The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  I found the manner in which he spoke confounding, for his tone was lightly weighted with sarcasm—as if he didn’t believe me. I knew him to be a great dissembler, but what could he possibly gain by feigning ignorance? Yet the better question might be, what did he have to lose? “Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe you,” I said at last. “Why do you think the king is in Linlithgow?”

  “Very well, I shall play your little game. Pretend that I have spies, and my spies tell me the king left Edinburgh early this morning, riding with a small retinue heading for the palace there.”

  It was unbelievable. And he was correct. James told me himself that he had managed to slip away from his Guard, sending them ahead to Linlithgow, where the court would shortly follow, while he traveled to Blythe Hall alone. Yet all I could think of to say was, “Why do you have spies watching the king?”

  “We were playing pretend, remember? You’re breaking the rules. Don’t break the rules, Isabeau.”

  I set the bow down, entirely forgetting my reason for wanting it in the first place, and stood. Slowly I walked toward him, demanding, “Why are you watching the king, Julius?”

  “Assume that I believe you. The mere fact that he’s here, if, in fact, he is here, should tell you that I’m not watching the king.” His look of innocence was infuriating, and only slightly convincing.

  “Stop it!” I said at last, having had enough of it. “I’m not playing pretend, Julius. He is here! I’m not lying. What reason would I possibly have to lie to you about this?”

  “You’re right,” he agreed, and after a moment’s reflection all artifice, all caprice left his face. “You have many gifts, Isabeau,” he added softly, “but lying, unfortunately, was never one of them.”

  The chilling levelness with which he spoke startled me more than I would have liked to admit, prompting me to ask, “Are you telling me that you really didn’t know he was here? You really didn’t plan for this to happen—you, an outlaw and a traitor?”

  His face darkened menacingly. “You have a bad habit of giving me far too much credit. No. I did not plan for this. But somebody did. What was his reason for coming? Did he give one?”

  “Yes. It was Marion. He … he’s very attracted to her.”

  “Marion?” Wan light flickered across his face.

  “The woman you debauched last night?”

  “I know her name,” he snapped, and then his face stilled as a flash of a thought crossed his eyes. “She’s Lord Kill-Me-Now’s cousin, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. Julius, what’s going on here?”

  “What’s going on here, you ask?” His voice was soft yet his countenance was mockingly quizzical. “Oh, Isabeau,” he uttered, and his lips twisted into a grin of heart-stopping cruelty. “Why, something exquisitely diabolical.”

  His words were like a vise on my heart, constricting painfully with each rising beat. Ignoring my fear, or because of it, he walked past me, picked up a brick of peat, and tossed it onto the glowing embers. There came a hiss of protest and a plume of black smoke. He knelt down and, employing the bellows, coaxed the nascent flame. “Think of it,” he said, staring into the fire as he worked. I studied the familiar profile, watching how the growing light played along his classic features. His hair, flattened on the crown, had gone to curl at the ends, and appeared for a moment a glowing halo as the light caught it. But the look was deceiving, for here was no angel. He turned to me, facing away from the golden light. His features were once more cast in shadow. “The King’s Guard is out hunting renegades. Kill-Me-Now has gone over the border to lift sheep. And you are here all alone, virtually unprotected, while the King of Scotland is so busy rutting your pretty little friend that he cannot begin to comprehend the danger he’s in.”

  Julius made no secret that he knew very well what was going on. I glanced at my bow lying next to him; he slowly shook his head. Knowing it was of little use to me now, I crossed my arms and glared. “I’m painfully aware of what’s going on. I should have put that arrow through your heart.”

  “And you believe that would solve all your problems?” He let out a soft, mirthless chuckle.

  “I believe it wouldn’t hurt. And another thing, Sir George is not lifting sheep; he’s retrieving mine—as a favor to me. He loves me.”

  He set down the bellows and stood. “Of course he does, sweetheart; you’re the key to the treasure room he cannot unlock. But you’re wrong about the sheep. Georgie will certainly return bearing sheep, but they won’t be yours.”

  I could not hide the anger in my voice. “How are you so sure?”

  “Oh, Isabeau, what a sweet, gullible creature you are. ’Tis a pity I had to leave during your formative years. I could have taught you so much. Very well, if you must know, Lord Kill-Me-Now cannot return your sheep because I have them.”

  “You what? You stole my sheep?”

  “Our sheep,” he corrected. “And I didn’t steal them. Douglas did. I merely took them back.”

  “What? Are you trying to make me believe that Sir George stole my sheep?”

  “Our sheep. Yes. Truthfully, I was hoping to get there first, but he beat me to it. However, he’s painfully predictable.”

  “Wait. What are you saying? Are you actually suggesting that both you and Sir George stole my sheep?”

  “Aren’t you listening? Why is it so hard for you to understand this? Douglas arranged for the sheep to be stolen. ’Tis not an uncommon ploy. A beautiful damsel is in distress because her livestock goes missing and with it her livelihood. The handsome knight, who wishes to win the heart of said beautiful damsel, suddenly appears on her doorstep and bravely volunteers to retrieve her missing sheep—at great peril to himself. But there’s really no peril, just a little chicanery. Handsome knight trots off into the sunset, lies low for a day or two, rolls in the dirt, musses up his clothing, and then returns to the poor, desperate damsel with sheep in tow. It’s a heartwarming reunion. Our dear damsel throws herself into her hero’s awaiting arms and offers him whatever he wishes in return—silver, sustenance, her body. Our brave knight, of course, will want all three in an attempt to sate his insatiable hungers. But he won’t get them, not on my watch—because I have the sheep. You won’t, I’ll wager, throw yourself at my feet.”

  It was unbelievable. I stared at him with mouth agape, sputtering, “You … you stole my sheep?! And my silver?!”

  “Borrowed is the term I prefer. You seem to have overlooked the fact that I’m doing you an enormous favor here.”

  “Favor?” I sneered, very close to tears. Feeling helpless, I grabbed a pillow and hugged it tightly, as if it were an anchor keeping me from losing my sanity. “You think stealing my livestock and killing the good men of Blythemuir a favor? Did it ever occur to you that I’m a grown woman and perfectly able to fight my own battles?”

  “Aye, you’re a woman, but you cannot fight the likes of Sir George Douglas. He will eat you whole.”

  “I don’t want to fight him, Julius!” I cried, and threw my pillow at him. He caught it and walked slowly toward me. “Don’t you understand?” I hissed. “I do not wish to fight Sir George because I am to marry him!”

  “I know,” he said softly, standing over me. He gave me the pillow and eased himself onto the bed beside me. “I am here, in part, to see that you don’t.”

  “It is the king’s wish,” I added helplessly.

  “I will handle the king. And I shall return your sheep in the morning to prove my point. The silver, I’m afraid, is tied up at the moment. Kill-Me-Now will also return claiming he has your sheep. Your flock shall multiply before you—quite a miraculous feat, and one not entirely inappropriate for a place protected by angels. However, the former owners of Lord Kill-Me-Now’s offering are certain to want recompense and will come storming the castle. It has the makings of quite an exciting day.”

  “The king? Julius, you are not to go near the king! I cannot allow that.”

  “The king is not safe here, Isabeau. You k
now that yourself. You would kill me before letting any harm befall James. I give you my word I won’t go near him. I shall simply put the fear of God into the King’s Guard. I imagine they’ll be horrified when they find James here, alone.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  He gave a short, joyless laugh. “You really have no choice, do you? And if you’ve ever had a care for me, you will keep searching for my elusive friend. He will reveal his true identity only to you. Don’t fight it, Isabeau. Don’t fight what we are. We’re a cursed race, and the sooner you embrace the truth, the better off you’ll be.”

  My head was pounding as I sat in the music room playing my little harp for the ebullient king and his shining new paramour, Marion Boyd. Apparently, unlike my own night, theirs had been magical—they were a couple transformed, and they whispered, giggled, and held hands as I was made to suffer their overbright company, in an overbright room with the full light of the midmorning sun beating on my aching body. Of sleep, I had gotten precious little, but I was taking a page from my brother’s own book of deviancy and put on a convincing performance of placid Mistress of the Manor. It would never do to let anyone know of Julius’s recent visit, or the many worries that ran wild in my mind.

  Mme. Seraphina, however, did not live to such a great age by being as jolly and kindhearted as she appeared. Underneath the warm, motherly exterior was a mind as shrewd as a fox at the horn. She had seen the carelessly discarded mug on the hearth and had smelled it; she had taken note of the deadly bow on the floor by the chair, and she was particularly interested in the arrow still stuck in the post of the bed. “Oh, I see you were at the archery again. A fine shot, if not a rather close target.” Her white brow rose with approbation, yet her eyes, round as coins, were not so easily diverted. She sat next to me on the bed, her penetrating blue stare fixed on the feather still clutched in my sleepy hand. I had no idea how it had gotten there, yet there was a look about her that suggested she did. Her rosy cheeks, soft and fragile as old parchment, expanded in accordance with her smile. And then she asked sweetly, “Tell me, dear, is it a coincidence that your arrow is a hair’s breadth above the height of your brother?”

  It wasn’t a coincidence, and had I imbibed a little more wine, he might still be leaning against the pole, only with the aid of said arrow. I forced a smile and answered, “Purely a coincidence.” She handed me a cup of tea then. It was a sweet, calming blend of herbs and honey that was much more pleasant than anything Tam would have forced down my gullet.

  My fingers worked the strings with little thought and little heart. I knew this, yet I didn’t much care because the inside of my head felt like a turbulent sea—only with two sets of waves rolling in from opposite directions, and coming to crash on the harried beach of my nerves with double strength. The truth was, I didn’t know what to believe anymore, or even who to believe. The only thing I knew for certain was that the king was here—besotted, unguarded, unaware—and that I would protect his life with my own if it came to that. I prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Yet just the fact that I was out of bed, sitting before the vast windows, dressed in a costly gown of spectacular pale blue silk, smelling of lavender and rose water, my hair coiffed to perfection, and my smile belying the pounding in my head, spoke volumes of my dedication to my cause if to no one else but me.

  Before last night I had been certain that Julius was behind the suspicious sudden appearance of the king. He was, quite spectacularly, the logical culprit. Yet there was something about his manner that made me believe he was truly ignorant that the king had, in fact, turned up at Blythe Hall. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he had been watching the king, and that the king had escaped the notice of his spies? Yet the mere fact that he had been watching the king did not bode well. Why was he watching the king? Why was he trying to make me believe that Sir George was hatching a diabolical plan? Clearly he had qualms about my impending marriage to the man who had revealed him as a traitor. Yet the fact remained that Sir George was a hero of Scotland, and a man in very high favor with the king. And this favor was not about to diminish now that his cousin was the royal mistress.

  Was it jealousy that drove him—jealousy that Sir George Douglas was soon to become Lord Blythe? Or was he protecting some secret? For he and my father had been the guardians of many secrets, of that I was certain, including the driving impetus behind the magnificent Chapel of Angels. The explanation that made the most sense, however, was the obvious one: Julius was mad. And to a madman without allegiance, direction, or a god, nothing would avenge his twisted soul so much as forcing me to embrace that same consuming affliction. According to my brother, an angel held the key to his salvation, and only I had the ability to find this angel. I wanted no part of it. I wanted no part of any of it. Yet I could not deny, in my heart of hearts, that there was something deeply alluring here, something that played upon the imagination, blurring the fine line between reality and madness.

  “Isabeau, are you listening? I’m asking if you can play something a little more lively than that dour piece of religious drivel. The day is glorious! The birds are singing! And we have no wish to be reminded of pain and suffering. We are in love! Play us a French love song.”

  I stopped plucking the strings and looked at Marion. She was sitting on the window seat nearly on top of James, looking particularly lovely with a new string of white pearls around her slender neck that complemented her high color and flashing brown eyes. Her hand, elegantly grasping a tiny, sugared strawberry, was poised before the king’s lips, yet going no farther. James, to my amazement, was entirely focused on this little berry—as if nothing else existed—and looking more like a lapdog than a fearless ruler of men. Mme. Seraphina, assiduously attacking a pair of hose with her mending needle, glanced up and rolled her eyes.

  “Let me see … French love songs …,” I said, and pretended to think on this ridiculous request—ridiculous because I didn’t feel much like taking requests at all. My head was pounding. I was in pain. I was suffering. Yet being the gracious hostess I was aiming to be, I replied sweetly, “Um, I don’t believe I know any, except for those containing cautionary tales aimed at pretty young maidens who are tricked into lustful acts by conniving courtiers. Those seem to be very popular these days. However, that perhaps is not exactly appropriate either. And really, a proper love song should be played on the lute. I don’t much feel like playing the lute.”

  James looked at me and grinned. Mme. Seraphina dropped her needle, then cleared her throat as she bent to retrieve it.

  “Very well, I could make something up, I suppose.” I thought for a moment, then began to pluck out a tune, sweet of melody and a wee bit livelier than a death lament. It was going rather well, I believed, yet I was only a few measures into it when the door to the room burst open and Tam fell in, his face flushed, his voice excited as he cried: “M’lady! Sire?” He paused, gave a curious look, and threw his head forward. “M’lady Boyd, ma’am.” He paused again to catch his breath. “They’re here! The sheep have been found, and ye’ll never guess what’s happened to them or who’s bringing ’em in.”

  I set down the harp and ran to the window, answering in a hopeful tone as I looked back at him, “Is it Sir George?”

  “Nay. Not him.”

  The gates were opening. A long, velvety black nose poked through, followed shortly by drooping spiral horns. Then, as if a great press of water burst through an ill-constructed dam, the gates crashed open and a sea of white, skinny little bodies began filling the lower bailey. I gasped, for here were my sheep, although somebody had clipped all their wool. It was incredible! It was unbelievable! It was downright diabolical! I looked beyond the walls and saw the entire flock, moving cloudlike in wispy strands of fifty or sixty closely shorn beasts. They came through the sloping pastures near the river and onto the bridge as men on horseback guided them home. For the life of me I could not make out whose men they were. “Dear heavens above, what has happened to my sheep? This has the mark of Julius al
l over it. That devil! Oh, certainly he’ll return my livestock now that he’s deprived them of any value. God damn him! God damn his twisted soul to hell!” I swore, unable to conceal the derision that consumed me. Ignoring the general pall of incredulity that hung in the air at my wicked blasphemy, I could not ignore the king’s look of horrified ecstasy at the name that so glibly rolled off my tongue. The string of blasphemy would be forgiven; uttering Julius’s name had been a terrible mistake.

  “Julius?” James repeated. “You think this is the work of Julius?” He sat up and stilled the hand that was ready to feed him yet another sugared berry. His glossy brown hair, worn shoulder-length, looked wild as it swirled about his face; his jaw was set in such a way that no one could deny the power and purpose of this man, yet when our eyes met, I saw question in them—and raw anger, and something very like wounded pride. And underneath it, subtle as a petrel over a stormy sea, I recognized the heartbreaking vulnerability that drove it all. I recognized it because it was a reflection of what lay in my own fragile heart. I had no choice but to look away.

  Tam, observing us in the manner with which he might look at a horse for soundness, replied levelly, “Aye. It could be him, if Julius is a piratical-looking gent with a gold earring and the tongue of an Italian in his head, then aye! And he’s with the shepherds too. Nearly all of ’em. They’re a wee worse for wear, but they’re a-singin’ and a-grinnin’ so, ye can hardly credit it.”

  Leaving Marion in the company of Seraphina, James and I followed Tam into the courtyard. Once there I instantly recognized the man Tam had alluded to as the Italian. He was one of Julius’s men, an absurdly fine-looking gentleman who at once appeared refined and utterly lethal. He possessed the same build as my brother, elegant and lean, only this man was his shadow, dark where Julius was light, with glossy black hair, olive skin, and the soft eyes of a spaniel. I found him slightly disarming, especially when he smiled. He had a mesmerizing smile. And he was smiling now as he looked down on me from the height of his saddle. I had to remind myself that the last time I had seen him he had been in my hall stealing my silver.