by Darci Hannah
“My dear Dante, think whatever you like; I prefer not to think of my father at all.”
Dante smiled at this and replied not unkindly, “You forget. I know what a convincing liar you are.” He looked beyond the master to the table before him, where he saw what had held the man’s attention. It was a magnificent illumination of an archangel, surrounded by shafts of holy light as he descended from the heavens with wings unfurled. And then he read the Latin inscription beneath: CADO ANGELUS. Correction: this was no archangel; this was a fallen angel.
“Your recreational preferences astound me. Women fall at your feet, and yet you are here, in your cave, deciphering ancient chicken scratch. What joy, what physical elation can you possibly get from studying such as that?” He motioned to the drawing.
The master sat back and raised a brow in wry amusement. “If you would lift your head out of the brothel every now and again, you might realize that there are other varieties of elation besides physical. And, if you must know, I’ve had my fill of women for the moment. Ancient chicken scratch on parchment is easier to decipher than the mind of a woman. Tell me, Dante,” said Julius Blythe, deftly changing the subject, “in your humble opinion, what do you think the secret of immortality is worth?”
Dante, taking the proffered chair, grinned. “So, you are working. You had me worried for a moment. Very well, I shall tell you. The value, my friend, is incalculable, because immortality is impossible.”
“Is it? Yet for ages men have sought immortality, believing the secret to such unobtainable treasures to be found in a stone created of base metals that would turn other base metals, such as lead, to gold—the sorcerer’s stone, or the philosopher’s stone if you like. The thought behind it is really quite just, for if gold is the purest substance on earth and it never tarnishes, the mortal mind that unlocks the secret of this remarkable transmutation must therefore be rewarded with infinite knowledge, infinite wealth, and, of course, immortality. Yet in the history of man it has never been achieved. Why?”
“I told you why, but you weren’t listening.” Dante feigned a look of impatience. “Very well, I shall tell you again. It hasn’t happened yet, because such a thing is impossible.”
“That appears, by all accounts, to be true. But only because immortality is not attained through a stone.”
“And you know this—you, the broken, reprobate son of a Scottish nobleman?”
“You know it too, Dante. As a Venetian you were made to witness every year your doge wedding the sea in an ancient and elaborate ritual. But is it possible to marry something that is not human and not of the opposite sex?”
Dante frowned. He didn’t like it when people questioned the ways of his native city. “The doge marries the sea because it is tradition. The sea is the lifeblood of the Venetian people,” he answered plainly. “It is out of reverence. To us the sea is as bountiful as she is beautiful.”
“And sometimes she is a hard, cruel bitch. My point is that it takes a tremendous leap of faith to believe that a man can marry an element as powerful as the sea. It’s presumptuous; it’s irreverent, and yet it is very likely the reason you yourself believe you sprang from his loins as well.”
“He’s a very virile man, the doge. How else does one keep pace with an insatiable mistress like the sea?”
The Master of Blythe chuckled at this, displaying the source of his mesmerizing charm—his smile. He poured a glass of wine from a decanter and handed it to the young Italian. “Marrying the sea is, in itself, a subtle display of man’s quest for immortality, for the sea, dear Dante, unlike the man elected as the Doge of Venice, is without end.” The master took a drink, and so did Dante. “What is your opinion?”
Dante, savoring the dark red liquid as it caressed his parched throat, did not reply at once. It had been a busy morning; he was tired, and the wine was superb. He pretended to think for a moment, his dark eyes glancing to the ceiling for inspiration. At last he smiled and replied, “My opinion is that you need to lie with a woman.”
The master, with the fine lines of exhaustion just visible on his face, gave a sigh of exasperation, as a mildly disappointed parent might do. “Forgive me,” he said, “I’ve been caught up in personal matters. You have come, I hope, to tell me how your delivery went.”
Dante tossed back the last of his wine. “Under the circumstances, I believe it went rather well. Although your sister was displeased to learn that her sheep have lost their wool.”
“I imagine she was.” The thought made him smile. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve received word from Berwick. The silver is standing surety for the cargo, and Sir Andrew Wood is ready to set sail on the Yellow Caravel.” He reached behind him and pulled a sheet of paper from beneath the scroll he had been studying. “Here,” he said, handing it to Dante. “These are the ledgers, with the first column indicating the current rate for a bale of raw wool in Antwerp—not bad. More than enough to secure the cargo coming from Cyprus. The second column is the projected percentages of exchange in the larger European markets for our Cypriot cargo, reaching a 300 percent profit. Thanks to the Turks and their institutionalized destruction of Rhodesian sugar refineries, we can ask whatever we like. Europe, dear Dante, has an insatiable sweet tooth.”
As Dante studied the sheet, a slow smile appeared on his lips. “These are good.”
“They’re beyond good,” Julius proclaimed, mirroring the Italian’s smile.
“And here I thought we left our lucrative trade on the Continent to come here, spend money, live like kings, and wreak havoc on all your old friends, particularly him,” he said, a mischievous gleam in his eye as he pointed to the illumination of the fallen angel.
Julius glanced over his shoulder and then turned back to the Italian. He smiled, knowing what he meant. “He’s not fallen yet, but God knows I’m going to try. He once told me he believed there was no temptation on earth that could make him fall from God’s grace. However, you know I love nothing more than testing such heavenly paragons.”
“And you plan to test him. How?”
“Dear Dante, use your imagination.”
Dante, staring into the cerulean eyes of the man before him, suddenly understood. “Your sister,” he concluded, and grinned. “Oh, that’s cruel—even for you!”
“Cruel? I guess that depends on your definition of cruel. My scheme, however, is not without variables.”
“Isabeau, for one,” Dante remarked appreciatively. “She’s willful. She hates you. And there are plenty of other men to distract her. Why do you think she will look at him,” he said, gesturing to the magnificent illumination, “any differently than she looks at me?”
“Because, whereas your pleasing looks may fool most women, my friend, beneath it all you’re just a piratical reprobate with the morals of an alley cat. Our friend is not.”
“But she may like piratical reprobates,” he offered hopefully. “She likes your friend Kilwylie.”
“Only because she has so little choice,” replied the master, remarkably calm. “I’m merely expanding the stagnant pool of inbred locals.”
“And you believe he will come, our friend?”
“I have it on good authority that he will, yes.”
“Your vast network of spies tell you this?”
“My spies, I’m learning, are not all that reliable. And in this case they wouldn’t know where to begin to look, for unlike you and me, our friend does not slink down hallways or lurk in shadows and dark places. He walks in rays of sunlight. Rainbows form overhead when he’s near, and his path is sweetened with the perfume of a thousand rose petals, because he only walks on rose petals,” the master said mockingly. “People, dear Dante, are afraid to look directly into the path of the sun; people are tired of rainbows. My sister, with her lively imagination, is not one of them, thankfully. When the air smells of rose petals, we’ll know he’s arrived. However, I fear we’re running out of time, because Douglas, the cunning bastard, is doing his utmost to destroy me. And speaking of Do
uglas, what do we know?”
“There’s been no word of him as of yet. And I haven’t heard from Fergie Shaw either, although it’s likely too soon. I sent Will Crichton the moment I received your message regarding Sir Matthew and the Guard.”
“Excellent. Will’s our fastest rider and knows these hills as well as myself and old Fergie Shaw. We should get to Sir Matthew before Douglas does,” he said, then paused, his brows drawn in concern. “Let me know the moment Will arrives?”
“Of course.”
“One more thing. You say the sheep have all been delivered soundly, and will soon be fattening upon the greening sward, but did you happen to see the king?”
“If he’s a man of good height, athletic build, hair that is neither brown nor red, with penetrating eyes and a chafing manner, and standing far too close to your lovely sister, then yes, I believe I did.”
“Oddly enough that description fits him like an expensive glove,” Julius answered reflectively. “But do take heart, for the king is not interested in my sister the way you think. He’s interested in Marion Boyd, if Isabeau is to be believed.”
“That pretty little signorina with the welcoming eyes and the lips that promise untold pleasures?”
“Ah, you know her too. I take no comfort in that thought.” It was an honest reply, and one that made Dante grin. “And the shepherds, will they talk?”
“Oh, they won’t talk. They’ve been paid and sworn to secrecy. My guess is that by the end of the week they’ll all be begging to come back here, wherever here is.”
“Good work. Now, return to the men. I shall be with you all shortly. And about the women, it’s time to swear them to secrecy as well. Pay them accordingly and have them discreetly taken back to Kelso.”
“The whores? Must we? So soon? But the men so enjoy their company,” he stated plainly, in a fleeting attempt to change the master’s mind.
Julius took the empty glass from the Italian’s hands and said in a tone of irrevocable finality: “Dante.”
With a sigh of resignation, the young man stood. “Very well, my lord,” he replied, “I shall do as you ask.”
“And do not linger,” added Julius Blythe, watching his second in command walk to the door.
The Italian turned back to the room with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Sir,” he said theatrically, bringing a hand over his heart. “Like you, I never linger.”
Chapter 10
RETURN OF THE KNIGHT
JAMES’S WORDS HAD SHAKEN ME TO THE CORE, AND I could not dispel the cold fear that seemed my constant companion. I found it irksome how fear and anger—such counterproductive emotions—were dominating my better judgment. In spite of my headstrong tendencies, I believed myself to be a pleasant person and quite good company, yet I was wearing on even my own patience. I was beginning to doubt nearly everything I believed as truth, including my own sanity; for how else could I explain my visions or the fact that yesterday I had truly wanted to kill my brother? Even now I had no reason to give credence to a word Julius said, especially after his debacle in the hall and his unremorseful debauchery of Marion. He was a shifty creature—a man with the charmer’s smile who courted danger and dined with the devil—and he had violated everything the name Blythe stood for. Given all that, I still could not kill him. I doubted I could even wound him. Because the Julius of my childhood—valiant, kind, spirited—I still loved. It gave me no right, however, to trust the man he had become. Yet deep down, in that empty and dark place within my heart, I knew I wanted to do just that. Perhaps it was the mere force of his personality. More likely it was my inveterate longing for redemption, for redemption was the key to a good story. But Julius was not the hero of any story. He was real, and he was terrible. And he was up to no good. Still, I wanted to believe he was not entirely evil. And yet, on the other side of that same coin lurked another distasteful conundrum. If what Julius had been hinting about Sir George was correct, then the ramifications were greater than I could fathom. Sir George was connected, powerful, and utterly trusted by the king. If he meant to do harm, it would be on a grand scale. But what could he possibly gain by harming the king … or me? Truthfully, I didn’t know him well enough to even venture a guess.
Perhaps that was the real problem nibbling away at me like so many ravenous mice in the larder. Perhaps that was the real source of my fear and anger. Sir George was largely a stranger to me. Yet no one could deny that he was a commanding man of fine looks and dark sensuality, and if I was being utterly truthful, I would admit that I had never been immune to his charms. In fact, I found that I rather liked the man, in spite of his once intimate connection to Julius. He had been right to do what he did regarding my brother—for the good of the country. And maybe he did feel he had earned the right to be the next Lord Blythe; maybe he did feel some sense of responsibility toward me. And just maybe he truly did love me. Whatever governed the motives of Sir George, he had come to Blythe Hall in search of me. Julius had come to thwart him. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that both men were looking for something more.
With our marriage, Lord Kilwylie would gain Blythe Hall and her title, just as I would be Lady Isabeau Douglas of Blythe and Kilwylie. Admittedly, Blythe Hall wasn’t the largest or wealthiest estate in the kingdom, but it did hold a strategic place along the border. In my opinion it was a precarious bargain, and Sir George would have no choice but to be a guardian of Scotland—a hard, thankless job. He would also have me as a wife, which might also prove to be a hard, thankless job. But that was cruel. I shouldn’t think such things. The king had thought long and hard about my welfare, and he believed Sir George the best man for the position. I would not disappoint him.
The most logical answer to what was really going on was the one James had suggested. Julius had returned to seek revenge on the man who had ruined him. It made sense. Julius somehow knew Sir George was heading to Blythe Hall, and he had intended to make him look the fool, just as he had intended to humiliate me and poison my mind against his enemy. Julius had robbed me; Sir George had used me as a shield in a sword fight. Sir George apologized and professed his love; Julius didn’t apologize and was attempting blackmail. Julius was nudging me toward madness; James had revealed that Sir George had negotiated a marriage contract behind my back. Clearly both men were no angels, but now was not the time to complain and deliberate. The king was in danger, sitting like a fish in a barrel here at Blythe Hall. The wisest thing to do was not to believe anybody, for surely someone was lying. And I would know the answer soon enough; I would know the answer when Sir George returned. Truthfully, I didn’t know which thought turned my stomach more.
After my brother’s Italian lackey left—the fact that he had an Italian working for him was puzzling in its own right—the castle was a perfect beehive of activity. The sheep, after a good deal of hard work by a couple of men, some boys, and a few dogs, had finally been removed from within the castle walls and were on their way to the pastures of Blythemuir to graze. The shepherds, lying on benches in the hall as if awakening from a long night’s sleep, had been revived to the best of Hendrick’s ability, but by all accounts they were an interesting case. And all ten men were still frightfully woozy from their ordeal. They were fed, made to drink tepid milk, and ordered to walk around the room until they sobered or purged. Yet given all Hendrick’s wise ministrations, they still could not tell us much about what had happened to them over the past five days other than the fact that they were in some kind of glorious dream world with shadowy references to Greek orgies.
This, of course, piqued everyone’s interest, including Marion’s, who had a fondness for classical tales and loved nothing more than a good story of Roman or Greek (she wasn’t picky) debauchery. Interesting as it was, however, this did cause me to ask Hendrick, rather discreetly, if those certain places in Kelso, Coldstream, even Jedburgh had been checked. Unfortunately, I was frightfully unaware of just how many places there were like that. However, as Hendrick explained prosaically, there wer
e none to his knowledge that could possibly fit the shepherds’ description—on this side of the border. The fact was, we had very few able-bodied men left, and the king’s safety, however tenuous it was, was far more important than sending any more men beyond the bounds of Blythemuir to hunt for Julius. Chances were, he would snap them up, putting the odds in his favor that much more—if, in fact, he was the one bent on doing the king harm. The result of our precarious predicament left little choice as to the course of action to be taken. We would do what I was painfully good at doing: pretending everything was just fine.
Mme. Seraphina was a godsend. During the trying events of the morning and all through the messy aftermath of the drunken shepherds and misguided sheep, she had skillfully maneuvered Marion back to the solar, where she could keep her from asking too many importunate questions about Julius. For although Marion was securely engaged with the king in both body and mind, we suspected that my brother had managed to steal a bit of her heart. For both their protection it was in Marion’s best interest that she be kept well clear of Julius and his machinations if at all possible. When, after reining in my wild nerves and careening fear, I came to join them, a genuine bubble of amusement rose within me, and I almost smiled. For there, sitting before the tall arched windows with a plate of oatcakes and what I imagined to be very strong spiced wine on the table between them, was my aged governess discussing with Marion the latest fashions in France, with a most serene and engaging voice.
Seraphina had spent her youth in France, as had my mother, and it was her habit not to talk of her native country. She was also not one to care overmuch about outer garments other than that they be clean and tidy, for she was a woman who fashioned and dressed the soul. “Anyone,” Seraphina often proclaimed, “with enough silver can slap on the finest double-cut velvet and prance about like a queen, but the road to heaven is not so easily won, and no amount of silver or double-cut velvet can open the gates of eternal paradise like a clean conscience and a pure heart can.” They were undoubtedly wise words if not a bit disheartening for a young girl newly come to court, but such was the mien of Seraphina. And that’s why this conversation tickled me the way it did. The fabrics, gowns, shoes, and headdresses she was describing in great detail to my friend could not have been called anything remotely like the latest in courtly fashion, yet Marion seemed entranced, captivated by her every word. “… And I marveled at her poulaines of red velvet ending in points at least the length of the foot itself, with little silver bells sewn on the tips, and her gown was woven with real gold thread, so she shimmered like the flame of a candle as she walked.”