by Darci Hannah
“Och! I’ve had more time tae practice now that the wife’s gone—not dead,” he was quick to clarify, “just in Stirling. The piping drove her there!” He laughed knowingly, and added: “God! I’ve never felt sae free! ’Tis like confession and a mother-naked dip in the sea—rejuvenating mind, body, and spirit at once. Too bad she’s only visiting her sister.” And then, slowly, as the laughter died away, the two sets of matching blue eyes settled on me: one quizzical, the other apologetic.
I smiled at Sir Oliver, for he had been a friend of my father’s. “Perhaps if Lady St. Clair was home, your gatekeepers would be kinder. It’s very good to see you, Sir Oliver.”
“They’re heathens, the lot of them,” he said in an offhanded way, adding airily: “Their drink will be stopped for a month. Dear heavens!” he uttered softly. His manner had completely changed from the jubilant host of just moments before to what appeared almost reverent. It made me slightly uneasy. “Isabeau Blythe, my beautiful child. Have ye come here at last? But how …?” He looked at Gabriel, then back at me, his sharp eyes missing little. His wiry cinnamon brows furrowed. Pensive thought took him; and finally, like a young horse given its head, understanding leapt unhindered behind his luminous gaze.
“Oh my dears, is it like that? Oh, indeed! Indeed! Ye are blushing! Well, I cannae say I’m surprised. Wilder things have happened. Come, come inside,” he beckoned, and ushered us toward the grand building he had just come from. “We’ll get ye cleaned up. They tell me, my dear, ye’re in desperate want of a bath. Well, ye shall get one. And a clean gown as well. I’ll take good care of ye both, and then ye’ll hurry back down for a wee bit of supper and a chat. I’ve so much ta tell ye.”
Sir Oliver was as good as his word. After a much needed bath and a change of clothes, I returned to the hall feeling alive, refreshed, and ready to face all that had been laid before me. I was also excited to see Gabriel, looking for once like the wellborn lady I was. The gown I was given was one of Lady St. Clair’s. It was of excellent quality and cut, and a lovely shade of pale yellow. The fit wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough, and I floated down the turnpike stairs like a fairy-tale princess, walking on the light and airy breeze of radiant love. Yet when I arrived at the hall I pulled up, wishing to savor the quiet, familial setting that greeted me.
Gabriel and Sir Oliver were sitting at a small table near the hearth talking softly. The table had been richly set, and the light of twelve candles reflected off Gabriel’s golden hair, recently tamed and smartly combed. Gone was the simple, practical dress of the Hospitaller, and in its place was a fine doublet of rich blue velvet over crisp white linen. Gabriel looked positively resplendent, and the feeling that had swept me down the stairs grew to a level near bursting. I was overwhelmed, and could have stood for hours watching them both, for they appeared so much like father and son that it brought a lump to my throat.
I thought of my own father then, and of Julius. I thought of all the disappointment between them—of their final reconciliation; of the disappearance of the one followed so swiftly by the disgrace of the other. I had just learned that my father was possibly still alive. I had also learned that Julius was not guilty of the crimes he was convicted of. And I wondered if they would ever have a meeting like the one before me—two men, from two different generations, with the bond of common blood, slowly, patiently filling the gap of all the missing years. It would be a great pity if they never got the chance, and the reality, I knew, was not hopeful. I felt remorse so acutely then that my eyes began filling with tears. That was when Gabriel turned and saw me.
I was not the only one affected by the transformation in the Great Hall. Gabriel’s eyes traveled the length of my body, coming to rest on my eyes. In his I saw a curious mix of awe, tenderness, and an aching question. The question was for the tears that he detected, and I was quick to smile and wipe them away as best I could with my fingertips. He stood then, and, filling with the heady rush of love, I went to join them.
As we sat at the table enjoying our private meal, I saw that Gabriel had done a good job apprising Sir Oliver of our situation. The older man took the news with the characteristic shrewdness of the family, and, thinking quite hard, he answered at last. “I see. You’ll be wanting to go to Hume then. William Blythe, were he here, would want his son to stand a fair trial, and we shall see that the lad gets one. Take heart, Isabeau,” he said, his gaze softening a measure. “We shall see justice restored, and your lands properly returned. Young Georgie Douglas! I would ha’ never guessed that one in a million years. I suppose ye’ll be refuting the marriage contract? Oh yes, I heard a rumor about that too. Well, ye cannot marry the man now, especially under the”—he paused to clear his throat—“circumstances.” An openly accusatory stare then settled on Gabriel. “And,” he continued without altering his gaze, “if it comes to it, I’ll give testimony to the condition of the young lady’s arrival here, and of the compromised state I found her in.”
“Ex … excuse me?” I interrupted. The heat of embarrassment filled my cheeks, and I looked at Gabriel. Although thoroughly abashed, he had a twinkle in his eye. I understood then. Sir Oliver, acutely sensitive to the nature of his younger brother’s predicament, was simply making assumptions on the young man’s behalf, and to his credit, they were quite correct. “Oh?” I said, unable to suppress a grin, “Well, thank you.”
“And are you, Isabeau, prepared to receive censure for the ordeal?”
“If you mean, sir, am I prepared to undergo scrutiny in order to marry Gabriel, then the answer is most definitely yes. I take it he has your blessing?”
“Blessing!” He released a peal of warm laughter. “Why, the lad’s got my deepest admiration. To marry the lovely Isabeau Blythe! Many a good man has applied for that position. Quite a day’s work for a man bound by the oath of a religious order! And,” he continued, pointing a sausagelike finger at the younger man, “that reminds me. Ye’ll need to reconcile with the order immediately upon your return. Until then, I shall put Lady Isabeau under my diligent protection. Nothing amiss will take place under my roof, laddie.”
We were both smiling like moonstruck idiots, so happy were we with Sir Oliver’s bold planning, until I remarked, “Return?”
“Aye. From Hume. I’ll send word round immediately and have the men ready tonight. Tomorrow, Gabriel, at first light, ye shall ride to Hume Castle to present your information, and ye shall do me the honor of riding under the banner of St. Clair.” Gabriel, setting down his wineglass, looked at the other man. It was a moving gesture, and one cleverly meant to elevate him beyond the obstacle of his humble birth. I smiled fondly on Sir Oliver then, filling with admiration and profound gratefulness; Gabriel, like me, was too moved to speak.
“Why, you’ve led great fleets against the Turks, lad; surely ye can lead a few men on a mission of mercy. Off ye go, Gabriel. You’ve a big day tomorrow. Find Tommy Hunter and tell him what ye’ll be needing, then get ye some rest, as I’ve my doubts ye’ve had any since rescuing the lovely Mistress Blythe here. And now my dear young lady,” he said, turning his full, glittering attention on me. “I’ve something very important to discuss with ye. If you’re finished with your meal, I’d like ye to come with me.”
While Gabriel went off to prepare an army for the ride to Hume, I followed Sir Oliver to a large room on the second floor. It was well known that the St. Clairs, as a family, had a passion for books, and that tradition was strongly upheld and supported by Sir Oliver. The Baron of Rosslyn had an immense library in the castle, and it was to this magnificent room that I was brought. I stood in the middle of the vaulted chamber, dumbfounded by the vast collection of books and manuscripts that surrounded me. The room itself was a long rectangle, with nearly every inch, except for those places already dedicated to tall windows or hearth, filled with the written treasures gathered by generations of St. Clairs. This was a haven for those truly passionate about books, from the thickly upholstered chairs clustered near every favorable light source to
the luxuriant Turkish carpet intricately woven in the bold hues so pleasing to men. I thought we were to sit near the fire, the coziest setting for an intimate talk. But I was wrong. Sir Oliver, with a gentle but urgent smile, led me across the room to another door. Without preamble we entered and I found myself, wide-eyed and breathless, nestled in a small scriptorium.
To a man like Sir Oliver, wanting to fill his library, such a room made sense. For such a deeply devout family, and with close access to the remarkable collegiate church on the hill built by Sir William (Gabriel and Oliver’s father), known as Rosslyn Chapel, access to talented scribes was not an issue. I had never been inside the chapel, but I had heard it was an almost overwhelming feast for the eyes. This room was little different. Every corner—from the angled writing desks below the tall windows to the chaotic display of ink bottles, quills, and sheaves of parchment—was dedicated to the art of copying manuscripts. There were no scholars furiously copying away by candlelight now, only a quiet, dimly lit room dripping with the promise of a vast and untold knowledge. I knew, standing on the cold floor, that I was about to be enlightened.
With rapt fascination I watched Sir Oliver wander to what appeared to be an antique chest of fine quality. I saw that he held a key, and after a moment of fumbling to unlock it with trembling hands, the lid came free. There was great reverence in his movements as he gently opened the chest. He was a man raised on respect for the written word, and whatever was kept in the box under lock and key seemed to be charged with unusual importance. With both hands he reached in and brought forth his treasure with all the tenderness of a parent presenting a newborn child to a rapt congregation. I was the congregation, and the child was but a sleek, black, velvet sack. This, however, was removed with great care, revealing the true gift inside.
The moment my eyes registered what he held, I understood the care and reverence, for the locked chest had contained a very ancient-looking and quite fragile scroll. Sir Oliver held it under the light for me to see, and answering the question in my eyes, he replied softly, “This, my dear, belongs to your father. He brought it to me five years ago, shortly before his disappearance, asking that I take a look at it. It is a remarkable work, Isabeau,” he said softly, his blue eyes grave and tinged with sorrow. “And one that I’m afraid has been responsible for all the heartache and strife that has befallen ye these many years. I am deeply sorry, my dear.”
“What?” I uttered helplessly as he placed the scroll in my reluctant hands. And then, as soon as the yellow parchment touched my skin, I felt it, sudden and intense as a bolt of lightning. A blinding light exploded in my head; I saw the white lady; the scent of roses surrounded me, and the anguished voice of my father crying her name echoed through every fiber of my body. It was a vision, a loud, painful vision. A small cry escaped my lips, and I stumbled backward as my legs gave out beneath me. Sir Oliver, horror-struck, broke my fall.
“Come,” he breathed, pulling me into his arms. He left the scroll on the floor and led me into the library. The florid face above the beard was now white and pinched with fear. “Sit, my dear. Devil take me, but I’m an old fool! Ye’ve had a day of it, a weary long day of it, and I’ve startled ye further. But ye need to sit and listen to me, Isabeau Blythe, because your father instructed me to tell ye all I know.”
Restored with a glass of wine, and with the scroll returned to its casing and gently placed at my feet, Sir Oliver—sitting across from me with a glass in his hand—began to enlighten me about my father, the scroll, and a man’s errant quest to understand what no man was ever meant to understand.
“I’m certain ye dinnae need me, an old fool, telling ye how desperately your father believed that your mother was an angel. Your father was a boon companion of mine since we were chiels, and we were taught in those days, as wee bairns by our mothers no less, that angels guided us, that they watched over us, and that if we devoted enough sweat and toil in the name of God, they will carry us when our last breath has left our bodies, up to heaven. Many lovely people display angelic qualities, Isabeau. Your mother was one of them. No one who knew her would dispute it. But what your father believed was different. Dear William could never be called a devout man. Truth be told, I see a good deal of your father in Julius. A wild, impetuous spirit he was, with a quick smile and an even quicker sword. He was, at best, a God-fearing warrior who worshipped nothing as devoutly as his own freedom. Dinnae get me wrong,” he cautioned, watching the amber liquid gently swirl in his glass. “He was a good man, but not the sort tae go bounding off in sandals with a hair shirt under his robes to see the holy sites of Jerusalem.” He smiled at the thought. “And he was not the sort to be bound by the strict moral ties of marriage. He was, like many a young man, cavalier about marriage, and the marriage between your mother and father was a contractual one, drawn up when they were both wee bairns. Angelica, your mother, was the daughter of a wealthy French nobleman from Nantes, with strong Scottish ties on her mother’s side. That was about all we knew of her.
“The day of the wedding was the first time your father laid eyes on your mother. He was, shall we say, very pleasantly surprised. One seldom knows in the practical bargain of marriage who’ll be bearing his children, or what fine qualities she might have. Well, your mother was too fine for him. And William, to be fair, at least had the brains tae know it. From what I recall it was not a peaceful marriage from the start. Your father didn’t quite know what to make of a woman of that caliber and spent a good deal of time away from Blythe Hall in the service of his king. But the king soon sent him home to handle matters on the border—and, partly, to make him face his own domestic struggles.
“By that year’s end William was a changed man. And if he worshipped anything in his life, it was the very ground Angelica walked on. I had never seen him so happy. He was also humbled. And he was a very good husband to her. It was quite understandable, then, that when she died suddenly and tragically he was devastated. He never fully accepted it, but he got on. And then, during the year of Albany’s rebellion, when the Borders were particularly lawless and he had more than his share of ingrates wanting a piece of Blythe Hall, something odd occurred. He never said what, but that was around the time he came to me with a wild tale. He told me then about the miracle he had witnessed at the very moment of Angelica’s death. I had never heard it before. He never told me—not until that day. And I was positively stunned to learn that William Blythe believed his wife truly was an angel—a real angel, not a figurative one. It was this one fervent belief that drove his obsession.
“That was the day William found God. He then began creating his glorious shrine to angels. And then, one day, your father arrived on my doorstep bearing this. He asked very politely whether I could take a look at it. It was one of the treasures found on one of his many journeys. Seeing it, and knowing what a glutton I am for old text, I bade him to come inside.
“What little I have been able to make of this has never left me. This is very old, Isabeau. There are writings here that far predate the time of Christ, and contain a name attributed to one of the seven patriarchs of the Old Testament. If that is true, this is, of course, apocryphal—purposely not included in the biblical canon. We also believe this is the only surviving document of its kind. It is a copy. The original was very likely written in Hebrew and was ordered destroyed. This one has passages written in that language, as well as Aramaic and Greek. All of which I know very little about. I can only read the Latin. And there’s another writing, a writing so ancient in origin that it simply appears unworldly. It may not even be written by a human hand. We tried as best we could to decipher it using all our resources here, we two sorry old warriors and a handful of monks, but what we really needed was a scholar who understands these things.
“We learned that such a man might have been in London in ’87, and I had a small amount of the work translated so that your father and brother could bring it with them when they went to visit the gentleman. The original was to be kept at Blythe Hall. You
r father had a magnificent altarpiece made complete with a secret chamber to house it. He wanted it in his chapel, but knew it was too fragile and too important to be on display. I promised I’d take it there myself. I was going to do that very thing when I received a message from him asking that I keep the original here, safely hidden, until his return. If he never returned, I was to give it into the care of his children, presumably Julius when he was to assume the full lands and titles of Blythe Hall. His forfeiture and exile complicated matters. But I never forgot my promise. I was going to give this to ye on the day ye become the Lady of Blythe Hall. And, my dear, I believe that day is upon us.
“I will tell ye the little I know of this. The one name we do know, and who claims authorship of these works is Enoch—Enoch, the seventh-named patriarch in the book of Genesis, Enoch, the father of Methuselah and the great-grandfather of Noah of the Great Flood: Enoch whom the Bible mentions but briefly yet tells us that he was highly favored in the eyes of God, and that he lived only three hundred and sixty-five years, which,” he added for my benefit, “sounds like a modern-day feat but is uncommonly short in biblical times, before he was spared death and taken up to God directly, presumably by the angels. We believe this manuscript is a longer, more detailed account of a small and inconsequential incident mentioned briefly in Genesis. There is a good reason why this work, if it is what it claims to be, never made it into the Bible. There is a reason why it should be hidden from the eyes of man. It is likely as heretical as it is unbelievable. And we believe, Isabeau, that this is a firsthand account of the time when a group of angels known as the watchers came to earth and assumed human form. We believe it speaks in great detail of the race of fair-haired, blue-eyed men known as the Nephilim. For the Nephilim, Isabeau, are the blessed and cursed children of a mixed race; the Nephilim are the children these fallen angels sired through the beautiful human women who lured them from heaven—”