by Darci Hannah
All childish humor and prideful banter left the handsome, worry-worn face, and he looked at me as I had never before seen him do. “We were very drunk,” he offered prosaically.
“Is that an apology?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head without removing his heavy gaze.
“Let me guess. That was not the first time you two were spectacularly drunk.”
Dante, still with an achingly serious expression, looked beyond me to Gabriel. “How much have you told her?”
“Just enough. No more … but enough.” The dark-haired man, absorbing this, gently nodded. I could see how tired he was; I could see how hard he tried to make himself appear invincible. Like Julius, Dante was a fine actor, and my heart broke because of it. There was no need to be cruel or hard on him. I realized then that we were, and had always been, on the same side.
“If it’s any comfort to you at all,” I said, “I’d like to thank you, Dante—not for stealing my silver or shearing my sheep. Not for being drunk and rude and abusing my shepherds. And certainly not for scaring the king and tormenting Marion—yes, she told me. I am not thanking you for any of the minor abuses we’ve suffered because of you. But what I am thanking you for is being with Julius—for being his friend. I’ve missed him. He may never know how sorry I am for all the mistakes of the past. But God gave him you, and you’ve been a good friend.”
There was a long, silent pause before he spoke. “He talked of you. Often.”
The way he spoke, the way he said it, broke my resolve, and my eyes began to sting with the threat of tears. I couldn’t speak. My chin started trembling.
“Please,” he quietly pleaded. “Don’t cry. I don’t think I can bear it if you cry.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, trying desperately not to cry, but my eyes were being uncooperative.
“I grew up in a house full of women,” he said, attempting to make light of it. “One would think I’d be used to tears.” Still distraught, he reached under his dark riding coat and pulled out a very fine yet much wrinkled handkerchief. He held it out to me.
I took it and, marveling, asked, “You had a lot of sisters?” The thought was oddly endearing. The handkerchief, I noted, was embroidered with tiny flowers and smelled of exotic perfume. Not quite the gift of a sister, but perhaps things were different in Venice.
“No. I’ve never had a sister.” There was mild relief on his face, and yet his voice was unmistakably wistful. He then added, “I had a lot of aunties though.”
I saw the mild look of disgust on Gabriel’s face and couldn’t help smiling. “I think that must have been very nice.” I dried a few more tears and held out the handkerchief.
“No. Please, keep it. I’ve many of them.”
“Thank you. I don’t usually cry this much,” I offered truthfully. “In fact, I don’t usually cry much at all. I’ve been so tired. It wears the will down. And I know you must be tired as well, Dante. I’d give you the pillow beneath my seat if I wasn’t so afraid of collapsing into a ball of pain.”
He let out a small burst of genuine laughter. He had a nice, rich laugh. “I understand. I’m more of a mariner myself. Venetians, as a rule, don’t take well to land animals. And I’d take that pillow from you if I wasn’t so afraid of the man on your other side. He has fists like a joiner’s mallet,” he added conspiratorially.
“And you would have reason to know. By the way,” said Gabriel, his intelligent eyes absorbing everything as his face settled into a look of ease. It was the first time I had seen him relax in Dante’s company. “I never asked, but how did Julius know I’d be coming home to Scotland when I hardly even knew it myself?”
It was Dante’s turn to look troubled. His dark eyes flicked back and forth between us until finally settling on Gabriel. “Well, that’s a fair question. I asked that myself. And the answer I was given was this: he believed he saw his mother, and she told him it was time to come home.”
We arrived at Hume Castle at midday, tired, relieved, and thankful that the guards, seeing the baron’s banner, had let us through the gates without challenge. Lord Hume met us in the yard. Always an energetic man, he came bounding out with quick strides and a face that was a study in paradoxes. Because of Lord Hume’s untimely arrival two days earlier, Blythe Hall had fallen, my brother had been shot, and, while a prisoner in his dungeon, stabbed by his enemy. The man now appeared a stoic wreck. Bolstered by the title of Warden of the East Marches, the air of authority had been tainted by the less heroic emotions of worry, indecision, and utter astonishment. This last blaze of emotion, I realized, was caused by the appearance of Gabriel. Sir Alexander faltered a step or two upon seeing him and then continued as the same odd mix of feelings played havoc with the lines and creases of his face.
We met him halfway. He grabbed hold of me, taking me by the shoulders and looking me straight in the eye. “Isabeau!” he cried, his voice thick with remorse. “By God, what have I done?”
“What do you mean?” I replied, feeling the fright of his words cold upon my back.
“He’s here. Julius is here waiting for you,” he said, alleviating my biggest fear. And then, “They’ve ransacked Blythe Hall. They’ve destroyed your father’s …” But he couldn’t finish. He saw the look in my eye and couldn’t finish. I knew from his expression that he had seen my father’s chapel; for no other atrocity than the decimation of a sacred and holy place could make a man like Sir Alexander look so forlorn.
“NO!” I cried, pulling away, tears starting again as I headed for the steps. I dared not look at Dante. “No. Not now. Where’s Julius? Please, take us to Julius!”
He looked at Gabriel again. “By God! Gabriel St. Clair!” The words were spoken with reverential awe, and it was little wonder. Gabriel, Julius, and George Douglas had all been under this man’s command at one time. And now they were back, pulled from the corners of the earth, and they had brought chaos with them. “What the hell is happening?” Lord Hume demanded softly. It was a question no one could answer.
Holding Gabriel’s hand tightly, with Dante grave and silent beside us, we were brought to a large room on the second floor. The door was opened. We crossed the threshold and there we stopped. The sheer curtains on the bed had been swept back, displaying the pale form beneath the covers, head resting on a soft pillow, still and silent as a marble effigy. Light from the tall windows fell across the face, illuminating the golden curls and casting a soft aureole around the head. I stopped breathing and squeezed Gabriel’s hand while the other crushed the fine handkerchief given to me by Dante. Julius looked like an angel—perfect, peaceful, luminous, and so very still. We were too late, and the ache of the emptiness that had plagued me became unbearable.
A man, unobtrusively sitting on the other side of the bed, stood when he saw us, his brown gaze settling on Dante. I knew him to be one of Julius’s men; he was the doctor Mr. Cochrane had told me about. “Come,” he said softly. “You’re not too late. He’s just resting.”
My grip on Gabriel’s hand eased slightly. “How … how is he?”
“Like Balder,” the voice from the bed came softly, “the darling of Frigg. He was slain by a twig of mistletoe …”
“And thus brought an end to the era of truth and light, and opened the way for Ragnarok,” Gabriel finished, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I remember that story. You and your pagan tales. Behold a miracle: although the body is wasted, the golden tongue still wags. It’s good to see you, Julius. You gave us all a fright.”
“I swear,” my brother replied, his head having shifted on the pillow. The blue gaze, heavy-lidded and bright with fever, fell softly on Gabriel. “I never saw it coming. But I saw you, brother. Dear Lord, my three children are all here, and they’re playing so nicely together. I’m beaming with pride.”
“Oh, stop it,” I chided softly. I let go of Gabriel and came beside him, slipping into the chair and taking hold of his hand. Julius was not well. He was hot. His breath was a bit gasping, and yet he had re
markable control of his voice. I looked at his neck, letting my eyes rest on the fine, fair skin pulled taut over the elegant muscle. His pulse was weak but rapid. Tears continued to fall down my cheeks. Much to Dante’s dismay, I did nothing to stop them. I squeezed his hand, willing his pulse to slow, willing his skin to cool as I posed the obvious question: “Why must you be so difficult? Why couldn’t you have just told me what was going on?”
“I believe we’ve covered this before, Isa dear,” he replied, and squeezed back weakly. “You wouldn’t have believed me. For four years you’ve been poisoned against me. There was a lot of poison raging through you. I had to draw it out slowly. You had to let it go. And now I believe that you have. Besides, didn’t we have fun?”
“It wasn’t fun,” I averred, my chin quivering. “And you wouldn’t be here now, Julius, lying at Hume with an arrow in your back and a gash through your stomach, if you had been forthcoming. I hope you realize that Sir Alexander is beside himself with worry.”
“I do. ’Tis a pity, an unfortunate casualty in this wicked game we’ve played. He’s a good man. But had I been forthcoming I’d be in the castle prison awaiting the noose—and very likely with an arrow in my back and a knife through my gut as well. And you would be holding hands with dear Georgie Douglas instead of Brother Gabriel. For all his airs and graces, he’s a much better catch. I need to speak with you, Isabeau. Privately. But will you allow me to speak with Dante and Gabriel first?”
“Of course.” I made to leave, but he was still holding on to me. And then, slowly, he brought his other hand up and brushed it against my cheek, wiping my tears with his fingers.
“Do you cry for me, Isabeau?” he whispered, the question heavy in his bright eyes. “After all I’ve put you through?” I nodded, tears still spilling from my eyes. “Thank you.” He smiled then, a sweet, peaceful smile, and placed his wet fingers on the hollow of his neck, wiping my tears on his own skin. He was so hot that they dried quickly.
“I will make you some tea,” I said, trying to hide the fear in my eyes as I looked at him. “I’m going to see that you get better. I think you owe me at least that much.”
“You’re here, Isabeau. I will get better.” I bent and placed a kiss on his forehead. Dr. Hayes came beside me then and gently took my arm. Together we left the room.
“Is it just me, or does this feel like old times?” There was a mischievous smile on the wan face of Julius Blythe, a misplaced, mischievous smile that a man who had so recently used his body as a pincushion should never wear. It was so pathetic that the other two faces—the one bright and golden as the sun, the other dark and luminous as the moon—likewise grinned. And then they remembered where they were and why. The boyish grins faded. “You two look as if you’ve never seen me on my back. Prop me up,” said Julius. “I’m not fond of receiving male visitors in such a vulnerable pose.”
“No,” said Gabriel, holding Dante back, because Dante, he knew, had a habit of doing everything Julius wished, like now. “You’ve put me through hell. You can lie there. Besides, I saw Kilwylie put a bolt in your back, and we’ve both heard, in great detail, how he carved up your insides. That was no twig of mistletoe, Julius. It was eight inches of cold steel. I know what that does to a man. Stop being so superior all the time and enjoy the humility of the position you’ve put yourself in. We promise we won’t mock.” As he said this, he could not, for the life of him, keep from smiling. Neither could Dante. “Now, if you please, will you tell us what’s going on?”
For his honesty Gabriel received a cold, basilisk stare. Then, with a sigh of frustration, Julius relented. “Fine. I understand. I’ll just lie here on my back and jabber away like a decrepit crone. You’re just petulant because my sister has unmonked you. Oh yes, I know.” His eyes, a remarkable, guileless blue, stared reflectively into the beet-red, incredulous face of the fallen Hospitaller. “Did I tell you I heard bells? Heaven rings with celestial music whenever a monk succumbs. Bells ring all the time. You just can’t hear them because your ear’s too close to the ground sniffing out infidels, and listening for the enemies of Christ’s most zealous champion on earth, the pope. It must have been glorious,” Julius continued, unwavering. “They’ve been ringing for two days now—sweet, joyful, melodious bells. All those years of burning! All those years of dousing the flames of lust in cold lakes and tepid oceans! All those years of repentant, self-induced torture! All the self-deriding mental flagellation of being habitually chaste! The entire heavenly choir has rejoiced, my friend. Would it be wrong of me to wish I were there too? I suppose so. But only to see your face. Don’t be ashamed. Oh, you’re blushing! We won’t tell. I promise; it doesn’t leave this room. Dear God. What are you doing?”
“I’m pulling you up,” Gabriel said, seething; his remarkable self-possession had left him entirely. “And God help me if you start bleeding again because I’m going to sit here and watch you bleed out every last drop!”
Sitting serenely, propped on pillows and covered with quilts, Julius Blythe turned his attention to the pressing matter at hand. He was, after all, still a prisoner.
“Lads, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for coming. I was becoming afraid I might have misjudged the situation.”
“I’ve never known it to happen,” Dante said.
“It has. But I’ve a gift for invention, and I’m good at covering. You of all people know that. I truly wasn’t counting on Kilwylie pulling a knife. The rest, more or less, I had guessed. But the hidden knife … it was very nearly a fatal mistake.” He spoke gravely. Both men understood the seriousness of the matter.
It was Gabriel who asked the question: “And you believe it’s not fatal?”
“Your Hospitaller training, of course, makes you a far better judge of these things than I. And I won’t lie; I gave poor Clayton a fright. But with you three here, all together, I have soaring hopes. I have a will to live, and that is, after all, the key to a full recovery. Yet I hope you all understand by now that George Douglas will do everything to see that I don’t.”
“I’ve heard he’s here,” said Dante, “locked in a cell.”
“Kilwylie’s here, but he’s being held on trumped-up charges. Hume needed to make an egregious claim in order to hold a lord of Kilwylie’s renown in his prisons. He’s charged him with the murder of Madame Seraphina L’Ange, which, as Dante and I both know, is not true. However, he meant to kill her. Madame Seraphina was being held captive at Kilwylie Castle, having been brought there with Isabeau. When Isabeau escaped, she, out of necessity, had to be left behind. Poor Seraphina was a bargaining chip—a pawn used to ensure Isabeau’s cooperation—but it all went wrong. We have some young friends working to liberate her as we speak. Seraphina is well respected at court and is an invaluable witness who can testify to Kilwylie’s planned abduction of both the king and Isabeau. I also have reason to believe she saw Angus there with his men. If Seraphina does not arrive shortly, Lord Hume cannot legally hold Kilwylie and his men much longer.”
“But he tried to kill you!” Dante, inflamed, pointed out.
“It could be argued, and quite successfully too, that he was merely trying to save the taxpayers’ money and free up the lord justice-general, the Court of Sessions, and Parliament for more pressing matters. I am, if you’ll recall, still forfeit in this kingdom, a traitor and an outlaw with a long list of petty injustices to my name. Kilwylie has been exceedingly careful in his movements, and has done nothing boldly against the law. It’s more a matter of our word against his.”
“Nothing against the law!?” It was the voice of Gabriel, no longer dulcet or controlled. “He sent a group of assassins to kill Isabeau!” he cried, recalling vividly every ounce of horror he had felt when he discovered it. “How is that not against the law?”
“Because, my silly idiot, were you not the most ferociously gifted fighter I know, he would have killed you both and blamed the mess on you. You abducted the man’s fiancée.” Julius’s heavy blue gaze was pointedly accusing. �
�The king has signed the marriage contract and put his seal on it. It’s the document Kilwylie will cling to. Only the king has the power to reverse it. Which reminds me, how is the king, Dante?”
“Excellent,” Dante replied, pulling his inscrutable dark gaze from Gabriel. He then looked at Julius and remarked with subtle amusement, “He had an epiphany the other night, riding under the stars, and continues to revere you. He wished to be here now, but we sent him to Edinburgh under the care of Sir Oliver. He went with the young lady. She no longer reveres you.” His expressive mouth curled smugly. “That is a pity.”
“That is a blessing. And she’d better not have reason to revere you.” Sick though he was, he managed to conjure a stern look of warning. “So, James will revoke the marriage contract. Very nice work. Another point, and I don’t mean to be indelicate, Gabriel, but I need to know; is my sister still a virgin?”
“What?” Gabriel cried, indignant; he felt his personal life with Isabeau should remain just that: personal. It was not for these two children of debauchery to marvel at, and most disturbing, he saw that Dante had leaned forward, his handsome face a perfect study of probing curiosity. “I thought you heard bells?” Gabriel blurted accusingly. “You said you heard bells!”
“I say a lot of things,” Julius admitted with irritating calm. “I’m feverish … bordering on delirious. So, do we take that to be a no?” His golden brow rose in question.
