by Darci Hannah
He was desperately in need of a proper bed, and tonight he would get one. Timing was everything; and he waited until the familiar, purposeful footfalls were almost upon him before calling out to the dimly lit corridor with a voice disguised in the innocent tones of gentle delusion: “Mother? Is it Christmas already? I smell roast pig! No, wait. That’s just the stink of pig. Why, it must be our intrepid and odiferous guest, gong farmer Kilwylie!” The booted feet stopped.
“My foolish, glittering little harlot,” said the knight, his Herculean shadow looming before the iron bars as he peered into the dark cell. The master didn’t make a move to be seen. “I am no longer amused, Blythe. Your biggest mistake was coming home. Why, dear God, won’t you die?”
“Like the hound that has no desire to hunt, I place the blame on shoddy breeding. Or blame it on dumb luck if you like—or perhaps my stubborn pride that demands retribution for the many wrongs done me. Either way, I’m a glutton for punishment. If it’s any comfort to you, Georgie m’lad, you’ve done an admirably good job of trying to destroy me already. Why trouble yourself further?”
“Oh, I’m no longer going to try, my sweeting. This time I’m going to succeed.”
“Excellent. Then all I ask is that if you’re bent on killing me, at least let me die with a sword in my hand. For, like the heathen Norseman, I wish to go to that great feasting hall in the sky, Valhalla.” His voice, now soft and gently mocking, began, “ ‘O, sweet Valkyrie on your steed of ice, devour my soul, I’ve paid the price, I’ve fought the de’il and thrumped him thrice, so whisk me away, let me wallow in vice. I’ve bloody well earned it!’ Besides, an arrow in the back or knife to the gut of an unarmed man is just degrading.”
Kilwylie let out a soft chuckle. “But I so enjoy degrading you, my winsome lad.”
“Actually, I was speaking of you, Georgie—a knight who basks under a continuous crown of laurels. Did your mother never tell you? Perhaps you were too busy suckling the teat of a swine, but there is no sport in murdering a dying man.”
There came a snort of mirthless laughter, and Kilwylie replied, “You expect me to believe you’re dying?”
“Well, I’m not exactly thriving in here. Are you going to stand there all day marveling like a slack-jawed dolt at the shit in my bucket, or are you going to unlock the door and come get me?”
“You wish to fight me?” It was, even to Sir George’s own opportunistic ears, unbelievable.
“What I wish,” said Blythe plainly, “is to be left alone. God, what I wouldn’t give for a moment’s peace! But if you insist on killing me, then at least do me the honor of fighting me like a man. Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid, my angelic one. And I will kill you, and delight in doing so,” said Kilwylie, and he turned the key in the lock. The iron bars swung open with a chilling creak. “But first you’re going to answer a few questions.”
“I take it you saw my golden friend on the battlements?” Julius asked, looking up at the impending form of George Douglas. For the master was in much the same position as he’d been in all night, prone on his back on the stone-cold floor. He smiled wistfully up at his old friend. “A most beautiful sight, is he not? Gabriel St. Clair, unlike us, is a man of pure mind, of clear conscience, and in possession of a heart bursting with the moral integrity of an archangel. He’s a living paradigm of virtue, and he fights like a demon in the name of God. Gabriel St. Clair has my sister, thank God. Don’t try to tell me otherwise; I won’t believe you.”
“Gabriel has your sister,” Kilwylie concurred. “And I sent twenty men to kill them both. I’ve also given the order to kill that bitch of a governess, Seraphina. What a vigilant guardian of maidenly virtue she is. How her heart will break when she learns that her angelic charge has not only been abducted and raped but also has been brutally murdered by the rogue and morally corrupt Hospitaller Gabriel St. Clair. It will be the great pity of the nation—such a terrible waste of a pure, innocent, and beautiful young lady. I would have so enjoyed being the one to tame her; I would have been a good lord and master to her. But you ruined everything. You should have thought of that before taking the king.” His voice held a tremor of sentiment, but his green eyes were ruthlessly unmoved. “Madame Seraphina, failing to protect her charge, will throw herself out the window. They’re all likely dead already, Julius. And you shall see them shortly.”
“Doubtful,” replied the master with infuriating ennui. “I’m going to Valhalla, remember?”
“You’re going to hell,” Kilwylie corrected him, smiling with exquisite pleasure as his eyes devoured the pathetic sight before him—the pale hair against even paler skin, the large, pellucid eyes glossy with fever. “I never dreamed it possible, but for once you look less than stunning. In fact, you look very like shit, Blythe. Do you really wish to fight me?” It was said with chiding disbelief. “We can just end it here, quietly, simply, like two old friends duty-bound by the silent code of brotherhood. I shall be humane and put you out of your misery.”
“But you are no friend. Therefore, I prefer you be inhumane and fight me.”
“Can you even stand?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know. I haven’t tried. Pull me up.” A hand, pale, elegant, and achingly frail, reached up from the floor. Kilwylie, ignoring it, squatted beside the master instead, and began stroking, with sickening gentleness, the sweat-sodden curls.
“I have two questions before I kill you, my debauched, golden harlot,” he whispered softly. “My fallen angel. Where is the king, and where is the manuscript?”
“I have two answers, short and succinct. Pull me up and I’ll tell you.” With a sardonic lift of his dark brows and a vicious twist to his mouth, Kilwylie relented. He grabbed hold of the now limp hand, and with a force meant to pull the arm out of its socket, Sir George shot up, pulling the master with him. Julius, having been prepared for the jolt, staggered to his feet and fell back against the wall. His breathing, for the first time, came in irregular gasps. “All right, here are my answers. Regarding the king: I don’t know anymore. Regarding the manuscript: I haven’t found it yet. That’s the truth.” For his efforts, Julius received a vicious punch to the stomach. The force of the blow doubled him over and sent him into a fit of coughing. Kilwylie, not willing to miss a beat, grabbed him by the hair and the neck of his shirt and flung him against the wall, adding a kick to the kidneys for good measure. Julius gasped in pain. The men in the other cells, hearing the beating, began yelling. Kilwylie picked up the master again and tossed him headfirst out of the cell. He landed in a sprawling heap on the floor.
“Give him your sword,” Sir George demanded of one of his men. “The bloody wee fool wishes to fight me.” The men of Kilwylie laughed at this, for no one in his right mind would willingly ask to go against the blade of Lord Kilwylie. They looked at the man on the floor, fair, frail, and struggling to stand, and recognized it for the suicide it was. The men behind bars, fearful and protective of their young leader, jeered. They were understandably horrified by the thought because they feared the same outcome. Julius Blythe alone seemed oblivious to his surroundings, and he found, to his amazement, a sword in his hand. He gripped it, felt the familiar, comforting weight, and then, turning slowly, he faced his longtime enemy in the narrow corridor of a stronghold prison. He was not under any delusions of winning such a fight, for he lacked the strength to do anything but parry. Yet even a hare could tire a fox, and that’s what he intended to do. He just needed to hold out long enough until higher powers intervened. Mustering all his fading strength, and his vast resources of superficial deception, he adjusted his grip on the sword and took his stance.
Bodies pressed against the iron bars that lined the corridor, hooting and cheering him on. On his other side was a wall of solid stone. The lighting was poor and the footing slippery. He noted all this and then nodded. It was then that Sir George Douglas, the most gifted swordsman in all Scotland, sprang his attack.
From the onset it wa
s clear that both men were gifted swordsmen. Kilwylie, tall, dark, thickly muscled, and powerful as an ox, drove his blade with the legendary jarring force and textbook technique that had made him a household name. The Master of Blythe, however, surprised them all, not only because he could, in his weakened state, defend the attack, but because his skill, hidden these many years from public view, blossomed like a thing of wonder before their eyes. The slighter body, the hereditary elegance, the lean muscle in command of the finer bones, moved with an artfulness and precision that demanded respect. These were two different men with vastly different styles, yet both displayed a level of athleticism and prowess that was beyond compare. What started out as a suicide had transformed into a haunting dance to the death, where every flick of the razor-sharp blade, every thrust and parry, rang with the inevitable finality of the outcome.
The men witnessing the duel fell silent, jaws agape, in admiration, until only the sound of clanking steel and the muffled patter of frenetic footwork echoed along the corridor. For this was a modern-day battle of David and Goliath—a mismatched and improbable fight by every definition—and no man present, from callow youth to war-hardened veteran, could pull his eyes from the heart-wrenching spectacle of it.
Kilwylie opened with an attack of malicious intent, driving his powerful body to overwhelm the smaller man. But Julius, with billowing white shirt now bloodstained and sweat-covered, was as quick, as resilient, and as flexible as a sapling. His sword arm, bulging with sinewy muscle, absorbed and deflected each blow with maddening efficiency. His legs, finely shaped and encased in soft leather, moved with the artful fluidity of a dance master. Yet for all his effort, it could be seen that he was not attacking. There was no effort wasted in riposte or counter-thrust, and yet Kilwylie’s blade consistently cut into stone and slashed across iron. Those paying close attention saw, with eye-bulging disbelief, how it was done, for the blue eyes of the master, intensely focused, never left the eyes of his opponent; he appeared able to read the living thought as it flashed behind them. In the unimaginably short time it took for the oversized muscles of the knight to obey the direction of his brain, Julius Blythe was already there, anticipating and prepared for the blow he knew would come. It was a display unlike anyone present had ever before seen. It amazed with the same dark and tawdry voyeurism as witchcraft. And more than a few men present wished to see a duel between these two in earnest, and not this shameful abuse of power, where a sword-swinging giant set out to destroy a sick and wounded man.
On some level, Kilwylie knew how Julius worked, and it angered him all the more that he had been fooled into believing once again that his destruction would be easy. The green eyes flashed; the blue eyes understood; and sparks from tempered steel grating against tempered steel ignited the air. The corridor reeked of sweat, and the two men engaged in the vicious swordplay heaved like winded chargers. The spellbinding display that had lasted no more than ten minutes began to lose pace, because both men were tiring. Yet the young Master of Blythe was fading rapidly, and Kilwylie knew it.
“I thought you were dying,” Sir George finally said, and drove his blade, with a swing starting at his powerful shoulder, straight at Julius’s heart. The smaller man, with shoulders back and square to his opponent, took the hit with the side of his own blade and carried the force of it to the wall, where it bit into stone again, in a continuous campaign to dull the razor-sharp steel. Julius recoiled, disengaged, and, mustering his fading energy, unfurled like a whip, surprising his attacker and landing a blow on the man’s shoulder. The cut was not deep but it was enough to draw blood.
“And I thought you’d be smarter than to believe it,” Julius replied, his chest heaving, his fair brow dripping with sweat. “ ’Tis an endearing quality, is gullibility.”
Kilwylie, growling viciously, lunged at the mocking face. The master was not quick enough this time and took a grazing blow to the side. Before he could recover, Kilwylie was on him again, driving him with monstrous effort back against the wall. Julius knew that he had nearly exhausted his pitiful resources and wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. It had been a risky performance from the onset, and one of his best, yet the thought that he had made it this far only to lose the final and most desperate move rang with an irony too bitter to swallow. He would have laughed if he had the breath for it.
The far wall came up quickly then, because once he lost his footing and let the impetus of Kilwylie’s drive push him backward, it was nearly impossible to regain the ground he had lost. Not in his condition. He felt it, solid and unforgiving against his fevered skin. He slammed against the hard barrier with surprising force. He was now trapped like a bear in a cage. Pain from his wound radiated through his limbs. And his blade, now limited by the resolute property of stone, was little more than a prop.
And then he saw the flash of the dagger in Sir George’s other hand. Their eyes met.
“Let me through!” The cry echoed along the dungeon, ringing loud around them. There had been a commotion, they realized, but it was too late. In the heat of the fight each man had heard nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears—only the heavy, raucous breath fighting to quench the burning in his lungs. Neither man had heard the guards of Lord Hume arrive. But they heard them now, and they heard Sir Alexander’s voice cry out, invoking the regal command of the numerous generations of Humes before him: “In the name of the king, drop your sword!”
Lord Hume had come at last. Julius, looking over the shoulder of his attacker, focused on the man he had always looked up to. On the handsome, stolid face he caught the wide-eyed look of incredulity mixed with the pain of remorse. Reflexively, as if obeying a command in another lifetime, Julius’s hand relaxed, and the sword fell from his grasp, landing with quivering finality on the floor beside him. That’s when the blade of the dagger came, hard and searing into his body, driving all the way to the hilt. He looked at Kilwylie and saw the victorious grin, chilling in its rapturous joy. “Do you still find a blade in the gut of an unarmed man degrading, my pet? I do hope so,” whispered the mouth beside his ear, warm and sweet as a lover’s. And then, as swiftly as it cut, the blade came away, leaving in its wake a trail of warm, oozing crimson. Kilwylie held him as his legs gave out altogether. He held him still as his body began to quiver and convulse. And he whispered again into the neat, rounded arch of the finely shaped ear, “I have wiped your race from the face of the earth, Julius Blythe, and nothing will stop me now. Rest assured that I will find the manuscript, and I will learn the secret you have died for.” And then Sir George Douglas, hearing the rush of boots descend on him, released his grip on the master.
Julius, without an ounce of strength left in his body, slumped to the floor; his eyes never left Kilwylie. He watched as the knight was grabbed from behind and dragged away. He watched as Sir George cried out, demanding to know on what grounds he was being apprehended—for defending oneself against a traitorous outlaw was justifiable, he argued.
“Sir George Douglas, Lord Kilwylie,” declared Lord Hume, “I am placing you under arrest for the abduction and murder of Madame Seraphina L’Ange, governess and loyal servant of the house of Blythe.”
“What?” Sir George cried in outrage, his spectacular green eyes flashing wildly about him. “That’s not true! That’s not true! ’Tis a lie!”
It was Julius’s turn to smile then, and his face held the serene and beatific look of an angel. And he was smiling still as Sir George Douglas, kicking and screaming, was bodily thrown into the very cell the master had occupied a short while before. It was only when he heard the door shut and the finality of the lock sliding into place that his smile began to fade.
George Douglas was still protesting.
“Dear God,” Sir Alexander uttered softly before dropping to his knees beside the master. His gentle gray eyes took in the wreckage, the wanton damage inflicted on the body that had too much promise to end in such a way. And he felt again a pang of remorse, sharp and chastising, that he kne
w he would never shake, because this was his fault. He discarded his doublet and grabbing the hem of his fine undergarment ripped off a piece of linen. Then, wadding it up, he stuffed it under the abused shirt, pressing it tightly against the gaping wound in the young man’s torso. And then, tenderly, he lifted the golden head and cradled it on his lap, like he would if it belonged to his own son. The cornflower-blue eyes, wide and with the melting innocence of a child, held his face. It was not an uncommon look for young Blythe, but this time it was genuine, and it seized Lord Hume’s gut and turned his insides to jelly. He would have cursed, but he saw that the young man was smiling.
“What took you so long?” asked Julius.
“I was detained. By God, Julius, what foolish voice in your head made you believe you could possibly fight that man in your condition? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Julius peered up at him from beneath lids that had grown weary. “Normally, I’m quite keen with the idea of trial by battle, but I have to be honest. I wasn’t fighting. I was simply defending. I will ask you now again politely, will you please release my men? Douglas has sent a ridiculous number of his buffoons to kill my sister. Call me a mother hen, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried.”
“Already done, my lad. And what do you mean, kill your sister? Where is she?” asked Lord Hume, and then his gray eyes narrowed in troubled thought as he took in the scene around him. Anarchy had besieged his slumbering fortress at dawn. His kind and hospitable servants had been roughly handled in his own hall—his prison guards had been subdued, and now he was on his knees in the bowels of his castle, watching as the personal guard of Scotland’s most revered knight were being stripped of their arms and tossed into his prison, exchanging places with the rough and broken men of Scotland’s most dangerous outlaw. He knew he was going to regret it, but he just had to ask the question: “Would you mind explaining to me what the devil’s going on here, Blythe?”
