The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  “Oh,” I heard Marion utter dreamily, “I should like a gown of gold cloth.”

  “I know you would, dear.” Seraphina smiled and sat back in her chair, cradling her goblet of wine between her plump hands. “Wouldn’t we all?”

  “I thought poulaines went out of fashion a good thirty or forty years ago?” I said, coming to join them. “A highly impractical shoe—far too impractical for us Scots at any rate. I’ve heard tell of French knights who, after some hideous battle, had to chop the points off their poulaines before they could run from their enemy. Why is it the French always run from the enemy?” I smiled at Seraphina and was awarded a disingenuous look of surprise.

  “Oh? Well, perhaps you’re right,” conceded my governess with a look that showed the depth of her waning patience. “They’re not at all the thing for a fighting man, I agree. But they look fine enough poking out from the hem of a gown spun with gold thread I should say—especially when bedecked with tiny silver bells.” This last point was marked by a spectacularly wide-eyed gaze, which caused me to understand that the suggestion of silver bells was not a whimsical one. I wanted to smile but fought the urge and offered a small, barely perceptible nod instead. Bell the cat, indeed, for how else were the mice to know when the cat was on the prowl?

  “Silver bells,” repeated Marion with glossy-eyed wonder. “How charming! They would look quite nice, wouldn’t they?”

  “Would you like a pair, dear?” offered Mme. Seraphina. “I shall send the tailor to the cordwainer in Kelso and have him make you a pair directly.”

  “I’d like a pair too,” I said. The subtle sarcasm in my voice was not lost on Seraphina. I hadn’t needed to add—for my brother. One look at my face told Seraphina all she needed to know.

  “I’m sure you would, dear,” she replied with a smile, although her voice was void of any perceptible emotion. “But for now I believe a little wine would serve you better.”

  I gladly accepted the offered drink and sat down to join them. Yet I had no sooner put the rim to my lips than the king walked through the door. The change in Marion was immediate. “Are we in danger?” she asked, coming alive at the sight of him.

  “My dear,” James began, and crossed the room to stand before her. He took her dainty little hands in his, and with a voice as gentle as a midsummer breeze asked, “Why ever would you think such a thing?” James, being a gallant young lover, had wanted Marion soundly kept in the solar to shield her from the dangers that lurked beyond the castle walls; we thought it best she remain there to keep her from speaking of Julius.

  Marion smiled coyly. “Because you are wearing your great big sword.”

  “Ah,” remarked the king, and laid a hand on the beautiful silver hilt of the ancestral weapon that hung at his side. “I am, aren’t I? ’Tis only because of this talk of Julius. Isabeau told me he has been in the castle quite recently.” At this mention of my brother I looked at Marion, begging her with my eyes not to say a word, for whatever had happened two nights earlier in my old chamber had affected her deeply, and the mere mention of my brother’s name caused her eyes to smolder, her cheeks to go red, and her breathing to become deep and slightly irregular. It was happening now. My brother’s name, combined with the visceral sense of danger—and quite possibly the wealth and power of the man standing before her—was like catnip to a kitten. Thank goodness the king didn’t know her like I did, for he believed her excitement and high color were for him and him alone. Maybe they were. Who was I to doubt my dearest friend?

  “And what about the sheep and all this talk of Roman orgies?” she asked sweetly, although her magnificent dark eyes, if truth be told, were boldly suggestive. “Do you believe Julius is responsible for this as well?”

  The king swallowed and broke from her penetrating gaze to look out the windows. “The man who returned them was one of Julius’s men,” he answered softly.

  Marion brought her hand to the sword and gently laid it over the king’s, stilling his roving fingers. His eyes came back to hers. “Surely returning Isabeau’s sheep is not an act of treachery. Surely Julius does not mean us harm.”

  James, staring once again into her fathomless eyes, beheld her with a look of such raw tenderness that this time I had to look away. “You are entirely correct,” I heard him say, and he unbuckled his sword belt.

  I learned that it is hard to keep a young man of boundless energy and probing intelligence confined to a few secure rooms of a castle—especially when the man in question is overwrought with palpable sexual tension and the very real threat of danger to his person. James wanted to hunt—he was a man of action. Instead we confined him to the solar. We indulged in music, but no one was in the mood. We played chess, but neither Marion nor I was a fit opponent for him. Mme. Seraphina suggested he try his hand at needlework, believing busy hands would relax a restless mind. But the king, growing frustrated with the intricacies involved in making little stitches, finally tossed his frame, needle, and skein of thread out the window, an act only a king could get away with in the presence of Mme. Seraphina.

  All polite conversation had been exhausted. Our meal was eaten in near silence. Finally, when the young man’s agitation had grown unbearable, Marion stood, grabbed him by the hand, and pulled him into the bedchamber. No one commented; no one so much as exchanged a knowing look … even though it was only midafternoon. I retired as well, but only to the top floor of the castle from where a small winding staircase led to the battlements.

  I hadn’t walked along the battlements for an age, and it felt odd that I should do so now. There was no one up here, for no men were to be spared, and so I walked along the rooftops looking in all directions. It was, in spite of the troubling events of the morning, quite a beautiful day. I stood for a moment gazing out over the gentle roll of the budding orchards to the far hills, where the top of the crumbling old peel tower could just be seen poking through, and to where the verdant fields on the other side of the hills were welcoming home our tired sheep. I thought of Tam then, and the slightly devious Mackenzie brothers, who had accompanied him on the task. They were much the same age, I realized, and perhaps even cut from the same mold. Yet whereas Tam had the pressing responsibility of being my groom and, by default, the larger responsibility of my safety, Jerome and Brendon had only themselves to look after, and whatever menial tasks Mutton Johnny desired them to do. Therefore, it wasn’t any wonder that they had not yet resurfaced. They were likely still visiting all the cottages, spreading the good news of the shepherds’ return and celebrating with food and drink. Suddenly, selfishly, I wished I had gone with them. Nothing lifted the spirits like a genuine, heartfelt smile after so much worry.

  A smile … What could bring a smile to my lips? I mused, resting my forearms on the cool ocher stone of a crenellation. I leaned forward and stared out over the land that for as far as the eye could see fell under my jurisdiction. Dear to me as Blythemuir was, the thought brought no great joy. And then, as I dwelled on happiness and the fleeting nature of joy, the answer sprang forth in a powerful yet evanescent vision. Like the idea of trapping an emotion in a word, or containing the spirit of an eagle in a feather, the essence of the man who filled my imagination was impossible to capture. He was a thought, an emotion, a glimpse of a dream unattainable. I felt a rush of joy followed swiftly by a pang of sorrow so acute that tears, first stinging the lining of my nose, began filling my eyes. I was happy and miserable at once, happy because he was my secret pleasure—a man ineffably sublime. And yet I was miserable because I knew he lived only in my imagination—miserable because Sir George, the man I was to marry, would eventually drive him away.

  I had come to the battlements seeking solace, and I had succeeded only in making myself lower than I could have imagined. I was sulky, trying to recapture that frangible wisp that caused my heart to soar and made my future seem brighter even though dark clouds gathered on the horizon. I could hear men in the courtyard below, the shepherds were sobering up, yet my sight was still blurred
by tears of frustration and a feeling of hopeless destitution. I kept my head to the hills, not wishing to see the men my brother had abused. It was then that I caught a flash of light on the edge of my watery vision. It came again and again, and it was a moment before I dried my eyes in order to discover its source.

  My breath caught in my throat at the sight. It was Sir George and his men, the banner of Kilwylie flying before them as they raced toward Blythe Hall. They rode in one cohesive unit and moved with brutal elegance as they crested a distant hill and veered toward the castle gates, sunlight bouncing off their polished helmets like sparks from a Catherine wheel. The martial sounds of jostling armor and straining leather accompanied them as they came three abreast up the road that ran between new-sown fields and flowering orchards. Clods of black earth exploded beneath furious hooves, while delicate blossoms of pink and white fell on the mail-covered bodies like fairy-tale snow. It was a scene both serene and violent, and it caused my heart to ache and my soul to bleed, for Sir George and his warriors had returned empty-handed.

  Empty-handed they might be, but even I could see that they rode with urgency, and it was this, above all, that gave me a start. I pushed aside my own sorrows for that small, fading ember of hope I had fought to keep alive—even against my better judgment. I had wanted to believe in Julius even though I knew perfectly well what he was. And now, the appearance of Sir George was the final, abrupt ending to a long and heart-wrenching chapter in my life. Julius had lied, and Sir George was the harbinger of the evil he was about to unleash.

  With a flood of grief only slightly outweighed by a sense of urgency, I turned from the incoming army and shouted down to the courtyard: “Open the gates! Open the gates! Sir George has come.” Yet as soon as I gave the order I realized that the men in the gatehouse were infinitely more prepared to receive Lord Kilwylie than was I.

  Like a plague of ravaging locusts, the news Sir George had brought to the gates of Blythe spread unchecked through the castle and lay waste to everyone’s hopes. The king, after being roused from his chambers by my insistent knocking—I thought it best to knock even though I possessed a key—stood beside me in the courtyard, along with Hendrick, as an incredulous Lord Kilwylie delivered his incredible news.

  “Your Highness? Your Highness!” he said, his spectacular green eyes wide and unblinking as he dismounted his horse and fell to one knee before his sovereign. He looked up into the face of the young king—a face that was remarkably calm yet filled with high color—and uttered with rapt disbelief, “Dear God, how is it possible that you are here … now?” It seemed, by all accounts, that Sir George was every bit as perplexed by the king’s sudden appearance in the Borders as Julius had been. Yet Julius, unlike Sir George, I knew to be a gifted actor.

  “I sent a message,” the king replied, motioning for the knight to stand. “It was not, however, received.” James cast me a look that implicated my brother as the source of this inconvenience.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, for I am guilty of intercepting a message myself,” Sir George confessed, and looked gently upon Hendrick. “But the message in my possession never mentioned that you’d be coming to Blythe Hall as well; it detailed only the movements of the lovely Lady Blythe, whom, as you know, I have a reason to watch.” He paused, looked at me, and said, “Julius must have intercepted and changed the original note.”

  With a flash of rising anger, I nodded.

  He continued, looking at James. “Your presence here grieves me all the more, for the news I have to deliver takes on a more dire aspect, as it concerns your safety directly. Lady Blythe, I assume, has told you of the return of her notorious brother. I saw him myself a few days ago, when I arrived here to win the heart of the woman who has captured my imagination, and whom you, in your infinite grace and wisdom, have granted me permission to marry.”

  He looked to me as he spoke these last words; a deep and penetrating smile appeared on his lips as he revealed to me the real reason for his visit. His gaze was as intimate as it was heated; I did not look away. I did not have the freedom to look away any longer. Instead I gave a small smile in return and replied, “I know the reason for your visit. The king has told me of it himself.”

  “He has?” uttered Sir George. It was no secret that he was pleased by this and gave a small deferential nod to the king. “I am glad you know, Isabeau, so that you will better understand when I say that Blythe Hall is not safe for either of you—my king, whom I have sworn to protect, and you, the woman I’m to marry. It pains me to tell you this, but yesterday, after having no luck tracking your sheep, we doubled back across the Tweed, continuing north of Berwick. We knew Sir Matthew and his men had passed that way, hot on the trail of Julius and his men. We followed them deep into the Lammermuir Hills, where we discovered, early this morning, that they had all been slaughtered in what appeared to be an ambush.”

  “What?” the king cried, wrought with terror and disbelief. “My Guard … has been … slaughtered?”

  “Aye, my lord, every one of them is dead, including the venerable Sir Matthew.”

  At this unbelievable news James crossed himself, as did Hendrick, yet I could not move, paralyzed by the thought of the King’s Guard—all those fine and noble men—slaughtered by my brother’s hand. I could not believe it. I could not believe Julius would ever do anything so terrible as to set upon the very men who guarded the king—men he had fought beside in his youth—and mercilessly kill them. And yet, somewhere in the back of my wildly racing mind, I knew that he, out of anyone, possessed the will and the cunning to do it. Had he not tormented Sir Matthew in my own hall? Had he not deprived the Guard of their swords and valuables? He had, of course, given the weapons back, but then, like a cat toying with a callow mouse, he had lured them across the wooded Merse and into the desolate stretches of the Lammermuir Hills, a landscape he knew intimately, and one where he could spring his horrible trap on those less versed in the precarious geography of the area. The thought curdled my stomach and pressed upon my soul a weight that I knew could never be lifted.

  “Isabeau, do you understand what I’m saying?” I felt Sir George’s hands on my shoulders before I realized he was speaking to me. His mere touch gave me a jolt, and my focus was immediately drawn to him. “Without the extra protection of the Guard, the king is vulnerable here. We have too few men to defend the castle properly, and Julius will know how to breach these walls to get what he wants, of that I’m certain. There’s no time to waste, my dear. We must leave at once.”

  “What? Leave? But … but I don’t want to leave,” I heard myself protesting. I stepped back, moving beyond his reach. “And we have men—your men, my men, and the shepherds have returned.” I looked to Hendrick for support. His gaze, however, was fixed on Sir George.

  “The shepherds have returned?”

  “Yes,” I replied, but failed to add the small detail about Julius’s men returning them. “They have returned with the sheep.”

  Sir George looked around the bailey and stopped when he spied an archway under the timber-covered gallery near the stables. It was there that the shepherds had gathered. His piercing gaze settled on them. The shepherds, so recently gaining a foothold on sobriety, shrank further beneath the timbers under Lord Kilwylie’s harsh scrutiny. He chuckled then, and it rankled more than I would have liked. “Your shepherds,” he said, “will be slaughtered like lambs before a lion. To Julius these men are mere excrement from the animals they husband and will be squashed beneath his boot and soundly kicked aside. Do not be difficult, my dear. If you care for these men, send them into the hills, where they’ll be safe, with their women and children, for if they tarry here, they will certainly fall to the same fate as the King’s Guard.”

  It was an ominous warning, and one that didn’t entirely make sense. Why would Julius bother returning these men if he meant to kill them? Even I knew that to defend a castle was easier than attacking one, and any extra able-bodied men, shepherds or not, would put up a good fight. J
ulius was vain, but even vanity must have limits. I looked at the man I was to marry and replied, “I appreciate your concern for my men, and what you’re saying is undoubtedly correct. But perhaps we are being a bit rash here. We cannot possibly make it to Edinburgh or even Linlithgow before nightfall. And if we seek shelter along the way, we’ll be even more vulnerable to an attack, I should think.” This time I looked to James for support, but the news of the slaughter had shaken him greatly, and his gaze, like Hendrick’s, was fixed on the huge knight.

  “Edinburgh? Linlithgow?” Sir George repeated, mildly amused by my alarm. I found his tone a bit condescending.

  “My dear, you are a treasure,” he continued, “yet I must confess that I’m relieved to find that you are no prodigy in the military arts like your brother. Of course the risk of whisking the king back to Edinburgh with only my men and his retinue to guard against an attack from Julius would be too great. Julius is likely expecting us to do that very thing, and that is why we must leave immediately for Teviotdale and my stronghold of Kilwylie.”

  “Kilwylie,” James repeated with both question and reflection in his voice. And then, thinking on it, he added, “We could make it to Kilwylie.” He looked at Sir George, a man who stood a good head taller, was substantially broader, and thick with muscle, and yet compared with the regal manner of the young king this physical superiority seemed somehow insubstantial. “To Kilwylie we shall go then. Hendrick,” he said, turning to the steward, “would you please apprise Marion and Mme. Seraphina of our plans. We must leave at once. For Sir George is correct—any man who can slaughter the cream of my Guard can breach the walls of his own castle. We are not safe here. Marion and Isabeau are not safe here, and their lives shall not be placed in jeopardy on my account. It is me he is after, and were I not encumbered with the fate of a kingdom on my shoulders, I would gladly meet him on the field and settle this old score as honor dictates. But I find I do not have that luxury. Much to the dismay of my Privy Council, I have no wife and therefore I have no issue to the throne. And my brother Ormond, dear soul though he be, would not relish the responsibility his new title would carry.”