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Kingdom of Shadows
Barbara Erskine
Barbara Erskine's classic bestseller, the successor to Lady of Hay, at last available as a HarperCollins paperback.In a childless and unhappy marriage, Clare Royland is rich and beautiful – but lonely. And fueling her feelings of isolation is a strange, growing fascination with an ancestress from the distant past. Troubled by haunting inexplicable dreams that terrify – but also powerfully compel – her, Clare is forced to look back through the centuries for answers.In 1306, Scotland is at war. Isobel, Countess of Buchan, faces fear and the prospect of untimely death as the fighting surrounds her. But passionate and headstrong, her trials escalate when she is persecuted for her part in crowning Robert the Bruce, her lover.Duncairn, Isobel's home and Clare's beloved heritage, becomes a battleground for passions that span the centuries. As husband Paul's recklessness threatens their security, Clare must fight to save Duncairn, and to save herself from the powers of Isobel…
BARBARA ERSKINE
Kingdom of Shadows
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_a112fbe7-0f4a-52a5-abba-2514c1ba8985)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This edition first published by HarperCollins 2004
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph Ltd 1988
Published by Sphere Books Ltd 1989
Published by Warner Books 1992
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The quotation from ‘I Have a Dream’ composed by Bjorn Uluaeus and Benny Anderson, is copyright © Bow Music Ltd, 1979, 1 Wyndham Yard, London, W1H 1AR, reproduced by kind permission. It is specifically excluded from any blanket photocopying arrangements.
Copyright © Barbara Erskine 1988
Barbara Erskine asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Source ISBN 9780007288663
Ebook edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN 9780007290673
Version 2017-09-12
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
DEDICATION (#ulink_5a9a4cca-e392-5459-a161-9e160fdba50e)
For
Adrian James Earl
and
Jonathan Erskine Alexander
also descendants of the Bruce
CONTENTS
Title Page (#u8c8a8c5a-448e-5108-91b6-2803a4e1fb05)
Copyright (#ulink_9fe381e7-42c3-54e5-bacf-12d9a1e72634)
Dedication (#ulink_75604fc5-1732-593d-8eca-69f264837fa6)
Map (#ulink_f656f0c5-0185-5afb-afd6-1b08f8ecd4a1)
The Dream (#ulink_96a401e8-01ed-5474-9312-095be1db78b8)
Prologue (#ulink_72242c12-d335-5295-a283-54f18e968e8d)
Chapter One (#ulink_1b737820-10d7-5682-9dcd-385b4123bb0e)
Chapter Two (#ulink_3773097e-2e8c-5c9c-b5ed-15675a438715)
Chapter Three (#ulink_d5b89780-8e9f-5f48-9716-86d099e0d0c7)
Chapter Four (#ulink_06e345c4-0b1a-5600-be98-b0a08f3ed95b)
Chapter Five (#ulink_ff612149-3c40-52ff-812e-35d23a4e45b1)
Chapter Six (#ulink_794d389f-765f-5141-8efd-717612f51d1e)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_75f48972-07c2-50e4-b87f-ff880f1d21bb)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_74bbff24-9b36-507f-871f-39b4121af9a8)
Chapter Nine (#ulink_7295e4dd-427c-5dfb-89bc-af2ea6e0b6d1)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Postscript (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
MAP (#ulink_231753c7-0220-54c4-9054-31ba65f961f9)
THE DREAM (#ulink_925b1a1a-1ed7-5fad-8730-2cd345d6264b)
It came again that night with the silent menace of a cloud sliding across the moon. In her sleep her hands began to clench and unclench, slippery with sweat. Her breathing became short and irregular, her heartbeat increased and she threw herself from side to side, moaning with fear. Then she ceased to move. Beneath her eyelids her eyes began to flick rapidly about.
Panic-stricken she fought to escape, her hands groping in the darkness whilst something held her back, trapping her, holding her immovable. There were bars above her head, behind her back, on every side of her, and, beyond the bars, eyes. Faces staring, mouths moving, teeth glittering with spittle, like the fangs of animals. Only they weren’t animals: they were people and only the bars could save her from them. She cowered back now, on her knees, her arms about her head.
When she looked up, they had gone. All was empty again.
Slowly she stood up. Now in her dream she was a bird. Her wings were stiff with disuse, the feathers dusty and brittle. To spread them hurt the muscles in her breast and shoulders. She tried to beat them, faster and faster, willing them to carry her outwards and upwards towards the sky. But the bars held and the feathers beat against them – beating, beating until her wings were broken and bloody and she was exhausted. Hope died; she knew again she was a woman.
The dream began to lift and with it the immobility which comes with the deepest sleep. Tears filled her eyes and slipped from beneath her closed lids. She moved her head restlessly again, her hands groping in an echo of the dream, seeking the bars, afraid they would still be there when she awoke. She was fighting the dream now, yet still ensnared.
One hand, flailing in the darkness, caught something and held it until her knuckles whitened. It was the chained door of the cage.
As her eyes flew wide she opened her mouth and began to scream.
PROLOGUE (#ulink_3ddb2294-5934-53f8-97ce-e03144d30aeb)
1970
Margaret Gordon looked down at the two children at her feet and smiled. James, his cheeks pink and shining, his hair neatly brushed and his checked shirt and jeans clean for once, was sitting fidgeting on the footstool, near her chair. At eight, he was already a tall, athletic boy, promising to be as handsome as his father. She shook her head sadly, then she turned her attention to Clare. Four years older than her brother she was a dark-haired, slim child, with the grace and elfin beauty of a fawn. Her short, wavy hair framed a delicate face, dominated by huge grey eyes.
And the eyes as always were fixed unwaveringly on her great aunt’s face.
‘Go on, Aunt Margaret, let’s hear the bit about the spider.’ James leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘And how the king escaped from Scotland.’
Margaret smiled indulgently. ‘Again?’ You ask for that story every time you come to see me.’ How strange the way the children yearned for the same old tales to be repeated. And complained if you forgot or altered the slightest detail.
‘And Clare?’ She turned and smiled at her great niece. ‘Which story would you like?’
As soon as the words had left her mouth she regretted them, knowing what the answer would be. She felt her stomach muscles tighten warningly as she met Clare’s steady gaze.
‘I’d like to hear about the Countess Isobel who crowned him king,’ the girl whispered. ‘And how they put her in a cage …’
Margaret swallowed. ‘That’s not very cheerful, my dear. I think perhaps we should stick to the spider today, as it’s nearly tea-time.’ She hesitated, uncomfortable beneath those huge, expressive eyes. ‘Besides, your mother and Archie will be back from their walk soon.’
Easing herself back in her chair she let out an exclamation of irritation as the two walking-sticks, hooked over the wooden arm, fell to the floor with a rattle.
Clumsily James jumped to his feet to retrieve them, stepping over his sister who hadn’t moved. ‘Go on then, Aunt Margaret.’ He wedged them firmly back into place. ‘It happened on Rathlin Island …’
Margaret looked down at her hands. The slim aristocratic fingers were thickened and knotted with arthritis now, so she could no longer wear rings, nor push a bangle over her swollen knuckles. How silly at her age to care for such vain, inconsequential things. Surreptitiously she glanced at Clare again. When the child was a little older she would give her the jewellery. For the rest Clare would have to wait until she was dead.
She gripped one of the walking-sticks tightly and rested it upright against her knees so that she could lean on it, perched on the edge of the high seat to ease the pain in her back. The child’s mother said she often had nightmares. Had she already had the dream? There were dark shadows under her eyes which should not have been there in a girl her age. Margaret felt a warning shiver of apprehension. Abruptly she brought her mind back to the story. ‘On Rathlin Island there was a cave, and there the king and his followers hid the whole of that long, vicious winter …’
If only Isobel had gone with him. If only he had allowed her to stay at his side as he longed. If only he had not sent her away.
The long silence stretched out as her thoughts went back over the story: the story which had obsessed her as long as she could remember, the story she had told these two children again and again.
But how had she heard it herself? She couldn’t remember who had told her first. The story had always been with her, part of her bones, part of her soul. The joy, the pain, the love and, at the last, the fear and despair. And with it the recurring nightmare.
