by Darci Hannah
“What?” My voice was thick with astonishment and trembling with outrage. I had to close my eyes then, unable to bear the thought of all this wanton cruelty. Julius, for his crimes in Scotland, was to be hanged. I had always thought he escaped. But what Gabriel was suggesting … it was a far more diabolical punishment than hanging. And then, just as a single spark ignites a nascent flame, something Julius had said on that first, unforgettable night at Blythe Hall came into my mind. Upon seeing Sir George, he had smiled mockingly and thanked him for the cruise. I had seen what had become of his beautiful hands; I had seen the ghosts of the once livid scars on his chest. I opened my eyes, already knowing the answer but asking the question all the same: “Who …?”
But Gabriel was not finished. He held up a cautioning finger, begging me to be patient—begging me to let him finish before he lost heart and sickened of his tale. “During their convalescence Julius and Dante stayed with me on Rhodes. We are a healing order, you’ll recall—founded on the premise of providing hospitals and medical care for the wounded Crusaders and injured pilgrims in the Holy Land—and we still maintain hospitals throughout Christendom. But I personally saw to their recovery, Isabeau, because it was that important to me. However, I soon learned that there are some things a man never fully recovers from. What had kept Julius alive throughout his captivity was the desire to find your father. Yet as his body recovered, I could see that he had lost the will to continue the search. Julius is a clever and resilient man; no one I know has ever plumbed the vast depths of his ability. But to a sadistic pirate he was the ultimate challenge, and Curtogoli Reis, being the notorious bastard that he was, took great delight in breaking him. And he broke him … thoroughly. Julius swiftly reverted to what came easiest to him—his glittering, self-indulgent lifestyle, and on Rhodes he employed his gift of frivolity to its fullest.
“After hearing all that befell him here, in Scotland, and after his refusal to continue his search for your father, I tried to convince him to join the order.” He smiled grimly at the thought. “Your brother has many remarkable talents. He could have had a brilliant career serving his fellow man, protecting Christian trade. But the rules, our vows—Julius defies rules; he laughs in the face of devout commitment. Besides, he had discovered that Dante had a gift for numeracy, and together they embarked on a shameful career fleecing the locals of their hard-earned money. They delighted in games of chance—cards, dice, the lot—and enjoyed stunning results. They began arousing suspicion, and garnering more than a little resentment, so I took them to sea with me, which I instantly regretted.
“The Greeks employed on our ships developed an immediate attachment to Julius and worshipped him like a bloody Apollo. He and his little pet, Dante, not only excelled in protecting Christian trade, they became pirates, and soon started wreaking havoc on the Turks. And, quite wisely, Julius gave half of his profits to the order. The rest he split with the crew. He was loved, and he was making too much money to consider vows of poverty, let alone celibacy. Yet for all his schemes and daring sea raids, there was something desperate about his behavior—something wildly destructive and disturbingly self-loathing. He despised the people he fleeced; he mocked their stupidity. He lost that joyous spark and ease of manner that men clamored to experience. He drank a lot. He dosed himself with powerful drugs from the Orient, and it scared the hell out of me. I could no longer tolerate his behavior. I could no longer sit by and watch him squander what gifts God gave him. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for his soul. But he grew more unreasonable and quarrelsome with each day, until I could no longer stomach him. I left him; I left Rhodes; and I promised myself that I would never think of him again.
“My resolve lasted less than a fortnight,” he said. His blue gaze held mine, and I saw the memory of his pain on his face. “I thought of him constantly, and it was then that I understood what I needed to do if I was ever to be fully rid of him. Julius had been a godsend to me once. And he deserved one last chance from me. That’s when I knew I had to find your father.”
“My father!? You found my father?” I grabbed him, startling him completely. “He’s still … alive?”
“Yes,” he answered, and a gentle smile appeared on his lips. “Very much so. At least he was when I found him. I shall tell you all about him later, but what you need to know, Isabeau, is that when I found your father, he was ignorant of the plot against your brother, and was positively heartbroken when he learned of it and all that had befallen Julius. He was especially concerned about you, thinking of you here these many years all alone. You must understand that your father’s quest is a personal one, and it has consumed him completely. But in his defense, he believed he had everything under control when he left. You were in the convent, and he knew you would spend time at court serving the king. But Julius had been groomed by your father; he was to be Lord Blythe, and he was the man entrusted to be your guardian. In that moment, learning of what Kilwylie had done and knowing he was still in Scotland, Sir William immediately drew up some documents explaining his and Julius’s movements in England in the year 1487, signed it, and gave it to me, asking me to make my way immediately to Blythe Hall. Somehow, oddly, he had the feeling that Julius would be returning … Isabeau? Isabeau, are you all right?”
“Wh … what plot against my brother?” I stammered, a terrible feeling taking hold.
“You know … the plot? Dear God, you don’t know!?” His eyes narrowed and his face reflected the painful discovery of my ignorance. He buried his head in his hands and breathed, “Isabeau … I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” He looked up, his face wan and bloodless. “Your brother was framed for kidnapping the Duke of Rothesay—the young prince.”
“Framed?” I cried. “He was caught red-handed! He had convinced James to leave Stirling Castle right before the uprising, and James admitted to leaving with him.”
“Yes, that’s all true. But Julius wasn’t selling him to the English. He had uncovered a plot by George Douglas and his uncle Angus, and the knowledge that one of his closest friends, a man who had joined the rebel lords and fought to overthrow the king, was also plotting to sell the young prince. It would have left the throne of Scotland conveniently open for King Henry, and it would have made the Douglases the most powerful family in Scotland. Julius, with his uncanny ways, was able to sniff out the plot before Sir George could abduct James. But the deviousness of Douglas shook him to the core. Julius’s one mistake was that he sat on the information, thinking he could stop the rising if James went before his father and the loyal nobles and struck a bargain.
“Douglas, catching wind of Julius’s plan, and learning that Julius knew what he and his uncle were up to, acted first and sent men to apprehend your brother and young Jamie on their way to Sir Andrew Wood’s ship—where King James was waiting for them. There were also English ships skulking nearby, and it was easy to convince the lords that Julius was aiming for one of those, a job made all the more easy by the incriminating documents Sir George happened to uncover—fabricated documents. The evidence Sir George brought forward was overwhelmingly against your brother, and Julius was taken into custody right before the battle of Sauchieburn. And it was no accident that King James—leaving the field after realizing the battle was lost and heading for the safety of Sir Andrew Wood’s ship—was murdered before he could testify on Julius’s behalf.”
There were tears in my eyes as Gabriel spoke, and my heart, shattered these many years by this event, broke again. Julius was innocent of the crimes he was convicted of, and I had excoriated him along with the rest of the country. My father was still alive. And Julius had finally returned to Scotland to set things right, and now he was wounded and perhaps dying in the bowels of a fetid prison … alone.
“Please,” I uttered through streaming tears. “We have to save him.”
“Of course we do, my heart,” whispered Gabriel, and drew me to him, cradling me in his arms. “That’s the other reason I’m here. Your brother inadvertently forced me to find you
r father, and it was your father who sent me here. Somehow, I don’t fully understand it myself, but Julius knew I’d be coming. It still makes no sense at all,” he marveled, and then added, purely for my benefit, “and yet I find I don’t regret one moment of the hell he put me through.” He held me tightly and kissed the top of my head.
I pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “We need to go to Hume!”
“Indeed,” he agreed, eyes alight with purpose. “But we can’t go alone. We’re wanted, remember? I’ve abducted you, violated you, and slaughtered nineteen of Kilwylie’s men—not to mention the broken arm I gave to that sniveling maggot. We won’t get within five miles of Hume Castle without help. The king, thank God, is with Dante, and safely hidden somewhere. Of that I’m sure. He’s Julius’s bargaining chip. As long as the king remains hidden, Lord Hume will not let Kilwylie kill him. Very smart,” he mused appreciatively as we swiftly packed our things. “Very thorough. The blessing here is that we don’t need to worry about James at the moment. But we do need men, and I know where I can get them. It’s time I paid my half-brother a wee visit.”
“Sir Oliver, do you mean?” I asked hopefully, for Gabriel’s father had sired quite a few legitimate sons. Sir Oliver, by far, was the kindest.
Gabriel nodded with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Prepare yourself, my heart. We’re going to Rosslyn. And we’re about to give old Ollie the fright of his life!”
Chapter 19
THE TAKING OF TWO KNIGHTS
THE SUN HAD JUST SET ON KILWYLIE CASTLE WHEN three young novices from the local monastery came before the gates with a cartload of beer. To the idle sentries at the gates and the servants left behind after their lord had set out that morning to retrieve his abducted bride-to-be, it was a heart-lifting sight. The lord’s powerful uncle had also, thankfully, left with his sizable retinue, but not before doing some heavy damage to the larders and buttery of Kilwylie. The larders could wait, but here was a miracle!
As every man who had traveled the well-trodden roads of Britain knew, monasteries brewed some of the best beer in the world. The reason for this was very simple: men who moved in silence, shunned the pleasures of the world, and clung to the strict oaths of their brotherhood were wont to pour their passions into worshipping higher things—like properly brewed heavy beer. No half-brewed piss water at a monastery! The beer cart, therefore, was a godsend. So too were the novices, for it was common knowledge that young novices—with their heads all aswirl from a hefty dosing of moral philosophy and stuffed to exploding from feasting nonstop on the lofty ideals of their order—were known to strike fretfully awful bargains. Buying beer off a novice was, for all intents and purposes, like pinching pennies from a blind man. And, as every resident at Kilwylie knew, setting a blind man to guard a sack of gold or giving an old widow a prodigious, fat herd of cattle was an open invitation for an easy and indulgently profitable day. Spying the cart lumbering over the causeway, the sentry at the gatehouse gave the order, and the gates couldn’t open fast enough for the three spindly lads bedecked in their humble, dirt-smudged robes. They were warmly received.
Less than an hour later the three young novices left a raucous and jubilant Kilwylie Castle, taking their empty beer cart and their short, stout, elderly white-haired priest with them.
It was not the best night’s sleep Lord Hume had ever had. To his despair, he found that a good deal of it was spent tossing and turning in his large and damnably empty tester bed. The reason for this was an assault of disturbing half dreams and prophetic visions all strung loosely together in a subconscious tangle of encroaching thought. Even more disquieting was the fact that the fair and insolent face of Julius Blythe had penetrated them all—and with him the haunting, aching emptiness associated with death. Therefore it came as no surprise that he found his nightclothes drenched when he was awakened, shortly after dawn, by an excited servant claiming that Lord Kilwylie was at the gates of Hume. Alexander sat up, wide-eyed and painfully awake, his heart beating away like a demon on a war drum. “Kilwylie’s here? What does he want?”
“He wants to come in, sir,” the servant promptly replied, slightly wary of his lord’s wild appearance. “The gatehouse wants to know do we let ’im in?”
“Have we any word yet from the party sent to Kilwylie Castle?”
“No, m’lord. No’ yet.” It was then that the man gently reminded him, “They only left last e’en.”
“Right,” Sir Alexander acknowledged, and grabbed up his robe. Tying it loosely about him, he crossed to the window, drew back the drapes, and peered out, all the while thinking. Cold sweat still dripped down his spine, and his ears still rang with the wild claim of his prisoner that Kilwylie would come at dawn to kill him. And here was the devil himself—a moment or two late of the mark, but here all the same. It was not, by any means, an admission of guilt on Kilwylie’s behalf. Nor did the timely appearance of the realm’s most celebrated knight exonerate young Blythe in any way. But it was mightily curious. A tremor of annoyance seized the muscles of his jaw as he peered upon the calm and tranquil expanse of his courtyard, and he silently cursed both men for having the gall to involve him in their sordid affair. For that’s what he believed it was—revenge, jealousy, retribution—any or all of the plethora of petty demons that coursed through the veins of young, high-spirited men. Well, like it or not, he was involved, and there was no turning now from the distasteful job thrust upon him. He would tie the noose on either the most promising young man ever to be put under his command or the dark-haired, green-eyed Goliath who four years earlier had exposed young Blythe for what he was.
Lord Hume, settling in for a long and trying day, turned from the window and said flatly, “Go tell the gatehouse to let them in, Robbie. Bring Kilwylie and his men to the hall for refreshments, and have him wait for me there. I’ll be down shortly. And Robbie, under no circumstance is Sir George to get near our prisoners. D’ye hear me? He’s not to leave the hall until I speak with him.”
The gates of Hume Castle opened for Lord Kilwylie and his men as the cocks, scattering before them in the courtyard, continued to crow. Their horses, blowing steam in the heavy morning air, were led to the stables, as the riders, fresh of face and red of cheek, were taken to the hall. There servants had already begun laying out on the board pitchers of weak cider and platters of hard cheeses. Lord Kilwylie, scanning the room, asked after Lord Hume.
“My lord will be down presently,” replied Robbie. “Until then he begs that ye relax and take advantage of his hospitality.”
“Very good,” Sir George said with a smile as he carefully removed his gloves. “Give Sir Alexander my thanks, and tell him to take his time. We’re not staying long. I’ve just come to have a word with his prisoner. In fact, if you’ll direct me to the prison now, I can be done with my onerous task before Sir Alexander arrives.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here, m’lord. Sir Alexander’s orders.”
The green eyes, bright and luminous as cut emeralds, held the servant with startling intensity. “Your lord has ordered me to stay here?” Kilwylie inquired in a low and pointed voice.
“Yes. But only until he arrives,” the servant clarified, and growing slightly nervous under the piercing gaze of the huge knight, he offered feebly: “which should be any moment now.”
“I’m curious. Has your lord been able to speak with his prisoner, the Master of Blythe? I only ask because Blythe was near death when I left yesterday. He was unconscious, with one foot already in the grave. Has he, in fact, awakened?”
“Och, awakened! Why, if the wee de’il dinnae arise last e’en with enough sweet racket to wake the dead!” Robbie offered, grinning slightly at the memory.
“Interesting,” remarked Sir George, a pleasant smile on his lips. And then, with the speed of a striking viper, he grabbed the servant by the neck and dug his large, thick fingers into his pale flesh. At that same instant his heavily armed guard sprang into action. Within moments all the servants in t
he hall were powerless to do anything but watch in horror as Lord Kilwylie and his men entered the cellar.
If Lord Hume had had a rough night of it, Julius Blythe’s had been little better. His body ached from the aftereffects of battle, and his flesh burned with fever. The loose straw he lay on pricked through the fine cambric of his shirt and dug into his sensitive skin like thorn scrub. He kicked it aside, preferring the cold stone of the floor. And most distressingly, the sweet distraction of music was no longer at his fingertips. Without distraction he had no choice but to turn his thoughts loose, where, with ravenous appetite, he would trample, manipulate, and abuse the endless sea of intent and possibility that abounded in the fertile realm of his mind. For this reason he slept little. He relaxed his breathing; his body grew limp and pliant as rising dough, giving over entirely to the gentle pulse of life that flowed through him. And then he let his mind whirl away like a thriving hive of honeybees or a glittering swarm of fireflies on a summer’s night. A thousand thoughts fired off at once, each one separate—each one seemingly inconsequential, yet all of them meandering, calculating, until finally converging to point out the path with the most favorable outcome. He closed his eyes and let it come: in words, in visions, in pictures, in sound, in evanescent wisps of thought. And when he finally heard the struggle in the cellar, as he knew he would, and the alarm of the guard swiftly muffled, he couldn’t help but smile.