by Darci Hannah
“Signorina,” he began in honeyed tones, his lips poised in a wry grin, while his eyes beheld me in such a way that I actually checked to see if my clothes were still on, for I felt I must be naked. “It is with my master’s compliments that I return what is yours. He asks that you have no ill will and begs me give you this.” He handed me a note. I reached for it, yet the man held it a moment longer, allowing his eyes to linger over my face. I yanked the note away.
“And who is your master?” demanded James, exuding a regal air. “Where is he now?” I placed a hand on the king’s arm, a subtle reminder that he must not make his identity known.
The Italian smiled, and with measured effrontery replied, “Signor, in this world there is only one man worthy enough for me to call master. He is neither a god nor a king, but a man who goes by the name of Blythe.”
James looked at me, his brow furrowed in puzzlement and anger. He turned back to the Italian and demanded again, “And where is he, this man you call Blythe?”
“Ah,” the Italian began, and shrugged his leather-clad shoulders in a manner that was both wistful and subtly shrewd. “Like the wind, he moves in all directions and is hard to pin down. I can hardly say from one moment to the next.”
James, unused to such treatment, looked as if he was about to throttle the man. I held tightly to his arm and changed the subject. “Where have you been hiding my sheep?” I asked, seething. “And what power on God’s green earth gave you the right to take their wool?”
“Beautiful signorina, I regret to tell you that it is not for me to say. I am only charged with delivering your beasts.”
“And what about my wool?”
“The sheep were growing irritable. They enjoy using their horns. It needed to be done.”
“Are you going to return my wool as well, or are you keeping it to line your fetid little nest in the brambles of hell?”
The Italian grinned. “Such spirit! Such imagination! Yet you forget, wool grows back. You have your sheep, and you have your men. It is infinitely better than not having them at all.”
“You’re right,” I said, and shot him a basilisk stare. “Forgive me. I forgot for a moment that I can just ask my men. My men will tell me everything I need to know. And you can tell my brother that if he values his life at all, he’d best leave Scotland before the day is out.”
“It is sound advice, and well-meaning. However, as I’m sure you must know, my master answers to no one. Your advice will fall on deaf ears, signorina. And as for your men, your gentle shepherds, you may ask, but do not be hard on them if they cannot answer. But let us have a try, shall we?” He was clearly enjoying some great secret as he motioned to a man. To my surprise the man who came forward was Jacob Mackenzie, Kat’s husband.
I studied him closely. He stared back at me, squinted, and then, opening his brown eyes unnaturally wide, cried: “Isabeau Blythe! Why, bless m’soul. Whatever are ye doing here, lass?”
“I’m … I am living here now, as Lady of the Manor.”
“Och, that’s chust grand!” he exclaimed. In a sweeping gesture of gratitude, he threw his head back to the heavens, and then he tumbled off his horse, taking a sheep or two to the ground with him. The sheep bleated and, employing a bit of horn, squirmed free. Jacob Mackenzie did not move. He was out cold.
“Is this man drunk?” I demanded of the Italian.
“Very likely so,” was his infuriating reply.
“Are they all drunk?”
His dark, compelling eyes narrowed as if he was deep in thought. “They most probably are. And they were blindfolded a good deal of the time—and there may or may not have been drugs, although probably there was.” He offered one last smile, displaying beautifully white teeth, and one last piece of advice. “Read the note,” he said, and then he turned his horse. He wove his way through sheep and shepherd alike with the skill of a born reiver, and was out the gates as the beasts were still moving in. There was really no point in stopping him, even if, by any account, we could have.
“Let me see the note again. What does he mean by this? And why the devil did you not tell me of Julius’s return the moment I arrived?”
We were alone, sequestered in my father’s solar. Hendrick was in the hall attempting to sober up the shepherds. Tam, with the help of Mutton Johnny and the Mackenzie brothers, was rounding up all able-bodied souls to help remove the sheep from the courtyard and return them to their folds. Seraphina thought it best to take Marion in hand, gently, lest she lose her head and start babbling about Julius. And I was left to deal with the king as he paced nervously before the fire. I left my seat at the window and walked over to him, placing my hand on his arm. He stopped pacing.
“Would you have turned around and gone home if I had?” I asked gently. “Julius showed up two days ago. It was the first I had seen him since …” I was about to say, his trial, but instead just said, “the day he left. Besides, if you’ll remember, I had no idea you were planning a visit to Blythe Hall.” Then, filling with anxious fear, I upbraided softly, “In the name of God, why did you have to come gallivanting to the Borderlands now, James—and without your guard?”
His face hardened, his lips pressed into a firm line of consternation. Like me, James did not like being scrutinized, nor did he tolerate very well being criticized for his past lapses in judgment. “I already told you,” he replied curtly. “I will not say it again. But understand, Isabeau, that I do not regret coming here one bit. And what is more, I arrived unharmed.” This last remark was punctuated by an arrogant lift of his brows.
“For that we are all grateful, my lord,” I replied sincerely, and removed my hand from his arm. I turned once again to the window.
“I know you’re angry with me, Isa, but still, would it not have been prudent of you to mention that Julius was back—before your sheep arrived today? You might have dropped me a little hint of it last night when we went to visit your father’s magnificent chapel.”
“And cause you added mental distress moments before you were to …” I stopped, changed course, and added, “Besides, you dropped your little news on me regarding Sir George Douglas. Forgive me if I was a bit distracted.”
He came beside me. “I’m sorry. I should have waited. But I had no idea anything was amiss.”
“James …” I turned to face him. “Can I ask you something? Do you trust Sir George? I mean, implicitly?”
“Of course. Of course I do, or I would never have agreed to your marriage. Why do you ask?”
“I only ask because Julius indicated that Sir George was the one who lifted my sheep in the first place.”
He smiled then, as if I was simple. “Really? Then how was it Julius’s men had them and brought them back?”
“Because Julius retook them, or so he said.”
He held up the note and read: “I have upheld my end of the bargain. I’ve told you what will happen next. If you value the life of your king, you will do as I have asked. Embrace what you are, Isabeau. Do this one thing for me.” He crumpled the note, crossed the room, and tossed it onto the fire. “It sounds an awful lot like blackmail to me. He returns the sheep; you do as he asks. By the way, what does he ask?”
“ ’Tis rather personal,” I replied, and watched the paper burn. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the familiar, probing gaze. “What I mean is,” I said, giving him my full attention, “that I’d rather not say.”
“I am your king; my life is at stake here, or so your brother claims. I believe I have a right to know what he asks of you.”
I considered what he said; I considered what the note said, and realized that there really was no point in reticence. A small, joyless laugh escaped my lips as I conceded, “Very well. If you must know, my brother has asked me to find him an angel. Apparently he believes me capable of the task.”
James froze; his entire body stood motionless as he held me under an inscrutable gaze. And then he put forth the one question I feared might come. “And … and are you, Isabeau?�
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My breath escaped in a violent burst of irritation, and I crossed my arms, holding them tightly to my chest. “Of course not! And don’t be so quick to believe such absurd notions. Julius is mad.”
“Yes. But … why?”
“Why is he mad? Or why ask of me something I cannot do?”
“Why ask?”
“Well, that’s just the point, isn’t it? I don’t know why. My personal belief is that by requesting I do this thing, he will succeed in pushing me to the edge of madness—along with him.”
“I knew Julius once, as did you. Do you really believe him mad?”
“Oh yes. Brilliantly so. Which makes him all the more dangerous. But again, I keep asking myself, why is he here now? And why is he trying to make me believe that Sir George might not quite be what he appears?”
“That’s simple,” James said, and sat on the cushion of the window embrasure. “Revenge. Surely you realize he has to malign the man who ruined him? Yet being Julius, he must also realize that any attempt to slander such a great name would be futile. Perhaps that’s why he wishes to ruin your credibility, and if he succeeds in getting you to believe him, why, then he will turn you against Sir George. Julius, out of spite alone, would not want Kilwylie holding the title that should have been his. By God … it’s a brilliant plan!” he exclaimed, his eyes bright with bitter admiration. And then he caught himself, and tempered his emotions. “And finding me here, with naught but a few kitchen lads at the gates—”
“Please,” I said, unwilling to let him finish. “Do not think of it.”
“But I must, and should God see that I survive this madness, I swear I will never let him leave Scotland alive.”
I looked at him. He was serious, yet I knew that should he ever come face-to-face with the viper, he would believe every gilded word dripping off the forked tongue. Unfortunately, I knew I was little different. And just to appease that cold and withered place in my heart that still held a glimmer of hope for my brother, I decided to play the devil’s advocate. “But,” I uttered, sitting gently beside him, “what if Julius has a point? What if Sir George is not everything he appears? Certainly no one could argue the man’s bravery or his service to his country. But don’t you find it a bit odd that both men descend on Blythe Hall the same day I returned home—only to engage in some sort of twisted power struggle? And odder still is the fact that you are here as well.”
Only because it was me, I believed, did he consider this, although he found it to be execrably distasteful. “Isabeau, my appearance here is purely coincidental; it has nothing to do with Julius or George. And what happened all those years ago I have struggled to put behind me, and so should you. I was made to believe that my father was my enemy; I was made to believe that your brother was my friend.”
“I know. You wear an iron chain around your waist so that you will always remember the price of your throne. And I have fashioned one around my heart as a reminder of what I have lost.”
“Dear Isabeau,” he said, and laid a hand over mine. “Do you remember how you insisted I cover the iron links with fabric so it would not chafe? Would I only had a solution for you to ease the pain you still carry. Look at us. What a fine pair we make, both of us tortured by a past we cannot change, nor can we forget. You must take heart that you were an innocent bystander in the calamity that beset your father and brother; I, however, played a willing part in my father’s death. Julius may have tried to sell me to the English, but I allowed my father to be killed by his own rebellious noblemen. We were children; I have tried to come to terms with it, just as have you. I have prayed. I have received absolution from Pope Innocent VIII. I have embraced the Observantine friars—in my mother’s honor, yet I am not at all convinced God has forgiven me of my sins. The one thing he has done, to lighten my heart, is that he sent me you. You may not be able to summon an angel at will, but to me you are an angel, Isabeau; for how could I have borne all those years without your friendship? There is no greater truth than that. And now we find ourselves here, no longer children but two burgeoning adults, on the eve of yet another calamity. You know I will fight to the death before I let Scotland be torn asunder by a grasping madman. Yet if we are to survive here at all, I believe our only hope lies in the hands of Sir George and Sir Matthew. Let us pray they come soon.”
I stepped back to better look him in the eye. “I was afraid to tell you yesterday the true whereabouts of your Guard. They are not with Lord Kilwylie. Sir Matthew and his men left yesterday in search of Julius. Julius knows where they are, or so he made me believe. He implied he would bring them back, just as he said that Sir George would return bearing more sheep. But if Julius is correct about Sir George?”
He closed his eyes, and in that instant—as the color drained from his young, princely face—I caught a glimpse of the weight he carried. “If Julius is correct,” he breathed, “then God help us all.”
Chapter 9
THE MASTER
THE ITALIAN WALKED DOWN THE LONG, DARK PASSAGEWAY carrying before him a sputtering taper. He moved with the ghostly elegance of a man used to surreptitious dealings, his footfalls muffled, his breathing measured, until at last he spied the pale light in the distance seeping from the doorway. He knew it would be left open a crack, for the master was expecting him, and he thought once again how ingenious it all was. He stood before the door, blew out the candle, and gave a solid knock.
With a groan the heavy oak gave way under his knuckles and opened further, allowing him a view of the remarkable room. It was quite large and spacious. The ceiling was not very high, but it was vaulted and held up by a span of stone arches mirroring the eight points of a compass. The vaults were supported by thick stone pillars set into walls of large, rectangular slabs of yellowish stone, much like all the castles in these parts. The furnishings were quite costly, and on the floor was a thick carpet he placed as Syrian. Yet what he found most interesting was that the room was circular, which meant no corners for the devil to hide in. The thought made him smile. Air moved imperceptibly through the room, drawn by the low fire that no one on the outside would be able to detect. This unlikely chamber, carved out of stone and earth, and hidden from sight and all the senses, had been painstakingly thought out, and he had never seen its like; for in the city where he grew up such things were impossible. He understood it held a treasure, although not the material kind he preferred. The riches here were of a different nature, written in the scrolls that sat in the walls like bees incubating in a honeycomb, or the wooden cases where the musty old books and leather-bound parchment were kept. There were also maps here of places he had never heard of, and of seas he had never sailed. And then there were the odd drawings, kept in a drawer, of things both frightful and glorious. The master sometimes slept here, for there was a pallet near the hearth cloaked in rumpled blankets, and beside it on the floor was a gown that looked suspiciously like a woman’s. Yet he knew better, for Julius Blythe would never bring a woman here—to a place far beyond the comprehensive abilities of the fair sex. But it would, he mused, make quite the love bower. And with this thought he stepped into the room.
The master, sitting at a heavy desk built into the curvature of the wall, did not flinch. He remained unmoving, bent over some fascinating scribble contained on a scroll or some ancient piece of parchment. It was hard to tell, for the desk was cluttered with books, papers, ink bottles, a half-eaten bannock, a lump of stale cheese, and an assortment of pewter mugs. The flame from an old oil lamp illuminated his hair, making it appear a shimmering halo of soft curls, while his shoulders, rounded with the slightest hint of fatigue, strained against the white fabric of his shirt. He was reading again, as he had been nearly every quiet moment since they had arrived. The man was tireless; his energy seemed born of dark sources, for it flowed in abundance and gave life to the razor-sharp wit that both lashed and caressed those who fell under it. Yet even a titan will weaken, just as every man had his limit, and this man was swiftly approaching his. Darkly amu
sed by this thought, and feeling quite brave, he came softly behind the master and said very near his ear, “By the gods, your sister is exquisite! The other night, in the hall, it was far too dark to see her clearly, but today, with the full light of the sun falling on her lovely face, her cheeks flushed with anger, her aqua eyes—I never knew such a color to exist!—flashing daggers, and that hair … Oh, that hair! Far prettier than your flea-infested mop. I could bathe in that hair.”
The master’s muscular back straightened, the linen of his fine shirt eased, and his golden head came up. “Dear Dante,” began the master. “Your mother was a whore. You were raised in a brothel.” His chair slowly scraped over cold stone, and in a moment the hooded eyes were staring into the Italian’s. “And when I found you, you were bloodied, and broken, and chained to the bench of a Turkish galley. Given all that, what makes you think I would possibly let you pursue your current train of thought?”
“Possibly because you were chained next to me?” said the Italian, offering a disarming grin.
“True,” replied the Master of Blythe. He folded his hands and created a steeple with his forefingers, which he placed gently against his pursed lips, as if deep in thought. The fingers slowly lowered. “But again, I harken back to your humble beginnings.”
“My father was the Doge of Venice … or possibly a cardinal, it was unclear, but certainly both are great men.”
The master gave a soft chuckle. “If I were to make a guess at your dubious parentage, I’d wager you were the spawn of an ambitious Medici banker, solely on the observation that your gift of numeracy is unholy.”
“Maybe,” replied the Italian, “but still, I prefer to think of my father as the Doge of Venice.”
