The Angel of Blythe Hall
Page 33
The dungeon of Hume Castle, damp, ill-lit, and musty, was not a pretty place. In fact the word dungeon was too generous to describe the collection of small, damp, thick-walled, iron-gated cells that when not in use were often employed as additional storage for the overflowing cellars of Hume. When built they had not been intended for long-term use. They were primarily a holding pen for the rough men of the Borders, and on a quiet week the prison was blessedly still. But it hadn’t been a quiet week. And the prison now rang with the robust voices of fourteen men, ten from Blythemuir and four lads from across the border. Sir Alexander walked down the narrow passage with a purpose, yet the sound of his riding boots clicking against the damp stone were all but drowned out as the prisoners sang yet another bawdy ballad. The lyrics of this one, bouncing from floor to wall in a deafening echo, were so lewd that he cringed at the imagery the words evoked. And he was disquieted to find, as he walked toward his prisoner, that he was halfway to a state of full arousal. Damn Julius Blythe! Thoughts of his lovely young wife, Nichole, suddenly clouded his vision. At the moment she was ensconced in their lavish town house in Edinburgh awaiting him, and he sorely wished he were with her, and not here in this fetid midden of sweat, blood, and vomit. He shook his head, fighting to expunge from his mind the visions that encouraged his embarrassing state. He summoned his outrage, focused on blood and vomit, and stood before the iron bars that harbored the mangled form of Julius Blythe.
The guards cried out their order. Voices trailed off as the lute fell silent. And Sir Alexander stood peering into the dark cell, heaving like a callow colt. “How is it,” he began in a voice gripped with disdain, “that you, after being shot in the back and used like a hacking butt, can sit against that wall?”
“Sheer force of will, my lord,” came a calm voice from the shadows. “Notice that I am not standing. Music, Sir Alexander, is reputed to soothe the soul, and yet I find, when properly played, that my soul awakens, my pulse quickens, and every fiber in my body comes alive. Lie to me. Tell me you are unmoved. Tell me you are not thinking of your delicious young wife right now, sound asleep and dreaming of rose petals and white ponies with long, flowing manes. Let her sleep peacefully, my lord. For this music I play is gimcrack and illusion. In short, ’tis a devil’s panacea. But you know that already, don’t you?”
“Only too well,” he breathed, and stared at the limp, elegant hand, spent and resting on the cold stone, still gripping the neck of the instrument. It was the only thing visible in the dark cell.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” said the Master of Blythe softly. His breathing was controlled yet shallow. It was a sign of pain, and it pleased Alexander to know that this man was feeling plenty of it. “I was beginning to think,” continued the measured voice, “that you would make me go on and on until my repertoire repeated, and I fear the men wouldn’t abide that.”
“You knew I would come?” It was the height of presumption.
“Why else would I ask for the golden horn?” Although he could not see his face, Sir Alexander could feel Blythe’s wry, sardonic grin penetrate the darkness.
“What is it you want, Blythe? You were entirely reticent earlier, no thanks to that arrow in your back. By the way, how’s that feeling?”
“Like every arrow in the back feels, I imagine. Shamefaced, apologetic, thoroughly embarrassed it wasn’t properly aimed. I’ve seen men, blind stumbling drunk, kick a pebble through a dung heap with more success. ’Tis a tough cross to bear, is the arrow in the back that has failed.”
“You wanted the arrow to succeed?” Lord Hume asked with mild interest.
“No. I simply mock it because it failed, and because it failed I’m here to mock it … or, more specifically, the cowardly shooter.”
“No one claims to have made the shot.”
“Of course they wouldn’t have,” said the dulcet voice mockingly. “ ’Tis not the type of shot one wishes to claim, or even remember.”
“But you’ll remember it,” said Lord Hume with gentle savagery, “for a little while longer yet. Sir George’ll be happy to hear how well you’re recovering. He wanted desperately to make you speak, you know. He would have killed you had I let him. Perhaps I should have let him.”
“But you forbade him because you are a merciful and kindhearted soul.” This time there was no mockery evident in the gentle voice.
“And you’ve exploited that fact very well tonight. Why must you always be so horrid, Julius? Why can’t you behave like other men?”
“Because there is no virtue in behaving like other men, if by other men you mean Georgie Douglas. Like the shamefaced arrow, it is the cross that I bear. But I shall try to behave better, if not for my own sake, then for yours. Tell me, Alexander,” he said, “did you ever think when I was on trial that I was telling the truth?”
“No man wanted to believe you more than I. And that’s the truth of it. You had more promise than any man I’ve ever met, and you forced me to stand aside and watch you sell your gifts like cheap baubles to the hussies in the hedgerow. There was too much evidence against you. A signed document from King Henry. The promise of English estates in exchange for an unspecified delivery. And then there was the fact that the day before the decisive battle you were found leaving Stirling Castle in the dead of night with the prince disguised as your groom.”
“Do you remember what I told you? My defense for taking the prince?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“I was taking him to meet his father. Nearly all his life his father had kept him like a prisoner at Stirling, afraid the prophecy would come true. It had been years since James had even seen his father. His younger brother was embraced by the king, given titles and a marriage contract to an English bride, while James was publicly overlooked. I do not regret taking Stirling Castle, or fighting to make the Duke of Rothesay king. But I did regret the fact that he was never allowed to meet with his father in person during the rising, and lay his demands on the table before him, king to king. I was simply arranging such a meeting.”
“On a ship in the Forth estuary belonging to Captain Andrew Wood,” remarked Lord Hume.
“Yes.”
“He was one of King James’s most ardent supporters at the time.”
“So was my father, but he was out of the country. Of James’s supporters in Scotland, I believed Captain Wood to be the fairest.”
“But he denied any knowledge of the meeting, if you’ll remember.”
“I remember. That was after the prophecy was fulfilled and the king was murdered trying to escape the battlefield. He had been heading for Sir Andrew’s ship at the time and never made it thanks to one of our men. James never wanted his father to die.”
“Death is the price of a crown, Julius!” Sir Alexander barked, swiftly losing patience. “You were as naïve as wee Jamie if ye believed that it could be any other way.”
“I was naïve,” remarked the master, and rolled his head in the direction of the speaker. It was enough for the scant light to illuminate half the face and the familiar profile—strong, classical, with a tragic elegance about it that left one momentarily breathless. Although he knew Blythe had remarkable control over his voice, Lord Hume could now better understand what the effort had cost him. The smooth skin, pulled taut over the fine bones, was now white as parchment and glistening with sweat. Droplets fat as rainwater ran down his cheek and off the gold-floss curls that now hung in limp ropes against the finely shaped head. His eyes, normally a wry and mocking shade of blue, were wide and guileless in the half-light, sunken in the livid mask that ran from eye socket to jaw. There was no smile on his lips now: no challenge in the large, fever-bright eyes. “I have learned my lesson,” he said softly.
“You have learned too little too late, Julius Blythe,” replied Sir Alexander, heartsick and weary. “I have experienced your charm firsthand, and I have been burned by your lies so that I thought I might never recover. Your biggest mistake yet was coming home. You should have stayed on the Contin
ent, where you were safe. Because tomorrow I intend to let Sir George have his way with you.”
The finely shaped lips, moist with sweat, pulled into a smile of beatific wonder. “What? And forgo the pleasure of torturing me yourself? Please, you of all people deserve a pound of my flesh. And I shall willingly give it … if you do for me just one thing.”
“You wish to bargain with me!?” Sir Alexander’s voice was loud and incredulous.
“Yes. Isn’t that what men do? Murder kings. Topple nations. Strike bargains.”
Sir Alexander let out a low, mirthless laugh. “Indeed, but you, my brash young fool, are in no position to bargain!”
“But I believe that I am. You see, Sir George was correct on one count. He led you on a merry chase believing that my sister and Mistress Marion Boyd were being held captive at Blythe Hall. It’s how he got you to help him storm the castle. But once the gates were breached, you discovered that the castle, but for a few loyal servants, was empty. The truth is, Isabeau is far away, having fled the unwanted affections of Georgie Douglas. It was simply his insufferable pride that made him attack Blythe Hall in the first place. Never fear for Isabeau; she’s in good hands. Marion, however, is another story. At this very moment she’s being held captive with the king, in a place where no one will ever find them. I know this is because I have them both. If Douglas had put his hands on me, I would have been dead before the truth of this terrible matter got out, and you would have never seen James again. What I’m offering you now is your king and the Boyd lass safely returned, and all I ask in exchange is for these men—these gentle shepherds of Blythemuir—to be set free. They did nothing wrong. Their castle was being attacked by Kilwylie, and I asked them to join me in defending it. There is no crime in that.”
Sir Alexander thought on this and knew it was largely correct. Hendrick, the trustworthy steward of Blythe Hall for these many years, had said as much himself. But Hendrick was not a lord, and Julius Blythe was an outlaw. “You expect me to believe you have the King of Scotland? Why should I believe you?”
“Because you know me capable of it. Why else would I have returned if not to finish what I started four years ago? You can hardly think the food, weather, and fine hospitality were enough to draw me back—at considerable risk to my life. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Kilwylie will as good as tell you himself tomorrow. Because he will come back here at the first light of dawn and finish what his arrow could not. If you let him into this cell, he will kill me, and if he does, you will never see Jamie Stewart again. You have my word on that.”
“You truly believe Kilwylie shot that arrow?”
“With all my heart. And, if you’re curious, I’ll tell you why.”
“Go on,” Sir Alexander said, taking the bait, yet all the while conscious of the fact that he was lifting the lid on his own Pandora’s box.
“Because for four years there has been a piece of this convoluted puzzle missing—a piece that has now come to Scotland and will shed new light on the misdeeds of my past. Kilwylie will do anything to make sure it never surfaces. Because if it does, he will lose everything.”
“Watch what you are saying, Blythe. You’re treading on very dangerous ground here. You are attempting to malign the character of one of Scotland’s brightest young men.”
“He was my friend once, if you’ll remember. What I bet you don’t know is that he was the one who sprang me from the castle prison, but not to set me free. There was more money to be made off my hide. I was sold for a profit, and a promise that I would receive a fate worse than death. I did. And now I’ve returned to repay the favor.”
There was a long silence. And then Sir Alexander spoke. “Are you saying that you’re innocent? You’ve already pled not guilty once. Now you presume to bang on that same tired old drum again?”
“I presume nothing. I am guilty—of many things—just not the crime I was convicted of.”
“So you … you claim to have abducted the king … because you’re not guilty? That’s a very dangerous crime to commit for an innocent man.”
“I … am … not … an … innocent … man!” Julius Blythe said pointedly, fervently. “Wrap your head around that first. Jamie Stewart is my insurance policy. I’m simply betting on the fact that because I have the king, you will not let Kilwylie kill me … until you can bring me to trial again.”
“And he wants to kill you because you have the king?”
“Good,” Julius replied, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “Now you’re playing. Yes. He forced me to abduct the king by attempting the very same thing himself.”
A furious breath exploded from Lord Hume. “You expect me to believe that he abducted the king in the first place?”
“Believe what you like. It’s true. And I have a credible witness to verify it, assuming you won’t take the word of my men. You know Madame Seraphina L’Ange, Isabeau’s governess?
She should be at Blythe Hall. You might wish to question her.”
“Madame Seraphina wasn’t at Blythe Hall.”
“Really?” Julius breathed. There was a small pause before he said, “Even better. She’s being held captive at Kilwylie Castle then. If you wish to verify my story, send some men there to retrieve her—before Kilwylie kills her.”
“This is all very elaborate, Julius. Elaborate and highly entertaining. But you of all people must know that I have no cause to believe a word that rolls off your gilded tongue. You took a very big gamble when you surrendered yourself to me. So why don’t you do yourself a favor and tell me where you think the king is.”
“Set my men free, and I shall tell you all you wish to know.”
“I can draw it out from you in other ways.”
“You can certainly try. But I’m committed to take it to the grave if I have to. And you know what an obstinate bastard I can be.”
“Then you will die. Because the king, Julius, has never left Edinburgh!” Lord Hume watched as his prisoner searched for something on his person. Then he saw a hand reach out of the shadows and toss a small object through the bars, which landed at his booted feet. Lord Hume bent to retrieve it. His heart stopped beating for the space of a breath or two, because in his hand sat the gold ring of James Stewart IV.
“Set my men free, and I will tell you what you wish to know,” said the soft voice again, this time with a hint of irony.
Exasperated, angered, and highly resentful that he had been pulled into this unholy quagmire again, Lord Hume replied coolly, “I think I’d rather wait and see what the turbulent tide brings us tomorrow. Until then, I’m depriving you of your golden horn.” He motioned to his jailor and watched as the man slipped behind the bars and pried the instrument from his prisoner’s reluctant hand.
“Thank you for humoring me, Sir Alexander,” said Julius Blythe once the bars had been locked again. “And because I never had the chance to say so before, know that I’m sorry, and I’m sorry in advance for the hell I’m about to put you through again. Sleep well, my captain.” It was a sentiment from long ago, spoken in a voice with the same youthful sincerity. And then the world-weary eyes closed.
“And you stay alive until tomorrow, m’laddie,” Sir Alexander advised in a thready whisper. He then turned from the cell, which was now deathly quiet, and left the dungeon, silently cursing his foolish, sentimental old heart.
Chapter 18
WARRIOR OF GOD
THE SKY WAS THREATENING RAIN, AND SIR GEORGE was threatening to do us harm. We knew this, not only by the baying of the hound hot on our trail, but because we had ridden to the other side of the lake and lay on a hilltop watching from the safety of the low, bushy branches of the juniper we had crawled under. We didn’t have long to wait before the first rider appeared at the head of the trail, wading through the tall reeds as he came upon the hidden lake. He paused for a moment, spotted the long-eared hound, and continued to follow it down the very path we had traveled the night before. Then came another rider, and another, and another.
“Stop that,” I hissed at the rakish gleam in his eye. He was grinning, and a very knowing sort of grin at that, but I didn’t find it very amusing. Twenty of Kilwylie’s thugs had just penetrated our sanctuary in the pines, and he was making a joke of it. “This is no joking matter, Gabriel. One doesn’t send twenty heavily armed men to retrieve a runaway fiancée. And Kilwylie himself is not among them. That looks suspiciously like a band of assassins to me.”
His brightly burning eyes softened in a look of sincere approbation. “Indeed, my heart. And why do you suppose Kilwylie’s not among them?” He had already guessed at the correct answer, and it was an answer that lit the fire behind his eyes.
“Too busy?” I offered.
“Doing what?” he probed. “Think about it, Isabeau. You’re his fiancée. You are the woman he wants. You also happen to be the only one he believes knows his terrible secret. I’ve complicated matters for him, however. Those assassins down there are here for me. Not you. He wouldn’t be fool enough to hurt you. No, you they’ll take back—kicking and screaming if they have to. Now, given all these assumptions, what would be so important about an empty castle that would keep Kilwylie from the pleasure of hunting us down himself?”
I stared back into the crystalline pools of blue as I thought hard about what he was asking. “Because he has something more important to deal with first? Something even more damaging to him than us?”
“Exactly! And what could possibly be more damaging to Kilwylie than you, my love?”
As he spoke, the image sprang behind my eyes, pulling the words from my hopeful lips. “Julius!” I said a bit too loudly. “Julius is alive?!”