The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  The archangel, with alarming speed, grabbed my bow and yanked it out of my hand. “You think this is about you?” he demanded.

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t that why we’re here now, fighting?” I gestured to Sir George and his army. “Unless he’s got a bone to pick with you, which I highly doubt, this is about me!”

  “Not this!” His voice was remarkably constrained as his face lost all semblance of the stoic calm that enveloped him like a cocoon. “I know what this is about!” He jerked his golden head toward Lord Kilwylie. “I’m talking about what just happened between us, in the chapel.”

  I paused, letting my jaw slacken as I attempted to process his words. It was then that I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see Tam. He was coming up the steps with a bucket of hot pitch, and Jerome Mackenzie was right behind him with another. Both young men had stopped, in mid-errand, with their eyes, amused and twinkling, glued to us. I was highly annoyed and shouted, “Get those up here, now!”

  I looked back at Gabriel. He was still frightfully pale, only now a tinge of red appeared high on his cheekbones. He was looking at me, his chest heaving violently, and I was only slightly disturbed to find that a dark joy rose in me when I observed that whatever serenity he had arrived with was now completely shattered. I had gotten under his skin, and he had gotten under mine. “Are you trying to tell me,” I said, giving him my sternest look, “that what happened back there isn’t about me? Because I rather thought that it was.” I was feeling the shame and indignation of it all over again. “I was yours,” I hissed in a strained whisper. “From the first moment, I was completely and utterly yours. I have never given any man that gift. And you took it, and you reveled in it, and then dropped me faster than a piece of … of … plague-infested old linen!”

  “No …” The word exploded from his mouth in a breath of mortification. “No.” In his defense, he was rather convincing. “Oh, dear God! Is that what you think?” he asked, looking at me with disbelief, as if my reaction to his little rebuke was unfounded. “How … how could you even think such a thing?”

  “How could I not!?” I shot back. “You were horrified by what happened. And then you … you just ran away.”

  “My God,” he said. His voice was rasping and strained; his face expressed ineffable pain. “It wasn’t like that. You’ve got it all wrong … so very wrong, Isabeau. God help me,” he uttered as he tilted his head toward the heavens. And then his eyes closed, his splendid head came down, and he buried his grief-stricken face in his hands. I was completely speechless.

  “My darling, are you still there?” came the cry of Sir George.

  I closed my eyes then too, exasperated, and looked over the battlement. “What do you want now?” I shouted.

  Unflinching atop his restless charger, and grinning rather smugly, he cried, “I want you to watch this, my darling!” Sir George waved ten of his men forward. To my horror they all had incendiaries—fire arrows. Gabriel, moving like a ghost, took aim through the opening and shot at the archers now in range. Sir George dropped his arm, and nine of the arrows flew, low and true, hitting the solid wood of the gates below us. Gabriel had struck one archer, but nine arrows had reached their target, exploding in flames as they hit.

  Lord Kilwylie was trying to weaken the gates for his battering ram.

  Gabriel turned and shouted for Tam and Jerome to put down the pitch, which would only make the fire worse, and start drawing water from the well. “Get as much water on those gates as you can,” he told them. It was a job they had to do from the inside, as the battlements above the gatehouse overhung the wall by three feet, and the angle would make dumping buckets of water from the defensive gallery fruitless.

  “Stand back, my little dove!” cried Sir George with a wide, maniacal grin, “and watch it burn.” He made another signal, and a third of his men, most bearing torches, all of them armed with sword and crossbow, broke off and rode through the sprouting fields heading for the village of Blythemuir. “I’m laying waste to the countryside now, darling. It’s time to rape and pillage! Be ready. I’ll be coming for you soon!”

  A cold terror filled me as I realized what Sir George was preparing to do. He was going after my people. He would make them pay for my resistance, and the mere thought of all those innocent crofters—all the shepherds and farmers, all the women and children—losing everything, including their lives, because of me was more than I was prepared to suffer. I stood motionless, watching as his men rode away, armor shimmering, ravenous torches bending to the light breeze. A feeling of helplessness swept through me then. My heart ached, and my limbs became too heavy to move.

  The rest of Sir George’s men had moved closer, and our archers, I believe, were taking advantage of that. I could hear Gabriel launching a near-continuous stream of arrows beside me and saw how many of Sir George’s archers fell before they could launch their fire arrows. But Sir George’s men were numerous, and overpowering, and soon the sky above us filled with fire. He was no longer aiming for the gates. They were already ablaze, and the black smoke billowing from the hungry flames was beginning to obstruct our view. Gabriel, dropping his bow, yanked me down, right as an arrow exploded through the black smoke, blazing a trail like a fiery comet, where my head had so recently been. Many such arrows came then.

  “Get back to the tower, Isabeau!” Gabriel cried fervently. We were sitting pressed together against the thick wall of the battlement. I looked at him through my tears. I understood then that there was real concern on his face, but it was too late. It didn’t matter now. “What happened … in the chapel,” he said, “is not a discussion we’re going to have here. It’s too important, Isabeau. There’s something you need to understand about me. Dear God, what’s wrong?”

  “We need,” I said, hiccoughing, “… to open … the gates.” I could feel myself shaking. “We need … to let … him in.”

  “Look at me,” he demanded, and firmly held my face between his gloved hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes. He was a study of paradoxes: angel and warrior: confident and distraught, with a voice that was remarkably calming yet dire in its tone. “I will never let him touch you!” he said. “Do you understand that?”

  “He’s going to raze the countryside,” I said tearfully. “He’s going to kill the crofters!”

  “That is the unfortunate face of war, my heart. And if you open these gates, it will only be worse, for everyone. We need to hang on here. It may look desperate, but it is often in the vastness of our desperation that the greatest miracles happen. Do not give up hope just yet. Do not stop looking for a miracle.” His touch and his voice were like a balm to my nerves, and I could feel myself relax under his steady gaze and begin to think more clearly. I ignored Sir George and his stream of tormenting threats. I wanted only to stay beside Gabriel and bask in his strength and serenity. “Now please, please, Isabeau, take the women into the tower and wait there.”

  “May I propose a compromise?” I asked, wanting to obey him but knowing that every hand was needed. “I’m going to help put out the fires.” This was not a question but a statement.

  He saw what I was looking at. Stone didn’t burn, and there was plenty of stone in Blythe Hall, but there were also buildings of wood and thatch in the lower bailey, including the stables. Sir George, having been inside the walls as a visitor, was now aiming for these targets, and many were already ablaze. Practicality won over pride, and Gabriel, with a grimace of understanding, relented.

  Like a rogue wave on a calm sea, I had been carried these last few hours by a surge of emotions ranging from paralyzing fear to ebullient happiness, from love to heartache, from hope to utter desolation, and just about everything in between. In all the commotion I had forgotten how tired I was, but I remembered soon enough as I began the physical task of drawing water from the well. Thankfully, I was not alone in this. I had Maggie, Gwyneth, and Katie beside me, the three dairymaids who had an axe to grind with my lord Kilwylie as well, along with two laundr
esses and three maidservants from the hall. We hoisted buckets of water and passed them in a line to the young men who threw them on the gates; for the gates were our greatest concern. But the water did little to help the situation there. It was too little and too slow. The half-foot-thick oak slabs were steaming as fire ate through the wood inch by inch from the other side, and at the top black scorch marks, like shriveled leeches, began to appear. The work was gruelling and dangerous. Incendiaries continued to fall from the sky, setting small fires in the lower bailey. The stables were already ablaze, and there was nothing we could do but move the horses to the upper bailey and hobble them near the hall. My body ached, my arms shook with fatigue, and I wished to God I could make the chaos stop. Blythe Hall was burning, yet for every small fire we put out, four more had started. It was a Sisyphean task, frustrating and impossible. And the water on the gates was the equivalent of using a spoon to bail out a sinking ship. It only served to prolong the inevitable. But I would not give up until I dropped.

  It was sometime later that I heard the cry from the battlements, indicating that a miracle had appeared on the horizon. A thought of Sir Matthew flashed in my mind, and I was certain it was he and the rest of the Guard that the men were cheering. Enlivened by hope, and cheered beyond reason, I dropped the bucket of water I had just drawn and ran to the steps, hoisting my dirt-smudged, soot-stained skirts to climb to the parapet and see this miracle for myself.

  What I saw was not a miracle but another heartbreaking calamity unfolding outside the gates of Blythe Hall. The men on the battlements were not extolling the timely appearance of Sir Matthew and the Guard but another small army of knights, perhaps thirty or forty men in all, who were in hot pursuit of the torchbearers Lord Kilwylie had sent to Blythemuir. Their numbers had been drastically reduced; they were no longer carrying torches, and they rode through the fields like thwarted demons, heading straight for hell’s favorite son, Lord Kilwylie, and the safety of his much larger army. The pursuers were well armed and highly skilled, and I knew at first glance who they were, for Julius on horseback was unmistakable. Quick, daring, and lithe as a red deer on the moors, he rode point, flying over the crest of the last hill with his band of helmeted and lightly armored mercenaries following closely behind him. They were shooting crossbows, and Kilwylie’s raiders were falling like ripe apples in an autumn breeze. Gaining speed, Julius and his men were closing on the main body with the intent of trapping Kilwylie between them and Blythe Hall, with the river Tweed blocking one line of escape. It was a daring plan for forty men, and the heartbreak was that every rider he had with him appeared 100 percent committed, even as Kilwylie’s arrows flew. There was a moment of chaos as the Kilwylie men crashed into their own army. And then came Julius and his men, full tilt, with swords drawn. The short siege turned into real battle then, where crossbow bolts pierced armor and broadswords hacked at limbs. And the archers on the battlements of Blythe Hall waited, with arrows nocked, until Kilwylie made that fatal slip.

  But Kilwylie was a fox.

  I found Gabriel not far from where I had left him. No longer above the gatehouse, due to the smoke and fire, he was now crouched on the stretch of wall that ran beside it, watching with the rest of the men, bows ready and waiting. “By God!” he exclaimed upon seeing me, his eyes alight with wonder. “Here is our miracle, Isabeau.”

  I looked at him, attempting to comprehend his joy while foreboding and sorrow battled for dominance in my heart. “That is no miracle,” I said softly, heatedly. “That is Julius, my brother. And Sir George will kill him, right before my eyes, because Julius has abducted the king.”

  “What?”

  “That is my brother!” I said again, with a little more force in my voice. I glanced at the battlefield with my heart in my throat, and pointed.

  “I know Julius is your brother.” The excitement that so recently filled his open, pleasant face was ebbing as a grim sort of irony took hold. “You have remarkable similarities, really,” he added with an arched brow. He looked back to the battle, saw one of Kilwylie’s men come within range, and shot his bow. The soldier fell. “But what I thought I heard you say,” he began as he picked up another arrow and placed the nock on the cord, “was that he has abducted the king, which is impossible.” He released again; another man fell.

  “It’s not impossible. You obviously don’t know Julius.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you, but I beg to differ. I know him quite well.”

  “Really? How interesting.” As I talked he kept one eye on the fighting. “You appear here, materializing out of nowhere, invite my affection, reject it, storm into my courtyard, rally my men around you, and then call me a liar when I tell you my brother has abducted the king. I think, after just meeting me, that’s a little rash, don’t you?”

  He shot again and turned to me, his crystal-blue eyes flashing. He was grinning. “I think I have already established that I have not rejected your affections. And I didn’t call you a liar. I’m simply questioning your story.” He grimaced, aimed, and drew the cord, bending the powerful yew to his will with the grace and speed of a master archer. He loosened, and another man, no doubt believing himself far beyond the reach of an arrow, fell to the ground.

  “It’s not a story,” I said, marveling at his ability. The man was a machine, like a winding crossbow with expert precision, and infuriatingly, he kept at his work as we talked. I grabbed his arm. His arrow released and went wide. He exhaled forcefully, as if it was a great blow to his pride, and looked at me, none too pleased. “I was there,” I said, staring boldly back at him. “I was with the king. We were riding through the forest at night, heading for Kilwylie Castle, when we were attacked.”

  He lifted a brow and picked up another arrow. “How do you know it was Julius?”

  “Because the attack was quick, and well executed, and only the king and my friend, Marion Boyd, were missing when it was all over.”

  He stopped shooting and gave me his full attention. “You were on your way to Kilwylie Castle … with the King of Scotland?” His tone was skeptical. “How long ago was this?”

  “Last night.”

  “Last night!?” I was gratified to see shock appear on his face. “And you’re here, now?”

  “Yes. Julius abducted the king shortly before I learned that Sir George and his uncle had the same notion. Angus was at Kilwylie Castle, with some English agents and a small army.” A deep crease appeared on his smooth brow as he listened. His lips, firm, resolved, and wonderfully alluring, parted slightly as his focus shifted from me to an unseen distance beyond. He was thinking. He understood what I was trying to tell him, and he slid down against the thick stone of the battlement, pulling me with him. A gloved hand covered his eyes as he fully digested this information. “I overheard something I shouldn’t have,” I added, looking pointedly at him. His hand lowered, and his blue eyes locked on mine. “I pretended I didn’t understand what Lord Angus had let slip. But clearly he had been expecting James Stewart, not me. Which really was impossible, because nobody knew the King of Scotland was here … at Blythe Hall.”

  “Here? The king was here? By God, why did he come here?”

  I looked into his eyes, wanting to tell him but not quite knowing exactly how to put it—to hide away in bed with a woman? To indulge his private pleasure? None of it sounded very regal or flattering. Instead I smiled softly and added, “I shall tell you that and a great many other things, but this is not a conversation we should be having here.” He mirrored my ghost of a smile and nodded. I continued. “Lord Kilwylie suspected I knew something and locked me in his room. I escaped before dawn and rode here. Hence the reason for the visit. My point in telling you this—and the reason I was so horrified at what you call a miracle—is that the King of Scotland is missing, Gabriel, along with my dearest friend, Marion Boyd of Nariston, and my brother is the only one who knows where they are.”

  He took hold of my shoulders. “Does anybody else know what you know … about Kilwylie?”


  “Only Hendrick, my steward.”

  He looked down the row of archers and the swiftly dwindling stock of arrows to the end, where Hendrick stood shooting. “Very well,” he replied. He took a deep, cleansing breath and then stood. “Thank you for telling me.” He extended a hand to me and pulled me up beside him, steadying me with a firm grip. “Now, get back into the tower, Isabeau. And this time I mean it.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to make sure your brother survives the day.”

  I watched in silence as he set down his bow, picked up a discarded helmet, and drew his sword. He was going to find a horse and join the battle. I shouted to him, bidding him to stop. It was a fool’s errand to leave the safety of the walls now. Julius had entered the battlefield driven by hatred, by his need to destroy Sir George Douglas. They were two reckoning forces, entwined in a sadistic game of chess, in which no one, not even the king, was beyond their reach. It was up to Fate to intervene on my brother’s behalf now, not Gabriel—not the warrior-angel God had sent to me. I cried his name again. He stopped and turned to look at me, blind determination in his gaze. It was a look that terrified me, for I knew what it meant. He looked at Hendrick. It was then that I realized that Hendrick was shouting too, only not at Gabriel. He was shouting to everyone, and pointing. Soon all the men on the battlements fell silent as they looked in the direction of Hendrick’s alarm. Through the smoke, through the sound of steel hitting steel—as men cried and horses screamed—I turned to look as well.

  It was a moment before I registered the enormity of what was unfolding before us, yet when I did, when I finally understood what it meant, I was paralyzed with fear. Out of the north came another army of warriors, greater than all the men on both sides put together. And they rode under the banner of Hume. It was Alexander, the second Lord Hume, our neighbor, Warden of the East March, a member of the king’s Privy Council, Keeper of Stirling Castle, and devout protector of the realm. He was a man both Julius and Sir George had served under in their youth; he was also a victim of Julius’s betrayal, and he had suffered personally because of it. Lord Hume came not to help the outlawed band of mercenaries that had abducted the young king. He came to enforce justice. He came to assist the young Lord of Kilwylie in his attempt to take Blythe Hall.