warm candlelight nudging at the rough sandstone, catching the slight sparkle in the stone. Beside the chair one of the men-at-arms, seeing her gaze, straightened, bringing his lance to the ground with a sharp crack.

‘It is Scotland’s Stone of Destiny from Scone,’ Duncan whispered. ‘I remember when the king had it brought here to the abbey four years ago. He had the chair made specially to hold it. It cost him a hundred shillings.’ He gave a quick smile. ‘Prince Edward will be crowned on it.’

‘A king of England, on Scotland’s most sacred stone!’ Isobel was horrified. Suddenly she clutched her brother’s arm. ‘Not you! They would not use you to place the king on the throne? It is your right to crown Scotland’s king! Scotland’s, Duncan! Edward will never be king of Scotland!’

‘Then who?’ Duncan, embarrassed by the stare of the guards, pulled his sister back into the shadows again.

‘Robert. The Earl of Carrick. He is our true king.’

‘Lord Carrick?’ Duncan looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure? His brother Edward is one of the Prince’s household, here. I know him well. Lord Carrick is in the king’s peace, Isobel. In fact he is working closely with the king. I’ve seen him here at Westminster.’

‘Only because it is not the right time!’ Isobel retorted indignantly. ‘One day he will free Scotland!’

Duncan shrugged. ‘Wallace said he would free Scotland and look what’s going to happen to him.’

‘Sir William isn’t the king. He isn’t even an earl,’ Isobel replied slowly. ‘He is a brave man, but that is not enough.’

‘Well, if your Robert is crowned King of Scots it will be without me.’ Duncan shrugged again. ‘Someone will have to stand in for the Earl of Fife, like they did when Balliol was crowned. I have to stay in England whether I want to or not.’

‘But you won’t crown Edward?’ Isobel caught his hand in anxiety. ‘Swear you won’t crown Edward.’

Duncan laughed uncomfortably. ‘Of course I won’t. The archbishop will crown him.’

Isobel turned back to the carved chair. She stepped closer, staring in awe at the stone, her brother suddenly forgotten. She could sense its power; sense the sleeping strength of its magic. She moved closer again. With an exclamation the guards stood to attention. One drew his sword, the sound of the metal scraping against its scabbard echoing amongst the vaulted arches of the abbey. Around them people stopped and stared, and there was a frisson of fear amongst the crowd, who hurried on past, not wanting to know what was happening, not wanting to be involved. Duncan gasped. ‘Come away,’ he whispered in anguish. ‘Isobel, come away! Oh God, I shouldn’t have shown you!’

She ignored him. Fixing the man with a haughty stare she pushed aside the flat of the sword blade with her bare hand. ‘Do you think I’m going to put your pretty stone in my pouch and steal it away?’ she asked him imperiously. ‘All I want to do is touch it.’ She gave him a pleading smile, then as the man hesitated she fell on her knees before the chair and put her hands on the stone.

It was icy cold, but it was alive. She could feel it in her hands. She closed her eyes, willing the magic of it into her body, feeling the tingling in her palms and fingertips. For a moment she forgot where she was, in the shadowy abbey with a soldier of King Edward of England standing over her with a drawn sword. Instead she seemed to see around her the trees and the hills of Scotland, feel the gentle wind on her hair and the soft rain on her face, and sense the sacred presence of the ancient gods around her. Then someone was pulling at her arm.

Duncan, in an agony of fear, was trying to drag her to her feet. ‘I’m sorry; I’m sorry!’ he kept saying over and over to the guards. ‘My sister is not well. Don’t hurt her. I’ll take her away. I’m sorry …’

Behind them a knight of the king’s bodyguard had appeared, his spurs ringing on the stone flags as he strode towards them.

‘I think you should take the lady away, my lord.’ The man spoke kindly, recognising the boy as one of the young nobles from the prince’s household. He nodded at the guard who sheathed his weapon with a rattle.

Slowly Isobel rose to her feet. She looked round her, dazed as Duncan put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he hissed, and before she could protest he had dragged her away. They left the abbey in silence.

Outside once more in the hot sunshine Isobel smiled. ‘It let me feel its power,’ she whispered. ‘Duncan, I felt it. It gave it to me!’

Duncan swallowed. He eyed his sister nervously. ‘You shouldn’t have touched it.’

‘I had to. Don’t you see? If you cannot crown the king, I must! I am a child of the earls of Fife, just as you are. I will crown him when the time comes! And I will give him the power from the stone. I have it in my hands.’ She held out her hands, palms up, in front of her and they both stared at them in awe.

Duncan looked round frightened. ‘You’re talking treason, Isobel.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I am talking loyalty, to our true king.’

She barely slept that night, tossing and turning in the huge curtained bed at her husband’s side, and when she did she was racked with nightmares. It was dawn before she slept properly at last, so worn out that she did not hear her husband wake when his attendants came to dress him.

The earl, with one look at his wife’s tousled, exhausted face asleep on the pillow beside him, rose without waking her. For a long time he stood looking down at her, and then he leaned across the bed and gently he touched her flushed cheek. She roused such strange emotions in him, this strange, wild, beautiful woman to whom he was married. He knew she respected and feared him now. She would never risk crossing him again, but she would never love him either; in fact he suspected that something like hate lurked below her meek obedient demeanour. And always that reckless courage – courage which would speak out even before King Edward without thought of the consequences. He sighed, suddenly feeling old. What exactly were his feelings for her? He owned her and, at least on the surface, he had tamed her and perhaps now and then between the rages and the anger he felt something like affection for her, even a strange possessive sort of love. One thing was certain. If she ever betrayed him he would not let her live.

He dressed quietly and, with one final look at his wife as she lay ensnared in her unhappy dreams, he left the room without disturbing her, ordering her ladies to let her sleep.

When Duncan came they turned him away, and he went without a murmur to find his friends, jostling with them to watch Sir William Wallace, crowned with a mocking wreath of laurel, brought in chains to the great hall of Westminster. He did not give Isobel another thought; it certainly did not cross his mind that he would never see her again.

Isobel awoke just before noon, stretching out in the bed. The painted glass windows let shafts of coloured light play across the rush-strewn floor and touched the tapestries which hung on the wall. Idly she stared at the vivid pictures of kings and queens and unicorns and lions. Her head ached.

The palace was unusually silent. When at last she dragged herself to her feet and pulled on a loose linen robe she was still alone. She rang the little bell standing on a coffer near her. No one came. Opening the door she stared out into the dark passageway. That too was empty.

Frowning she went back into the room. Splashing water from a basin on a side table over her face to try and dispel her headache she bundled her heavy hair into a netted head-dress and began to pull on her shift and gown and kirtle.

It was very hot in the silent room. Already she could feel the perspiration breaking out between her shoulderblades and under her arms. She found a bottle of rose water in one of her boxes and unstoppering it, splashed it on her neck and forehead; then, ready at last, she set out to find Duncan.

The entire Palace of Westminster seemed deserted. Cautiously she peered into room after room, taking care to keep well away from the king’s own apartments. On the east side of the palace the windows looked down over the river banks where the shining mud, exposed by the low tide, was stinking in the sun. Flocks of birds picked over the debris that had collected at the edge of the tide. They were the only sign of life. Even the usual procession of boats and ferries was missing. Then at last, in the distance as she made her way towards the courtyard at the centre of the palace she heard something, the distant but unmistakable sound of a vast crowd of people.

The entire population of London and Westminster and the surrounding villages appeared to have gathered outside Westminster Hall. The streets around the palace and the abbey and the bare ground beyond the twin outlets of the river which surrounded the Isle of Thorns were clogged with people – citizens, nobility, peasants, beggars, all shoulder to shoulder, craning to see Sir William Wallace leave the place of his trial. The doors of the hall were still closed as Isobel hesitantly opened the door in the palace wall and slipped outside to stand alone on the steps beyond it, peering out across the courtyard with its seething mass of bodies. Within seconds others had joined her on her unlooked-for vantage point and she found she could not turn back. She was hemmed in on every side.

Desperately she tried to fight her way back into the palace, trying to find a guard to help her, but at that moment the huge double doors of the hall began to open and with a predatory roar the crowd surged forward, and she found herself carried with her neighbours to the edge of the steps.

The verdict had been a foregone conclusion. The Scot was guilty. There had never been any doubt of that. This had been only a mockery of a trial. And now the people heard what they wanted – the sentence: the reward, as they bayed for the Scotsman’s blood.

The words of the sentence echoed back and forth across the tide of humanity with the sound of waves crashing against the rocks. He was to be drawn, then hanged, disembowelled and decapitated, and then his body would be quartered. His head was to be displayed on London Bridge and the quarters of his carcass to be sent to Newcastle, to Berwick, to Perth and to the scene of his greatest victory, to Stirling. A shudder passed across the crowd and as Sir William was at last brought out of the hall there was, for a split second, a moment of almost awed silence before the savage yelling started again.

Desperately Isobel tried to turn away, but she was trapped. She saw him briefly, standing upright and proud in spite of his chains, the laurel wreath still on his head, then the crowd closed round him and he disappeared from sight.

Two horses were being brought through the tight pack of people and she saw them halted at the spot where Wallace had disappeared; then slowly the horses were turned and she saw them moving with difficulty back towards her through the crowd.

They passed the steps where Isobel stood, two men at the head of each horse as they were half led, half dragged at a walk through the press of humanity, side-stepping nervously, tossing their heads, their eyes rolling in terror. Behind them they drew a hurdle to which Sir William had been strapped, his wrists already bloody, his face covered in spittle. For one second Isobel gazed down horrified at the man who had tried to save Scotland: a man she had met on several occasions, a man who had tried to console her for the death of her uncle by telling her of his bravery on the battlefield, a man whose bluff sincerity had impressed her, a man who did not deserve to die – as no one deserved to die – with the horror and brutality which had been arranged for him – then he was gone, the crowds closing around him again, following him on that last agonising journey to the place of execution at Smithfield. The mocking crown of laurel was now adorning the ears of one of the horses dragging him to his death.