The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  Marion and her glib attitude toward the improprieties that had taken place under my roof had me flustered, so flustered I nearly upset a basin of steaming water as I dashed out the door. The chambermaids, shepherded by Mme. Seraphina, had arrived. They had brought not only hot water and towels but clean hose, a freshly pressed gown of rose silk with slashed sleeves, along with a finely embroidered cream chemise to go with it. It was, admittedly, a far more respectable-looking ensemble than the kirtle and yesterday’s hose I had thrown on this morning. But I had no time to wash and change, because the wily fox was close, so close I could almost smell him, and I would be damned if I didn’t bring him to ground before he could bury me. I couldn’t explain any of this to my governess; there was no time, and so, left with no choice, I matched her look of surprise, added a fleeting grimace of apology, and grabbed a handful of cloves from the bowl as I ran out the door.

  Having pleasantly fresher breath, I began my hunt, questioning the staff, searching every room, chamber, and antechamber, combing the outbuildings, wandering the corridors and peering into every nook and cranny I came across, and still I came up empty-handed. Because the castle had been filled with so many men, all of them strangers, it was nearly impossible to determine whether Julius was among them. He was, after all, a master of disguise. However, there was one suspicious instance reported by two lads from the kitchens. It came from the Mackenzie brothers, Jerome and Brendon, and just like the boys, their story was suspect at best. The boys’ father was one of the shepherds who had gone missing. The lads themselves had been shepherds as well until some incident occurred a month ago that landed them a year serving in the castle under the watchful eye of Hendrick and Mutton Johnny, the cook.

  Since they had somewhat of a reputation for invention and tomfoolery, I found it hard to take their story seriously. But they looked sincere, even slightly shaken by what they had seen. Around dawn the boys had gone to the storerooms under the great hall for another cask of mead for our guests when they spied a white form running down the passageway. It was her, they insisted, crossing themselves. The white lady. At the mere mention of her name a wave of gooseflesh covered me, causing every hair to stand on end. I fought to remain calm, to breathe deeply and steadily as they began educating me on the apparition, for the white lady of Blythe Hall was now legend. And, according to this legend as told by Brendon and Jerome, the mere sight of her caused madness—why, didn’t I know that the old laird had gone mad at the sight of her? It was at that point that I reminded them: “You do realize the old laird you speak of was my father?” It likely hadn’t occurred to them, and they nodded apologetically.

  “The young master went mad too,” the taller boy, Jerome, offered softly.

  “Yes, he did. And what about the young mistress?” I questioned, looking levelly at them. “Do you have any comment there?”

  “Ye?”

  “Yes. Me. Am I also mad?”

  “Umm …” Jerome looked to his slightly shorter, slightly ganglier brother and shrugged. “I … dinnae believe so?” It was apparent by the slight inflection on the word so that there might be a question there, a question I was not about to give them the satisfaction of answering. The boys next admitted that they didn’t get a good look at this mysterious fleeting white form. It was traveling fast—a blur. Besides, they were in no mind to chase such a thing, for fear of going mad. But they did swear, after I posed the question, that it was definitely a lady, flowing gown, white kerchief, and all. They would know a lady when they saw one!

  But the legend, the madness associated with it, and the sudden appearance of the white lady wandering down a subterranean passageway in the hour following sunrise, smacked of Julius.

  Hendrick and I inspected the passageways where the incident occurred. But everywhere we looked there was nothing to indicate that Julius had ever been there. Perhaps he was a ghost, I mused, for his ability to appear and disappear wherever he liked, at my expense, was uncanny. But I knew very well he was no ghost. A ghost would have had more decency than to coerce my dearest friend into amoral, lustful acts, or so I liked to believe. However, I wasn’t entirely certain about that either. In fact, I wasn’t certain about anything anymore except that Julius wasn’t in the castle.

  Tam had my horse ready and waiting long before I got to the stables. I was alone. Only Hendrick knew what I was about, and I had appealed to him to let me solve this problem on my own. Begrudgingly he agreed. Tam, however, being my groom, was a thorn I could not so easily shake, and truthfully, although he created terrible mischief at times, he was a good companion. He even apologized for the fish incident and made the feeble excuse that he was only trying to help. He promised to keep his nose out of my personal affairs in the future. Tam was sincere, and I believed him.

  We rode under an azure sky dappled with fleecy white clouds. The clouds, like fat, contented little sheep, made me think of the animals we had lost and the devastation that would come because of it. Could we buy more? How long and how much would it take to rebuild the numbers we once had? Would we be able to fulfill the demand of the carders, spinners, and weavers who depended on us? Or would they turn elsewhere? Would our men turn elsewhere and steal what had been taken from them? As we rode over the gentle hills, skirting newly planted fields and orchards in full bloom, heading instead into the heather where the tender grasses and succulent wildflowers that fattened our sheep grew, I folded my hands, entangling them in the reins, and prayed.

  There was so much I didn’t know, there were so many forces at work against me, that I felt entirely overwhelmed. And, most distressingly, there was that small voice in the back of my head—a voice echoed by Sir George and my brother—suggesting that I was not cut out for this—this untamed life. Last night, mere hours after my arrival, each man had made his point. One was blackmailing me into engaging the madness that had destroyed him; the other only wished to be the Laird of Blythe Hall. I wasn’t even certain what I wanted anymore, or how I was to govern my people when I could barely govern myself. I rode beside Tam, my head full, my heart heavy, as I prayed for guidance and strength.

  I prayed to God, to Jesus, and to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes. I was born on his feast day; I thought it appropriate. And then I prayed to my mother, hoping she would listen from wherever she was, hoping she would hear me. It was during that silent prayer, composed from atop a walking horse, that something marvelous and totally unexpected happened: the sun came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the land. Although this in itself was not unusual, for the sun had made an appearance many times since I’d left the castle, this time it was somehow different—brighter, more luminous. The peaty brown Tweed, snaking along peacefully in the valley below, weaving around the distant castle, was transformed—appearing as if it were a river of spectacularly cut diamonds. Every ray of sun that touched the surface exploded in a burst of prismatic light, igniting the countryside. My eye caught the tower room, high above the castle walls. The magnificent stained-glass window stood out from the grayness of the stone, depicting Saint Matthew the Evangelist, with wings, carved out of magnificent jewels from the Orient.

  With effort I pulled my gaze away and turned to face the hills. Purple moor grass and bell heather shimmered like a thousand ells of the finest satin unrolling before us, interwoven with delicate splashes of white and yellow atop a foundation of living green. The wind, infused with the heady perfume of spring, stirred from the north like a mighty breath and carried on its gentle fingers a shower of white petals. It was like a dream, a vivid yet surreal dream where everything was familiar and foreign at once. But I was very aware that I was not dreaming. And then came the warmth, gentle yet absolute, and it filled me, penetrating all the way to my bones. Every sense I possessed was heightened; every nerve in my body tingled. I felt alive, I felt invincible, and I wanted this feeling to last. I needed it to last. I needed it in order to face what lay before me, and so I closed my eyes, tilting my face toward the sun. I was soaking up every dr
op of it.

  That was when I saw him—the golden man from my vision: my dream, my angel.

  The clearness of the image, the subtle detail, the intensity behind the smile, startled me. And then came a pang of longing so primal, so sudden, that I was forced to open my eyes as the cool air rushed into my lungs. I looked at Tam. He was beside me, a gentle smile on his lips as his hair, peppered with apple blossoms, fluttered on the soft breeze. His boyish face looked innocent enough, yet I had the strangest feeling he had been inside my head—that he had seen what I had seen. I blushed at the thought and noted that the world looked normal once again.

  Though I was still no closer to finding Julius, the fresh air had done wonders for my nerves, and I found I was less oppressed by the thought of him lying in wait nearby. The truth was, the land surrounding Blythe Hall unfolded in every direction, twisting and undulating between trickling burns and turgid rivers, rife with forested hills, hidden glades, petulant bogs, and the high, sweeping trackless expanse of the moors. It was a land where a thousand head of sheep or cattle could disappear, becoming entirely hidden from the population that traversed it daily. It was a land that championed the intrepid outlaw, warm and protective as a mother’s embrace. Julius knew this land, and he had chosen his hiding place wisely. I was a fool to think I could find him when the best of Roxburghshire had failed. He was likely across the border; perhaps he even owned land there—a homecoming gift from Mother England. It would be ironic, and Julius, above all else, loved irony. I was not about to cross the Tweed. My brother would come to me when he was ready. And when he came I would be ready as well.

  Smiling, resolved, I turned my sights instead to the forested hillsides we were approaching, where white birch, steadfast pine, and stolid oak sprang from the ground like tenacious giants, and where the old peel tower, built in the time of David I, and fallen to ruin after the turbulent years of Robert the Bruce, could just be seen poking a wobbly parapet above the canopy of green. Crumbling and moss-covered, it still stood guard over the cleared and rolling glens of Blythemuir, where the timber-and-thatch homes of the shepherds were to be found.

  Tam and I cantered silently along a narrow, winding road, our horses’ footfalls muffled by a blanket of leaves and soft needles. The going was steep in places, and there were times when the trees resembled a battalion of bare-legged soldiers, the lower branches and bark having been stripped by hungry deer. And then the forest thinned, and we found ourselves thrust upon the open, wind-scoured lip of a great hill. The old peel tower sat crumbling deep in the shadow of the trees to our right, while before us the land fell away in a breathtaking view of verdant green bisected by the silvery trail of a burn as it tumbled and careened to the marshy edge of a little lake. Whitewashed cottages, split-rail folds, and rambling shearing sheds belonging to the men who husbanded our sheep dotted the edge of the meadow. It was a strategic location. Every cottar would have a commanding view of the greening sward where the sheep and other livestock should have been idly fattening. However, at the moment it was eerily void of grazing animals. I glanced at Tam. He shrugged and started down the well-worn path to the nearest cottage.

  The cottage, quaint and with a puffing chimney, belonged to Jacob Mackenzie, head shepherd, who had been reported missing. His wife had passed away a while ago, and his two sons, Jerome and Brendon, were busy working in the castle kitchens and spinning tales of madness and the white woman of Blythe Hall. By all accounts the cottage should have been empty, but someone was definitely at home. I smelled dinner. Severely overcooked mutton, by my guess, with a side of burnt bannocks and drying wool. Yet these smells, sharp and pungent as they were, sparked a memory, and suddenly I had visions of being a little girl again—happy, carefree—visiting these cottages with my father. I had loved coming here. Visits always meant kindness, warmth, and laughter—and that was even before the spirits started to flow. My father had been a good laird to his people. But it had been a long time since I had been here, and I was suddenly struck with the fear that I would not be remembered.

  Tam, dismounting swiftly, was in the process of helping me down when a young woman burst out the door. We both stopped, riveted and a little frightened by the sight. The woman was petite; the baby in her arms was not. It was a child of astounding girth with chubby legs kicking, roly-poly arms flailing, all the while attempting to swallow one of its sizable fists. The front of its little, rumpled gown was awash in drool. Not two steps behind this poor, tiny woman was a stream of dirt-smudged youngsters—four children in all—the oldest of whom appeared to be four or five. The young woman I recognized instantly. She was Katherine Kerr, and she was just two years older than me.

  “Why, angels save me!” she exclaimed, a huge smile splitting her drawn and tired face. The children gathered around her, peering up at us from the safety of her skirts and hopelessly stained apron. The baby, impervious to everything, continued to try to eat its fist. “Could it be true? I had heard a rumor from those daft, devil-spawn stepsons of mine, but I’d no’ believe it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Mistress Isabeau, you’ve come home at last. And might I add, not a moment too soon.”

  I was already on the ground, Tam taking hold of both horses, when I returned the greeting. “Katherine Kerr, how good it is to see you again. But whatever are you doing here, and with all these … fairy folk?”

  “Kerr? Dear heavens, I haven’t been called Katherine Kerr for an age.” She rolled her eyes as if it was a great joke. “I’m Kat Mackenzie now, and these wee fairy folk are my children.”

  Kat Mackenzie, the mythically prolific second wife of Jacob and stepmother to the two mischievous kitchen lads, ushered us into her home for some refreshments. The smell inside was a bit overwhelming at first, which was reasonable when one understood that only one of the four children could use the chamber pot successfully. Yet aside from the smell, I was taken aback by the change in Katherine, and her ability to placate four busy little creatures while ladling stringy mutton out of the blackened pot. She was more than happy to share her meal with us, as she was the burden that weighed so heavily on all the women of Blythemuir; for all the men had gone missing with the sheep. “I dinnae ken what we’re tae do?” she decried, plopping the chubby baby on my lap. “Wee Jacob’s teething, so dinnae put your fingers too close to his mouth, aye?” she warned, and placed a wooden block in the baby’s fist. Turning her full attention to the hearth where the supper pot dangled on a hook before a screen of drying nappies and tiny homespun shirts, doublets, gowns, and hose, she continued. “They’ve been missing for days. Just vanished, they did. There’s nae sign of ’em anywhere. If the weavers of Galashiels hear of this, we’ll be ruined. ’Tis unholy, I tell ye! ’Tis the work of the devil!”

  “It is odd,” I agreed, pulling my head away. Wee Jacob, a surprisingly heavy, yet undeniably cute little squirming bundle with a shock of curly brown hair and the round blue eyes of his mother, was trying to feed me his wooden block. “But it’s not the work of the devil, just a clever reiver. And don’t worry about the weavers just yet. We’ll find the flock soon enough,” I offered cheerily, gently pushing the block away and hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. “Besides our own men,” I began, “Sir George Douglas has gone out on our cause, and the king’s personal guard is keeping an eye out for them as well. We’ve the best men in Scotland searching the countryside. They’ll find them.”

  She placed the bowls on the table, then stood with hands on hips. “Do ye suppose,” she began, her dark head slightly askew, her eyes focusing beyond me to a spot somewhere in the distance, “that Master Julius could be behind this?”

  I nearly dropped the baby. With a speed remarkable for her tiny size, she plucked him off my lap. I looked at her and asked: “Why … what do you know of Julius?”

  “Oh,” she said wistfully, “what any of us know of the young master, I suppose.”

  “But why would you think he’d be behind something like this?” I asked cautiously.

  “Well,
because he’s returned, of course. He always was the jaunty one.”

  “How do you know he’s returned?”

  “Humm?” she replied, as if she hadn’t heard me.

  “I asked how you knew that Julius has returned. Julius is an outlaw. He’s not supposed to step foot in Scotland under forfeit of his life.”

  “Aye, I ken that.” She sat down next to me holding the gurgling baby in her lap a bit tightly. Wee Jacob protested, but Kat just held him tighter. She then glanced over at the corner where Tam was still entertaining the children. “And I ken he’s returned,” she finally said, her voice lowered to a whisper. “Because I saw him.”

  “What? When?” That beautiful feeling of peaceful calm that had carried me here began to fade, slowly being replaced with that rage that was becoming all too customary.

  She shrugged. “I dinnae ken, perhaps four or five days ago.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “He came here, when Jacob was gone. We used to be … well, ye must have realized we were …”

  I held up a hand to stop her. “No need to dredge up foolish mistakes of the past on my account. If you’ll just please tell me where he is, I’d be grateful.”

  She looked genuinely surprised by this. “Why, I thought ye knew. I thought ye knew because I thought he was staying at the castle.” The look on her face changed then, and she uttered a very tentative “Ye willnae mention this to Jacob, will ye?”

  With bellies full and thoughts clouded once again by the mention of Julius, Tam and I left the cottars of Blythemuir as the sun was making its descent in the western sky. The brightness of day had come off the land, and the heather-covered hills were dappled with the long shadows of trees and rocks, and the great flocks of birds heading to their evening roosts. To the east the tips of the tall pines were gilded with soft light as they caught the last rays of the fading sun. It was a breathtaking spectacle, and it was a pity I couldn’t fully enjoy it. If Julius had been in Blythemuir five days earlier, then he had not ridden with us from Edinburgh. That was a slight relief. Knowing that he was visiting his old paramours again was not. It was infuriating, especially after learning of his dalliance with Marion that morning. I was consumed with anger, and I’m sorry to think that I had searched the faces of all Katherine Mackenzie’s children to see if there was any echo of Julius in them. Thankfully there was not. At least nothing I could see, but I was no expert in the sordid matters of cuckoldry. At any rate, Jacob Mackenzie had no reason to suspect his children were other than his children, and wouldn’t hear differently from me.