by Darci Hannah
I stared at the king, jaw agape, and cried, “And you’re just realizing this now!? You who rode alone through a wild and violent country rife with men who slaughter other men just so you could indulge in a tryst with Lord Kilwylie’s cousin! I should think the thought would have crossed your mind long before this dire hour!”
“What? You are here alone?” Sir George, quick to pick up on the important point of my tirade, darkened alarmingly. “You have no men with you?”
“No,” James answered unapologetically. “And since there is no hope of the other half of my Guard returning, it appears that I am entirely at your mercy. I make no excuses for my actions; they are what they are. The die has already been cast, my friends, and now we must choose the course that has the highest probability of a favorable outcome. It would be to remain here and wait for reinforcements, if I believed these walls could repel the likes of Julius Blythe long enough for them to come.”
“They can’t,” I said, my ire rising. “He’s been here—many times. I don’t know how he does it. But James is not safe here if, in fact, it is the king Julius is after.”
Both men looked at me, yet it was Sir George’s cold, pellucid gaze that penetrated the very marrow of my bones. “He has been here? Since the night of your arrival?” His voice was demanding and filled with either fear or contempt, it was hard to tell which. Yet the intensity of his manner caused me to wonder whether it was raw concern for me or deep-seated hatred for Julius that affected him so. In my heart, in the space of a beat, I prayed it was not for me.
“Yes,” I heard myself utter.
“By God, why? Did he … did he harm you or Marion in any way?”
I believe my heart stopped entirely at this question. Sir George, having exceptional insight into the nature of my brother, was hinting at reprehensible, incestuous behavior concerning me and common underhanded debauchery concerning Marion. I was not a great dissembler and could not hide the fact that his question angered me, partially because he was correct on one count. If I had been troubled by Marion’s indiscretion concerning my brother, I knew better than to divulge her secret, for James Stewart, at times a brash and prideful young king, deserved to believe that the woman he had risked his life for was entirely his. And Marion deserved a little happiness, even though she knew it would not last forever. “No!” I heard myself rebuke. “He did nothing of the kind!”
“Then why risk slipping behind the walls of Blythe?”
“It was not for Marion, if that’s what you think,” said the king, stepping forward in her honor. “Marion is the reason I am here. She will return to Edinburgh the royal mistress,” he added, knowing that Sir George would understand that his cousin’s new position in the royal household would bring favor to the Douglas clan. “Perhaps she was the bait that lured me here; perhaps it was coincidence. It does not matter. Julius risked entering the castle to get to Isabeau, for he is poisoning her mind against you; he is attempting to drive her mad by insisting she find an angel.”
“What?” uttered Sir George, and behind the probing green eyes I could see that the mad, errant quest did not seem so errant or mad to him. This realization, above all else, frightened me. “He has asked that you find an angel?” he repeated, and his gaze softened while his tone was gently rebuking.
“Yes, he did.”
Sir George did not question the sanity of such a request, as I anticipated he would. His only response was, “Why?”
“I don’t know why. He never told me.”
“Very well,” he said, as if satisfied with my answer. “It is best that we leave this place at once—for your own safety, for the king’s, and for the realm of Scotland.”
It was odd, but I was unduly hesitant to leave my home. I had only just returned after long years away, and the few days I had spent at Blythe Hall were the most unnerving of my life. And yet there was something gnawing at my conscience, a dark and persistent knot of a thing that made me reluctant to leave. At first I thought it had to do with Tam, for he was still in Blythemuir. Importunate though he might be, he was, beyond a doubt, dear to me. Tam was not a warrior, or even very handy with a bow. But he was clever, and he was an invaluable servant. Most important, his mere presence gave me a sense of security. My feelings were mirrored by Seraphina, who asked that we wait until he returned, at which Sir George promised he’d send a few men to retrieve him and bring him safely to Kilwylie. Seraphina was not overly pleased by this, but it was the best Lord Kilwylie could offer. The shepherds were to return to their homes, pack up their women and children, and move the sheep into the hills. Hendrick would stay behind with the rest of the staff, as was his duty.
We were to move quickly, packing only the barest essentials to ensure swift, surreptitious travel. I knew it would be dark long before we arrived, and it would be cold. I ran to my room to retrieve my riding coat and a few personal belongings. When I came through the door I was startled to find two of the compromised milkmaids standing in my room staring at the arrow still stuck in the post of the bed. Both girls turned at the sound of my arrival. They had been charged with helping me pack.
“Did ye do that?” asked the maid named Maggie, motioning to the arrow with her head while her hands deftly folded a clean chemise.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Was it because of that man, that big, braw, green-eyed knight in the courtyard?”
I smiled softly and replied, “Lord Kilwylie, do you mean? No. It would have killed him had I shot it at him. He’s much taller than that.”
“That knight is Lord Kilwylie?” There was incredulity in her voice, and then she cast a glance at the girl next to her. Both flushed with ill-concealed distress.
“It is. Why do you ask?” Although emotions were running high in the castle, I found their behavior to be curious, and so I studied them closely.
“Jerome says Lord Kilwylie is tae be the next Lord Blythe. I dinnae ken he was Lord Kilwylie.”
I assumed she was referring to Jerome Mackenzie of the kitchens, a young man who undoubtedly would be drawn to the fresh and wholesome beauty of this girl. “Well,” I began, picking up a pair of hose and motioning for her to add it to the saddlebag on the bed. “Jerome would be correct. Is there a reason why this should upset you?”
“Nay,” Maggie said, and looked to the brush in her hands, “there’s nay reason.” She thrust the object into the bag, and although she was trying to act as if nothing was amiss, her face was far too red to be anything like convincing. She picked up the saddlebag and handed it to me, along with my riding cloak. “Take care, m’lady,” she said, and crossed herself. “Gwyneth and I shall say a prayer for ye.” Yet before I could make sense of her distress, she grabbed the other maid by the hand and pulled her from the room. I watched them go, a feeling of extreme unease seizing my limbs. And then I went to retrieve what I had come for: the white feather.
With the feather placed directly over my breast and tucked safely beneath the many layers of my clothes, I rode out of the courtyard heading for the gatehouse. I would soon pass beneath the Angel of Blythe, heading for the lands of my future husband. The feather, small and inconsequential, gave me a small comfort, for I was on edge. I brought my hand over my heart, pressing the little feather tighter to my body, and took one last look at the tower. My eyes moved up the ocher stone, all the way to the room at the top, where beneath the steeply pitched roof sat the magnificent chapel my father had built with his own hands. I stared at the stained-glass window as a feeling of sorrow took me, and my head was filled once again with my brother’s fervent, beseeching words: And if you’ve ever had a care for me, you will keep searching for my elusive friend. He will reveal his true identity only to you. Don’t fight it, Isabeau, don’t fight what we are. We’re a cursed race, and the sooner you embrace the truth, the better off you’ll be.
Suddenly I could not help but feel that somehow I had failed, that somehow I had let down a force far greater than I could comprehend. Tears of remorse blurred my vision
as my eyes remained glued to the high window. And then, as if in a dream, I saw a light. The window, previously dark, was now alive with color—as if illuminated from within by a bright flame. I marveled at it; I was unable to take my eyes away. And then it was gone. I gasped, realizing that it wasn’t gone, only changed, for the shadow of a man appeared in the window outlined by a halo of brilliant colored glass. It startled me, for no one could be in the tower. And then the shadow slowly changed, and this time I saw the shimmering, light-gilded wings. I stopped breathing, stopped thinking, as heat radiated through me from head to toe. For there, appearing in a shrine built to honor heavenly beings, was an angel, the angel my brother had begged me to find, and I could not help but feel that I had abandoned it to a far darker fate than my own.
Chapter 11
TAKING OF THE PRIZE
IN THE OLD PEEL TOWER OF BLYTHEMUIR, IN THE recently renovated room at the top of the turnpike stairs, Julius Blythe lay on a cot staring out the gaping hole in the roof he had purposely left unrepaired. He had tried to sleep for an hour or two after working all night in his father’s hidden chamber. He had come back to the tower in the late afternoon, shortly after his meeting with Dante, taking the ancient subterranean route his ingenious predecessors had constructed, and whose existence remained a secret to all but a select few—the select few now including a thousand head of sheep, who, he was fairly certain, would remain silent about their recent escapade.
Like the old tower, the mine shafts and tunnels that connected it with the new had fallen into decay over the many years it lay dormant. It had taken the better part of a month, working surreptitiously, for he and his men to brace the crumbling stone from the inside, making it livable, while taking pains not to alter its outward appearance. They had also inspected and made repairs to the complicated network of mine shafts and tunnels that ran through the hills and provided what any band of outlaws coveted: escape routes. For this he had Danny Cochrane to thank. Cochrane, whose father had renovated Stirling Castle, was a gifted architect in his own right as well as a master mason. He also had an egregious gambling problem and a mountain of debt to his name. His bellicose nature only added to this unsavory stew, and before long, once the law caught up with him, he had won himself a trip to the gallows. His sentence, however, was never able to be carried out—because Julius Blythe had intervened. This act of charity on the master’s part was not out of any love for Cochrane, for the architect was a quarrelsome bastard at best. The master simply knew a good bargain when he saw one.
With a crumbling façade on the outside, and four floors of spacious, and slightly drafty, living quarters within, the old peel tower was a masterly and devious hideout—masterly because it was well equipped, and devious because it stood half a mile from the sheepfolds of Blythemuir, in plain view of the very castle that was to be harassed. Of course such activity around an abandoned tower, even in a sleepy little hamlet like Blythemuir, had drawn suspicion. A few cogs in the neighborhood had needed to be greased, and it was a huge credit to him that he knew just who those cogs were and what they required in order to keep from squeaking.
The shepherds, for example, comprising an entire tier of their own, were remarkably compliant when, abducted and blindfolded, they had been asked to shear the fleece from the animals in their care. They worked in shifts around the clock and had been rewarded handsomely for their efforts. He had personally seen to that. All that was asked when they saw they were to be released was that what had occurred in the Devil’s Lair—for the level of profligacy and debauchery that had taken place was unparalleled in the whole of Scotland—stay in the Devil’s Lair. When men were as compromised as the shepherds had been, it was easy to swear them to secrecy in exchange for secrecy. It was just one of the many currencies he enjoyed trading in. And now his hay wains of wool had left Berwick safely and without notice. It was just another small cog in a larger wheel that had been set in motion after that night in Venice, half a year ago, when hell had unleashed yet another demon for him to battle, and when the heavens had finally opened, urging him back to a land that had already once destroyed him.
This time, however, he had come prepared.
As he lay on his cot watching the clouds pass overhead, he filed away all that he had learned in his father’s reading chamber, although he had not yet found what he was after. He had seen it once, the ancient document written in the time before the Great Flood that gave proof of the existence of remarkable things. Although it was only a copy, he had traced the original document back to the Council of Nicaea, when in AD 325 the Roman emperor Constantine had gathered together a council of bishops from the many flourishing and diverse Christian sects of the day in order to define and create from these a uniform Christian doctrine. The particular ancient text he was looking for, and one previously regarded in the time before Jesus as divine scripture, had been excluded. The reason was simple: it was too powerful. And yet, somehow, some renegade Christian scholar had understood this strange and cryptic text and made a copy of it, and this one copy had survived. It was this copy that held the secret of Blythe Hall; it also, by default, held the secret to immortality.
Long ago, in a moment of weakness, he had exchanged this secret for his life. His mistake had been that he had grown cocky, for after years of familial struggle and fervent denial, he had finally understood what his father had been trying to tell him, and this secret had given him an unholy strength. He believed himself impervious to danger, and this had allowed him to place trust where none should have ever been placed. He had believed that Sir George Douglas was his friend, only to learn too late that he was yet another demon sent to destroy him.
The wind had picked up, causing the clouds to move faster above him. He could hear the faint whinny of horses and of bleating sheep in the valley below. This caused a smile to appear on his lips almost of its own volition; for the recently shorn sheep had finally returned home. His men were billeted on the two floors below him, leaving the bottom floor for their mounts and armor. Like him, those who weren’t employed on a task elsewhere were relaxing—playing dice, tarocco, backgammon; reading; taking refreshments—for they understood they were to have a busy night. They would need all their strength. He felt perfectly relaxed, and his mind was unwinding as the effects of the strong Turkish drink, alqahwa, slowly left his body. He sometimes used the drug as the Sufis did, the holy men who drank it to stay at prayer all night. It was a powerful stimulant, and it kept him from sleeping. Yet now he wanted to sleep, and he allowed his lids to close. It was possibly an hour—or mere moments—later that he was awakened by Dante.
“Julius,” came the gentle tone flavored with an Italian accent. His eyes flew open, and he found himself staring not at the night sky but at a blue sky blocked by the dark and handsome face of his longtime companion. “Sir George has arrived at Blythe Hall.” Julius sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. “But there is something wrong,” Dante warned. “He has no sheep, and Sir Matthew has not returned with him.”
The blue stare, grave and probing, held Dante’s. “Have you heard from Will?” Will Crichton was their link between Fergie Shaw—the man in charge of a small detail currently harassing Sir Matthew—and headquarters.
“There’s been no sign of him. There’s no sign of anyone. I fear something has gone terribly wrong.”
The master was up and pulling on his boots; his face, normally pulsing with color, was pale and ghostly white. “The king,” he said, casting a cold and frightening look at Dante. The Venetian, having been on the receiving end of such a look a time or two, knew that nothing good could follow. He braced himself as the master continued. “Kilwylie knew James Stewart would come to Blythe all along. The message I exposed to Hendrick was not the original message he intercepted. He’s known all along and didn’t wish anyone else to know, the cunning bastard,” the master added with a malevolent grin. “My friend plays a wicked game. He uses my sister as a shield. He uses his cousin as a lure. And now he is forcing me on a path to
the gallows. He is forcing me to take the king.”
“The king?” Dante replied, alarm seizing his fine features. “But why take the king? He is not part of our plans.”
“Our plans have changed, dear Dante,” said the master levelly, strapping on his sword belt. He shook his head in weary amusement and let out a sigh of resignation. “ ’Tis very simple. We take the king, because if we don’t, Kilwylie will kill him, and I will carry the blame. The king must not be harmed. He must never be harmed. And now it is up to us to protect him.”
This the Venetian understood, and he gave a grave nod. “Very well. But what about Isabeau?”
But the master didn’t have time to answer his question, because at that moment a sound, frightfully incongruous with the peaceful, bucolic noises of the valley, wafted through the uncovered windows of the tower room and caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. It was the sound of racing horses and jangling armor. With admirable conservation of movement he crossed to the window, where he was just in time to see two of Kilwylie’s knights breaking from the forest with swords drawn. He looked down the valley, searching for their target. With a sinking heart he found it: three spindly shepherd boys laughing and chatting on a rise above the newly arrived flock. They had been much celebrated, he saw, and were sitting beside their horses eating and drinking the gifts the goodwives had bestowed on them. The poor bastards would never know what hit them. “Dear God,” he uttered, his heart sinking, his hatred growing. His stomach turned to liquid as it often did before a battle, and he found he was unable to pull his eyes from the scene unfolding before him. “They’re going to slaughter those boys.”