The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  We rode hard. My body screamed with pain, for the saddle was jarring and I was not a warrior used to long hours on horseback. There were times I feared I wouldn’t make it. I even had thoughts of stopping and hiding in the hills until he found me. It was in those times that I closed my eyes and prayed for strength; it was in those times that I took comfort from the image of the angel, a noble shadow against a palette of color. I could see it in my mind once again. This small detail gave me tremendous hope, and because of it I endured more than I ever believed I could.

  Four miles from Blythe Hall we saw him. We had just crossed the Tweed below Kelso when we caught the glint of helmets on a distant hillside. Sir George had not come alone; he had brought an army. My heart sank, and for a moment my vision darkened at the edges. Although we had a chance of making it to Blythe Hall before being overtaken, we did not have men to fight an army. My companions knew this too, yet instead of adopting a defeatist attitude, as I was doing, they seemed to be inspired by the sight. Tam turned to me, a grim smile on his lips, and said, “He must ha’ found his keys.”

  “He kicked down the door,” replied Brendon. “Or got his army tae do it for ’em.”

  “Ye know what this means?” It was Jerome, his face bright with excitement. “It means we get tae test it.”

  “Test what?” I cried, spurring my poor horse to an even greater speed.

  “Whether or no’ the auld castle’s protected. I mean, ’tis a bold claim.”

  “What?” I was horrified.

  “An’ no’ only that,” he continued as a frightening gleam appeared in his brown eyes. “Now I’ll get tae dump a cauldron of boiling pitch on ’em. Do we hae pitch?”

  “Yes, I think so. Why?”

  “Why? For what he did tae my Maggie and her sister,” he replied, his pleasant voice now gruff with anger. “I dinnae care a fig if he’s a lord and the most decorated knight in a’ Scotland. He’s a coward an’ a fool. Ye dinnae force favors from another man’s woman. He thought he could get away with it, and he sent his men tae kill us. But we dinnae die so easily!”

  “Maggie,” I uttered, remembering the pretty maid and her sister Gwyneth. And then I recalled their horror at the thought of Sir George living at Blythe Hall. He was the man who had violated them on the night of my homecoming. I had blamed Julius, but it had been Sir George—a man who professed love for me and insisted on sleeping before my door! He hadn’t been sleeping. The thought sickened me that much more, and I rode to Blythe Hall wanting a little revenge of my own.

  “Open the gates!” I shouted as we tore up the soft earth leading to the gatehouse. The heavy doors were swung open before we reached the bridge, and we clamored on through, the army fast on our heels. I was oddly reminded of that day long ago when Julius had risked his life to save me. For a fleeting moment I believed I would see my father, standing in the courtyard waiting for us, and he would come to chide me for my foolishness. But it wasn’t my father who came to me on this day, only a terrified Hendrick. He looked to the four of us, then behind us, his eyes full of question and heartache. Marion and the king were missing, that much was evident, but so was Mme. Seraphina.

  Dear God, what had I done?

  It happened as if the world had slowed down before my eyes. Everything became silent then as I scanned the courtyard around us. I took in everything—Hendrick beside me, talking urgently, guards dropping the heavy bolt on the gate behind us, a small girl holding a chicken, Mutton Johnny carrying a sack of flour on his shoulders, his small dark eyes staring at me as he walked past—but I didn’t hear a sound. And I didn’t feel anything. It was like a dream, and I slowly got off my horse and walked away.

  To my great despair, I found myself alone in the tower room. It was the one room I had avoided ever since my return, not wanting to believe in such whimsical things as angels. My brother had tormented me with a task, and I had refused him. Yet now, as if reverting back to a simpler time when fears and sorrows were best dealt with by calling on some higher power, I found myself in the very room I had spent a lifetime running from, prostrate once again before the magnificent stained-glass saint, just as I was on that day long ago, with a puppy named Rondo in my arms. This was the room my mother had died in; it was the room that had driven my father mad. It was a shrine. It was a chapel. It was a collection of priceless art, and it was where I had come to deal with a hopelessness so vast that I thought I would never recover from it. I had abandoned my governess; I had lost my king and my best friend, and I had led the army of a traitor to the gates of Blythe Hall knowing that we were entirely unprotected.

  I sat in the shadow of Saint Matthew the Evangelist and watched in awe, speechless, as sunlight, caught in the wings of the saint, burst onto the floor before me like a shattered rainbow. It was beautiful and mesmerizing, but it didn’t change the fact that Sir George was coming for me. My gaze, wandering the room, took in the vaulted ceiling, where light came through the clear glass of the oculus. Around the opening the ceiling was painted like the heavens, complete with little winged cherubs who frolicked amongst the clouds. The walls, having been plastered and painted the same fathomless blue, were host to spectacular paintings depicting angels in every form, from warrior to guardian, and from every culture. Some were adorned with wings and halos, while others looked remarkably average. There were little carvings placed on pedestals and three masterly marble statues, life-sized, standing in the corners. My gaze finally settled on the altar, the magnificently gilded and embellished centerpiece of the room, because just above it stood the mighty archangel Michael, that notorious and utterly stunning warrior of God, at the head of his army of angels preparing to battle Satan and the fallen ones. He was awarded the center panel of the breathtaking triptych. On his right stood God’s glorious mouthpiece, the golden and dulcet archangel Gabriel, announcing the resurrection of Christ; and on his left, that miraculous healer and fishing companion of Tobias, the boyishly adorable archangel Raphael. One had to admit it was a remarkable work of art. Done in the ancient Roman style of strong, symmetrical features, perfectly proportioned bodies thick with muscle, and flowing white tunics and hair, each archangel was the embodiment of earthly virility and heavenly perfection. And although they were mere depictions of biblical stories, heavily steeped in metaphor, I found I was a little breathless at the sight of them.

  My attention, however, was soon diverted by a low rumbling that underlaid the gentle birdsong and soft clattering of servants in the courtyard below. I sprang to my feet and crossed to the open window, where I saw, beyond the walls of Blythe and to the west, a dark, shapeless mass of men and horses racing along the banks of the river Tweed. Without thought I ran to the altar and knelt before the center panel of the triptych, looking to the mighty archangel Michael, God’s warrior. For I had no need of a messenger or a healer; I had need of the sword of God, and to him and him alone I would direct my plea.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” I breathed, knowing I was utterly mad yet staring at the archangel and thinking how easy it would be to become swept away in the cult of worshipping such entities, just as my father and brother before me had. And then, embracing the madness, I yelled to the heavens, “Why aren’t men more like angels? I could love an angel, but I cannot love that man!” And then I laughed. It was mad laughter because I knew that men were not angels. They were flawed, and imperfect, and riddled with vice.

  The sound of hooves was growing closer, and I realized I was shaking. I had escaped Kilwylie Castle and Sir George; and I was heartsick knowing that the king and Marion had not been so lucky. Julius had James, and he would sell him to Henry of England. Marion he would keep, I reflected darkly, for his amusement. I had nothing left to me now but a prayer, and I would not waste it on God any longer. I could not help but harken back to when my father began doing the very same thing. Well, I thought, if there was ever a time to start acting like my father’s daughter, I supposed it would be now; and if calling on angels for salvation was the very height of desperation and ma
dness, then at least they could say that it ran in the family.

  “Michael,” I began, falling to my knees. I looked into the determined eyes of the warrior while trying to ignore the building thunder as it approached the stronghold of my ancestors. And then I repeated as best I could the prayer I had heard many times before, a prayer that sprang from the lips of my father. “Commander of God’s armies and minister of the divine glory, it is I, Isabeau Blythe. Unworthy though I am, I beseech you. Carry me this day under your wings of immortal glory. Give me the strength to face my enemies, namely, that bastard Sir George Douglas, although, technically, he’s not really a bastard, but feel free to smite his hell-tarnished soul and send him back down to his maker, Lucifer—that most depraved of your fallen angels—if it pleases you … as I’m certain it will. I implore you; bolster me with your divine justice. Empower me with your righteous arms of steel. And, for the sake of God and my good name, valiantly guard my virtue from that storm of turpitude about to descend on my household!”

  “My lady! My lady, they’re here!” cried a frantic Hendrick. I looked up to see him standing in the doorway, only now his gray head was tilted, and his eyes, those piercing orbs of steely blue, were narrowed to mere slits of trenchant disapproval.

  “Holy saints afire! Tell me ye were no’ just prayin’ to thon wee winged men,” he demanded sternly.

  “Of course not!” I lied.

  “Good. Because I thought ye had more sense than all that.”

  “And I do,” I replied, rising to my feet and hoping to appear sane. “I was just looking for a bit of inspiration. It is a most enchanting room, after all, and one designed to be inspiring.” I could feel my cheeks go red with shame.

  “Aye,” he replied slowly. “The lads told me how Sir George sent men tae kill them. They told me you were locked in a room. And they told me about Seraphina.”

  I closed my eyes, unable to look at the disappointment so clear on his face, and hung my head. “It was not my choice to leave her,” I said, feeling terrible for what I had done. I had been rash in my decision to leave with Sir George. I had been afraid, and my fear had prevented me from thinking clearly. It was not a good trait for one who held the responsibility for an entire estate on her shoulders. “I will find a way to get her back.”

  “Ye did what ye had to do, m’lady,” he said softly. He then lifted my chin with a gentle finger. “For a leader is often forced to make hard decisions. Had ye taken her, ye would never have returned home at all. And I’m glad you’re home. I’m glad you’re safe. I never liked that bastard Douglas.”

  “So … you’re not angry with me?”

  “Oh, I’m plenty angry with ye. But I’m also grateful you’re safe. Now’s no’ the time for anger. Now’s the time for clear thinking and smart action, for we’ve a bit of a problem on our hands.” I nodded, filling with relief. “Well then,” he said, looking at me with sobering seriousness. “What’s your plan?”

  This question implied that I had one, and I appreciated that. But I was no warrior; they didn’t teach castle defense at the convent. Hendrick knew this; he was simply forcing me to embrace the role I had come here to play. Blythe Hall was my castle, and it was my job to defend it against the enemies of Scotland. And Sir George Douglas, my betrothed, fit that bill. I took a deep breath. “How many men have we got?”

  “Men? Inside the walls at this very minute?” He thought a moment before replying, “Fifteen. Twenty including the carpenter’s apprentice, the smithy’s lad, the Mackenzie brothers, and young Tam.”

  “Tam’s a man. Count him as a man.”

  “Very well, sixteen men and four lads; ’tis still twenty. Plus the women. They’ll assist where needed.”

  “Make that twenty-one,” I said, “counting me. I’m not a man, but I intend to fight.” I could see this caused him to bristle, but he relented with a nod. “We need to get every man to the battlements. I want archers at the ready, bows, quivers of arrows, crossbows, buckets of boiling pitch, swords, halberds, lances, maces, and if we have any, I’d like some black powder and shot.”

  He raised a bushy brow. “Black powder? Shot? I think, for the now, we’ll be fine with archers.”

  “How many men does Sir George have?”

  “One hundred, or thereabouts.”

  “One hundred? He’s brought more than just his personal guard?”

  “He’s brought a small army,” replied Hendrick gravely. “May I ask a question?” I nodded. “Why would Douglas bring a small army here? He knows we’ve no’ had a garrison since the lord left. I’m told the king’s been taken by Julius, so why has he come here, after you, and not hunting Julius?”

  I stilled at his question, unsure of how much to tell him. Then, knowing that Hendrick needed to hear the truth I replied softly, “He comes here with an army because he believes I have uncovered his plot to kidnap the king. Angus was at Kilwylie Castle. Angus was waiting for James Stewart.”

  “Oh, dear God,” he uttered, and crossed himself.

  “I am so sorry, Hendrick. I am so sorry.” I didn’t need to tell him that today, within the walls of Blythe, I was fighting for my life. “Should Sir Douglas break through the gates, or scale the walls, I will bargain my life for all the lives in the castle. He need not know we’ve talked.”

  “He will never honor such a bargain!” he cried. “He sent men to murder innocent boys! Did you ever think that he was the one who killed Sir Matthew and his men! He will kill us all!” His entire body was shaking with fear and anger, and it broke my heart to know I was the cause of it.

  “Hendrick,” I said, suddenly grasping at a thought. “It was Sir George who brought us news of Sir Matthew’s death; it’s what caused us to leave Blythe Hall in the first place. But what if Sir Matthew is still alive? We have no proof, only the word of Sir George, and as greedy and self-serving as he is, I cannot bring myself to believe that even he would do something as desperately evil as …” But I didn’t finish. The thought was too horrific, and I needed a small glimmer of hope to cling to. “Sir Matthew and his men could still be out there looking for Julius.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, although doubtfully.

  “Whatever the truth is, now’s not the time for anger. You said so yourself. What we need now is to get every man and boy on those walls,” I said, sounding much braver than I felt. “I cannot promise victory, but I do promise to do everything in my power to protect the lives that have been placed under my care.”

  “Would that I had the strength of a hundred men tae fight for ye, my lady. Ye are an angel, and ye deserve so much better than this.” With that he turned and stalked out the door. I cast the mighty archangel Michael one last, longing glance, and followed him, for Sir George was calling my name.

  I stood on the battlements above the gates breathing deeply, attempting to summon all my resolve, for I would not give up without a fight. But when I looked out on the raiders that had gathered beyond the bridge, my heart sank. Sir George had indeed brought a hundred men, and every one of them wore a breastplate and helmet; every one of them carried a shield and sword. Sir George, spying me, took off his helmet and, looking smug, rode his huge charger onto the bridge. He sat languidly on his horse—a beast that looked as if it could run another thirty miles easily—his glossy black hair fluttering in the wind. Behind him was his banner, a red heart on a field of white. It was not the romantic symbol of love it appeared but an icon to commemorate the deed of an ancestor who once carried Robert the Bruce’s heart to Jerusalem. The man had been killed by the Moors while in Spain, and the heart was returned to Melrose Abbey. Not a glorious expedition, yet not enough to deter a Douglas from vaingloriously embracing the symbol.

  “Come now, Isabeau, open the gate,” he shouted. “Don’t let’s make this any more difficult than it has to be, sweetheart.”

  “Difficult? You think I’m the one being difficult? I would sooner put an arrow through your heart than ever let you touch me again!” His men laughed heartily at this, be
lieving it to be a lover’s quarrel. And they needed to believe it. I could not let on that it was anything different.

  “Come now, sweetheart, anger doesn’t suit you. I’m sorry for locking you in my room. I only did it for your protection. You’re a gorgeous woman, Isabeau, and my home was filled with drunken men. It was my duty to protect you,” he said, and brought his hand over his heart. “In hindsight, I should have given you a key. I was tired. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And your kisses clouded my better judgment. Come, darling, unlock the gates. I promise to give you a key.”

  “I don’t want your key!” I spat. This only made the men laugh harder. “And I’m staying right here!”

  “Isabeau,” he said, smiling up at me, sunlight dancing off his piercing light eyes. There was no point in denying that he was a handsome man, or that, for a moment last night, I had been powerless against him. I did not want that to happen again. “Let me put it to you like this,” he said, projecting his rich voice for all to hear. “You don’t really have any choice in the matter. Your brother is an outlaw who has abducted the king. I am your betrothed; I am now your guardian, and it is my duty to guard you. And I cannot do that from down here. Open the gates.”

  “I believe you are missing the point, my lord. I do not want you as my husband. And I do not need a guardian. I am quite done with men!”

  “Are you? What about that boy you ran away with—your groom, I believe? I will not abide my betrothed playing me false. Unlock these gates!” He was getting a bit testy, and I was sorry to think I enjoyed it.

  “Tam is my groom and my friend. And I’m not the one playing you false. I know what you did to my dairymaids the night you pretended to be sleeping before my door. I am not unlocking the gates!” Tam and Hendrick were hauling up sheaves of arrows and placing them along the walls. The smell of warming pitch touched my nose. I looked apologetically at Tam; he smiled encouragingly in return.