by Darci Hannah
When he spoke to us of how our mother had looked when he first saw her, lying in the big bed propped up on pillows and holding the swaddled bundle that was me gently in her arms, I half believed he still saw her. He told us of the joy that radiated from her lovely face and the peacefulness that had settled around her, entirely belying the painful struggle she had just gone through. His heart stopped, he said, with that first glimpse of us together, and he went to her side so that he could look upon my face. But here he stopped his narration.
Standing before us as Julius and I sat pressed together on the settle, he suddenly dropped to one knee so that his eyes were level with our own. He must have sensed that we were somehow frightened by this interview, for his demeanor changed and his gaze grew soft, almost pleading. He put Rondo down, and I could tell he chose his next words carefully. “I dinnae ken how else to explain it, my wee hearts,” he said softly, “but the moment I crossed thon threshold, I saw the light.”
He meant for his words to be taken literally, for, according to our father, a strange glow came from directly behind our mother—as if her head were blocking a source of light so that only soft, luminous wisps could be seen fluttering around her solid form. As she sat silhouetted by this strange halo, he assumed that the light was coming from a window. But he then realized that this was impossible, as all the great windows of the birth chamber had been covered with heavy, embroidered cloth, as custom dictated; it was a precaution against evil. And he was quick to assure us that no evil had entered the room, only this extraordinary light that fell across both mother and child.
Seeing that he was standing tentatively near the door, my mother had beckoned him closer, offering him the bundle in her arms—their newborn child. He did as she wished, and they talked softly then, expressing great joy of my birth. They stayed like that for a while, sitting together on the bed, holding hands with heads pressed close as they watched me sleep, until, as my father explained, he felt her hand go cold. It was late October, and there was a chill in the air. A brazier had been lit and gave off some heat, but still, another quilt or two wouldn’t go amiss, he thought, and went to fetch them out of the chest at the end of the bed—until her voice stopped him.
“William, there’s no need,” she whispered. “I’ll be gone soon, my love.”
The chill that had reached her hands gripped his heart, for her words, shocking to the ears, had become at once weak and distant, and filled with terrible regret. He looked up and saw tears as brilliant as diamonds well up in her eyes. He dropped the quilts and ran back to her, falling to his knees beside her and taking her cold hands in his. “No …,” he uttered. “No, Angelica. Ye are fine. Ye are fine!” he reiterated with passion. “The wee lass is fine. Stop talking nonsense.”
“Oh, William …” At the sound of his name he looked into her eyes. His heart stopped. “My soul, never you fret. It is my time, but we shall not be parted forever.”
Those were the last words she spoke.
My father had seen the face of death many times, for he was a warrior, but the death of my mother was unlike any other he had ever witnessed. Her body, which had appeared so young and vibrant moments ago, began to fade as the soft light behind her grew in intensity. Then, as if out of the pages of the Old Testament, a ray of this now brilliant flame shot heavenward, only to be blocked by the high vaulted ceiling. But this was not an impediment for such a light. He explained how the polished oak beams shimmered and wavered until they became translucent—as if they had melted away. Although he was stricken with a paralyzing mixture of terror and awe, he could not pull his eyes from it. Then, with the roof thus opened to reveal the cold night sky above, he saw two radiant forms. They appeared to be young men, he said, and they were profound beyond words in their beauty and purity. They came down into the room on the burst of light that connected them to our mother. At once he knew what they were, and suddenly, as if a sharp crack of lightning had pierced his overwrought brain, he understood what they had come for.
Stupefied, while still holding on to my mother’s hand and with me nestled in the crook of his arm, he watched in disbelief as his wife left her physical body. He described to us a feeling of reeling joy, while at the same time his cheeks ran with an unheeded flow of tears. His conflicting emotions caused his insides to churn away like a roiling sea, for the woman he had lived for and loved had passed before his very eyes—without warning—leaving her lovely body like some old, discarded cocoon. And she had emerged from it a radiant being of ineffable beauty and grace. What was more, like the two perfect incorporeal beings that had come for her, she too had wings of shimmering light.
Our father, newly come from his self-imposed isolation and with eyes touched by an unearthly zeal, pulled from inside his shirt a piece of folded cloth that had been kept close to his heart. We watched as he gently unfolded it with all the care and tenderness he might use with an ancient manuscript. Once it was opened, I saw that it contained a lone white feather. Mesmerized, I reached for the feather, because I too had found one like it in the old tower room once. But just as my father brought it closer for me to inspect, Julius slapped my hand away.
“You daft old fool!” he had cried, jumping to his feet. “That’s a swan’s feather! How dare you tell us such lies! How dare you fill our heads with such addled, barmy fantasies! Isa’s a child and knows little better, but I am not a child, and I will not be placated by your deranged fairy tales. You lock yourself in the tower for months, and this is the best you can do?” There was derision not only in his voice but in his eyes, his brilliant blue eyes. I could tell that it broke my father’s heart to see it.
“Julius, my son …,” he pleaded softly.
“She’s dead!” he spat with brutal finality. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner we can all get on with our lives. But I, for one, will not stay here and watch you crumble and decay like a battered and besieged old keep.” After a sad shake of his head, he turned his back on us and stalked out of the room. Lord Blythe made no move to stop him.
“I believe you, Father,” I uttered, touching his sleeve. His eyes, raw with pain, came back to mine. He attempted a smile, but his lips failed to obey. And how could they? His son thought him mad. Maybe he was, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to believe that his story was true. Because I loved him.
But it wasn’t true.
Julius had been right. My brother was fortunate to have had our mother for five short years, and her death had been just as hard on him. But the true cause of her sudden departure, as everyone commonly understood it, was a latent hemorrhaging that the midwife had failed to detect, not a timely appearance of angels. It was easier for our father to believe his story, and for the most part, it had been a harmless belief … until the day he was convinced that she had come to him again.
The Blythes as a race, as many God-fearing Christians do, embraced angels and angelic lore, but our father, the sixth Lord Blythe, elevated this gentle fascination to an obsession. It was as if he was out to prove something, not only to himself but to his disenchanted son. The day after that odd interview, Julius left for Hume Castle to serve Sir Alexander, the Master of Hume. He was driven to separate himself from his father while furthering his education and completing his training in the military arts. My father was driven as well, but his aim was entirely different, for he was determined to scour Europe in search of angels.
Those were lonely years for me. I was not yet at the convent, and aside from sporadic visits from Julius, and the odd occasion when my father was home from his travels or serving the king, I was left in the care of Mme. Seraphina and Hendrick. It was during those years, however, when my father slowly began to transform the old tower room into a thing of true wonder. Works collected and commissioned from the most gifted artists across Europe—from Flanders to Florence—graced the walls with what some believed were the most breathtaking depictions of angels Europe had ever seen. The ceiling had been reworked and fitted with a dome that was painted like the
sky, only with cherubs playing amongst the fluffy white clouds. An oculus had been cut into the center of this dome in tribute to the magnificent pantheon in Rome, or so he explained. However, his reason for this opening, which he fitted with a roundel of Venetian glass, was a much simpler one. It was a window to heaven, an open invitation to the angels who had once come for my mother to do so again. The last treasure he added to the tower room was a magnificent gilded altarpiece. It took the longest to create and was a staggering work of artistic beauty. And with this last piece added, the room became not only his sanctuary but a shrine dedicated to the worshipping of these heavenly hosts.
While some, particularly King James III, believed that building a shrine to elusive biblical beings was a noble and worthy way to spend a lifetime, others abhorred it, no one more so than the collector’s own son. Julius had always been a bright, precocious boy. By the age of twelve he had plumbed the depths of his tutors at Blythe Hall. He was gifted, anyone could see it. His untrammeled genius had a tendency to embrace wilder pursuits, but he was under the practiced hand of a good and industrious nobleman who worked him tirelessly. There were times, however, when the three of us found ourselves at home living under the same roof. We were a family, of course, but one riven by a harmless madness. On some level, Lord Blythe understood this and made every attempt to soothe some of the hurt and anger that the young Master of Blythe bore so close to the surface. But if we were left too long together, tempers would flare. Loud, angry arguments ensued, and in the end Lord Blythe would not be moved on any account to give up his desperate search for angels, because, as he believed, he was very close to unlocking the secret. For Julius, a young man bursting with energy, intellect, and a contemptuous sort of pride, visits with his father were as futile as they were frustrating, especially so because he was the one who suffered publicly for our father’s madness. To me both men were kind, but it was never again the same as it had been before. I let my father believe that I understood his need to talk with angels, because I didn’t want to break his heart like Julius had. For this weakness, and for the incident that had sparked the whole shameful debacle to begin with, Julius could never fully forgive me.
Then, finally, like a mild wind after a bitter winter, a noticeable change occurred between father and son. It came years later, around 1486. That was the year the altarpiece had been installed in the chapel, the Altar of Angels, he had called it. That was the year I was sent to Stirling to serve briefly at the court of Queen Margaret. Julius spent a good deal of time in Stirling himself, for Sir Alexander Hume, his lord, was the Keeper of Stirling Castle. It was there that I met Marion and her older cousin, George Douglas, who was Julius’s particular friend at the time. It was also there that I first met the king, although he was James, Duke of Rothesay, back then, and the oldest of the queen’s three sons. It was no secret, even upon my arrival, that Julius was a favorite of the household, especially worshipped by the young princes, James in particular. Yet after only six fascinating months of service on my part, the queen suddenly took ill and died. The princes were sent to the castle in Edinburgh to live with their father, while Marion and I were sent to Haddington to live at the convent. My father was back in Scotland by the end of that year, for the king had need of him, and he was one of the few noblemen the king trusted.
Although a kind man, James III was not a revered ruler. Throughout his reign his policies and throne were constantly threatened by powerful nobles as well as members of his own family—the late Alexander, Duke of Albany (his own brother), being a particularly sharp thorn in his side. The result of this weakening authority and political sabotage by the country’s powerful, self-seeking noblemen was that the king took to surrounding himself with common men, particularly musicians, poets, artisans, and architects. My father was one of the few exceptions. Most felt this was because of Lord Blythe’s peculiar madness and not because of his loyalty. I believed it too until I learned from Julius—on one fine day when he had come to Haddington to entertain us with music, wild stories, and the latest gossip from court, as he often did—that it was something quite different altogether.
It came out during a private conversation held in the prioress’s apartments. I was pleased to see how well my brother looked, how mature he had grown under Sir Alexander’s patient guidance. I could see that he had thrown aside his childish ways and was finally ready to fill the role he was born to play, and his skills as a knight (and, if truth be told, with the fair sex) were already growing legendary. But there was something else too. He had just come from court after spending time with the king and our father. And it was in low tones that he convinced me that he finally understood our father’s obsession with angels.
“I don’t believe you,” I offered with a grin, for I believed he was baiting me again; Julius loved to bait me, especially in conversations regarding heavenly beings.
“Oh, but you should, sister dear,” he replied with a like grin. It was then that I saw the spark of excitement bright in his eyes. “You should believe me,” he continued softly, “because it’s not just angels, Isabeau. Ever since that day I thought it was. I could never understand it; he was absolutely unhinged. I thought the man had been flogging himself silly chasing after something that just doesn’t exist. But now I understand what he was trying to tell me all along. Oh no, Isabeau,” he said, placing his hands firmly on my shoulders, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They were still bright but deadly serious. “It’s not just angels our father has been chasing after all these years. Angels, you see, have become a metaphor for something greater … something much, much greater.”
It was never explained to me what exactly the Blythe men were up to. Perhaps I didn’t really wish to know, for there seemed to hang about them a subtle air that spoke of a deeper, more desperate pursuit. In truth, I was just relieved to see that they had finally been reconciled. After our visit in Haddington, Julius left the Master of Hume to serve our father at Blythe Hall. I was pleased to see that they were beginning to recapture that special bond that had once been so strong between them. Yet soon the rumors began, hinting that Julius too had become touched by the madness.
And then came that terrible year when the king and his nobles were further divided by policy, particularly his threatened alliance with England. King James was not only seeking for himself an English wife, but he intended to find suitable matches for his younger sons as well, solidifying the bond between our two fractious countries for good. This did not sit well with the nobles, especially the powerful Borders family of Hume, who hated the English and who were no friends of the king’s. Trouble was brewing in Scotland. My father had always been loyal to the crown; Julius still revered his old master, Sir Alexander Hume. That was the year my father received a note of safe conduct from the king to go to England. He took Julius with him. Sir Archibald Douglas, fifth Earl of Angus and a powerful ally of the Earl of Hume, also went to England on a mission of his own, taking his nephew Sir George Douglas, Lord Kilwylie, with him. My father never returned from England. According to Julius he was still alive when they parted ways; but I could see the hurt in my brother’s eyes as he told me how our father was driven to find the last missing piece of the mystery he had been in search of all these years, even if it meant killing himself in the process. He had gone straight from England to the Continent, with barely a word of explanation as to why. Over the years I received a few letters from him, but they had stopped a long time ago.
Julius returned from England to pursue the inglorious path he had chosen. He was a loose cannon—a dangerous and highly trained instrument of war that had been left without direction. He fell back into step with Hume and had been instrumental in supplanting the king in order to replace the king’s son on the throne. Yet it was soon found out that he had been hatching a lucrative plot of his own that involved selling the soon-to-be king to his enemies in England, leaving the throne of Scotland open for the taking. And Julius stood to gain a fortune in lands and titles from his new master. But
for his timely escape, my brother would be dead. And I really thought he had died, drawn to the same heartbreaking fate as our father.
I had been wrong. For just as the keeping of Blythe Hall fell to me, Julius had returned to make me suffer for all the pain I had inadvertently caused him—because of that one horrible day in the tower room long ago. And he was using blackmail to do it.
I distinctly smelled fish. It wasn’t just any fish, but a particularly odiferous sort, and it made no sense at all, coming to the surface as I was from a deep, obliterating sleep. The thought did flash through my mind that I was dreaming. But the smell was so pungent, the evocation so real, and my mind as blank as a virgin sheet of parchment, that I was inclined to believe I hadn’t been dreaming of anything at all. Yet I most definitely smelled fish. Only when the voice accompanying the smell spoke did I know for a certainty that I was not dreaming.
“M’lady. M’lady,” came Tam’s soft yet insistent urging. I cracked an eye open. “Och, there ye are,” he said cheerily and displayed a broad smile, one much too bright for so early in the morning. He then, unbelievably, proceeded to wave a little platter under my nose. The smell was beyond stomach-churning. “Look,” he beamed proudly. “I caught ye a fine brown trout. Old Hendrick said as I could drop a line in the river, and so I did. Nothing like a breakfast of properly seasoned river meat tae face what you’ve got on your plate just now, aye?” His boyish features were attempting something on the order of sagelike wisdom—an intuitive knowing—which looked absurdly unnatural on the smooth, freckle-dusted skin.
I wanted to laugh but knew better. Instead I said, “I’m afraid that what I’ve got on my plate just now doesn’t smell anything like a trout.”
