by Darci Hannah
“Wine,” he repeated, and let out a soft chuckle. “I’ve never known it to make a body shake?”
“Indeed, but this is no ordinary wine.”
Without warning, without a sound, the cloth was drawn aside, revealing the candlelit crowning jewel of Blythe. The king, caught entirely by surprise, was rendered speechless. And then he squeezed my hand and pulled me inside with him.
There was an undeniable power in the room. Whether it was imagined or real—real in the sense that a residual essence, trapped behind each brushstroke or chisel cut, oozed forth with a palpable energy—I could not say. But this was not an ordinary room, and the king had felt it too. It had been an age since I’d stood on this floor, and doing so now ignited something in me, something both fearful and reverent. Thankfully, James was too preoccupied to notice, and his eyes, wide and unflinching, were desperately attempting to absorb all the elements that comprised this unlikely place. He had a good understanding of art—much better than I did, in fact—and his tutors had instructed him well on the master artists of the day. But James also possessed a preternatural sensitivity, one that belied his prowess in the tiltyard and his levelheaded approach in matters of state. And the room, with its astounding works of art, domed ceiling, and oculus opening to the night sky, clearly took his breath away. “In all my life,” he said, turning to me, “in all the places I have been, I have never beheld anything so … so …” His grip on my hand was uncomfortably tight, yet I squeezed back just as tightly, a gesture of understanding.
“Words fail. I know. Even your talented makars could not capture what this place is.”
“How …?” the king uttered, his eyes still hungrily devouring the flame-gilded color, the heavenly imagery.
“You’ll have heard the story of my father, I’m sure. He thought my mother an angel, literally. This was his shrine to her.”
Catching the tinge of derision in my voice, the king turned, his deep-blue eyes swimming with moisture as he pleaded, “Oh, Isabeau, dear Isabeau, you must forgive us men—you who are so pure, so logical. Put a sword in our hand and we conquer the world, but put a beautiful woman before us and we fall to our knees, forgetting even our own name. Your father was no fool. No fool could create a vision this perfect, this sublime. This room speaks of a love I can hardly imagine, an intensity so raw, a passion so visceral, that I can barely comprehend it. Why … why have you kept it from the world?”
It was a good question. There was a fine line between obsessive passion and sheer madness. Luckily I still had control of my head, or I might have blurted out the thought. Instead I chose to give a painfully simple answer. “Because it doesn’t belong to the world,” I said. “In truth, it doesn’t even belong to me.”
He accepted this explanation with the graciousness that defined his character. Yet understanding as he was, there passed behind his eyes a flicker of something dark and troubling. We had been friends a long time, which meant that he knew I was adept at reading his moods, and his mood had definitely changed. “I told you the reason I am here, and it is the truth. But I haven’t told you everything.” He let go of my hand and stood for a moment in silence before looking to Tam. The young man bowed and quietly slipped over to the other side of the curtain. Now the king drew his attention back to me. “You know that you are as dear to me as a sister, and because of it I have given great consideration to your future.”
As he spoke these words my head became light while at the same time an aching hollowness gripped my stomach. I knew what he was going to say; perhaps it was the reason I had been so fearful to begin with.
“If I believed that there was someone who held your interest, it would have made my decision easier, for you must believe I truly want you to be happy. But sometimes, Isabeau, the path to happiness must be pointed out, and I, as your guardian and your friend, have taken it upon myself to nudge you over that first bump. I have already settled the matter.”
“It is Lord Kilwylie, isn’t it?” I said, feeling that hum, that subtle vibration take hold.
“He is a good man. And he cares for you deeply. And as your husband he will make amends for being the one who …”
Who ruined my family? Who saved the nation? It was true that Sir George shared a common past with Julius, but the only real hesitation I felt at the moment regarding Sir George was a personal one—a tantalizing fear that he would devour me in a way I could not even comprehend. I smiled softly and said, “That was a long time ago, James. I don’t blame Sir George for what he did.”
“I know you don’t. You are remarkable in that way. I only hesitate because now he will bear the title Lord Blythe. This chapel will be his.”
It was my turn to take his hand. “My dear king, my dear friend, this chapel will never be his, just as it can never be mine, but I gladly give him Blythe Hall and all its myriad of problems. So, you have agreed on a marriage contract, and yet he still attempted to win me over?” The thought was oddly endearing.
“ ’Tis already signed,” he admitted, blushing a little. “And ’tis a very generous contract at that. I would have told you the day I signed it, but Kilwylie begged me to tell no one. It was his wish to win you over without my help.” He smiled a little then. “All men are vain, Isabeau. Sir George is no different. Forgive him, for he’s never been faced with the challenge of a woman like you before. Women usually fall at his—”
“I know,” I said, gently cutting him off. “The truth is that I might have too. I believe that’s what frightened me most. He’s been very persistent.”
“But, Isabeau,” he said softly, “there is no need to be frightened any longer.”
Yet I was frightened. My heart hammered away at the mere thought of the man, but I knew better than to question royal judgment. James had thought deeply about this decision, and the intensity of his gaze as he watched me process this news and all its implications expressed honest concern. That a king should express such concern over my affairs was touching, and the truth was that he had found me a good and highly respected husband. “Sir George will make a fine Lord Blythe,” I said at last, and with conviction. “But you’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I don’t fall at his feet when he returns. He’s courting me as we speak. I rather like it. And I think, for the sake of his pride, I shall keep this little meeting a secret.”
“Very wise,” he said, grinning broadly. “And I can’t tell you how it lightens my heart to hear that Blythe Hall will have a welcomed and worthy lord. I admit that I was a bit fearful.”
“Fearful? You?”
“Very. It does happen, you know. Not often, thankfully, only when dealing in matters that are very dear to me. And you are dear to me, Isabeau.”
“You have no reason to be afraid. I’ve always trusted you. And I trust you in this. I just hope Lord Kilwylie knows what he’s getting himself into. Come now, James, let us kneel before the altar. You have a big night ahead of you, and I suddenly have the urge to pray.”
It was while kneeling before the magnificent altar, head bent in prayer, eyes closed in supplication, that I felt a hand on my left shoulder. It was solid, its grip firm as it gave me a little comforting squeeze.
My heart stopped.
My eyes flew open, and I looked to my right at James, for he was the only other person in the room. He was still beside me, deep in prayer. It was this knowledge—this vision of him praying—that sent a burst of white-hot prickles traveling down my spine. The feeling was familiar. And I knew before I turned my head what I would find. Fear gripped me then, because I didn’t want to go mad.
But I feared I was, because there was no one on the other side of me—nothing but a lone white feather.
Chapter 8
OVER-INDULGENCE
AGAIN I SILENTLY CURSED MYSELF FOR OVERINDULGING in wine. It was making me sleepy and maudlin by turns. I didn’t want to be sleepy or maudlin, yet still I held a cup in my hand. My only excuse was that it was a marvelous panacea for fear; for I was afraid. The thought of Sir George Doug
las as my husband terrified me, but it was nothing compared with the madness Julius had unleashed upon Blythe Hall. And then there was the possibility that I too might be going mad.
It was well after midnight. After giving over the laird’s chambers to the king and his mistress, I returned to the room I had known as a child. I sat in a corner beside the fireplace, motionless, melding with the shadows as my eyes held the empty bed across the room. The familiar smell, the trundle bed and piled quilts, was like a lullaby, luring me slowly to my childhood nest of pale pink and creamy white surrounded by curtains of heather purple and spring green. There was a real promise of an obliterating sleep there. But I would not go. Not yet.
I tossed back the remaining wine and set the mug down on the hearth, careful not to crush the feather. The fire had been banked for the night; Mme. Seraphina had seen me to bed herself, yet here I was, wide awake and staring at the pristine white, impossibly downy feather that had shaken me to the core. Nothing on earth could be more harmless. The rational part of me understood this. But what the rational part of me could not deny was that this harmless little bit of bird down was the link to every memory I had of the tower room—every memory I had of things I didn’t believe in anymore or wished to forget. There was a time when finding such a feather meant happiness. It was a token that appeared when the white lady had gone. I had a box where I put such feathers, which I kept in the old chest at the foot of my bed. My father had also understood the significance of this. His was the last feather the room had given over. It was the tangible sign he had been looking for, and it had spurred him on a quest that drove him to madness. Was it happening again? I prayed not.
I told no one of it, especially not the king. He had other matters on his mind—pressing matters that had led him across the country. I thought of him now as I had left him, standing on the threshold of the laird’s chambers looking both excited and nervous at once. His visit to the chapel had served its purpose; he had unburdened his head to me and his heart to God, as often happened when we were together. Yet tonight there still hung about him a vulnerability that touched one’s soul. He was the King of Scotland, yet his title held little comfort. He was young, his remarkable confidence absurdly frangible as he contemplated what lay beyond the door. I of all people understood his trepidation, and because of it, all I could offer by way of encouragement was a watery smile and a tepid “Good evening.” What I didn’t say, what I should have said, was that he had nothing to fear. Marion would see to it that all went well.
I thought about how furious I had been with her and her cavalier attitude toward love—how desperately she sought it and, once in her grasp, how easily she had given it—yet now, staring at the bed she had so recently shared with my brother, I forgave her everything. Who was I to cast judgment on a friend? She was right; we were two vastly different people. I had spent so long learning to govern my thoughts and emotions that I had grown afraid of where they might take me should I give in to them. Marion had no such qualms. She jumped at life; she toyed with it; she flirted with impropriety, and was now in the arms of the king, guiding him expertly through this definitive rite of manhood. I picked up the feather, now rosy from the soft glow of the embers, and slowly twirled it between thumb and finger, letting the gentle tingling take hold. I wished them happiness, I truly did. Yet I knew, as they must know, that it would not last. Marion would always love the king, but he would not marry her. And I would marry a man I did not love, because that was my duty. It made no difference that my heart belonged to a vision—to a being that did not live in this world. I knew it was madness. It made no sense. And try as I might, I could not deny the truth of it, not here at Blythe Hall.
I had felt it the moment I arrived. It was compelling; it was reaching out to me invoking visions so real that the line between heaven and earth became blurred. And now tonight I had received the solid evidence that drew one into the illusion. Only it wasn’t an illusion. Julius had known my secret, and he would push me to the edge to expose it, knowing I could not fight it forever. My father was a strong man, and he had cracked; I was not nearly as strong.
I set the feather down and put both hands on the little bow resting across my lap. It was a short bow, an old weapon that my father had given to me when he taught me how to shoot. I hadn’t touched it for an age, but I needed it now. I needed it to protect my king. I needed it to protect my castle. But mostly I needed it to protect my sanity, for I knew that Julius, like a feral cat coming around for a dish of cream, could not resist a free meal. He would visit this room before the night was out, and I would be waiting for him.
My will was strong, but the allure of the madness was stronger. Invoked by the touch of the feather, he came to me again, my golden man. I closed my eyes, giving in to the emotions I had kept in check for so long. My head was swimming with the dulling effects of wine; it was easy to give in. I released my heart from my body, willing it to go where it must. Cut loose, it was no secret where it went, it went to the one who owned the other half. His smile was glorious, his emotions pure, and I longed to gaze upon his face forever, afraid I might never see anything so perfect again. I reveled in the feel of his breath as it gently caressed my cheek. He was speaking to me. He was telling me something private—a great secret that could only be understood by us. His smile faded. He said it again, slowly this time and in a voice vaguely familiar. I finally understood what he was saying; he was urging me to wake up.
My eyes flew open only to see a man standing before me. He was leaning against the solid post of the bed, his shadowed body just visible in the glimmer of the slumbering fire. He moved slightly; light fell across his hair and half his face, revealing the golden color, the sardonic grin. I grabbed my bow, put the nock of the arrow in the bowstring, and pulled the cord back in one fluid motion. The grin grew broader.
“You’re getting clever.”
“You’re getting predictable,” I replied, and pointed the tip of my arrow at the level of his heart.
“If you could only hold your liquor,” he said, indicating the empty mug. He picked it up and tipped it; one glistening drop fell out, and he tossed it back onto the hearth. “You might have pulled it off.” I drew the bowstring farther; the telltale creak of stressed wood wiped the grin from his face. He tilted his head and squinted. “A fully barbed arrow? How very naughty of you. Did you fletch it yourself?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s small comfort. I must tell you, the decoy of pillows was a good move. I came to it like a deer at a salt lick. The snoring was also authentic, but coming from the wrong direction. However, I shall leave you to your nocturnal hunting if you’ll leave me to mine. Just kindly point me in the direction of your lovely friend, and I’ll be on my way.”
“She’s with the king.”
“The king?” he parroted, and laughed. “Dear God! I can barely understand your petulance, but I accept it. However, you seem to be under the impression that I did something wrong here. Surely you must know that your little friend is adventurous? I was invited. I behaved in the manner she wished me to. There’s no need to lie on her behalf.”
It was my turn to smile. “I’m not lying. She’s with the king.”
“I beg to differ, sister dear. Your lovely friend cannot be with the king because the king is in Linlithgow.”
My smile faded. I fought to keep up appearances, just as I fought to keep the bowstring taut. “Come now, brother, I’m not the idiot you believe me to be. I know the king is not in Linlithgow, just as you do.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t think you an idiot, I think you presumptuous. In example, you presume I will believe your lie.”
“It’s not a lie!” My reply was terse, but I was tired, and my arm was beginning to shake under the stress of the bow. “You arranged for it. It was all part of your evil plan. Well, he’s here, and now he’s doing … well, you know what he’s doing—the point is he’s doing it with Marion.” It was my turn to mimic the sardonic grin. I felt oddly triumph
ant as I added, “You never thought of that, did you?”
“No,” he replied, and crossed his arms. He settled back against the bedpost. “It was never a consideration.” On his face was a look of consternation, whether from his foiled sexual exploits or the news of the king’s arrival, I couldn’t tell. My arm trembled and burned; my fingers hurt from the cutting bite of the cord, but I would not ease up. Julius, always infuriating, knew this and appeared to revel in taking his sweet time as he pondered what I was telling him. His graceful hand moved to caress his chin; his eyes, staring into my own, turned suddenly inscrutable, and the room fell silent but for my slightly labored breathing. He waited, knowing I was in pain, knowing my arm was screaming for a respite—a dangerous thing to do for a man on the other end of a barbed arrow. He was remarkably unflinching as he lowered his hand and asked, “Are you, in fact, telling me that James is here, now?”
I exhaled with purpose. “Yes! And I … don’t believe … you don’t … know that … already!”
“Ease up on the bowstring, Isabeau. If you really wished to shoot me, you would have done so by now.” I broke under his infernal hubris. With an angered grunt and a piercing stare I let fly the arrow. It slammed into the bedpost with lethal force, a mere hand’s width above his head. He never flinched. A grim smile appeared as he offered coolly, “The fact that you didn’t fletch your own arrow suggests it flies true. I knew you didn’t have it in you to kill me.”
“An insult and a compliment rolled into one. I’m flattered. But let me clarify, I don’t mean to kill you yet.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” His tone was pleasant and slightly mocking. “Shake out your arm. Go on. It’ll feel better. So,” he said, shifting away from the bedpost. He paused to glance at how close I came to ending his life, raised an appreciative brow, and continued, “If I’m to believe your little story, you’re insisting that James Stewart is here—at this very moment—in Blythe Hall. That, my dear, is impossible.”
