The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  “That is very true, Hendrick, but the king sent a message,” I reminded him politely, if not a bit sternly.

  “A message? But I never received any blasted message! Had I known what ye were about, I would ha’ sent the messenger right back with another message tellin’ ye tae stay put.”

  “But why? This is my home, Hendrick. I’ve been away far too long already, and I’m nearly nineteen now and old enough to manage the estate.”

  His eyes widened as he leaned forward in his chair. “Aye, I’m certain ye think it so. But things are rough here just now. Why, if the English haven’t gotten a wild hair up their arses …” He stopped short, cleared his throat, and began again. “What I meant tae say was that there are certain families across the border that ha’ got it into their wee pickled brains tae cause trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Sir Matthew asked, coming alive in his chair.

  “Why, the usual kind, man. The kind the bloody English delight in!” He leaned forward. “There was never a skirmish or even a warning, but four nights ago all our sheep went missing. One thousand head forbye! Vanished in the middle of the night, they did, and neither hide nor hair of the beasties has been seen since.”

  “All the sheep have been stolen?” I exclaimed a bit too loudly. This was indeed bad news. Our sheep, some of the best in the land, were prized for their wool and had always been carefully guarded. Alexander Blythe, my father’s cousin and a prosperous Edinburgh merchant, relied on our wool for his burgeoning cloth trade, and in turn, the king relied on Cousin Alex to help finance his military endeavors. This loss of sheep—one of the main sources of income for the people of Blythemuir—was like a battle wound that if not staunched quickly and properly would turn mortal.

  “What about the shepherds?” Sir Matthew asked pointedly. “Certainly they must have seen something?”

  At this mention of shepherds, Hendrick’s face reddened alarmingly. “The shepherds are gone too.”

  “What? Are they dead?”

  “No. I mean, I dinnae think so. ’Tis just that we’ve not been able tae find them. ’Tis as if they’ve fair vanished.”

  “They’ve vanished?” Sir Matthew replied incredulously. And then his intelligent, gold-flecked eyes narrowed at the steward. “Have you tried tracking them?”

  “Of course we’ve tried tracking them, man! What the devil do ye think we are, idiots? We’ve even brought out the hounds too, but the damn beasts just run in circles.” He paused to toss back the rest of his wine. “ ’Tis unholy, I tell ye, the way they bay at the sky all befuddled like. They’ve run in every direction, too. Ach! ’Tis maddening to watch. And with all this rain what’s left of the trail has been washed away. Jonny Kerr … ye’ll mind Jonny Kerr the bailiff? He and thirty of his best men have gone on the Hot Trodd looking for them, only they havenae come back either.”

  Sir Matthew raised a brow and offered gently, “And do you think they’ve vanished as well?”

  “Oh, for bloody Christ, I dinnae know!” chided Hendrick, looking annoyed. “Knowing Jonny, they’re likely outside of Carlisle by now, at yon roadside inn drowning their losses in ale and taking out their frustration on the bonny English lasses. Forgive me,” he added, addressing Marion and me and turning slightly red with embarrassment.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I replied. “But you say they’ve been missing for four days?” I looked to Marion. I could see she found the whole situation rather amusing.

  “Aye,” Hendrick replied with rancor. “And if they’re not found in two, then they’re lost to us by law. Bloody fools! Our lads will be left with no choice but tae lift what’s due them from the other side of the border.”

  “And you’re certain it was the English?”

  “Aye, I’m certain! Nobody saw anything, and the more volatile families hereabouts swear they weren’t involved. I’ve no bone tae pick with anyone, and no one has seen our sheep. It has tae be the work of the English.”

  “Or the devil,” Sir Matthew Beaton offered in an undertone. “Has anybody else been robbed or attacked?”

  “Not that I know of. But I’ve sent word tae Lord Hume in any case, warning him that our lads are on the Trodd.” Lord Hume, as everyone knew, was now Warden of the East March. He was personally responsible for administering justice and keeping peace in the thief-ridden Borders. It was an impossible duty given the amount of raiding and bloodshed that went on here.

  “Hot Trodd! Thieving Englishmen! Vanishing shepherds! My, how terribly exciting!” It was Marion who broke the spell, her large brown eyes glistening in the firelight as her fair cheeks, rosy with warmth, appeared incandescent beneath her thick auburn hair. She had abandoned her soaking headdress upon our arrival, leaving her glossy tresses to tumble down the back of her splendid emerald gown—a gown made from the finest double-cut velvet. She was, as always, a sight to behold. “We sit here in this brooding border fortress while the English are on the rampage. And as everyone knows, the English not only ransack, burn, and steal all they can, they rape and kidnap as well. Mostly, I hear, they just rape.” Her dark eyes gleamed with unchaste excitement as they flicked to Sir Matthew and lingered. “Perhaps Sir Matthew should sleep in my room tonight … on the floor, of course. Why, with so many hot-blooded Englishmen about, a lady is wont to have extra protection. After all, I believe the king would want it so.” Her hand, delicate as a lotus flower, touched his sleeve.

  Sir Matthew Beaton, a tall, strapping, well-built man in his early thirties, battle-hardened and unafraid of the most horrible danger, flinched as if her slender white fingers were the glowing prongs of a fire iron. His face, although partially hidden by a light-brown beard, turned red as a beet.

  “My dear young lady,” said Hendrick, coming to the knight’s aid. “Although ye have a valid point, I’m happy tae say that willnae be necessary. Aside from the fact that Mrs. Beaton might not approve of the sleeping arrangement suggested of her husband, these walls are impenetrable. Upon my honor, no Englishman or enemy has ever seen the inside of Blythe Hall but for those who were invited. Besides, dear Sir Matthew and his men deserve a good night’s rest—in a proper bed forbye, after what they’ve been put through, I’m sure.” These last words, added in haste, were punctuated with a wry smile.

  “But look,” he said, turning from Marion and her feigned look of scandalized shock to motion to the arched doorway under the musicians’ gallery. Great silver platters were being whisked into the room by a small army of servants. The capacious hall, filled with quiet chatter, fell silent as the first hint of roasted meat infused the air. “Why, bless me! Hot food,” he declared as trenchers and pitchers of ale appeared on the table before us. “If you’re anything like me, I’m sure all this excitement … all this talk of thievery on top of your weary travels, has made ye fair starved.”

  The arrival of food was indeed a welcome diversion from the wilder thoughts of roving Englishmen, and the magnificent hall, with its spacious hammer-beam vaulting, colorful tapestries, intricate carvings, plush chairs, arched windows, chandeliers, candelabras, sconces, and great stone fireplace, came alive as hungry men, smelling of horse and leather, attacked the food with a driving purpose. They were a merry lot, the King’s Guard, and most were familiar to me, since I’d served at court on and off for four years. The fare might have lacked the culinary splendor of the palace in Edinburgh, or even the Guard’s Hall where the men dined, but the spit-roasted venison, stuffed game birds, and dishes of roasted leeks, parsnips, and carrots—seasoned with salt, pepper, and a dusting of cinnamon—followed by various cheeses, nuts, berries, and fresh churned butter, could hardly have been better served. It was devoured, in appreciative silence, and washed down with plenty of fine heather ale.

  “M’lady,” inquired Hendrick, sitting back in his chair, smiling and sated. “Shall I break out something a bit more fitting the celebration of the mistress’s return?”

  “Oh? Indeed!” I replied happily, setting down my cup. “Please do that.” He
motioned to his servant, and a moment later a cask had been carried into the room and opened.

  “A rather nice malmsey,” he informed me with an impish grin and a conspiratorial look. “A wee New Year’s gift from your cousin Alex that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  Still the storm raged around us; thunder, punctuated by lightning, echoed through the Great Hall, and the men, not to be outdone by nature, began to sing.

  “Oh my,” whispered Marion, hitting a note somewhere between delight and disdain. And then, quite suddenly, she giggled. The thunder of lusty voices, some in tune, some dreadfully out of tune, rose high into the rafters and hung for the space of a breath, before flittering down to caress us, their lady hosts, in a refrain that ran:

  “But I would give all my halls and towers

  Had I that bright birdy in my bowers

  But I would give my very life

  Had I that lady to my wife!”

  “See?” I said, feeling a sliver of pride for having reached the place of my ancestors whole, unscathed, and surprisingly happy, even if all our sheep had been stolen. “Did I not tell you that Blythe Hall had charm?”

  “Charm?” A fine, mocking brow lifted. “I’ve never thought bawdy ballads charming before, but yes, I believe I shall like it here very well.” She turned her attention from the throng of bellowing men to Sir Matthew. With dainty precision she touched his sleeve again.

  “God’s teeth, but ’tis good to hear music in this hall!” Hendrick bellowed, startling all who were close to him, including Marion, who jumped. Sir Matthew quickly removed his arm from her grasp and nodded in restless agreement. “Perhaps Isabeau would honor us with a wee tune on the lute … or harp? Why, did ye know she had the voice of an angel when she was a wee girl? There was nothing in all the land tae compare to it, except maybe for …”

  “Julius,” I finished, looking squarely at him. “Hard as we might try, no one could ever quite compare with the seraphic Julius.”

  His eyes, wide and blankly amiable, flickered. “Ah … no. Why, that’s not what I was about to say at all. What I meant to say was the choir at the abbey … of Haddington. They’ve a mighty fine choir there.”

  It was my turn to look mildly surprised. “Really? The choir? You do know that I sang in the choir?”

  “Aye.” He forced a smile. “All those voices blending together in organized harmony …”

  “You were never at Haddington, Hendrick. How could you possibly have heard the choir?” I signaled for one of the servants to bring both instruments.

  “I … I dinnae actually hear it,” he clarified, his blue eyes round and guileless as an owl’s. “But I heard about it … from your cousin.”

  It was then that I smiled, catching the old man at an even older game because we both knew, for a certainty, that the choir at Haddington was not the first unutterable thought that came upon his lips. The men, in visibly high spirits brought about, no doubt, by the end of an arduous journey and sweetened with hearty food and fine malmsey, quieted down to a gentle hush when they saw that I held the instrument in my hand. It was a cursory politeness, for I believed they’d rather keep singing, but I had been asked, and I would honor my father’s steward with a song. The truth was, Julius wouldn’t have even waited to be asked were he here. He would have picked up the lute and led the men in bawdy song before the meal was even done, bringing them to tears of laughter with his wit. Men loved Julius. You could feel it whenever he was near. But this was my hall now. And I chose the harp.

  Pushing all thoughts of my estranged brother from my mind, I began to play. The last time I had played the harp was for the king, for his pleasure, for his often tormented soul. I thought of him now as I plucked the strings, singing one of the songs I always sang to him. It was the song that calmed his anxiousness, a song with a melody so pure it was easy to get lost in, and he would often close his eyes as he listened, relaxing his strong, expressive face while he hummed along. The men in the hall had fallen under its spell too, and not a sound could be heard—no clinking of goblets, no scraping of benches across the flagstones, no voices hushed in whispers—just the soft patter of rain, my voice, and my harp.

  As I sang my song thinking of the king, I was quite taken by surprise as another face pushed all thoughts of him from my mind. It appeared before me, clear as day, with a presence so alive it filled every recess of my mind. For the love of God, I had no idea whose face I saw, but he was magnificent, and perfect, and he literally took my breath away.

  I stopped singing.

  Music continued to emanate from the strings—as if by some magician’s trick—my fingers moving of their own volition. I saw the music, as I always did, only now it was born of the smooth fair planes of this stranger’s face: golden, radiant, alive, and hauntingly perfect. I was unaware of what exactly I played. I could hear the strings vibrate, each note filling the air with heavenly serenity, but it was faint and surreal, as if coming from somewhere other than where I was. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, because I knew that somehow my destiny was entwined with the stranger who filled me. This knowledge coursed through every fiber of my being, growing in strength, pulsating with every heartbeat as it flowed toward my soul with startling truth.

  This was not, however, a prudent discovery to make in a hall filled with inebriated men—inebriated men with curious, liquid-eyed gazes. And I was just barely conscious of this. Yet more important, I wanted this moment—this vision of such sublime rapture—to last forever. I closed my eyes and turned inward, fighting to memorize every haunting detail of his face, the very essence of what or who he was. I wanted to smell him, to touch him, to taste him, to bring him to life in my memory. But this conscious act caused my vision—a vision of a man so perfect that he could only be fashioned by the hand of God—to fade. My fingers stumbled as he disappeared, and a broken note rang out. I opened my eyes. My fingers scrambled to continue their unconscious flow of melodic purity, but I only managed to make the instrument squeal in discordant protest.

  Marion, watching me with eyes wide and aggrieved, inhaled sharply. The men shifted uncomfortably as I fought to regain my composure and recapture my vision. But it was too late. It faded entirely. The handsome face with the compelling blue gaze, straight, aquiline nose with slightly flared nostrils and thoughtful, sensuous lips, began swirling in a confusion of light and darkness until it was swallowed completely. And from the roiling blackness emerged the face of a man I knew only too well. Startled, and with heart pounding furiously in my chest, I dropped the harp at the same time that a great clanging erupted outside in the hallway. The men of the King’s Guard, highly alert to danger, sprang at the sound, entirely forgetting their mugs, the recent musical disaster, and the fact that they were unarmed. Their full attention was pulled to the entrance. The great oaken slab flung backward on its hinges with a resounding bang, revealing Sir Matthew’s anxious squire standing beneath the magnificently carved doorway heralding the coming of the huge, dark-haired, dark-cloaked man behind him: the other haunting man of my vision.

  Chapter 3

  UNINVITED GUESTS

  IT WAS AN ODD, UNSETTLING FEELING THAT WASHED over me as I stared at the dark visitor, a man so deeply imbedded in my subconscious that even the most sublime vision I had ever experienced was overcome by the power of his presence. It was more than uncanny, the ability he had to appear where he was least expected. And that he was here, materializing from the night with the soft rain and damp earth still clinging to his cape—on the very eve of my homecoming—was so unbelievable that it had to be more than mere coincidence.

  “My lord, forgive me,” cried Sir Matthew’s man, his face pinched with excitement as he addressed his lord at the high table. “Sir George Douglas, Lord Kilwylie, has arrived with his men. They’ve come fresh from a skirmish with the English and seek lodging for the night.” Like a piece of juicy gossip at court, the words skirmish and English buzzed through the great room on the besotted tongues of the men-at-arm
s, electrifying the air with the promise of action and the spilling of English blood. Sir Matthew, no different from his men, sprang to his feet with high color and eyes aglow and in four great strides was on the other side of the head table addressing the newcomer.

  “By God, Douglas, where were ye set upon? How long ago?”

  Sir George, a rogue and rising member of the very powerful Douglas family, of the Black Douglas line, and nephew of old Bell-the-Cat (the Earl of Angus), was a familiar at the court of King James and one of the most revered and decorated knights in all of Scotland. He was also well acquainted with the Master of the King’s Guard. Yet given all that, one would still think a chance meeting here, in Blythe Hall, could only be surprising; yet Sir George didn’t look entirely surprised. “Why, Sir Matthew,” he declared from the doorway, languidly removing his fine leather gloves while a wry smile played about his lips. His eyes, a spectacular shade of pale green, settled on me then, and I was disquieted to find that there was no surprise in them, just unconcealed pleasure. His gaze lingered over me for a moment or two longer before he brought his attention back to the man he was addressing, the twinkle of mischief quite gone. “How provident it is to find you here, and with a detachment of the King’s Guard at your heels. But I doubt you’ve come all this way to administer swift justice to the thieving throng that just set upon us … not ten miles from here.”

  “Ten miles?” replied Sir Matthew thoughtfully. The way he said it, the sweeping glance at his eager men, gave one the impression that he was actually calculating the distance and the chance of his men running down the bandits in the dark of night, over unfamiliar ground and with a driving rain at their backs. Sadly, I understood this was a tempting proposition for a fighting man.