from him with every ounce of strength he had. Unable to save herself, she was thrown sprawling across the high oak coffer which stood at the end of the bed. The iron-bound corner caught her in the stomach with the pain of a turning sword blade. With a scream she staggered to her feet, clutching at her belly and as, deep in her womb, the blood began to flow, she collapsed at his feet.
Sarah Collins turned into the driveway and parked beneath the stag-headed oak. She turned off the engine and sat still for a moment staring at the front of the house. No lights showed and the curtains were undrawn. She frowned. Mrs Royland usually turned on the outside lights if she was going to be out late. Stiffly she climbed out of the car. The mist was thickening rapidly. She couldn’t see the lights of the village across the fields. The garden was very quiet.
She felt guilty about leaving Clare alone in the house, but she hadn’t wanted to spend the afternoon with her. Acutely aware that sides were being drawn up in some domestic battle, and instinctively knowing that it would be Mr Royland who pulled the punches when the time came, she didn’t want him to think she was in any way on Clare’s side. She valued her job too much. Reaching into the back of the car for her handbag and two carriers, her afternoon’s shopping, she closed the door softly and began to walk across the gravel.
The front door was unlocked. Switching on the lights she drew the curtains. ‘Mrs Royland?’ she called, suddenly nervous.
Quick footsteps crossed the landing and Casta ran down the stairs, tail wagging. The sight of the dog reassured her.
‘Where’s your mistress?’ She bent and patted the thick fur.
Deep down inside, she knew. She glanced around again uncertainly, and then she made her way into the drawing room. Closing the full-length curtains over the dark windows she put a match to the ready-laid fire. She would put on the kettle and then she would go upstairs.
Casta followed her up, keeping close at her heels. On the broad galleried landing Sarah hesitated. The dog had stopped, hackles raised. She growled slightly and Sarah looked down. She swallowed nervously. At the end of the hall Clare’s door was standing ajar. From where she stood on the landing Sarah could see the pale glow of the candlelight.
The pain grew in waves, flowing through Isobel’s body, carrying her to the edge of unconsciousness and then drawing her back. The room was hot; sweat poured from her and grew chill as she began to shiver. She was conscious of people all round her; hushed voices, hands holding hers, cool scented cloths on her face. Mairi was there, and Alice. Someone was piling more wood on the fire. She clutched at a hand, moaning as the pain came again.
Mairi was bending over her, her lips moving. ‘A Mhuire mhathair! It’s what you wanted, eudail. Be brave. It’s nearly over. The child is dead. You’re losing it now. It’s what you wanted, Iseabail, eudail … It’s what you wanted!’
When it was over she slept. The bleeding had not stopped. Around her the women glanced at one another with pale faces. Nearby the tiny body, wrapped in the silk standard of the Earl of Buchan lay in a basket. With the soil frozen they could not bury it; no one dared to throw it on the fire. No one as yet had dared to tell the earl. The foetus had been male.
When at last he was informed of what had happened Lord Buchan, white with fury, made his way back up to his wife’s bed chamber.
‘Murderess! Sorceress! You killed my child!’ He bent over the bed, his face twisted with rage.
‘No!’ Isobel stared up at him in terror. ‘It was you –’
‘This entire household knows what you’ve been doing, my lady. Riding at all hours, swallowing potions to rid yourself of it.’ He towered over her, his eyes blazing. ‘In this very room you flaunted what you intended to do! And now you have achieved it. You have murdered my son. By right, you should die.’
She shook her head desperately, too weak to rise from the pillows. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t kill him … I didn’t …’
‘Brother –’ Sir Alexander had followed the earl up the winding stair. He put his hand on Lord Buchan’s shoulder. ‘Leave it now. Nothing will mend the harm that’s done.’ He eyed the vicious bruises on Isobel’s temple and cheek grimly. ‘There will be other sons. I’m sure your wife will take better care of herself next time.’
Lord Buchan was breathing deeply, the heavy blue mantle he wore falling across the bed. The brooch on his shoulder caught the candlelight in a cold glitter.
Weak from loss of blood Isobel was barely conscious. Around her the room was full of shadows. Dimly she knew that Mairi was there. She felt herself raised and feebly sipped the decoction of bramble, acrimony and horsetail in wine which was held to her mouth, then slowly, as another wave of pain overwhelmed her, the darkness closed over her again.
Mairi stared up at the earl, her expression carefully veiled. ‘She must sleep now, my lord. She has lost much blood.’
‘Please, father.’ Alice appeared out of the shadows. ‘Take my uncle away. If we are to save Aunt Isobel’s life she must have quiet.’
Lord Buchan moved back from the high bed. His face was grim. With one last glance down at his wife’s pale, bruised face he turned on his heel and strode towards the door, his spurs ringing on the stone flags beneath the dried heather.
Sir Alexander followed him and the two women were left alone with Isobel.
Alice glanced at Mairi. ‘Will she live?’
Mairi was fumbling in the bodice of her gown. She produced a necklace of dried rowan berries strung on a red thread. Carefully she bound it around Isobel’s throat. ‘St Bride and the Blessed Virgin willing,’ she said. ‘She bleeds still. Look.’ She indicated the stain, spreading on the sheet below the covers.
‘She did want to get rid of the child, didn’t she?’ Alice gently took hold of Isobel’s hand. ‘That is mortal sin.’
‘Sin against the earl, perhaps,’ Mairi pushed the pewter wine jug back into the embers to warm it. ‘My mistress deserves better than him.’
Alice looked shocked. ‘My uncle is one of the greatest earls in Scotland.’
‘He’s too old for her.’ Mairi was unrepentant. ‘And too hard. She’s like a wild bird, my little lady. She needs gentle handling. A true mate for her would be proud of her spirit, not try and crush it. Here, let me change her linen –’
Sickened at the sight of the blood Alice turned away to the fire. She shivered. ‘Is it true she loved Lord Carrick, do you think?’
Mairi frowned. Deftly packing the moss-filled strips of linen beneath her mistress’s hips she glanced up at Alice suspiciously. ‘She’s been faithful to her husband. That I know.’
‘That’s because he’s had her watched.’ Alice squatted in front of the fire, holding out her hands to it. ‘He brought me here to watch her, too. He’s afraid of her, Mairi. I saw that just now. He can’t understand her, or control her, save by force.’
Mairi was pulling the covers over Isobel once more. ‘She needs friends, not people to spy on her,’ she commented tartly.
‘And I am her friend.’ Climbing back to her feet Alice came back to the bed. ‘But how can I make her realise it?’
‘Friendship has
