by Darci Hannah
Praise for The Exile of Sara Stevenson
“A strangely beautiful story of eternal love and new love and of connections and separations with a gothic turn, this is a book that will have you thinking long after it’s done.”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
“This is a stunning debut: a haunting, extraordinary tale told by a born storyteller who combines humor, heartbreak, and real suspense.”
—BERNARD CORNWELL,
New York Times bestselling author of Agincourt
“A haunting tale of timeless love. The vibrant voice of Hannah’s heroine brings the lonely coast of Scotland very much to life, complete with the taste of oatcakes and the tang of smuggled claret. A surprising, rich, and rewarding novel.”
—LAUREN WILLIG, author of The Orchid Affair
“A charming and heartbreaking account of love and loss.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“An extremely original piece of storytelling with a thoroughly unique heroine.”
—DEANNA RAYBOURN,
bestselling author of Dark Road to Darjeeling
“Darci Hannah’s debut novel has something for everyone: romance, mystery, humor, historical detail, a feisty protagonist in Sara, and a stunning Scottish setting.”
—ANNE EASTER SMITH, author of Queen by Right
“The Exile of Sara Stevenson is an intriguing read, telling a tale of a great romance that survives death—and time.”
—BookLoons
“Like the gales that sweep over the desolate north coast of Scotland, The Exile of Sara Stevenson gathers force and delivers an atmospheric tale of love, passion, and loyalty. Like the lighthouse lamp at the symbolic center of the novel, details of the story that at first seem inconsequential or mysterious gather into one great beam of light, illuminating a conclusion that shows the power of love to transcend death and even time itself.”
—LAUREL CORONA,
author of The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi’s Venice
By Darci Hannah
The Angel of Blythe Hall
The Exile of Sara Stevenson
The Angel of Blythe Hall is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2011 by Darci Hannah
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of
The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hannah, Darci
The angel of Blythe Hall : a historical novel / Darci Hannah.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52057-9
1. Heiresses—Fiction. 2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction.
3. Kings and rulers, Medieval—Succession—Fiction.
4. Intrigue—Fiction. 5. Supernatural—Fiction.
6. Scotland—History—15th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A7156A54 2011
813′.6—dc22 2011002945
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Belina Huey
Cover images: © Kadri Umbleja (woman), © Brian
Lawrence/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images (cliff)
v3.1
For David and Janet Hilgers,
my parents, my angels
And for my nieces Dana and Jenna,
whose mother really is an angel
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks to:
Linda Marrow, Junessa Viloria, and the rest of the fabulous team at Ballantine for wholeheartedly embracing the Blythes; Meg Ruley, literary agent and guardian angel; my husband, John Hannah, for being the most enthusiastic supporter of the tales I write (especially during football season), and for rolling up his sleeves, gathering the troops, and tackling the groceries, laundry, and all manner of petty chores so that I could keep the pages coming; my father, Dave Hilgers, for his unshakable optimism, encouragement, feedback, and lively discussions on the nature of good and evil; my mother, Jan Hilgers, who taught me that the greatest blessing in life is family; my son Jim, for providing stimulating conversation, for dreaming big and being fearless, for taking care of all our technical needs, and who just might recognize in a young king of the same name and age some striking similarities; my son Dan, whose easygoing demeanor, enthusiasm, and complete dedication to everything he does is inspiring, and for providing music, laughter, wit, and plenty of material for this story; my son Matt, for his comedic diversions and for challenging me with “Hey, Mom, if you really want to write a great book you need some quality kills. Nothing says awesome like a dagger between the eyes!,” which I found disturbing yet intriguing; my brothers Randy and Ron Hilgers, whose adolescent antics prepared me for sons; Sandy Cobb, for being more like a sister than an aunt; Tyler Schnute, for sharing his musical talent, and all the young men of Calamity for the beautiful rendition of Loch Lomond; Scott Specht, for unknowingly providing Julius Blythe with one of the best off-the-cuff remarks I’ve ever heard; longtime friends Jane Boundy and Stacy Enxing Seng, for the laughter, encouragement, support, and memories; dear friends Cyndi Lieske and Rachael Perry, for their gift of words, and all the South Lyon Writers; Brenda Hilgers, Kay Rauch, Carol Rauch, Bob and Teresa Hilgers, Larry and Irene Newquist, and the incredible network of family and friends, near and far, who are too numerous to mention but cherished all the same, and whose enthusiasm and support keeps me writing; and to my late sister-in-law, Diane Johnson Hilgers, who believed in angels, collected them, taught me about them, and who gave to us before she left two of her own.
With gratitude and love,
Darci
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1 - The Calling
Chapter 2 - Blythe Hall
Chapter 3 - Uninvited Guests
Chapter 4 - Nocturnal Blunders
Chapter 5 - The Altar of Angels
Chapter 6 - Disturbing Revelations
Chapter 7 - A Royal Pawn
Chapter 8 - Over-Indulgence
Chapter 9 - The Master
Chapter 10 - Return of the Knight
Chapter 11 - Taking of the Prize
Chapter 12 - Kilwylie Castle
Chapter 13 - Gabriel
Chapter 14 - No Rest for the Wicked
Chapter 15 - The Battle for Blythe Hall
Chapter 16 - The Awakening
Chapter 17 - A Knight Detained
Chapter 18 - Warrior of God
Chapter 19 - The Taking of Two Knights
Chapter 20 - Dante’s Task
Chapter 21 - Rosslyn
Chapter 22 - Death of an Angel
Chapter 23 - Order from Chaos
Chapter 24 - The Taking of Vows
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Blythe Hall, Roxburghshire,
Scottish Borders
LIKE A TENACIOUS WEED, THE MEMORY OF THAT SUNNY spring morning eleven years ago, in the year of our Lord 1481, still haunts the recesses of my mind. I was only seven at the time, and had wandered far beyond the castle walls to play with my new puppy, a little black-and-white collie I called Rondo. I knew I would be summoned home eventually, but I never heard him until he was at the meadow’s edge. It s
truck me at once that his horse had been urged to a reckless speed, a speed that was familiar yet far too fast for his young years, or so our father had constantly chided. Julius was twelve and utterly incorrigible; so, perhaps, was I, because I secretly thought he and his little steed moved with the most mesmerizing elegance I had ever seen. The moment I heard the pounding hooves, I stood and grabbed the wiggling Rondo lest he run us both over in his great haste. But as soon as I did, I realized he knew all along that we were there.
“Quick, Isabeau!” my brother cried, jumping from the little horse before it came to a complete stop. I could see he was distressed, yet there was gleam of wild excitement in his eye. I knew this look, I had known it all my life, for it revealed that something terribly important was about to happen. Yet before I could form a single question, or utter a protest, I found myself plopped on his saddle with Rondo squirming in my arms and Julius’s lithe, agile boy’s body behind us urging the horse to the same reckless speed.
“Julius!” I found my lungs at last. “Please slow down. What are you about?” I shouted, for we were going too fast and I was afraid of dropping my puppy. Julius, intent on something far greater than my excited questioning, never answered me. But he didn’t need to because I saw them myself the moment we crested the hill.
Gathering on the banks of the river Tweed, still dripping, with steel helmets and long pikes glinting in the late-morning sun, was a great body of mounted men. I knew even back then that they were Englishmen and not a band of local reivers; and I knew by the way Julius rode that they could only be heading for one place: our home, Blythe Hall.
The moment they saw our little horse heavy with two riders—two child riders—racing across the grassy slope heading for their target, a cry rang out and a pack of armed horsemen broke from the main group to give chase. I saw that they had a slight advantage on us and meant to cut us off before we reached the castle gates. My brother saw it too and somehow managed to drive the horse even faster up the slope that led to the bridge. I looked at the looming fortress that was Blythe Hall and saw that men were already on the parapets with bows pulled taut and eyes glued to our pursuers. Our archers were excellent shots, and the steel-helmeted men who came to take our castle began to fall back as dark arrows took to the sky. But not all of them were deterred—not the man who made a grab for the halter of our racing horse.
“Leave off!” Julius cried, kicking the man’s huge arm away as he reached for the frothing mouth of our steed. I had been holding Rondo tightly, frightened to let go, frightened to move, and knew I was being no help at all. The man made a grab again, this time running his horse into ours and bringing it so close that I could smell his stale breath. The two horses jostled, Julius reacted quickly, and the man missed his target again but found Rondo instead. The meaty hand, wrapping around the dog’s head, yanked hard. I was holding my puppy so tightly, so protectively, that I was nearly pulled from the saddle.
“Let go!” Julius ordered. “For God’s sake, Isa, let him go, or you’ll be pulled from the saddle too.”
I should have let go. I knew even then my value as a hostage. It was said that Blythe Hall had never fallen. However, the gates of that impenetrable fortress might be weakened a great measure with the laird’s children as bargaining chips. But I didn’t think of that; I only thought of Rondo and held his squealing, wriggling body even tighter until I felt my legs come away from the horse’s side. And still, like the stubborn child I was, I held on, becoming a human bridge between the Englishman and my brother.
I don’t presume to know what thoughts possessed Julius at that moment, just as I never saw the dagger in his hand, but I did see the shock and horror in the Englishman’s eyes seconds before the blade slammed into his throat, a mere inch above the top of his cuirass. A terrible spurt of blood burst forth, and the man flopped backward, his helmet crashing onto the lathering flanks of his horse and launching Rondo into the air. Time seemed to stand still as I twisted my body to follow the arc of the black-and-white puppy as he flew across the blue morning sky. I felt Julius pulling me back, yet I stretched for Rondo, fighting my brother with my fingers splayed, aching to grab the scruff of the dog’s neck. I was no match for Julius’s strength. My body was heaved upward just as Rondo’s parabolic flight was coming to an end. I still reached, and by some miracle I caught him by the leg as the horse hit the bridge, hooves clamoring frantically for the open gate.
My father, having watched the whole desperate chase from the parapet with his archers, was there the moment the gates crashed behind us. Relief and anger fought for control over his impassioned face as he pulled us one by one off the blowing horse and into his arms. “Julius,” he said, “God as my witness, I never know what possesses ye, or if ye are sent me by God or the devil. Ye nearly got yourself killed, lad, and I’m sorry to think I love ye all the more for it. Now go and get some food, for we’ve got our work cut out for us this day.” Then he turned to me. His face was still livid with anger, yet his eyes had gone soft with a sudden hint of moisture. “Isabeau, ye know better than to run off without telling a soul, child. That mangy cur nearly cost ye your life, and your brother’s as well. Nothing is worth that. Ye must learn when to let go, my dear lass. For love of that pup alone ye should have let go.” He looked at the now motionless, limp ball of fur in my arms. His hand reached out, as if he meant to take Rondo from me, but he thought better of it. “Take ye off to the tower, Isabeau,” he added softly. “Madame Seraphina is there waiting for ye.”
I had been greatly shaken by the events of the morning. A man had died by my brother’s hand; more were dying as the battle raged on, and Rondo, the puppy I had loved and nearly sacrificed my life and my brother’s for, had gone stiff and cold. Mme. Seraphina, my nurse, had tried several times to take him from me, but I would not let him go. I think I believed that if I held on to him long enough—until my brother and father returned unharmed, and Blythe Hall and all her people were safe—then Rondo would be safe too. But I don’t really remember what I believed, only that I was not ready to believe that he had died.
The day wore on in tiresome battle. The air was filled with the cry of fighting and dying men. Fires had been started on various rooftops and put out, and the women were slowly called away to bring food and water to the exhausted warriors, or to attend those who were injured, or to see to the animals, and soon I found myself alone in the tower, momentarily forgotten. That was when I took Rondo to the special room at the very top of the old keep—up the six flights of spiraling stairs that led to the only room in the entire castle that my father had forbidden anyone to enter.
I knew why he had shut it off from the world the way he did, covering all the furniture in white cloth and never sweeping the floor of the many layers of dust that had settled. He wanted it to remain the same as it looked the day he left it, the day my mother had died giving birth to me. That it was special to him, I respected, but it was special to me as well. To a curious child the discovery of the forbidden tower room was like uncovering a treasure, not only because of its vaulted ceilings and the arched windows that were filled with colored glass and had a magical way of transforming light, but because of the woman who lived there. I once told Julius about her, but he didn’t believe me. He was a knight-in-training and very busy. He didn’t have time for childish stories, and he never ventured near this room. I knew better than to tell my father.
It was nearing twilight, and the light that filtered through the colored glass was tempered by a golden hue. I crossed the floor, my little slippers leaving their mark in the dust, and found the spot I was looking for. I set Rondo down where the yellow light from the saint’s halo fell, and sat back, watching as the dust I had disturbed fluttered in the shafts of dazzling light. “Please,” I said to the saint and all his trumpet-bearing angels. “I need your help.” And then I stared into the beams of soft light, tears clouding my vision, until I heard her voice.
“Isabeau,” the voice said very quietly. “Are you crying, child?�
��
I turned and saw her, the white lady. I always felt happy when she came, for she was beautiful, like an angel, only she didn’t have wings. But the little boys who accompanied her did, and I watched as they stepped from the shafts of light, where they sometimes hid, to gaze upon Rondo with their lovely, quizzical faces. I could not speak.
“What have you there?” asked the lady, walking around me. She knelt beside the little boys and looked at Rondo, her eyes wide with gentle inquiry.
“His name is Rondo,” I told her. “And … and he died today.”
“He died?” she repeated, and then: “No, Isabeau. Rondo is not dead, only sleeping. Come here and touch him for yourself.”
I did as she told me, and when I knelt beside them, she wiped a tear from my cheek and dripped it onto the puppy’s fur. She then took my hand and placed it over the tear that had stained Rondo’s still, small body. “Do you feel him breathing?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well then, you must try harder. Close your eyes and feel how he breathes, how his tiny chest rises and falls.”
I don’t remember how long I spent trying to feel Rondo breathe before I heard my father’s voice. The sound startled me, for he bellowed a name that wasn’t my own in a gasp and a cry of such anguish that I didn’t at first realize it was him until I turned to the door. The sun had nearly set and the room had lost its luster, but I could still see his face as he stood there, framed in the doorway. He was covered in soot and streaked with blood, and his eyes, burning with an intensity that frightened me, held to a spot just beyond where I was kneeling. It was then that I realized that he was looking at the white lady, and to my astonishment, I saw that she was looking at him as well.
He cried the name again, Angelica, and stumbled into the room on weary legs. The white lady stood slowly, and said in a voice that was the very essence of serenity wrapped in all the sorrows of the world: “William … oh, William …” And then she smiled at him with a longing I could not comprehend. It was the last thing I saw before my father, crashing into the furniture as he made his way toward her, scared her and the little boys away.
