The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  Chapter 12

  KILWYLIE CASTLE

  WE HAD BEEN TWO HOURS IN THE SADDLE, AND THE image of the angel, a dark and monochrome silhouette against a palette of color—was so firmly imprinted in my mind that every time I blinked I saw him on the inside of my eyelids. The truth was, he was perhaps clearer in my imagination than he had been in real life, for the tower room that contained the chapel was high up, nearly sixty feet aboveground to be exact, and rather hard to see. I had been leaving the castle, and I had been crying. Angels did not appear in tower windows. My mind had obviously been playing a trick on me, or perhaps I was truly going mad now that I had learned the hard and heart-wrenching truth about my brother. Julius really was the devil’s spawn; was it any wonder I embraced visions of angels? Angels, regardless of whether or not I wished to believe in them, were infinitely easier to handle. Angels did not slaughter innocent men.

  The thought of what had befallen Sir Matthew and his men sickened me, as it had Marion and the king. The Guard comprised some of the best men Scotland had to offer, and their loss was a national tragedy. Marion was particularly shaken, yet she refused to believe that Julius had anything to do with it. It was an opinion she wisely voiced only to me, however, and I knew why. She had been seduced by the viper—had offered herself willingly to him—and now refused to acknowledge her prodigious lapse in judgment. She refused to believe that Julius was what he was.

  Seraphina was little different, yet her denial was understandable. Julius was my mother’s son, and therefore incapable of such wanton destruction. The news of the slaughter in the Lammermuir Hills had reduced her to a state I had not seen in many years, not since the first time Julius had waged his private war on the kingdom of Scotland. I knew that her heart bled on the inside, while on the outside she was but an inscrutable, emotionless shell. There was no spark behind her eyes, no life in her movements, and when she cautioned in a voice bereft of all timbre that we not leave Blythe Hall, I could not listen. Seraphina did not like Sir George Douglas any more than she liked any man who showed the slightest bit of interest in me. If she had had her way, I believed I would still have been in the convent—as a novice—preparing to take holy orders; for no man, in her opinion, would ever be good enough to be my husband. It was, on some level, an endearing quality in a governess—to place a higher value on her charge than perhaps that charge deserved. I was naïve; I had been cleverly kept that way, and I had never been encouraged to embrace marriage and all it entailed.

  But that was before I came to Blythe Hall.

  I knew I could never explain to her what it was that had changed in me. But I could no longer deny that I was a woman of warm flesh and pulsating blood, just as I could no longer deny that I yearned for something that went far beyond my comprehension. Perhaps Marion Boyd was to blame for this. Her joy in the opposite sex was not feigned. She understood men; she understood what they needed, and she took great pleasure from it. Who could deny that her beauty had grown even greater since she had entered the halls of Blythe? I wanted to know what Marion knew. I wanted to learn it from the man of my visions, but he was not real. Sir George was real, and he was beside me, and he knew what my brother was, just as I did. It was a tenuous bond at best, but it was a real bond, and one I believed I could work with. We had a common goal in protecting the king, and we had a common hatred of the man who was bent on destroying him. Many long and successful marriages were built on less. It was the only thought that kept me in my saddle, yet I would never admit as much to Mme. Seraphina.

  Sir George, knowing how the events of the day had upset me, and that leaving Blythe Hall was not something I relished or even wished to do, was exceptionally kind. He had promised that we would return once James was safely ensconced in the Castle of Edinburgh and Julius was safely locked away in the tolbooth; we would return to Blythemuir and live as husband and wife. It was his wish; it was the wish of the king; and I was resolved to honor it. Sir George had even sent a small detachment of men to find Tam, knowing how worried I was about my groom. Tam was clever enough and could charm his way out of most trouble. But he was not a warrior. And he had never met the likes of Julius. If my brother got to him before the men of Kilwylie did … but I didn’t want to think of that.

  We had passed the neighborhood of Jedburgh and were on the Hawick road heading toward Kilwylie. We had spoken little, for we were riding hard through a land crisscrossed by the mighty Tweed and the Teviot, and so many burns and streams and so much squelching bog land that it was impossible to stay dry. This was no leisurely trip, like the one taken from Edinburgh to Blythe Hall. Sir George pushed us, keeping to the forest whenever possible, avoiding towns and settlements as much as he could. James was used to such riding, and he had come alive with the threat to his life. Marion and I preferred a gentler pace, and Mme. Seraphina preferred not to be in the saddle at all.

  “Do you think,” I said to Sir George, noting that the last rays of the sun had dipped beyond the horizon, “that we might stop for a rest? Surely we are halfway there by now?”

  He turned, his stony face softening as he understood what I was asking. “Dear God,” he cursed mildly and reined in his mount. “Look at you. You’re shivering. What have I done? In my haste to reach Kilwylie I’ve forgotten that we are in the company of ladies.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him with a soft smile, although I really wasn’t. “However, I think Mme. Seraphina might be dead.”

  “I’m not dead,” she replied testily from inside her fur-lined cloak. “I only wish I was. We should have never left Blythe Hall.”

  “We could leave you here,” suggested Sir George, not unkindly. “We are not far from Jedburgh. I can have a few of my men take you there and return for you in a couple of days.”

  “Take me and the young ladies,” she said levelly. Marion and James had come beside us, as our horses were taking a much needed rest. “It is the king you need to protect. We only serve to slow you down.”

  “Leave Isabeau?” Sir George replied, and although he was speaking to Seraphina, he was looking at me. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the gloaming, yet his voice was full of heated intent. “I will not let Lady Isabeau out of my sight again.”

  “That is a wise decision,” James agreed, bravely airing his opinion on the subject. And then, adopting a voice suffused with authority, he addressed my governess. “Dear Seraphina, you are a good and kind woman who has watched her charge with unparalleled diligence, but we have asked too much of you already. Take Sir George’s offer. I shall personally guarantee the safety of both women.”

  “You may be the King of Scotland,” Seraphina replied, much to my horror, “but you are first a young man, and I have witnessed for myself how you guarantee the safety of Mistress Boyd. That is all very well and good, but you were not charged by the lady’s mother to guard her daughter. I will ride to Kilwylie, even if it kills me!”

  “Well then,” said Sir George, smiling warmly, “have it your way.”

  After a small reprieve, which I was eternally grateful for, and which Marion insisted be longer, we mounted up and continued on a course that would bring us to Sir George’s border stronghold. It was a dark night, moonless with patchy clouds overhead, making it nearly impossible to see in the forest. The path through the woods was winding and narrow, and there were times we were forced to proceed in single file. Sir George was in the lead, and I silently marveled at how he did it, navigating such a landscape in total darkness. I had heard tales as a child, of course, mythical tales about men of the Borders being able to move entire herds of cattle fifty miles in the night without so much as a candle to guide their way. Stealth and an innate knowledge of the land were required skills of a reiver. And I had little doubt that Sir George had done his share of reiving in his youth. It was the one thought that eased my mind a measure.

  At night, in the forest, when one does not have the privilege of sight, sound lives on its own. Above the muffled jangle of harness and labored breathing, a rust
le in a nearby bush gave me a start. A twig snapped under an unseen weight and caused the fine hairs on my skin to prickle and stand on end. I had never been in the forest at night; it was a place avoided at all costs, and I suddenly understood why.

  Because at night the forest came alive with mysterious creatures that shunned the light of day.

  Wind rustled the nascent leaves overhead as the hoot of an owl pierced the impenetrable darkness. My horse pulled up, suddenly spooked by something unseen that had crossed the path in front of us. It capered sideways, pinning my leg against the trunk of a tree. I grabbed its mane and wound the coarse hairs tightly around my fingers. The horse reared, my leg came free, and I felt a hand hard on my thigh. A scream, primal and frightening, burst from my lungs as I kicked into the darkness. My foot hit something solid, and I kept screaming. So did Marion.

  It happened at once, a burst of energy so confounding that it rattled the night and shocked the senses. Light exploded on the path in front of our party, casting Sir George in a daunting silhouette, broad-shouldered and poised for attack. At the same moment the blinding light came, men sprang from the woods, and the sound of clashing steel erupted behind me. I saw the shadow of a man beside me and gave another kick, this time so hard it sent him reeling backward, crashing in the bushes. I spun around to look for James and Marion. But I could not see a thing. It was dark as pitch behind me.

  “Isabeau!” I heard Sir George cry. “Ride to me!” Up ahead, just beyond Sir George, was an opening where the forest ended and what appeared to be a great expanse of undulating grassland began. It was there that men with torches awaited us. It was a fiery gauntlet, yet behind me was a battle. Neither option was good. “Julius!” I cried then, seething with fear and anger, knowing he was behind it all. He was the animal in the dark that I dreaded most. The forest was thick with trees, cloaked by darkness and now host to a swarm of vicious, lawless men. I wanted to turn and race toward the king and Marion—and Mme. Seraphina, who had dropped somewhere far to the rear. I wanted to protect them, to carry them from the thick of the fighting and bring them toward the opening before me, where we might have a chance if we were lucky. Yet the majority of Lord Kilwylie’s guard was with James, fighting for the king’s life, and hopefully Marion’s and Seraphina’s as well. I would be just another body in the mix if I went to join them. And so, with tears streaming down my face and a welling of impotent anger coursing through my blood, I did the only thing I could do, I kicked my horse as hard as I could, heading for the men with the torches.

  Sir George, after deflecting a blow from an attacker, lunged for the bridle of my horse as I careened past him, shooting out of the woods. The sudden jolt of his grasp whipped both our horses around, a move that drove us out of the path of an oncoming rider. It was a narrow miss. The rider had clearly been aiming for Sir George when I broke through. His blow went wide, yet I caught the hiss as the blade sliced through the air, mere inches from my body. The rider, foiled, disappeared in the trees. Sir George still held the reins of my horse as two more armed men fell on us, coming at the knight from both sides. I ducked low, on his order, hugging my horse’s neck as his mighty sword fought them off. Sir George was a powerful man, and his sword packed a lethal force. But our attackers were no fools. They moved like ghosts in the night, light, shifty, and able to disappear into the darkness from which they had come. Nearly as soon as the attack began, it was over, the torches snuffed in the dewy grass. Julius had used the light to his advantage by momentarily blinding us, and now the light was out and Julius and his men were gone. The torches hissed on the open moor as the men of Kilwylie began to emerge.

  It was dark again, and I sat beneath a patch of star-strewn sky waiting for my eyes to adjust. Sir George had dismounted and gone to fetch one of the discarded torches. The sound of steel on flint rang out, and within a few moments a torch had been lit. What the light revealed was truly surprising, because for all the mayhem and chaos that had occurred, it appeared that there were no casualties. The Kilwylie men were worse for wear, to be sure, with cuts and vivid red marks on their skin that would turn dark with bruising before the night was out. They had been roughly handled but had stood their ground. Mme. Seraphina also suffered, but her pain was caused by long hours in the saddle rather than any mistreatment by the attackers. As more torches were lit and more men emerged, it slowly became apparent what the attack had been all about. Sir George, riding to the entrance of the woods, held up his torch and called out the names of the two souls that were missing. He called again and was answered by a high, throaty whinny. A moment later two horses emerged. Their saddles were empty.

  That was when Sir George started to laugh. His laughter bubbled forth, a low, mirthless rumble building to a crescendo of harsh, bitter irony. It chilled me to the bone.

  “The devil,” Sir George began in a voice that was deceptively gentle, “has been upon us this night, my dears, and God have mercy on the souls that have paid for my arrogance. In my haste to protect the life of my king, I have failed. Scotland is in mortal danger. The English have been waiting for a reason to pounce, and Julius Blythe, a treasonous outlaw and reprobate, has returned to give them one. I vow I will not rest until he is destroyed.”

  If Blythe Hall was considered a bit whimsical for a border fortress, then Kilwylie Castle was a Spartan sentinel of daunting utility. The huge stone tower, built to withstand multiple attacks and lengthy sieges, stood on a small island surrounded by a great expanse of bog and marsh. There was nothing inviting or even remotely welcoming about Kilwylie Castle. It was a square, stone instrument of war, and I shuddered to think that it was soon to be my home as well. The walls of the fortress were underlit by wavering firelight, and my heart sank even lower when we came through the gates and into the bailey, where a crowd of horses, wagons, and armored men competed for space around the fires. Our party entered dirty, wet, cold, bone-weary, and morally defeated. I wasn’t entirely sure Mme. Seraphina would ever recover from what we had gone through, or the consequences to come. For me, all I wanted was to be warm again, to fall into bed and cry myself to sleep, for the king and my dear friend had been abducted by my brother. It was the greatest insult yet to our family name, and it shamed me like nothing ever had before. I did not want to smile or mumble pleasantries to strangers, or feign empathy or gratitude to the retainers my future husband surrounded himself with. It was one of the first times in my life I could not pretend, or mimic a smile, and perhaps this showed on my face. Mme. Seraphina was carried from her horse by the two knights who guarded her and whisked into the castle without delay. I was still on my horse, numbly watching the activity around me yet not fully registering any of it, until Sir George lifted me down and gently led me up the stairs to the hall. The doors opened for the lord, and I took my first step inside the cold, stark walls of Kilwylie Castle.

  Sir George, at my side, was silent. The madness after the brazen attack had passed, and a quiet, sober resolve had come over him. His servants, already on the move following the limp form of Seraphina, received yet more orders from their lord before he turned his attention to me. His liquid emerald eyes were inscrutable as he said, “I will get you something to eat and have a basin of water brought to your room. And then I will put you to bed. It has, I am sure, been a day beyond compare.” Noting that I was shivering slightly, he put his hands on my arms and rubbed vigorously. Warmth penetrated the thick layers of my cloak, and I could feel my blood begin to move again. A soft smile crossed his lips, and to my astonishment, I answered in kind.

  “Kilwylie!” A booming voice penetrated the hall from the next room. Sir George’s hands stilled. The voice, deep, rich, and commanding, was one I recognized. “Get ye in here, lad, an’ bring your wee prize. We’ve been waitin’ a muckle lang time, and we’ve done drunk up your pitiful cellar.”

  Sir George, quick to school the flash of surprise and contempt that crossed his face, said calmly, “I see I have visitors. It is most importunate. Stay here, my dove. I shall be only a
moment.”

  “That is your uncle,” I said, for the voice of the Earl of Angus was hard to mistake. “And those are his men camping in the bailey, aren’t they?”

  “I forget at times how close you were to the king and his Privy Council. Yes, I believe Angus has come to pay me a visit.”

  “I shall go with you. He will be suspicious of my arrival, and we must break the news of Marion and the king gently. We should not cause undue alarm until we figure out how best to handle this situation.” I started in the direction of the room where Angus and his friends were waiting.

  Sir George grabbed my arm. “No. Do not go in there! My uncle is not alone, and he’s likely deep in his cups by now. He’s a coarse old fool and highly unfit for the company of a lady. You can see him tomorrow.”

  I looked at him, looked at his white-knuckled hand on my arm, and then back at his face again. I was not smiling, and neither was he. His face had grown hard and implacable. I was about to yank my arm away when the earl spoke again, this time from directly behind me. The first words from his mouth shook me to the core, and I could not peel my eyes from the face of Sir George as his uncle spoke.