by Darci Hannah
“Charm?” replied my lovely companion, her perky brows raised high beneath the gabled velvet headdress of emerald green. “Really, there are so many other words that spring to mind, but charm, Isabeau dear, is not one of them. However, I must admit I was getting a wee tired of almond cakes.” I watched as her large brown eyes, heavy with doubt, scanned the windblown pine and scrub, the rogue tufts of grass, the chickweed, bilberry, and bedstraw interspersed amongst the blanket of purple-dusted heather. Marion, although a lively soul, did not enjoy being separated from luxury.
“As you’ll recall, you were tired of a great many things, Marion, including the vigilant eye of Princess Margaret,” I gently reminded her.
She cast a quick glance at the long line of armored men riding behind us, both of us quite aware that the closer ones were trying very hard to appear as if they hadn’t been hanging on our every word. She looked back at me and grinned. It was a look that usually preceded mischief. “I was, wasn’t I?”
“Did you know it was Princess Margaret who suggested I take you with me in the first place?”
“Really?” she replied, looking mildly amused. “And why do you think she thought of me for this enlightening little journey?”
“I believe she admires your spirit and thought you could use a little excitement,” I suggested, then added with a remonstrative grin, “and not because of your bold and rather public declaration of love for her nephew, although that certainly didn’t help.”
At this Marion tossed back her emerald-covered auburn tresses and laughed. It was a well-crafted, silvery, tinkling laughter that drew admiration from our guard as it would have from any man within hearing. “The reason serving at court was at all bearable, if I may be so bold, was because of her charming nephew, Jamie.” Her smile was languid and indulgent as she rolled his name off her tongue. Sir Matthew, I saw, had the decency to blush and look away.
“Really, Marion, James is your king and not some young buck to be toyed with. He has more important things on his mind these days than to dally and idle his time away with silly maidens.”
“What could possibly be more important than dallying?” she mused aloud while staring boldly at Sir Matthew. That poor, dear man. Had he known the details of his assignment—that he was to escort two young, unmarried noblewomen and their retinues from Edinburgh to a remote border castle, and that the temperament of one of those noblewomen, Mistress Marion Boyd of Nariston herself, was anything but proper and chaste—he might have been wiser to decline the mission. But he was a loyal man, and one who dearly loved his young king. And he would suffer the boldness of my pretty friend like the honorable knight he was. “Well, I suppose you would know, wouldn’t you?” she added, capping off the wistful smile she had been holding on our escort with a pointed look. “Because we certainly know that His Highness thinks very highly of you. After all, the man has lent us the gallant Sir Matthew and the cream of his brave young men.” She cast a glance behind her and smiled coyly at the armor-plated, close-riding men-at-arms. Turning back, she said, “You never did tell me, did James send you away, or did you leave of your own volition?”
The tone of her voice implied that I was more to the king than his cherished friend. I might have been annoyed if the accusation came from anyone besides Marion. “As I told you before, I left,” I began, smiling sweetly, “because it was time I start looking after my own affairs.”
This time the coy playfulness left her face entirely, and she nodded. “How very fortunate you are to be your own master. But you won’t hold that title for long, I’ll wager, for I hear there’s a list in the possession of the king that’s filled with the names of eligible men lining up to be the next Lord Blythe. Isn’t it exciting?” she offered conspiratorially, drawing her palfrey close to mine. Although Marion clearly thought this was exciting, the truth was, just the mention of such a list in the king’s possession sent shivers down my spine. Ignoring my look of fear, Marion whispered, “And speaking of Lord Blythe, do you know what would make that daunting pile of rubble you call home infinitely more charming?” Her eyes flicked to the looming fortress, with not only the tower but a jumble of steeply pitched rooftops, soaring chimneys, and plenty of crenellation along the high walls visible. “Julius. Julius would make it charming. Did I tell you I heard he was back?”
“What?” I pulled to a halt. The man directly behind me hadn’t expected the sudden stop and was forced to cut left to avoid collision. This caused a chain reaction ending with one unlucky knight riding straight into Mme. Seraphina. My governess was not overly fond of horses, or obtrusive young men save for dear Tam, but she was quick, and her meaty hand whacked the young man’s face before he knew what hit him. His companions, wisely dropping back and navigating with a little more care, chuckled. I turned back to Marion. “That’s impossible,” I hissed.
Marion’s liquid dark eyes held mine as she reined in her own mount and spun around. “Is it? He’s Julius Blythe, remember?” And her lavish smile made me believe it could be true.
Julius was my older brother. He was not only charming and brilliant, bred on luxury and heir to a fortune, but also a traitor and an outlaw whose life was forfeit the moment he stepped on Scottish soil. And that was the reason I was now heir. It was rumored that he had escaped to France four years ago, after the disastrous battle outside of Stirling, on the very ground where two hundred years before, Robert the Bruce had defeated the English. It was now referred to as Sauchieburn, and it was where King James III, battling a rebel force of his own nobles, met his end. Battling one’s own people was bad enough, yet adding further insult to injury was the fact that the king’s own son, my dear friend James Stewart, only fifteen years of age and titled the Duke of Rothesay at the time, had been employed as the rebellious force’s nominal leader. Some claimed it was in self-defense, and I believe that it was, for James III was a superstitious man and had grown more wary of his firstborn son with every passing year. Young James had been raised in Stirling by his mother, and after her passing the king cautiously kept him there, or far from his circle and the men who moved about him, because of his fear that one day the young prince would overthrow him. It was rumored that this notion came from a court astrologer who read it in the stars shortly after the young prince had been born. A Scottish lion was to be devoured by his whelps, the prophecy had declared.
I didn’t believe in prophecies. They made one behave foolishly, and in my opinion the king had behaved very foolishly. His fear became a powerful weapon that turned against him and paved the way for the prophecy to come to fruition. The whole affair was a disastrous mess that had split the country in two and ended in regicide. James III was murdered far from the battlefield, and his son, my dear friend, was crowned King of Scotland by the men who had brought it all about. James had never forgiven himself for what had happened at Sauchieburn; to this day, although he had received absolution from Pope Innocent VIII, it was the sin that still lingered in his heart, and he had vowed to me, in private, that he would repent for it until his last breath. James was a man of his word, and I believed him.
My father had always been loyal to the kings of Scotland, regardless of policy, and James respected that. My brother, however, was not so honorable and was found to be working not only with the rebel lords but with England as well. And the plot he was said to have been concocting would have been enough to topple the entire nation. Knowing that any claims to his inheritance had been forfeited, he somehow managed to escape, presumably to France, where he disappeared. For all I knew Julius was dead. The only blessing to this blight on the family Blythe was that my father never knew of it. He had left Scotland the year before Sauchieburn.
I kicked my horse. “Even if he is, by some miracle, still alive, he’d be a fool to come here,” I remarked, heading toward the castle. “And he could never penetrate those walls, even though by every right they should be his. Julius should have thought of that before rubbing elbows with that devil King Henry.”
“You would
turn him away? Your own brother?” Marion had come abreast of me, urging her little mare to keep up. She was not normally a fearless rider, but she had met Julius once, and she had heard plenty of stories. And as everybody knew, once you met Julius—shameless, immoral, crooked, beautiful Julius—you fell under his spell.
At length I finally replied with forced bravado, “It would be my duty to king and country.”
I heard Marion laugh as she dropped behind, unable to keep pace as I raced over the uneven moorland, trampling heather and new-sprung moor grass, my eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. I’d like to think it was the wind, but I knew better. And in her laughter that trailed me like a hound on the scent was all the mockery I had endured these many years on behalf of my mad father and my spoiled, self-serving, insatiable brother. Blythe Hall, that impossible fortress, that tarnished jewel mired in the Thieves’ Waste between England and Scotland, was a monument to madness. And now it was mine.
The rain started the moment my horse’s hooves touched the bridge. A loud crack of thunder shook the earth as lightning danced through the rolling, black clouds. And then the deluge came, the kind of drenching rain that penetrates thick wool and plasters expertly coiffed hair to the skin. The stream below in the wooded ravine, acting as a would-be deterrent to any who thought to attack the castle, swelled with the runoff, and the drone, even louder than the pounding rain, unsettled my horse. The beast capered sideways, threw its head, and reared. Sir Matthew pulled up beside me and grabbed the halter.
“Easy now,” he soothed. His words were directed at my horse, but somehow I knew they were for me. And then: “I dinnae ken about thon young lady, but right now, Mistress Isabeau, Blythe Hall looks more inviting to me than any place in the entire kingdom.”
“Thank you, Sir Matthew,” I replied, and turned my eyes to the imposing gatehouse at the other end of the bridge. On either side of the gate were two round towers, thirty feet high, with the pointed archway between them. The great gate was closed and no guard could be seen, which was odd, especially on a day when the mistress of the castle was to return home. It was then that my eyes traveled to a space just above the arched gate. There, sitting in a protective niche above the grand entrance and fashioned out of imported marble by a rather gifted Florentine sculptor, was the image of an angel, wings unfurled in descent as if newly sprung from the heavens. The ethereal being, adorned in flowing robes with unbound hair, held a sword aloft in one hand and a shield at the ready in the other; he was an archangel, a warrior of heaven. On his shield was a thistle, the emblem of Scotland. The angel’s head was slightly bent, while the eyes, large and blankly lustrous, gazed down with heavenly detachment on all who stood before the gate. The sight, after so long away, caused my skin to prickle and flush with contradicting heat as my heart, impervious to the wind and rain, began to beat with a fierceness I seldom felt. It was the Blythe Angel, our family crest, with the motto beneath it in French: JE SUIS PROTÉGÉ. I am protected. It was the madness my father believed in and proclaimed before any who happened across our gate. It was the madness my brother perversely embraced and shamelessly flaunted. And it was a madness I vowed would never touch me.
“Indeed,” I uttered, pulling my eyes from the compelling winged warrior and turning my full attention to my escort. “It certainly does, and once we dry off, we shall make the Great Hall echo with our laughter before the night is out. I have not come here to cower, Sir Matthew, but to celebrate and make this castle, and her people, great once again. But first, I believe,” I said, the bravado trailing from my voice, “we must get through those gates. They did receive word we were coming?”
“A messenger was sent, my lady. Whether he was received or no’ we’re about to find out.” Sir Matthew gave a perfunctory grin, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “In the name of King James IV, open the gates!” Sir Matthew had the lungs of a sailor. Although his voice carried above the wind, driving rain, and raging stream, he was required to call out four times before a soggy head finally appeared in the gatehouse. The moment it did, the gates were opened.
A flurry of activity followed our entry, and the courtyard came alive with grooms and servants; horses were relieved of their riders and whisked to the stables. Above the clamor of armored men, exhausted animals, and servants struggling to unload heavy baggage, there was heard a cry of “My lady! My lady!”
I turned to see a man heavily cloaked, his dark hood pulled low over his face as he hastily ran toward us. But when he got to within five feet, he stopped. The hood came back, allowing the rain to soak the bemused and puzzled features, for I could see that he was staring at me just as intently as I stared at him. He was a man at one time as familiar to me as my own father, and though I hadn’t seen him in more than four years, he was a welcome sight. Time had touched him as it had touched us all, only perhaps he suffered from it a bit more than most, for his position was not an enviable one. The jovial face had grown thinner and was now etched with deep lines that formed rivulets for the assaulting rainwater, and where once his hair had been a glossy brown, it was now heavily streaked with gray. The bright blue eyes were the same.
“Isabeau,” he uttered, his face alight with pleasure. And then he blinked, ran his eyes over the chaos in the courtyard, and cried, “By God, lass, what the devil are ye thinking coming here?”
“It’s good to see you too, Hendrick,” I replied with a faintly admonishing smile, and put my arms around his lean frame for a long-overdue hug. “Have you not heard?” I said at last, looking up at him. “The king has graciously released me from his court, and now I have come home. Is that not wonderful news? I’ve finally been given leave to assume the duties of mistress of this old hall. And how good it does my heart to see you! But may we not continue this conversation inside? Although I think the rain’s just grand, I’m afraid Marion’s soaked to the bone, and if her hair comes undone again, we all will suffer for it.”
Marion poked her head around Sir Matthew to glower at me.
“Marion Boyd, Sir Archibald’s daughter?” Hendrick questioned, peering at the pretty face now buried in the folds of her thick crimson cloak. “God’s teeth!” he chided, turning on Sir Matthew. “Ye daft loon, ye bring me the two bonny lasses here … now?”
“Make that three, Hendrick,” said Mme. Seraphina, coming up behind me. At the sound of her voice the old steward stopped his ranting and looked in the direction of the speaker. His face, still handsome with age, turned as red as a rose in bloom.
“Hendrick, the rain,” I reminded him. “May we come inside now?”
“Of course … of course ye may, lass,” he said, and began ushering us under the timber-covered gallery that led to the Great Hall. “But God as my witness, lass, I wished ye had warned me of it.”
Sir Arthur Hendrick, or Hendrick as he preferred to be called, was my father’s steward and the keeper of Blythe Hall and all her holdings for these many years and more. He was the man who collected the rents that had kept me in comfort at Stirling, Linlithgow, Haddington Priory, and Edinburgh; the man who employed the staff and saw to the tenant farmers and shepherds, to the fishings and the warrens and the peats and the crops; and the brewers, and the carpenters and the others who made Blythemuir profitable. He was the one who kept meticulous records of all income and expenditures and saw to the shipments of the wool and hides. He was the man who garrisoned the castle when the English were on the rampage. It was the heavy burden my father had yoked him with before his disappearance, and I had now come home to help him.
“Isabeau … Saints in heaven, it really is you!” he marveled aloud for the second time as we sat before a roaring fire in the Great Hall, our sodden cloaks drying on brass hooks, a mug of hot spiced wine in our hands. Upon our arrival he had ordered the kitchen fires lit, sent servants to the dormers where the folding beds were kept, and set in motion the machinations of a hasty homecoming celebration. It was apparent that Hendrick, a capable and orderly man, was overjoyed by our arrival. Yet it coul
d not be denied that he found my sudden appearance quite troubling. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, knowing that his intense scrutiny was making me a little uncomfortable. “ ’Tis just that it’s been so very long. When ye first arrived I thought I was seeing a ghost. Ye must know ye are the spitting image of your dear mother. I would ha’ sworn you were her if I dinnae know better.”
I smiled softly and touched his hand. “You forget. I never saw my mother.”
He sat back in his chair, nostalgia and warm wine animating the deep lines of his face, and then looked across at Sir Matthew. The large, handsome knight, now void of chain mail and surcoat, was relaxing in one of my father’s vast chairs in a very well cut doublet of blue over hose of cream. He looked content as he mindlessly swirled the wine in his goblet, yet one could see some polite tension still on his face. This was undoubtedly caused by Marion, who, out of a perverse desire to torment, was sitting closer to the king’s man than proper etiquette dictated.
“A rare beauty, she was,” Hendrick’s maudlin voice continued. Sir Matthew looked at him and nodded in mild agreement. “A kind word for everyone, she had. Blessed with a heart of gold and the face of an angel. Isabeau here is no different. She has the same eyes, clear and pure as aquamarines they are, but her hair, instead of the fine spun gold of Angelica’s, is more the color of the delicate apricot—thon golden egg of the sun, as the ancient Romans called it. Ha’ ye ever eaten an apricot, Master Beaton?”
The knight, transfixed, shook his head.
“Why, ’tis as delicate as a rose and as fragrant and sweet as manna. It is a fruit early to ripen yet lasts only a moment before it must be picked and eaten. I have never tasted the apricot, but my lord Blythe was very fond of them.” A distant, wistful smile crossed his face. “And your hair, Isabeau, is the very essence of the apricot your father so loved, of that I’m certain.” Then, as if he remembered something important, his smile slowly faded and he blurted: “But whatever possessed ye to come here, and with your friend Marion Boyd forbye? Ye were both safely kept and happily living at the palace in Edinburgh.”
