by Darci Hannah
“Sire, let me be the first to welcome you to Blythe Hall,” I said with a grim sort of cheer before turning my gaze to the archway where the warrior-angel stood in relief, illuminated from below by torchlight. The outstretched wings, the graceful head looking downward, the mighty sword held aloft and ready to strike, were all fully lit and glowing like an ominous beacon; the words I am protected rang loud in my ears. Please, Lord, I uttered fervently, let it be so. I looked back at Jamie Stewart, noting that he too was held captive by the sight. “I beg you excuse us if we appear to be a bit unprepared for your visit. There’s been quite a spell of excitement since our arrival yesterday, and your sudden appearance this night will be unparalleled, I should think. However, know that I shall do all in my power to see that your stay is a memorable one. Now, before we pass through those gates, would you mind very much telling us why it is that Princess Margaret has arranged for the king to escape his court in order to come to a forlorn place like Blythe Hall?”
While it was true that to be a king required great responsibility, it was also true that to have such great responsibility thrust upon one’s shoulders meant that one was seldom ever allowed to be alone. James was the jewel of our country; through his veins coursed the blood of ancient kings, and because of his birth order and impressive lineage he was honored with a staff of servants who never left his side. He explained that he could not even use the chamber pot without two courtiers assisting him—one to hand him a piece of towel, the other to cover and carry the royal eliminations away. I thought him joking at first but could see that he wasn’t. Of course he had been groomed for this life, being raised a prince, so the attention came as no surprise. Yet he was a modest man by nature, and there were certain things—certain pressing urges—he yearned to indulge. And he wished to indulge them without the entire palace knowing, as they were certain to know eventually.
“Marion?” I repeated, my head hurting slightly as I attempted to comprehend what was unfolding beneath my roof, and feeling somewhat deflated that I hadn’t even considered this possibility myself. We were sitting alone in my solar, warming ourselves with mulled wine and a soft, crackling fire as the king attempted to spill his story. Hendrick, upon being apprised of our visitor’s identity, had stood in ineffable silence, for there were no words to describe such an honor—such a calamity. Hendrick understood the situation perfectly; it meant another bout of furious activity to ready the castle as best we could. James, having never been to Blythe Hall before, was gracious in his praise, yet even a blind man could see that his thoughts were occupied elsewhere. And when Hendrick fibbed and explained that Sir Matthew and the Guard had left with Sir George and his small army on an errand, the king showed little interest. Julius, due to some tacit agreement, was never mentioned.
“Aye, Marion,” James reiterated, turning a healthy shade of pink as he spoke her name. “I’ve been getting pressure of late. Ye know, I mean, I’m a man. I should be doing these things. My subjects are talking. I need to sire a bastard or two to stop the chatter.”
“I say, let them talk,” I suggested, the pall of gloom hanging thick in my voice. “Bastards are highly overrated. So, Mistress Boyd is the reason you’re here.”
“Aye,” he conceded, his tone invoking the image of a man being swept away on a current too powerful to fight.
“And you don’t mean to marry her.”
“Ye know I can’t, even should I be so inclined. I won’t mistreat her, Isabeau, if that’s what you think. I would never do such a thing! I know she is dear to you, but you must also know that royal mistresses are … well, there’s no shame in it. It’s not like being a common … I mean, ’tis a position of honor.”
“Honor? You will lavish favors on her family,” I stated.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Let me ask you something else: Is it a coincidence that her uncle is Sir Archibald Douglas, Lord Angus? Is this an olive branch after your siege at Tantallon?”
He paused before answering. A soft, reflective smile appeared on his lips as he said, “ ’Tis not a coincidence, but a benefit. I am entirely taken with her, Isabeau. I have a kingdom to run, but all I can think of is Marion. Do you understand?” His dark eyes were intense yet tempered with hope.
“No. I don’t think I do, but if that’s how you feel—?”
“Aunt Margaret understood,” he said, cutting in while clutching his goblet as if it were all that was keeping him upright. His eyes were glued to the soft, mesmerizing flames of the fire. Of course Aunt Margaret would understand, I thought smugly. She had once, in her youth, been contracted to marry the English king’s brother-in-law, Earl Rivers. But Margaret never left Scotland, nor did she ever marry. She had an illegitimate child instead. James continued. “She saw an opportunity, sent Marion here with you, and told me … Do you think … I mean, will she agree?” He turned his head to look at me. “She’s such a beautiful, spirited creature, and there are many who feel as I do …”
I touched his hand to stop him. Here was a man who had no equal in the tiltyard, a man of vast learning and devout nature, a man who held the reins to a kingdom yet was as timid and chaste as myself in matters of the heart. And he had poured out his heart to me. How could I tell him that Julius had beaten him to his heart’s desire—arriving a day before him, an outlaw, a reprobate, a hedonistic debaucher of women who cared not a fig for poor Marion? And how could I tell him that Marion had invited such base attention, knowing what Julius was, and would keep doing so if not stopped?
“You are the king,” was all I said. “And were you not, there still would be no question. You are a good man, James, and you have risked too much in coming here already. Now, I will not hear another word.” I stood to go. “You are here. Marion is here, and there are very few others. Now is your time, my dear friend. And I do wish you happiness. Please, accept these chambers for as long as you care to stay. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must change, for we have a royal visitor in our household.” I smiled, turned to go, then stopped, thinking on something else. “In the spirit of adventure, and in keeping with your yearning for the common experience, I believe we shall dine on pewter and wood instead of silver tonight, if that is all right with you?”
“Oh, that would be grand.” His grin was endearingly genuine.
“Good,” I replied, and allowed a small bubble of relief to break the surface of my ocean of worries. One less embarrassment to explain.
“And thank you, Isabeau,” James said, standing to face me. He took my hands in his, the soft glow of the fire casting half his face in a golden hue, while the other half lay hidden in shadow. “For listening to me. Nobody listens to me like you do.”
Dinner, although held in the Great Hall, was a comparatively quiet affair—when one recalled the day before. There was still plenty of pageantry, for this was, in essence, a courting feast, served upon platters of pewter and wood, and eaten on fresh-baked trenchers of bread. No one complained. The subtle theme, as concocted by the rushed Mutton Johnny, appeared, unbelievably, to be breasts. The rather intimate feast opened with a plate containing the small, tender breasts of squab, done to a turn and, no doubt, hastily gathered from the dovecote. Next, a dish of the slightly larger, plumper breast of chicken—likely the maimed combatants of the courtyard—stewed and glistening under a rose water glaze. Turnips were cut in half and roasted with carrot nubs plucked in the middle. Cabbage appeared much the same, only larger, and a bit saggy. There was a breast of swan, stuffed to bursting with herbs and grapes, and finally, a dish of poached pears, dusted with cinnamon and topped with tart cherry nipples. Mildly erotic theme aside, I had little appetite for any of it, given all that weighed on my mind, yet every now and then I felt the annoying urge to giggle. Mme. Seraphina’s lively comments didn’t help matters any; Hendrick, I believed, was merely thankful that food appeared at all, under the circumstances, and the incorrigible Mackenzie brothers, making trip after trip from the kitchens, had cleverly titled everything, purely for their own enter
tainment. The king, thankfully, was oblivious to all, for his eyes never left Marion.
Marion, having heard of the king’s intentions from my own lips, looked nothing less than stunning in a satin gown of pale butter yellow. Her hair, glossy after a thousand brushstrokes, had been loosely contained in a woven caul studded with tiny diamonds and seed pearls that fell well below her shoulders. Her neck, slender and white, appeared far too fragile to support the chain of emeralds she wore. The contrast was striking, as was her choice to wear her gown low, showing a good deal of creamy skin and the swell of her firm, round breasts. The good sisters of Haddington would have never approved. The king, however, did.
Marion was no fool. While admitting that her appetites were somewhat on the order of my brother’s where sexual intrigue was involved, she knew that the young king was the ultimate prize, and she did appear genuine in her affection for him. “Really, Isabeau, you took all you learned at the convent to heart. Life is meant to be lived, not meticulously planned and then tucked away until all your bucks are in a row. And the king, he is a buck without equal.”
“I believe the saying is ducks—all your ducks in a row,” I said, stopping the brush in my hand to look at her reflection in the little mirror.
She made a disparaging face back at me. “See what I mean? Bucks, stags, rutting bulls—start thinking along those lines. You must jump when an opportunity arises, Isabeau, or you will miss it all.”
“Yes. Thank you for that bit of sage advice. However, I believe if you jump too often, you’ll run the risk of scaring the bucks away.” I smiled oversweetly at her reflection.
“Humm,” she said, pretending to think. “Interesting. However, I stand firm on my original premise, which is that if you never jump at all, the bucks will stop coming around altogether.”
I laughed then. Marion and I were as different as two friends could be, in temperament, looks, and especially our attitudes concerning the opposite sex. Yet it was this same vivacious and palpable hunger of hers that I found so compelling, likely because it was so tempered in me. In turn, my stolid attitude helped balance out her earthly impulses, or at least I had hoped so. “All right,” I acquiesced. “But did you have to jump at Julius? Could you have just, for the sake of decency, passed on that opportunity?”
Marion let out a small sigh and turned. Her face was composed, her snapping eyes softened by reflection, and her hand, warm and gentle, came over mine. “I know he’s your brother. I know all that lies between you two, for I am your dearest friend. But I am not sorry, Isa, nor do I regret my actions. I shall never forget him.”
“It was only one night!” I said. “For the sake of the king, I think you can forget one night!”
Her lips curled, and in them was a hint of mischief. “Oh, Isa, there are many knights I’d gladly forget, but not this last one. And because of it the king, who is so like you in many ways, will be very well served by me, never you fret. I do hope, for your sake, you take a chance on one of these knights, Lord Kilwylie in particular. You may balk now and cite scripture, but one cannot experience heaven through the written word alone. You may think me a trollop, and perhaps you’re right, but what I experienced last night would put heaven to shame.”
My hand came over my mouth. “Oh, Marion, that’s blasphemy!”
“I know. But it’s also the truth.”
Her words, her look of sublime wonder, still plagued me as I poked at the little squab with my knife. It was so fragile, so insubstantial, and yet I found it overwhelming. This feeling was compounded by James, who ate of the little morsels with thoughtless zeal, for he had worked up a hearty appetite racing through the countryside as salacious thoughts of the lovely Mistress Boyd clouded his better judgment. Just how far his judgment was impaired became apparent by the anecdotes he shared with us, namely, the shepherd’s hut incident, the questionable tavern near Dalkeith, the band of roving tinkers in Lauderdale, and a wayside traveler who introduced himself as Bugger Billy. At least he’d had the good sense not to dally there.
Marion, who mere hours earlier had attempted to woo Sir Matthew, and succeeded with my brother, was now employing all her skills to unrivaled perfection. She hung on the king’s every word, offering a trill of laughter when appropriate and a coy compliment when encouragement was needed. The food before her became an artist’s palate of seduction, and she toyed with it in such a manner as to make Hendrick choke on his wine, and the Mackenzie brothers to gawk in a most unseemly way. Mme. Seraphina even fell speechless a time or two, and I grew hot thinking that I should not be here, at my own table. Marion had no problem eating; I had no appetite for any of it. And it was with a sinking heart that I realized this was the role she had been groomed for—the role of royal mistress. It was as good as signed and sealed in triplicate, as far as I was concerned.
“More wine, m’lady?” It was Jerome, standing behind me. I shook my head. The wine came regardless, as did a low whisper in my ear. “Tam says that’s the king. Is it true?” I nodded and took a hearty sip. “I thought he’d be taller, and wearin’ a crown.”
“He’s just a man, same as you,” I said flatly, then felt obliged to add, “only decidedly more refined, and with a far vaster wit and intelligence. And he’s not the king here, Jerome. Don’t address him as sire or Your Grace; an obsequious m’lord will do.”
“Oh, indeed,” he uttered, spellbound by the young king. My goblet was topped off once more. As the elder Mackenzie brother stood behind me studying the king, I studied the rosy liquid in my cup. Perhaps it was a sign from God, for the wine kept coming no matter how I tried to stop it; the words drink up echoed through me. Drink up and release your troubles to me! I eagerly obeyed. Two poached pears appeared on my plate as if by magic. “You’ll be wantin’ a nipple tart or two t’ go with all that, or perhaps some succulent, sugared-mound of swan?”
“I’m fine, Jerome. Thank you.” I drained my cup and motioned for more.
“Is that not so, Isabeau? Isabeau?” It was the king. His penetrating gaze was focused on me. Unfortunately my focus was on my cup, and Jerome, I saw, was eyeing the poached pear in a manner that didn’t appear entirely proper.
“Excuse me?” I hurriedly replied, shifting my focus.
“Your father’s chapel. It is said to be a thing of wonder.”
“Oh, the chapel. Yes. Yes, it is, if you like that sort of thing.”
“But I do,” he said, holding me with a mildly chastising look. “I’d like you to take me there. You must know how I long to see it.”
I set my goblet down and met his direct gaze. “Now? You wish to see it now? Is it not a bit late to be wandering around a strange castle?”
His eyes traveled from the goblet before me to my unsteady gaze. “It is your castle, so it’s not at all strange.”
“That may be, but are we not eating?”
“We were. But supper’s over, Isabeau.” The king stood and came before me, hand outstretched. I hastily scanned the table. The meal did appear to be over. “Come,” he said softly. “Take my hand and show me to this chapel of yours. Tonight we shall pray for our fathers together.”
I looked to Mme. Seraphina. She nodded while resting a hand on Marion. I understood. I was to oblige the king, while she prepared Marion to receive him. I closed my eyes, taking a moment to steady myself. “Very well,” I acquiesced, focusing on the king. “But I think I should warn you, Jamie, I’m not really in the mood to pray.”
With flambeau held high before him, Tam led the way up the tower stairs. The light cast menacing shadows on the thick stone walls, and the pace of my heart increased with every step closer to the room in question. It didn’t help matters any that my head was reeling slightly from the wine. The king, like a child about to discover an ancient treasure, was breathing heavily behind me. I could feel the rush of anticipation in his every breath, his every footfall tempered but eager. Such was not the case for me, and I silently cursed myself for overindulging. It seldom happened. I was always in control, ye
t I feared I was careening toward a precipice from which I would never recover. I couldn’t entirely explain it, but my fear was real. My heart was a prime indicator of it. And lurking in the shadows, pushing me ever closer to the edge, was my brother.
The king was utterly unaware that Julius had surfaced. Perhaps it was wrong of us not to tell him, but why tell him? He was here now, and looking forward to entering that last bastion of manhood—choosing his partner with care—even losing sleep over the decision, and finally blazing the very same trail Julius had explored a day earlier. This little visit to the chapel in the middle of the night was just a mild distraction before the main event. We should be doing this in the morning; we shouldn’t be doing this at all. But I was not a coward. And it would never do to show any signs of this weakness in front of the king. I schooled my racing thoughts and kept my eyes on the broad yet bony shoulders of my groom.
A large sheet of black cloth had been hung before the chapel door, a reminder of Sir George’s earlier visit. It was the type of cloth one hung during a time of mourning. Perhaps it was all Hendrick could find. I was shaking, staring at the impending black barrier as if it were a portal to another realm. It was just a doorway, I told myself, and over the threshold was just another room. Tam, watching me intently, asked the question with his eyes. I nodded and he slipped inside, taking the flambeau with him. The landing went black, the cloth swallowed all light from the flame, and my heart beat away with a rapidity I feared would break it.
“Are you frightened?” the king whispered, holding my hand in the darkness.
“No,” I replied too quickly.
“But you’re shaking.”
“Oh? That’ll be the wine. I drank too much.” My eyes were closed; I was trying to focus on what lay beyond the curtain.
