do you think my son is returning? To reprimand you again? To punish you? I can do that without his presence. He is returning so that the marriage can be brought forward. There is no need for delay, and once you are his wife you will have no further opportunity for these rash sorties into the hills.’ She smiled coldly. ‘I understand that the bishop of St Andrews will be accompanying him to perform the ceremony.’
‘No!’ Isobel stared at her, terrified. ‘No, he can’t do it so soon, he can’t –!’
‘He can and he will.’ There was no pity in Elizabeth’s eyes as she looked at her future daughter-in-law’s face.
There was a guard on her door. For three days they had kept her a prisoner at the top of the keep, alone but for one of Lady Buchan’s waiting women, who sniffed and moaned and sat huddled and unmoving over the empty hearth. Even her friend, Alice, had been forbidden to come near her.
Isobel was standing at the eastern window. It was unshuttered, looking directly out to sea, and the cold wind was funnelling through the deep embrasure into her face, making her eyes run, but she did not move. It seemed terribly important to watch the shifting grey slopes of the water as the night fell, with the white specks which were the gulls, wings folded, seemingly asleep on the heaving ever-changing mass. The room was full of the sound of the waves. She pulled her cloak more tightly round her and shivered.
The door opened, and she turned, her face setting automatically into an expression of stubborn wariness.
The Countess of Buchan stood in the doorway for a moment, fighting for breath after the long climb, one hand braced on the doorpost, the other still gathering up the folds of her heavy dark red skirt after ascending the stairs.
‘My son and the bishop have arrived,’ she announced as soon as she could speak. ‘The chapel is being made ready for the nuptial mass. My ladies will dress you now.’ Behind her three figures had appeared carrying armfuls of clothing.
For one wild moment Isobel thought of escape as the women laid the heap of bright fabrics on the bed, but there was nowhere she could go; nothing she could do, save submit with every ounce of dignity she possessed as they gathered around her, chattering happily amongst themselves, to pull off her everyday woollen gown and replace it with shift and gown and kirtle of silk and velvet in crimson and azure and gold whilst Elizabeth watched, her face curiously abstracted.
The chapel was lit by a hundred candles, and crowded. Isobel gasped. She stopped in her tracks, conscious of the three women closing around her, realising that she could not breathe, again feeling the tight panic closing over her as Elizabeth took her arm. ‘My son is waiting for you,’ the countess whispered.
Isobel could feel her heat beating unsteadily beneath her ribs; her mouth had gone dry and she felt very sick.
‘No.’ She whispered desperately, ‘Please, no.’
The fingers on her elbow tightened. ‘He is waiting,’ Elizabeth repeated.
The Earl of Buchan, his constable, Sir Donald, the chamberlain, and the bishop of St Andrews, followed closely by the castle chaplain, were standing now near the door to the chapel. John stepped forward and took her hand.
‘The time has come sooner than expected, it seems, for us to exchange our vows, my lady.’ He looked at her impatiently.
She felt the bishop’s eyes on her, and she looked up at him, half hoping that he would see the monstrousness of the act he was about to perform and refuse; but the stern unsmiling gaze swept over her almost without interest and lighted on the countess at her side. The bishop gave a slight bow, then he turned back to the earl.
Isobel gritted her teeth, her hand cold in that of her betrothed. She was determined he would not feel her tremble.
The vows took only a few minutes to exchange. She thought of remaining stubbornly silent, refusing to say a word, but she knew it was no use. They would find a way of making her swear or they would ignore her altogether. She was there at the earl’s side before the bishop. That was enough.
Together she and Lord Buchan made the short walk to the altar to hear the hasty mass. Then it was done. When she rose from the faldstool it was as the new Countess of Buchan. Elizabeth, standing so tight-lipped behind them, was relegated finally to the position of dowager.
There had been no bridal attendants, no flowers for her hair, no lucky charms to bless her with, and now there was to be no celebration banquet. He took her straight to the bedchamber in the high keep and dragged the door closed behind them.
‘So, to bed with my new wife.’ Up until now he had not even looked at her. Now he turned and glanced at her face. It had lost its customary defiance. The expression he saw there was full of fear.
He frowned. ‘Shall we call the bishop to bless the bed with holy water? It might be fitting to double-bless this union, unwilling as it seems to be.’ Slowly he lifted his heavy mantle from his shoulders and threw it down on a stool. Beneath it he wore a long tunic, fastened by an ornate girdle.
‘Our union will never be blessed, my lord.’ Isobel stepped back from him, feeling the solid oak of the door behind her. ‘You have married me under duress. You know I have no wish to be your wife.’
‘I think few women go happily to their husbands, if the truth were known,’ John said slowly. ‘But in the end they get on well enough. It is not so bad to be Countess of Buchan, is it?’
He made no attempt to touch her. Turning away he walked to a side table and poured himself some wine. Her face had shaken him. He had always thought her a child, playing with his niece to whom she was so close in age; so alive, so vibrant, so happy. Beneath her silken veil her pinched, unhappy face was transparent with emotion. He could see the fear and doubt and defiance chasing each other through her eyes. She was like a little trapped bird, pressed there against the door of his room. He gave a deep sigh. She looked very young and vulnerable. Too young. His tastes were for more mature women. Yet he had to bed her, and at once, then he could get back to more important matters, like the war with England in the south.
He downed the wine and set the goblet with a bang on the carved wood of the side table, then he turned to face her. ‘You look cold, my dear. Why don’t you take off that gown and climb into bed. Let me bring you some wine.’
‘No.’ Her voice was tight with fear.
John sighed again. ‘Isobel. You know what must be done. Come.’ He held out his hand.
Stubbornly she shook her head.
He caught her arm, exasperated. ‘I shan’t be a cruel husband, Isobel. If you obey me, we shall be content together. Come.’ As he pulled her towards him his hand strayed to her face. ‘You aren’t a child any longer, sweetheart. There is strength here, and beauty. I’m a lucky man.’ Leaning down towards her he kissed her on the forehead.
Isobel stiffened, and with a little cry, stepped back, but he tightened his grip on her. ‘You mustn’t be shy with me. Come, show me a proper kiss. I am assured you know how.’ He was beginning to grow impatient. His moment of concern had passed. He was remembering his mother’s warnings; her insistence that Isobel had a lover somewhere out in the hills, her reiteration that the girl had bad blood and that she was a devil’s tease, sent to tempt men from their wives. Her skin was soft and yielding beneath his fingers. At last he was beginning to desire her.
He released her abruptly
