The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  “But who would kill—?”

  “Ah,” interrupted the smooth, lilting voice. “I see you wish to know the long story. Very well, we’ve got all night.” And Dante Continari—outlaw, slave, mercenary, industrious privateer, and second-in-command of the master’s men—settling in for the long journey north, began his tale from the beginning—or what he considered to be the beginning—when he had spent his days chained to the rowing bench of a Turkish galley, and found one day that a yellow-haired Scot had been chained next to him.

  By the time dawn broke, James Stewart, the young King of Scotland, was speechless and pliant as molten glass. He was also fragile. The tale he had heard in the night, a very hard tale to listen to indeed, had humbled him; it had brought him to weep silent tears. Yet it wasn’t until the sky opened up, bringing with it a deluge of rain and a band of Kilwylie’s men, that the truth of the Venetian’s words was driven home. And only when the men descended on them from the surrounding forest, brandishing swords, did James understand the caliber of men Julius Blythe had selected to guard him. Dante, raven black and deceptively cunning, had spotted the ambush before the attackers broke from their cover. He sent two men around to flank them, and when they were in position he launched two well-placed arrows, each hitting its mark in the woods on either side. He meant to flush them out into the open, and it worked. Kilwylie’s men fell on them then, and it didn’t take a genius to understand that they were aiming for the king. James was given a sword, dagger, and buckler, for no one would deny him the right to defend himself, but he was closely watched. Since a tender age, as was due his princely title, he had been tutored by the very best sword masters in the realm, and he was quite brilliant. He was more than capable of defending himself. But Julius’s men were fiends. They appeared to move twice as fast as ordinary men, and they sprang from their horses, arms whipping about like demonic scythes, their movements as fluid and precise as a beautifully choreographed dance. Although they had been outnumbered two to one, it had never really been a fair fight.

  Later that same morning they had seen another curiosity. Far in the distance, from their vantage point atop a bald hill, they spied a single man leading a train of saddled warhorses. The man, wearing Kilwylie colors, also appeared to be cradling his right arm.

  Marion Boyd was a trouper. She didn’t once complain about the rain, or about anything, but instead kept straight-backed and silent. When they did finally stop to take shelter from the worst of the downpour, and to eat, her stoic silence crumbled, and she filled the air with lavish praise for the bravery and prowess of James, King of Scotland, her lover. Twice Dante caught the proud, snapping brown eyes looking at him, and twice he gave a small nod of approval. It was a silent truce; and Julius, had he been with them, would have marveled to see it.

  By midday the rain had stopped and something very curious indeed happened. Daniel Cochrane, a man who was taken prisoner along with the master at the battle of Blythe Hall, came racing toward them, riding with seven of his companions. Dante’s exquisite jaw momentarily slackened in amazement, and he pulled to a stop and waited.

  “Jesus Christ, ye’re a slippery black bastard!” remarked Danny as he paused to catch his breath. A grin, surprisingly white, appeared on the gruff, bearded face. “I’ve new orders for ye, straight from the master’s mouth.” The two sets of black eyes locked, and Danny, sobering quickly, answered the unutterable question in the young man’s eyes. “Aye, he’s alive, but just barely. Kilwylie broke into Hume Castle early this morning. The master put on a grand show of it too, but …”

  “Dear God,” uttered Dante as every raging emotion inside him collided with resounding decision. “We ride to Hume! Now!” His spurs were down and ready to bite into the flanks of his exhausted horse. A meaty hand shot out and grabbed the reins as the spurs hit. The horse, abused at both ends, bucked and capered sideways. Dante’s eyes, wild and conflagrating with purpose, bore into the architect.

  “Easy, lad,” soothed Danny, his insides aching for the young man whose remarkable features were pinched in mortal anguish. Oddly, he knew how the poor bastard felt. “Do not go running off without me telling ye the rest of it. Do ye even know where Hume is?”

  “No,” he breathed. “Christ! Danny, how do I get to Hume?”

  “I know how,” said James, coming beside him. “Please, let me lead the way.”

  “Not so fast,” said Danny. The stern look in his eyes was not to be disobeyed. “Those are not your orders, Dante. The master was very specific! He said to tell ye that your friend has arrived. And that ye are tae bring your package”—here he motioned with his head to the king—“to Rosslyn. He believes ye will find his sister there. Find Mistress Isabeau and take her to Hume. For the young master desperately needs to speak with his sister.”

  “Gabriel.” Dante uttered the name in a kind of reverential, lunatic daze. His dark eyes came alive then as he digested this news, which, to the amazement of everyone present, seemed to make sense to him. They watched as he repeated the name, this time shouting it to the heavens. “Gabriel’s here! God’s glorious warrior has arrived! Holy Mother of Christ! And with Isabeau? How in the world …?” He looked askance at Danny.

  In answer to this question all the architect could do was shrug and shake his head.

  “I guess … we go … to Rosslyn,” Dante finally declared. And then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he focused his gaze on Danny Cochrane and cried in despair: “Rosslyn? What the hell is Rosslyn? And how the hell do I get there?”

  Dante, a stranger in a strange land, was not having an easy day of it. His nerves, after being hopelessly frayed, were now tied in knots, and the familiar, calming buzz of alcohol had long left his body. Yet he was going to need more than strong drink to get him through the next twenty-four hours. For with a sharp pang of guilt, the name Gabriel had hurled him back to their days together on Rhodes. Dante, with a whimsical and childlike sentimentality, now longed for those days—those warm, sunny, languid days. Julius, Gabriel, and he had lived together on Rhodes, carefree, happy, and close as brothers. On Rhodes, Julius and he had glutted themselves on wine, women, and lucrative vice. On Rhodes, they had lived and squabbled like princes. And it was on Rhodes where they had driven the gentle and dulcet Gabriel, time and again, to fits with their bad behavior. They were unrepentant on Rhodes … until the day Gabriel had left them. And now, deep in the rain-soaked, windswept hills of Scotland, the unbelievable had happened. Gabriel had returned, and just as on that day three years ago, he had come in their darkest hour. It was more than a miracle. It was witchcraft.

  Dante prayed then, as he seldom did, to accept with gentle grace and humility all the chastisement he deserved; for he was repentant. And nothing mattered more to him than the life of Julius Blythe.

  It was then that he saw the young king come beside him, seemingly untouched by fatigue, the noble carriage unwavering, the warmth and intelligence still bright behind the stormy-blue eyes. “Last night,” James began, “a disreputable pirate taught me how to look beyond personal prejudices and preconceived notions in order to fully understand a man’s actions and the values that govern him. Today I ask that you let a grateful king lead his new friend to the home of one of Scotland’s greatest families. I know Rosslyn well. It is the home of Sir Oliver St. Clair, Baron of Rosslyn. Will you, Dante Continari, follow me?”

  “I’d be honored to, Your Highness,” Dante replied, and bowed his raven-black head.

  Chapter 21

  ROSSLYN

  NO TWO PEOPLE ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH COULD have ridden with more purpose, or have been filled with a more dire need to reach a destination, than we did, racing to the Midlothian home of Gabriel’s childhood. As it happened, we were closer than I had thought. The derelict cottage in the woods had been familiar to Gabriel, and it was less than ten miles from the town of Rosslyn. It was a testament to how far Gabriel had traveled with my unconscious form the day Blythe Hall fell to George Douglas. It was also a testame
nt to the remarkable quality of his horse, Bodrum, who was named, I had learned, after an immense and formidable Hospitaller stronghold on the coast of southwest Turkey. The castle had been dedicated to Saint Peter, but not wishing to name a horse after a saint, he named him Bodrum instead. Gabriel talked fondly of his short stay in the English tower at Saint Peter’s castle, when his fleet had been moored in Bodrum harbor. And his memories now lived on in Bodrum, the noble gray gelding. It was a bond they shared that I could never be a part of, and yet, somehow, just knowing of it made man and horse all the more dear to me. Gabriel told me many such things on the road to Rosslyn—in fact, we chatted away like magpies, making up for years of lost time, desperately longing to become a living part of each other’s memories. It made the miles fly by. We never once touched on the painful subject of Julius.

  Tucked away in a wooded glen and surrounded on three sides by a loop in the river Esk stood the high-walled and formidable fortress of Sir Oliver St. Clair, Baron of Rosslyn. It was dusk by the time we arrived. Torches had already been lit along the precipitous stone bridge and towering gatehouse, while the haunting sound of bagpipes floated on the evening air. It was a scene that evoked in me gentle pangs of nostalgia, and it brought to mind my own home in the days when my father was laird.

  “Will they remember you, do you think?” I whispered, feeling Gabriel stiffen as Bodrum’s iron-shod hoof hit the first stones of the bridge that spanned the deep ravine.

  “Oh,” he breathed with pallid cheerfulness, “they could hardly forget me. It’s you I’m concerned for. The gates of Rosslyn are notorious for abuse, and Sir Oliver encourages it. Unless I have a foaming army behind me, we’re likely in for a bit of ribaldry. It’s not going to be the grand entrance I had wished for you, my heart. I beg you to bear with me.”

  It was a curious statement, and one soundly confirmed the moment we stopped before the great arch of the gates. The sky, awash with a burst of red afterglow, cast its last rays on the rosy stone and the three curious faces peering down at us from on high, steel bonnets glowing as if on fire, lips boldly resisting suppressed joy. The yellow flame burning bright on both turrets underlit the prominent features of each guard, as well as allowing them to see our faces. They had indeed recognized the weary traveler begging entrance. Yet a diligent gatekeeper was not allowed to forgo the formalities of his position. “Who goes there?” the man in the middle called down.

  “Gabriel St. Clair.”

  “If ye are the man ye claim to be, ye will give the password, Sir Gabriel.”

  Gabriel glanced back at me and whispered with a merry twinkle in his eye, “They want the family motto, and an extra bit.” And then, turning to the gatekeepers, he called out: “Commit thy work to God, and to man commit no disgrace.”

  “And have ye, Gabriel, upheld the family motto?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

  “Where do ye hail from?”

  “I hail from Rosslyn, Davie Dunbar, and most recently from Rhodes.”

  “If ye lived here,” came the canny voice, “then you’ll remember your nickname.”

  “Sweet merciful Jesus,” Gabriel uttered. “They mean to thoroughly shame me before you. If you’ve ever wondered,” he said, casting a glance back at me with a grin of mild disparagement, “why it was I never spoke to you as a young man, you’re about to learn. Davie Dunbar’s a perfect wee tyrant and a gleeful abuser of the little power he’s given. Bear with me, love,” he said, and turned to face the gatehouse.

  “Don’t humor them,” I whispered sternly, but Gabriel, plunging ahead, replied: “I’ve been called many things behind these walls, but the name you’ll be looking for is Sir William’s Golden Bastard.” The men, pitiful fools of the worst kind, could no longer hide their mirth.

  “Sir William’s Golden Bastard,” the man named Davie replied. “The name rings a bell. Tell us, what was your business on Rhodes?”

  “Cleansing the earth of ingrates like you. I’ve come home to continue the work.” The men, by now, were laughing outright. The sound brought others pressing to join in the sport. One of them pulled out an apple and, like a giddy schoolboy, handed it to Davie. They balanced it on the bulwark of the overhang and called down, “Can ye put an arrow through this apple, Sir William’s Golden Bastard?”

  “If I take the time to string my bow, gentlemen, I’m going to eat that apple and put the arrow through you, Davie Dunbar. I’m growing weary, gentlemen. Open the gates.”

  “Not so fast,” another man called down with the slow and deliberate speech of one wishing to extend cheap and illicit entertainment. This was, from the looks of it, very likely the most amusement the gatehouse had enjoyed in a long while, and it was obvious they were not in any hurry to see it come to an end. I rolled my eyes in exasperation.

  Another man, emboldened by the childish bantering, called down, “Who’s the lovely little wench?”

  “This is no wench.” Now Gabriel’s tone had lost all trace of humor. His deep, rich voice was commanding and formidable. “This is a lady, and soon to be my wife. You may abuse me, but you will show her the respect she deserves.”

  “Wife!” I cringed at the response, knowing what was obviously to come next. “Do they let brother monks marry these days? Or have ye relaxed your vows and loosened your hose strings for the sake of a beautiful face?” It was, to these men of little brains, the absolute height of hilarity. To Gabriel, however, having already chastised himself to the point of madness over the matter, it was the greatest insult they could sling. His body froze, and every muscle trembled with rage. If I had learned anything over the past day and a half, it was that Gabriel St. Clair was a very devout, very proud man. And he was my soul. My body filled with anger and I welcomed it.

  “Oh, I’ve had quite enough of this!” I hissed, and before he could stop me I swung down from Bodrum, stalked forward, and threw out a direct challenge, not even bothering to keep the rage out of my voice.

  “Do you see me, David Dunbar—and the rest of you shameless buffoons? You call yourselves gatekeepers? Then open your dim-witted eyes and take a good look at me! I am Lady Isabeau Blythe of Blythemuir. Look at my fine velvet gown of sky blue and cream satin, with beadwork so exquisite it once brought Princess Margaret to tears. It cost more than all of your salaries put together—for an entire year. Now, do you see how filthy I am? How ruined this beautiful gown is? Do you wish to know why? I’m going to tell you why! I am covered in soot because my home of Blythe Hall was taken by force less than two days ago! I’m caked in mud and reek of horse sweat because this brave and noble man—who is to be my husband!—saved me from a horrible and degrading death! And you sit there in your cozy little roost and have the audacity to mock him? You sicken me!

  “I’m tired. I’ve ridden across half the country on the back of a horse, and if you don’t open these bloody gates this instant, I’ll string the bow and put an arrow through you myself!” I was heaving after this little tirade, and so busy glowering up at the gawking, slack-jawed men that I failed to see that the gates were already open. Gabriel came beside me, leading Bodrum by the reins. He took my hand and gently pulled me forward.

  “Lord Almighty,” he said, his magnificent blue eyes sparkling with pride and approbation, “now, that’s the way to open a gate!”

  Sir Oliver St. Clair came barreling toward us from across the courtyard with a harried torchbearer running before him and a servant with an armload of bagpipes bringing up the rear. If anyone were to ever doubt Gabriel’s parentage, they only need take a good look at his half-brother. The Baron of Rosslyn was not as tall, or as broad, or even close to Gabriel’s prime physical condition, but no one could deny that a voice from a common ancestor echoed in their veins. It was in the way they walked, the noble tilt of the head, the purpose and decisiveness that drove every movement. It was in the vibrant blue gaze bursting with intelligence, the fair coloring, and the sturdy frame that carried heavy muscle with ease. Like my family, the St. Clairs were de
scended from Norman ancestry. Yet whereas Sir Oliver was thoroughly Scottish, with a florid face molded by generations of hearty, beef-eating, oat-growing whisky drinkers, Gabriel’s face was somehow less domesticated. His Scandinavian ancestry was pronounced through higher cheekbones, deeper-set eyes, a gentler nose, and a certain rugged, sun-bleached, windswept air that tended to conjure the image of a ferocious race of men who once spent a good deal of time raiding foreign coasts. Of course, to be equitable, the baron was at least twenty years Gabriel’s senior, with a full gray-speckled beard and a sizable paunch.

  “Gabriel, m’ boy!” he cried, nearly upon us. “My God, is it true? Ye are home from Rhodes? Come, lad, let me take a keek at you!” Without waiting for an invitation, the baron threw his meaty arms around Gabriel, thumping his broad back with astonishing zeal. He stepped back, and Sir Oliver’s ginger-gray beard split with blinding joy. “By God, if ye don’t look like a mythical Norse god come down to smite my crops with a thunderbolt! We’ve heard all the stories from Rhodes! Brilliant! I want to hear more—from your own lips this time! Ye made quite a name for yourself, laddie.”

  Gabriel was beaming, accepting the greeting with all the warmth and mild embarrassment it deserved. Watching them, I thought it interesting that although society didn’t recognize these two men as legitimate brothers, at least they themselves had some understanding of the mighty and whimsically branched tree from which they had sprung. Their fondness was as genuine as it was touching. Gabriel, in turn, was full of kind words for the older man, and even complimented the piping, stating that it had improved a great deal since the days he lived at the castle.