by Darci Hannah
“Actually, drink, deceit, and debauchery only serve to enhance brilliance, I find. Don’t you, Georgie lad? And let me tell you, at the moment I’m feeling exceptionally brilliant!”
Sniffing, wiping my eyes covertly with the sleeve of my gown, I turned to the speaker, as everyone else had. It was one of the King’s Guards, a man whose form and face were hidden in the shadows of his crimson-and-gold-trimmed cloak. Then the speaker, in a rather theatrical gesture, jumped up onto the trestle table and threw off the king’s livery. Silence gripped the room in tribute to the golden hair, the deep-set blue eyes, the fine features, the well-made slender body clothed entirely in black. It was unfathomable. It was Julius.
It had been over four years since I last laid eyes on him. His clothes, well fitting and made of finely worked black leather, lacked the flair he had once worshipped in his youth, but they somehow did him justice. He was still lethally handsome, perhaps more so than ever if Marion’s silent, jaw-agape adoration was any measure, but his body was leaner, his face thinner, no longer full with the flush of willful youth. Julius was a man now, approaching his mid-twenties, and he carried himself with an unfamiliar worldliness that was as compelling as it was mysterious, forged no doubt by years of hardship and unspeakable trials; yet in his eyes there still burned a glorious madness.
Julius was not alone, I saw. His two henchmen (and I believed that’s exactly what they were) stood at his signal, also discarding the royal livery they had used as a disguise. They were quite a sight to behold, I mused—these two souvenirs of his travels—and how they had passed for loyal Scots guards I could not guess. The one, a large, wild-eyed heathen of a man with bushy red hair and the broad, high-cheeked, blunt-nosed features of the Scandinavian, looked utterly unhousebroken. The other, by contrast, was a beautiful, olive-skinned young man near Julius’s own age and build, with raven-black hair and lovely eyes of onyx. Aside from the piratical gold earring glinting from the depths of his locks, he perfectly oozed urbanity, indicating that this little pet of Julius’s was most definitely housebroken. I gazed at the men in wonder, suddenly realizing that Julius had been here, in Blythe Hall, since the feast began. It was an unsettling thought. Just how long he had been with us was a mystery, as was the fact that he had slipped in unnoticed. Damn him.
“Julius Blythe!” Sir George exclaimed, his rich voice shaking the rafters. In my shock I had walked around the table to better see my brother and his new friends and found myself standing beside the young Lord Kilwylie. I looked at him and saw that he was just as shocked by the intrusion as I was, but then, having better control over his emotions than I did, his features hardened into an expression of guarded wariness. I placed a hand on his arm, looking at him with both inquiry and trepidation. His hand came over mine in warm reassurance as he whispered, “Stay close, my dear. Your brother and his wee friends, as I’m sure he’s well aware, are the only men in the room who are armed.”
Julius, with singular focus on Sir George, replied from his perch. “It is I, my dear, a limb of hell and the root of all evil!” An insolent grin split his face. “Don’t look so surprised, Douglas. I told you I’d be back one day, if not for a friendly hello, then at least to thank you for the lovely cruise you arranged for me.” Although he spoke with measured precision, it was obvious he was touched by liquor. “And a Blythe, amongst other things, always keeps his promise. Hello, sunshine,” he said darkly, mockingly. “I am come home too. Marvelous, isn’t it? Let us break out more of the good stuff, shall we, Hendrick? For not only has the angel graced us with her presence this night, but the prodigal son has returned as well. Although I make no pretense of being welcomed warmly, nor do I expect a fatted calf, you’ll be happy to hear, all of you, that I’m most definitely protected.” At this signal his companions, like two mismatched but well-trained hounds, walked forward and flung open the doors under the gallery.
Like the gates of hell opening to release an evil into the world through the beautifully painted archway came a press of the roughest sort of men, well armed and meanly dressed in leather jacks—the quilted armored coat of the region—baggy breeches, and muddy riding boots. Julius waited on his lofty perch like the cunning raptor he was until all his rugged followers appeared under the arches. There must have been at least forty men who took command of the room, and once everyone was in place and the men-at-arms surrounded, Julius continued. “And, I’m sorry to inform you, in case you were hoping for a miracle, Georgie lad, but all your men are tightly bound and sleeping snugly in the stables. Consider it a gesture of benevolence, for by all rights I should have slit their miserable throats, and I believe you know why. But let us not discuss our sordid business here”—he threw his arms wide as he slowly looked around the magnificent hall, his glittering smile bent on all the unarmed guards—“on this most joyous of occasions: our little homecoming!
“Hendrick,” he said, addressing the dumbfounded steward. “I must thank you for the meal. Delightful. But may I suggest more guards in the gatehouse next time? Other than that one small oversight, you’ve kept the place in respectable order, I see. My dear faither”—he rolled the word off his tongue using the language of his youth, his smiling face a vast contradiction to the disdain in his voice—“I’m sure would approve.” And then the intense azure gaze settled on Sir Matthew.
“And do my eyes deceive me, or is that Sir Matthew Beaton? I must commend you, sir. Really, you’ve top-notch men. Very professional. Utterly disciplined. But, I’m sorry to say, not as desperate as mine are. There’s a real advantage to working with desperate men, I find. Because, whereas my men have nothing to lose, yours have everything. But I shall let you keep your comfy billet, good pay, and dull lives in exchange for your purses. And that reminds me, I must thank you for the generous donation of fine swords. You may rest assured that they will not hang in some palatial armory gathering rust.” At that moment Julius gave a signal, and one of his men threw him a sword. From the look on Sir Matthew’s face it must have been his own. And while Julius’s attention was thus turned, the outraged knight made a brave but desperate lunge.
Sir Matthew was one of the king’s finest fighting men. Yet even as quick and well trained as he was, he lacked that quality that had made Julius remarkable. With deceptive agility, and movements as fluid and deft as if orchestrated by the royal dance master himself, the altercation was over before it started. Sir Matthew’s arm had been grabbed and yanked around high on his back, landing the knight facedown on the table. Julius, booted foot pressing on Sir Matthew’s back, stood over him with sword held an inch from the knight’s neck.
“It would be foolish, really, to try anything at this point. My men are armed; yours are not. Your men have purses; mine do not. And that is how the balance of wealth shifts. So, if you’re quite finished playing games here, I suggest you sit back and enjoy the unfolding drama. It promises to be quite entertaining.”
Sir Matthew, humiliation marring his strong features, acquiesced to the younger man. Julius, smiling serenely, sheathed his new sword and lifted his boots two of his men grabbed the knight and yanked him roughly from the table.
And then, inevitably, he turned his attention to me.
His eyes, so like our father’s, held mine with a twinkling and slightly mocking gaze. He was compelling when he wanted to be, and I found myself, for the second time in the same day, unable to pull my eyes away. “Sister dear,” he said smoothly, in a voice that was low yet pitched to reach every straining ear, “my, how you’ve grown. Tell me, are you still conversing with angels, or only coarse wee devils like my lord Kilwylie here?” He turned to the man beside me and made an exaggerated, courtly bow. Standing once again, he settled his gaze back on me. It was then that I saw that the blue eyes had turned hard and cold as glacier ice.
“Gentlemen,” he continued, his voice now sharply mocking. “Before you stands the very fruit of heaven. Is she not enchanting? From an ugly duckling has sprung a rare beauty,” he quoted. “Yet I must confess, my littl
e sister was never ugly, only willful and flagrantly misguided.” He tilted his head gently to the side, sneered, and leapt off the table as lithely as a great cat. “You may also note,” he continued as he walked toward the high table, “what a heavenly touch on the harp she has, and a voice more alluring than any siren’s song. But her performance, if you’ll allow me to be frank, lacks discipline, confidence, and heart. You never did have much confidence in your abilities, did you, Isabeau? And although you start with plenty of heart, it leaves you slowly, like a disinterested lover.” A ribald comment rang out, much to the enjoyment of Julius’s men. He held up a hand to quiet them. “Gentlemen, please. We are speaking of my sister here. But I’ll agree there’s not a man among you who would lose interest in the intoxicating Mistress Blythe, save, perhaps, for my lord Kilwylie.”
The barb hit its mark, and Sir George stiffened beside me. It was a petty and cowardly thing to attack the most decorated knight in Scotland while he was helpless to defend his character, and it irked me that Julius was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I could teach you to attain perfection, Isabeau, if you would let me,” he said, looking straight at me. “But I doubt my sister will let me, nor will she welcome me, I’ll wager, once she learns that I’ve come to lighten her coffers a measure.”
It was this remark, offered so flippantly, announcing a bold intent of robbery on the house of a nobleman—by the nobleman’s own son and heir—that caused the King’s Guard to rebel. While Sir George stayed, diligently guarding me, chaos broke loose around us. Steel clashed against wooden chair legs; silver and pewter goblets drove hard against cuirass-covered bellies; platters, candleholders, and wooden bowls were all expertly employed, yet all to no avail. Small daggers and meat knives were no match for heavy swords. Julius, damn him, always came prepared.
“Stay where you are,” he warned, “and no one will die an unnecessarily painful and highly imaginative death. I’ve not come here to practice all I’ve learned from the Turk just yet, although the Turk, my sweethearts, in case you were wondering, is indeed Master of all Cruelty. So do not try me. My needs are simple. I need to care for my men, because even an army composed of lawless mercenaries still requires the basic necessities of food, drink, shelter, and, yes, plenty of lively entertainment!” At this last addition his men gave a mighty cheer. The sound, magnified by the vaulted ceiling and solid stone walls, caused the panes of glass in the arched windows to shudder. He then gave the signal, and half his men started circling the room in search of loot.
Behind me Marion let out a gasp, and from the tone of it I knew that she too was filled with the same cold terror that gripped me; for there could be no doubt that these men, led by a self-proclaimed profligate, were as base and wild as they appeared.
“Please,” I said, stepping in front of Sir George. This charade of Julius’s had gone far enough for my taste. If he wanted money, I’d give it to him—anything to make him leave. But I would not stomach this shameful abuse any longer. Like Sir George, Julius was an expert at exploiting weakness; he had been a mere youth when his schemes had induced the entire county to a civil war in which a king had died. That he had chosen to resurface in Blythe Hall on the day of my homecoming, just as Sir George had, was no coincidence or accident. Unfortunately, it appeared as if the only one surprised by my arrival had been dear Hendrick. “Please,” I said again, “all of you, if you’ll just be still.” Yet my words had little effect.
Julius was approaching, his golden face smiling as his men cut purses off belts and searched fingers for rings. They took jeweled brooches and raided the silver, shoving goblets, candelabras, and platters into sacks. And still Julius was smiling. I stood speechless as he approached, forgetting everything, remembering only that this madman was my brother, my own mother’s son. Dear God, what had happened to him? I realized in that moment that perhaps I had never really known him, and watching him now, a man with squandered gifts, I couldn’t help but feel anger at the delusion that had been his demise.
My heart ached for him.
I took a step forward and offered my hand in a gesture I hoped would reach him. I could see that Julius was not expecting this, and he faltered slightly. But then a look crossed his eyes that I once knew. As if governed by some ancient reflex, his hand tentatively lifted to mine. With silent appeal I urged him closer, until our hands were nearly touching. And then, with less than an inch between our hesitant fingers, I found myself reeling backward, the air knocked from my lungs as I hit the solid, rain-dampened wall of Sir George’s torso. Before I could utter a word of protest, I found myself in a grip so engulfing that it could have put a carpenter’s vise to shame.
Julius, clearly not expecting the suddenness of Sir George’s action, pulled to a halt, his cornflower-blue eyes attacking the man with a look that was utterly terrifying. Expertly, and with barely a break in his stride, he brought it under control, and the sardonic twist of the lips returned. “Douglas,” he said with a smile that was never meant to reach his eyes, “my lord Kilwylie, while you’ve made your intentions regarding my sister painstakingly clear to everyone in the room, I’m astonished that you would so boldly, and forcefully, molest her right out in the open. Sweet merciful Jesus, what sort of lechery do you intend to perpetrate under my father’s roof?” He winked at Marion, the sudden playfulness belying the danger that lurked so close to the surface. Although I could not see Marion, I could definitely hear her sigh. “And who is this lovely young creature next to Hendrick that no one has bothered to introduce me to? You must forgive Sir George his manners,” he said to my friend. “Douglases lack them as a rule.”
“She’s my cousin, Marion Boyd, you dolt!” Sir George sneered. “Stop playing games, Blythe. Tell us why you’re really here.” His grip on me was tight yet protective, and I could feel the heat from his body penetrate the thick damask of my gown. Although I half wished he would let me go, I could not deny that he felt, and smelled, rather wonderful.
“I thought I had already made that perfectly clear?”
“Robbery?” Sir George scoffed, condescension thick in his voice.
“When you say it like that, it sounds rather trite. Yes, robbery … for now. And I would greatly appreciate you unhanding my sister.”
Sir George, I realized, had no intention of letting me go. Instead his grip on me tightened. “Not while you and your men are inside these walls. Your sister is the very reason I live and breathe. I have come, I had hoped, to convince her of it.”
Julius’s eyes flew wide in humorous shock. “Really! My, my. And have you, in fact, convinced her of it? I only ask because she looks rather pale and unwell. I believe that for her sake alone you should let her go, Douglas.”
“So you can cause her further harm?” he shot back. “I think not.”
The two men, now the center of attention, squared off in some primal contest, the likes of which frightened me. Like a hungry predator assessing the measure of its prey, Julius never took his eyes off Sir George.
“Please,” I uttered, and placed my hands on the stubborn arms. I pushed against them, stating that it was all right, that no harm could possibly befall me with so many witnesses. Yet Sir George would not be moved.
Julius, challenging the young lord with his mirthless blue stare, shifted suddenly and with a relenting smile replied, “Very well. If she really means that much to you, I shall let you keep her … in exchange, of course, for your purse.”
“What?” I cried in disbelief. Yet this sudden outburst, justified though it was, drew the attention of my amoral sibling, and just as the downy blond head turned to me with a grin that begged to be taught a lesson, Sir George, shifting me to one arm, pulled the other from the depths of his cape—holding a sword.
Sir George still wore his sword!
In a flash of cold steel the blade shot out swinging for Julius’s unguarded body. Although dulled by strong drink, he still managed to jump back, drawing his blade as he did so. But even he couldn’t move quickly enough. The sword slic
ed through his fine leather doublet before he could parry. A gasp escaped my lips when I saw what Sir George had done—a clean cut across his stomach, not deep but enough to draw blood. And with sickening realization I understood that he had no intention of stopping there. Still grasping me tightly, Sir George went on the attack.
With artful fluidity, Julius parried Lord Kilwylie’s blows, but it was plain to see that he was not attacking.
“Are you mad?” Julius cried, his sword arm a rapid machine of deflection. Some of his men, watching from the edge of the makeshift circle that surrounded us, looked eager to come to his aid, but he would not let them. “Stay back, all of you! Douglas, for the love of God and all that’s holy, let go my sister! She won’t love you any less, I’ll wager.”
“Drop your sword and I’ll consider it.”
Julius, letting out a nasal humph, raised a sardonic brow. “And let you skewer me? I’d rather not. I happen to value my life a bit more than you give me credit for.”
“Keep your sword, I keep your sister.”
Backing away yet still holding his sword at the ready, Julius replied gently, “And I will not fight you while you hold the girl. Not overly chivalrous of you to use a young virgin as your shield, but on a grasping and desperate level I must commend you. Well played,” he said pleasantly. “Very well, let us call this a stalemate. But you do realize you cannot hold Isabeau forever.”
“Oh, but I intend to.” The words, spoken as a taunt, had a dark and chilling ring to them. I then felt his warm lips brush against the top of my head and realized, as a tingling sensation swept through my body, that even had I wanted to, I could not escape his grasp.
“Marriage?” Julius interjected with a cheerfully chiding ring to his voice. “Do you propose marriage?” He let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. Virgin Mother and all the saints in heaven! May God have mercy on you then.” Although I had similar thoughts on the matter, Julius’s laughter irked me a great deal more than Sir George’s proclaimed desire to wed.
