‘I’m sorry, Mrs Royland, Dr Stanford is on his rounds at the moment. Can I get him to ring you when he comes in?’ The polite voice was impersonal.
Clare closed her eyes. ‘No. No thank you. Don’t worry him. It wasn’t important.’ Slowly she put down the receiver. For a long time she sat staring into space, then at last she stood up. Walking slowly upstairs she went into her bedroom and drew the curtains.
Her legs crossed, her hands resting loosely on her knees, she tried to force herself to breathe steadily. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest, feel the throbbing of her nerves, like electric shocks in her stomach. Calm. She must be completely calm before she lit the candle.
But it was no good. Slowly she pushed her body into a series of yoga movements: the cobra, the swan, the shoulder stand, the stork. But her mind was still racing, her muscles contorted. She could find none of the usual comfort in the asanas. Lying down flat on the floor she tried to relax, bit by bit, starting with her feet as she had been taught, but that was no use either. Exasperated, she gave up. What was the point of trying relaxation methods now? She never would conceive. There would be no baby. She was barren.
She paced up and down the floor a couple of times gnawing her thumbnail, then she reached for the phone again and dialled the Cambridge number.
‘Zak, I’m sorry to ring you, but you did say –’
‘Sure I did, Clare. What is it? You sound upset.’
At his desk at the open window overlooking the river, Zak de Sallis leaned back in his chair and threw down his pen. He was a tall, rangy man in his early thirties, his long brown hair caught back at the nape of his neck with an elastic band. His denim shirt and jeans, though frayed, were immaculately washed and ironed. Behind him the young man who had been lounging at the table stood up. He came silently across the room and stood behind Zak, his hand resting gently on Zak’s shoulder.
‘The doctor’s results have come through.’ Clare’s voice was loud in the room. ‘It is me, Zak. It is my fault. I’m the one who can’t have children. I’m barren. And there’s nothing any one can do. No amount of yoga is going to help me.’
‘Hey, steady, Clare. Calm down.’ Zak felt the hand lifted and knew that Kenny was frowning. He hunched his shoulders in momentary irritation. ‘Listen. Did the doctor say there was nothing to be done? That doesn’t sound likely to me. There are always things they can do.’
‘No. He told Paul I would never have children – there is no point in me going on with all this, Zak –’ It was a plea for help.
‘Oh, but there is, Clare.’ His lean figure relaxed and he tilted the chair back, balancing himself with one finger under the rim of the desk. ‘All the more reason. You are a very together person, Clare. You can do it.’ The soft Californian accent was rhythmical and calm. ‘You have enormous inner resources, Clare. I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘I don’t know that I have, Zak. I don’t know if I can cope with all this. Please. I must see you –’
‘You don’t need me, Clare.’ Zak glanced at Kenny, who was staring out of the window, his hands in his pockets. ‘You have the techniques now, and I know you can use them.’
‘But I’m not doing it right. I’ve tried and tried this afternoon, and I can’t do any yoga. I can’t meditate. I can’t even relax on the floor. I’m so wound up I feel I might snap at any moment –’
‘So. I want you to lie down on the floor. Do it now. Take the phone down there with you. Now, close your eyes.’ Zak was staring at the water. A punt with three young men in straw boaters was drifting down the centre of the river. ‘Now, I want you to picture somewhere special. Somewhere you love very much. Somewhere you feel secure.’ His voice was low and caressing.
‘It’s not going to work!’ There was real distress in her voice. ‘Oh, Zak! That was the one exercise I could do – the one I really enjoyed. I can’t even do that one!’ He could hear her panic; her sense of bereavement.
‘Well, the exercise you need is the one that works for you. So, we have to find out why it’s not working now, and start you off again. One of them will work, Clare.’ Suddenly he relented. ‘Look, where are you? I have to go to London tomorrow for a few days – if you can meet me there, maybe?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Clare hesitated. ‘I’m supposed to go home tomorrow. No, I’ll be here, Zak. I can’t face driving home with Paul tonight anyway, not after what has happened between us. Come here, to the house. I’ll be alone.’
‘OK, Clare. I’ll see you about three. And meanwhile keep relaxed, and keep practising the technique you find you’re comfortable with. It’ll work. Don’t try and force it. Just take it nice and slow and steady.’
Putting the receiver down he took a deep breath. ‘Don’t say it, Kenny,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Just don’t say it!’
Thoughtfully Clare looked down at the phone. She took the receiver off again and laid it gently on the table, listening for a moment to its quiet purr, then she ran downstairs to the front door. She locked it from the inside and set the chain, then slowly she walked upstairs once more. Zak’s calm voice had reassured her, had stilled the urgent jangling of her nerves. She would try again, as he suggested, and if it didn’t work at once, she would go on trying. There was no hurry. She had all evening. But somehow she had to find a way of getting back into Isobel’s world. There she could forget her own.
She lit the candle and stood looking down at it for a while, breathing slowly and rhythmically, then slowly she raised her arms. She closed her eyes and sank down to the floor. ‘Be there,’ she murmured out loud as she began to build again her laborious picture of the empty moors. ‘Please, be there for me …’
Isobel was on horseback, a bundle of clothes tied behind her on the wooden saddle, a cloak around her shoulders. A heavy fur-lined hood bounced behind her on her back and her hair was loose, streaming in the wind as she bumped up and down to her horse’s trot. She was alone.
She glanced behind her apprehensively, but the castle, silhouetted blackly against the blaze of the sunrise, was quiet. She had not been missed yet. Her heart gave a little lurch of excitement as she kicked the animal into a canter.
It was a year since Robert had left Duncairn and still she was unmarried. Martinmas had come and gone and Lord Buchan was too busy to arrange his marriage. He was constantly absent from the castle. One of the most influential men in the land, he was helping to direct the nation’s affairs, helping to balance the delicate political manoeuvres needed to keep Scotland an independent nation, free from English domination.
Having been asked to choose Scotland’s king from amongst the several claimants to the throne, after the direct royal line had failed with the death of Scotland’s little Queen Margaret far away in Norway, seven years before, Edward of England was not inclined to retire now from Scottish politics. His aim was to be overlord of Scotland if not king himself. The nation was in deadly danger. In March Berwick was captured and sacked and then the Scots had been defeated at Dunbar. Lord Buchan had not returned to his northern lands. Isobel, with everyone in the Countess of Buchan’s household, heard the news from the south and waited anxiously to see what would happen next, but her anxiety had a very personal twist to it. She did not want the Earl of Buchan to come back at all, unless, perhaps, he had had second thoughts and still thought his betrothed too young for marriage.
Nothing was said and
