The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  “Would either of them have reason to harm the king?”

  “Not Georgie. He loves James.”

  “Who was it that suggested you go to Blythe Hall in the first place?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “Why, Isabeau. She wanted me to come. I know Kilwylie’s mad about her. He’s always had his eye on Isabeau. He thought I might help convince her of it, should I travel to Blythe Hall. But you know Isabeau. She has very high ideals where men are concerned. She’s the best person I know, although a wee stubborn, and she perfectly hates being told what to do. But her visions of men are truly skewed. She models them all after the king, and her father, and she is perfectly in love with chivalry. But ordinary men aren’t like that,” she said softly, dolefully, as she looked into his eyes, “are they, Julius?”

  “No,” he replied, wishing she was not standing so close. “You are wise beyond your years, my dear. Did Kilwylie know James planned to ride to Blythe Hall?”

  “No,” she said, and came even closer. She was mere inches from him now, so close he could smell the heady scent of her. The soft light caught the thick strands of auburn hair that framed her face and lit the silvery trail of tears that had rolled from her compelling eyes. She looked lovely, and vulnerable, as she uttered, “How could he? The only one who knew was Princess Margaret.”

  “Margaret?” The name invoked a vision of a regal, elegant, and willful woman, with a firm jaw and flame-colored hair. She was the king’s aunt, and the youngest of the five children of the late King James II and Mary of Gueldres. Margaret, by her own design, had never married. He thought on this a moment, then asked, “Have you ever heard a rumor about George being Princess Margaret’s lover?”

  “Georgie’s had many lovers at court. He’s had many lovers at home. It is, unfortunately, the one flaw that prevents Isabeau from allowing herself to love him. But he would change for her,” she said earnestly, as if she truly believed it. “He will change for her. I know he will.”

  “Men cannot be changed, Marion,” he stated with cool detachment. “Women often make the mistake of believing they can change a man. It’s simply not true. We are what our mothers and fathers have made us and what our tutors have failed to teach us; we are the memory of our experiences and echo the morals of our closest friends. Our malleable years are young, my dear. We are forged and hardened ever before the apron strings are cut. Isabeau, unfortunately, is much wiser in this one area than are you.”

  “Well, then Isabeau’s going to be very unhappy, because James has given Kilwylie his consent to marry her.”

  “We’re not here to talk of Isabeau,” he said curtly. “We’re here to talk of the king.”

  “James is a good man,” she whispered as a hand reached up to caress his face. He let her touch him. He watched her lips, full and moist, making ready for what she knew must come next. But she was wrong. With cool detachment, the master stilled her hand with his.

  “I’m glad you think the King of Scotland is a good man,” he replied blandly, “because you’re going to be locked in a room with him for quite a while.”

  “I could stay here,” she offered almost pleadingly.

  He raised a brow and smiled. “No. You cannot.”

  “If things had been different …”

  “No,” he said, and firmly removed her hand. “Do not finish that thought, because it’s not true. To me, Marion, you were only a diversion—just one of many such diversions. But to the king you are a jewel. He believes you are his, and he must never know differently. It is wise for a woman to want to be valued. Be wise for once, Marion. The harsh truth is, my dear, that I value my horse a good deal higher than you.”

  Her jaw dropped. She shut it firmly and with bitter courage lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “You lie.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t. I need my horse. I don’t need you. Are you so vain that you think you are the only one who has ever fallen at my feet and allowed me your secret pleasures? You simply made me an offer and I took it. We enjoyed each other’s company—we amused ourselves, and that is all.”

  “It’s not true …,” she averred, her eyes softening as she scanned his face for a hint of weakness. But he remained cold, golden, and unmoving, like a blasphemous idol—an idol she had worshipped.

  “I’m afraid that it is true,” he replied softly. “You mistook my lust for more than what it was, and you are too proud to let yourself believe it. Well, you best believe it. And my advice to you is this: learn discretion, my dear.”

  Her eyes narrowed as violent anger unfurled. “You’re no better than an animal!” she said.

  “I have never claimed to be anything else. You allowed your fantasy of me to cloud the truth of what I am. And what I am is far beyond redemption. Go back to the king, Marion. Value him like the jewel he is. And for the record, I brought you both here not out of any love for you, but because I am trying to save his life, and yours.”

  His words had cut her, deeply from the look of it, and he saw that she was crying. “I don’t want anything from you! I hate you!” she seethed, as another large tear slipped down her cheek.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” he replied with a stunning lack of emotion, and walked to the door. “Stay here,” he ordered, and without another look back, he left her shattered and alone in the room.

  Dante, melding with the darkness, was in the passageway resting against the wall. The moment he heard the door open he sprang to life. “That went well,” he said, mildly cheerful, and a display of perfectly white teeth split his face.

  Julius allowed himself a smile. “So, you heard the whole thing. Tell me, what did you think?”

  “I think I don’t like you telling my story to young women, especially when you leave out small details, like the fact that you were also owned by the same Turk and were treated little differently than me.”

  Julius’s brows rose and his smile turned grim. “When one is telling cautionary tales to young women, it is best not to use oneself as an example. It has more impact that way.”

  “The impact appears questionable. I believe Mistress Boyd understands nothing but her own desires.”

  “I agree. Has the king been brought to my father’s chamber?”

  “Yes. He’s got everything he needs—food, drink, oil for the lamps, armed guards outside the door. Still, he’s less than pleased.”

  “I imagine so. Well, bring him Mistress Boyd to ease his mind, and give him my regards, will you? And, Dante, my dear incorrigible lad, do not toy with her. Keep in mind that Marion is a noblewoman, and she’s had quite enough of men like you and me. Put the hood back on for her own good.”

  He gave a mild look of surprise and then nodded. “Very well. And do you wish to speak with the king?”

  “Yes, but not now,” he replied, and ran a hand over his tired face and through his recently tamed hair, mussing it up. “The cocks are beginning to crow, and I’m ready to drop. I’m for bed, and when you’re done, you are too. I’m afraid we’ve got another long day ahead of us.”

  With hood and rope in hand, Dante stood. “Sleep well, m’lord,” he said, and entered the master’s room. Julius waited silently behind the door, listening. Marion spoke quietly to the young man but did not put up a fight. The door opened and Dante appeared with his docile prisoner, bound and hooded. There was no need for the gag. Dante cast one last look at the man he had hitched his wagon to over three long years ago; he had never regretted it since. He was the man who had saved his life, the man who would not let him die, even when he had tried to turn the knife on himself. Julius Blythe was a stubborn bastard, and could be a damned hard devil when he wished it, but he was brilliant. The man also had vision, and incredible luck, as well as an uncanny knack for courting trouble. It was true, he knew, that Julius Blythe valued little, but what he did value he treasured. And he had valued Dante. He was the first man who had ever bothered to look beyond the surface, and that one small act had changed the course of Dante’s life. He might very we
ll go to the gallows yet, he mused, but he would go in good company. Another grin, and he took the king’s mistress in a firm but gentle hand and guided her down the steps.

  Julius Blythe, tired and emotionally spent, slipped back inside his room and shut the door.

  They were all sleeping like the dead when, shortly after dawn, the sentries came in with the news; Lord Kilwylie was attacking Blythe Hall.

  “He outnumbers us four to one,” the master said, looking levelly at his men across the board as the cooks rushed to fill their bellies. Jugs of ale had been brought, and the smell of rashers and oat porridge filled the room. As soon as the news came, and was verified by himself, he woke the boys to light the fires and roused the cooks. It was a substantially smaller group of his elite force that now gathered in the hall, tired and hastily dressed. It had been a gruelling campaign so far, yet his men were used to such treatment. The presence of Kilwylie, however, was a surprise. It indicated that something truly fantastic had happened in the night, something he himself had not even believed. There was no reason for it except one: Isabeau had escaped Sir George’s tight grasp and had made it home. But why? The last time he spoke with her, Isabeau had championed Kilwylie and had even admitted to liking him. There was no doubt that Kilwylie had poisoned her mind further against him by telling her that he was responsible for the slaughter of Sir Matthew and his men. He had learned that the night before. That was how Kilwylie had gotten Isabeau and the king to leave Blythe Hall. So why the change of heart now? What had happened? What had Kilwylie done to her?

  “I have reason to believe my sister is at Blythe Hall now, with next to no means to sustain such an attack,” Julius told them gravely. “If Kilwylie breaches those walls or gets inside the gates, we will have a devil of a time getting him out. As I said before, we will be outnumbered four to one. Although we’ll have the slight advantage of attacking on his flank, it will not be an easy fight. And that is why I ask for volunteers, because I cannot guarantee a victory. No one will be thought less of if they wish to sit this one out. Think hard, gentlemen, and then raise your hand if you wish to join me.”

  The response was, of course, overwhelming. Dante didn’t need time to think, and neither did most of his men. They were mercenaries without families. They loved a good fight, but what they loved even more was an entirely unfair fight with the odds vastly against them. Victory was sweeter then, and life was dearer, until the whiff of the next battle, when the whole cycle began again.

  “Gentlemen, you honor me.” Julius looked on them with a glorious smile, ordered more beer, unrolled a map on the table before him, and set down to business. “Danny, you’ll go to the Mackenzie croft and call the shepherds to arms. Have them gather every able-bodied man they can find. The women and children of Blythemuir will be brought here. The sheep, I’m afraid, will have to fend for themselves.” He looked down the length of the table to where his eyes met Dante’s. “And Dante, I have something special for you. You will stay here, to safeguard the king.” He could see his friend bristle at the order, and the men laughed at the Venetian’s misfortune. “If I should fall, gentlemen, or something should go amiss, disperse immediately. Do not let yourselves be caught. And do not let Kilwylie near the king. James must be brought safely to Edinburgh. Any questions? All right, those are your orders, gentlemen. To arms!”

  “I have a question,” said Dante a while later, coming up behind the master as he swung into his saddle. He grabbed hold of the reins and stilled the master’s horse. “It’s cruel to leave me here alone with the women and children. I’d rather die with you.”

  “That’s not a question,” said Julius, not unkindly, “and you’re not to be so lucky. Either I will kill Douglas today, or he will kill me. If I don’t return, I’m relying on you to get the king back to Edinburgh safely. I’m relying on you to protect my sister and to find our old friend. In other words, I’m relying on you to take over where I left off.”

  Dante held the master’s cornflower-blue gaze as his face, uncharacteristically, filled with concern. “I have never asked you, because I promised myself I wouldn’t, but how do you even know he’s coming? You’ve not seen him for years, and you’ve received no message that I know of.”

  The master paused, sitting on top of his powerful mount and staring at the armored silhouettes of his men as they rode out the open door of the tower, melding one by one with the bright light beyond. He took a deep breath and looked down at the one man in this world he would truly miss. “That night, in Venice,” Julius replied quietly. “The night you sent me to your grandmother’s brothel? The night I threatened to kill you?” Dante smiled wanly at the memory and nodded. “That night I saw my mother.”

  “Your mother’s dead.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  Chapter 15

  THE BATTLE FOR BLYTHE HALL

  BLYTHE HALL WAS UNDER ATTACK, AND THE TWENTY men inside the walls were fighting like titans to see that the castle didn’t fall. I had left the chapel, making a quick stop in the armory. All the hauberks and breastplates were too big and heavy, and there wasn’t a shield or targe left that looked as if it could withstand the force of an arrow. I did, however, consider myself fortunate to find a battered old helmet, even if it did still emanate the pungent smell of sweat from the previous owner. Surrendering to practicality and prudence, I pulled it over my hopelessly tangled hair. My eye caught the worn leather of an old bracer, which I also borrowed and strapped on my left arm to protect from the bite of the bowstring. I planned, of course, to do a lot of shooting. I did own a rather nice pair of shooting gloves, but they were up in my room and I wasn’t about to run up another flight of stairs.

  So, dressed for battle as thoroughly as I could manage, I picked up my bow and headed for the battlement above the gatehouse. Because that’s where Gabriel—with his Viking stance, golden hair, and black surcoat fluttering in the wind—stood fighting like a demon-god. Arrows left his bow with astounding speed, three to one of any man there by my count. It was impressive. I believed I could beat it, and was going to give it one hell of a try. After all, this was my castle. And this was my battle.

  When I got to the battlements, and to the defensive gallery where Gabriel stood beside the narrow opening, harassing the army of Sir George, I saw that Lord Kilwylie, slightly threatened by the alarming speed and accuracy of the arrows, had retreated to a healthier position. His men were also busy, I noted with a tinge of despair, stripping the branches off a good-sized tree they had felled. They were making a battering ram. Grimacing, I walked past four of our men who were attempting to make the job more difficult, and took up position beside Gabriel. In one fluid movement I strung my bow, nocked an arrow, took aim, and called out to Sir George. Gabriel, loosening his string a hair’s breadth prematurely, spun to face me. Disbelief crossed his fair features, and then his eyes, bright and pure as the summer sky, narrowed with anger. He was about to speak, but Sir George beat him to it. “Is that you, my little dove?” Lord Kilwylie called out from atop his horse.

  “It is me!”

  “That helmet doesn’t suit you! And I see you have a little helper. Where have you been hiding him, my dear?”

  “Never mind about him! Come closer, my lord, so that I can put an arrow through your heart!” I cried.

  “Tell your men to hold, and I’ll be happy to play along.”

  “HOLD!” I cried down the line, and the archers, all in different stages of release, stilled their bows. They turned to me with questioning looks on their faces. Some were even smiling, but not Gabriel.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, his voice rolling like thunder.

  Looking at the magnificent archangel, I smiled sardonically. “What do I think I’m doing? I don’t think. I’m going to shoot my lord Kilwylie through the heart. And don’t you dare shoot your bow, or there’ll be hell to pay.” Angry and determined, I narrowed my eyes. And then, shifting my gaze to the man on the other side of the bridge, I call
ed out, “Come to me, my lord. My men won’t shoot.”

  Smiling, Sir George kicked his horse forward, eager to appease me. I looked at Gabriel and my anger rose. He still held his bow; his sight was true, and he was itching to loose an arrow into the man I had been contracted to marry. I deserved the right to shoot! And Gabriel was making it perfectly clear that he wanted to take it from me. Recalling the chapel and how I had been lulled into those warm, solid arms, and then dropped onto the floor like a sack of oats, I was, to say the least, infuriated. I cast him a glance and said with mock sweetness, “Did you hear me? Did you? Because I distinctly remember ordering you to lay down your bow. Lord Kilwylie is mine.”

  His face darkened as his eyes grew fierce, yet there was still a calmness about him that irked me. The man had impeccable control, and confidence. Unfortunately it only made him more attractive. “And I thought I told you to stay in the tower. That was also an order.” Taking a page from my book, he offered a breathtaking smile of pure irony. It was, admittedly, disarming.

  “Darling, are you still there? You’ve grown quiet. It’s not like you. Have you, in fact, changed your mind?” Sir George’s voice pulled me back.

  I glowered at Gabriel. “And I don’t listen to men who kiss me and then retch with remorse afterward!” I huffed, drew the cord, and loosened. “Are you merely a coward when it comes to women? Or do you prefer something else?”

  Gabriel’s hand stilled, the color drained from his face, and I watched his eyes as they followed the flight of my arrow, knowing it was heading straight for Sir George’s black heart. His golden brows rose ever so slightly, and the eyes, like flawless aquamarines in the sunlight, could not suppress the approbation he felt when he saw that my aim was true. I turned my attention back to Sir George, and watched as he lifted his shield at the last second, to take the blow.

  “That was brilliant, my darling!” he called out cheerily, waving his shield with my arrow stuck in the center of it. He pulled it out and tossed it aside. The men on both sides, with the exception of Gabriel, clapped in appreciation.