The Angel of Blythe Hall

by Darci Hannah

  “And what about his nephew’s influence?”

  “Kilwylie was a bad seed in a clever family. He’s from the Black Douglas line, and they have a long history with brother England. Angus believed he was entitled to a part of the Black Douglas lands in Scotland as well, and his nephew Kilwylie was too clever and too powerful for his uncle to resist.”

  James nodded, ruminating. “Kilwylie was too powerful and charming for me to resist as well. Dear Lord, how we used to gamble! You would have loved it,” he said, his eyes wide with elation at the memory. “We once played for three days straight. Angus was with us, as well as Ross of Hawk-head and John St. Clair. I lost forty gold unicorns over it, but damn me if it wasn’t worth every Scots penny.” He paused, his smile fading. “He charmed us all, and nearly Isabeau as well. But she held out admirably against his many advances, and I often wondered why.” He shifted his gaze toward the window, where far below sat the Nor’ Loch and farther beyond the wider blue stretch of the Firth of Forth. “He was remarkable to watch in the lists,” he said softly. “I admired him greatly, and I believe a good deal of my admiration was because of his connection to you.” His dark blue eyes settled once again on his guest. “I fought him once, did I tell you?”

  Julius, understanding the younger man’s need to reminisce—to mourn another loss—gently shook his head.

  “I held my own, but only because he allowed me to. I learned a good deal that day. He was a good fighter, was Georgie Douglas. And now he will never fight again. He’s scheduled to hang the morning of Isabeau’s wedding. There’s irony for you. And I’m somewhat relieved I’ll not be there to see him swing. We never were able to substantiate his treasonous intentions, but he could not escape the charge of murder. He’s been charged with the forceful takeover and wanton destruction of property at Blythe Hall and the murder of twenty-one men and one woman—Sir Matthew and the men of my Guard, Hume’s jailor, and most distressingly, Madame Seraphina L’Ange. We all mourn her loss.”

  “Thank you. She was an extraordinary woman and will be greatly missed. We’ve laid her to rest beside the grave of my mother. Old Hendrick’s just not the same. He was very fond of her, and Tam has taken her death very hard as well, and chides himself for not being there. Isabeau, however, I believe to be the most affected by her death. Seraphina was, after all, like a mother to her. Thank goodness for Gabriel. He’s been very eager to comfort her—too eager in fact. We’ve the devil of a time keeping those two apart until their nuptials. After all, they did spend a night and a day in the heather … alone.”

  “Alone? Really?” A smile crept onto James’s thoughtful lips. “But I thought he was a”—monk was not quite the correct word, so he offered, “a devout Hospitaller?”

  “Oh, he is … or was. I’ve been told he’s taking care of that as we speak. Wouldn’t do to have that hanging over a man’s head after the wedding they’ve planned.” There were two very unseemly grins. “But my point is, I’ve strong reason to believe that while left alone in the heather, and having long-standing feelings for each other, they explored some previously unexplored territory.”

  “No …,” James said in the shocking, wide-eyed disbelief of the delightfully scandalized.

  Julius, mirroring the look, added: “Indeed. And they’re most eager to explore the territory again. However, it’s my duty as her brother and guardian to keep her chaste until she’s legal. I thought it was going to be a futile task, but I’ve managed to find a suitable, and rather feisty, governess for her—until Gabriel takes her off our hands.”

  “Governess? I haven’t heard about that.”

  “No? She didn’t tell you? Well, it seems Dante has selflessly volunteered for the position. He’s taken it by force actually.”

  “Dante? That dark-eyed Adonis? Dear God, Julius, do you know what you’ve done? Putting a man like that to watch Isabeau is the equivalent of putting a wolf to guard a newborn lamb. You forget, but I know the man! He’s a charmer. Marion’s even told me how he tried to seduce her. I don’t blame him, of course. I’ve done the job fairly well myself, but Isabeau? Dear heavens! If Dante lays a hand on her, Gabriel will accomplish what Kilwylie failed to do, I’m afraid. How does he stand it?”

  “Gabriel? Oh, just fine. He’s used to Dante, and what’s more, he’s astonished by our dark little friend’s change of heart. But for Isabeau’s prayers and quick ministrations, Dante would not be with us, and we’re all grateful for that, especially Gabriel. However, in exchange for all the tears Isabeau wept for him, she’s made him promise to change his wicked ways. He’s still convalescing, you know, but he’s making an honest try of it. It’s the women of Roxburghshire, I’m told, that aren’t making it easy for him. They’ve been flocking to Blythe Hall since word’s gotten out. I’m told Janet Kerr came the other day to visit Isabeau and was greeted instead by a charming, partially clad Venetian. It was very amusing the way Isabeau tells it. However, what the wee fool’s managed to do is ignite the ire of all the fathers in the neighborhood who have young daughters, and irk the promising young gentlemen of good standing. I think there might even be a few husbands who would like to skewer him as well. It’s nothing he’s done but, as I know only too well, old habits die hard—especially when old habits have been ingrained in veins coursing with hot Italian blood.” Both men, filling with silent admiration for the Venetian, found amusement in this. “Anyhow, we’ll be leaving soon enough, and things will settle back to normal.”

  James’s dark blue eyes stilled. “What? Leaving? But why? Surely now that you’ve been cleared of all charges, and reinstated as your father’s heir, you know that Blythe Hall is yours. I need you here, Julius—with me.” The young king, never having begged anyone before, was very close to begging now. “Any position on my Privy Council that you fancy is yours.”

  It was the first time James Stewart had ever seen Julius Blythe blush and avert his eyes. There was a humbleness about him that was touching, as well as honesty. Above all, James valued honesty. “Thank you, but I’ve learned that my father’s still alive, and I had hopes of trying to find him.”

  A heavy silence filled the chamber as James digested this news. And then, with admirable graciousness, he nodded gently as his eyes absorbed every detail of the remarkable man before him. “I understand,” he said. “Had I the same opportunity I would make the same choice. Once, long ago, there was a young man who tried to offer it. It didn’t work out for me. Fate had other plans, but for you, I hope …” He paused without finishing his thought, because he understood how the pain of such a desperate hope feels. He offered a wan smile, then changed course, asking instead, “Where is he, by the way? He certainly came through for you in the end. It was his statement, combined with Gabriel’s, that removed the shred of doubt from your signature appearing on the document in the plot against me during ’88. It proved that your safe-conduct to England, signed by my father, was issued not for the purpose of treason against me but for academic reasons instead. I take it your father didn’t find the answers he was looking for?”

  Julius, acknowledging his good fortune with a nod of relief and gratitude, eased back in his chair and crossed his silk-encased legs. He was dressed in proper court clothing for the first time since his arrival in Scotland, and the fine tunic of sky blue with cream-and-gold trim complemented, like no other garments could, his golden looks and noble bearing. He had been in Edinburgh for over four weeks, three of which were spent in the castle prison awaiting trial, and one living in the family town house in the High Street wrapping up business before returning to join his household at Blythe Hall. “No,” Julius replied, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and pressing his fingers lightly against his lips in a thoughtful expression. “I believe he’s still searching for answers. I’m told he was in Rome for a while, then Alexandria and Cairo, Egypt. Gabriel eventually found him in the holy city of Jerusalem. He had been waiting for Gabriel at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”

  “Waiting?”

 
“Aye, waiting. At least that’s how Gabriel interpreted it. Call it divine intervention. They are, after all, two men who have blindly cast their fate into the hands of God. Anyhow, Gabriel didn’t stay long. My father shooed him away, insisting that he travel to Scotland directly—without delay—and not stop until he reached Blythe Hall. He had even given him specific directions on how to enter the castle unseen—by unearthing an old, hidden escape tunnel. Hendrick and I were the only other souls that knew of it. And an even greater curiosity is that he told St. Clair to go directly to the chapel, for the Chapel of Angels, he had said to Gabriel, is the source of strength and insight for all of Blythe Hall. Gabriel, of course, could hardly resist such temptation; although neither could Isabeau, apparently, because that’s where she found him.” Both men smiled.

  “And thank the Good Lord she did,” said James reflectively. “Rome, Alexandria, Jerusalem—God, how I wish I could go with you.” It was said not in the wistful tones of a dreamer but with the genuine excitement and desire of an adventurer.

  They both knew the impossibility of such a hope, yet all the same Julius replied, “Aye, and maybe someday you will. I’m not leaving, of course, until after the wedding and I see to it that Isabeau and Gabriel are properly settled. Oh, which reminds me, will you sign this?” He took from his purse a document, deftly untied it, and unrolled it on the table before James.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little wedding gift for Isabeau and Gabriel. It’s a deed I had drawn up transferring the title of Lord of Blythe and grant of lands of Blythemuir to one Gabriel St. Clair.”

  “What? Julius, do you really wish to do this? This is—”

  “Rash? Permanent? Generous? It is all these things, but it is what I wish. You and I both know that I never was, nor am I fit to be, the Lord of Blythe. You need a warrior before your gates, just as you need lions. Gabriel St. Clair is a warrior of vast renown, and what is more, he’s an honest man. I’m too easily tempted by shiny, glittering things. Besides, I have a tower I’ve been renovating if Isabeau ever kicks me out. I like it there. It’s a bit drafty, but the scenery’s beautiful.” He allowed a languid curl of his lips. James, unable to resist, smiled too.

  “Very well, if you insist.”

  Julius watched as the king took out a quill and signed the document. He lit a candle and meant to put his seal on it, until he remembered that his personal signet ring had been stolen.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” Julius reached into the kid-leather purse hanging from his belt, fished around a moment, and then drew out the ring he had tossed to Lord Hume. “Thank you for letting me borrow this,” he said, holding up the band of gold imprinted with the lion and the unicorn holding the coat of arms of Scotland between them. “It very well might have saved my life.”

  “You’re welcome,” replied James, taking it back. He dripped red wax onto the parchment and pressed the signet into it. “And you didn’t borrow it,” he said, holding the ring thoughtfully between his fingers before putting it on. “You stole it from me.”

  “Dante stole it. Like me, he’s attracted to shiny things.” There was a smile of pure irony on the king’s lips, and he raised a royal brow. “Of course,” Julius continued, “he was acting on my orders.”

  “Of course.” James grinned and blew on the wax to cool it. He then rolled up the document, tied the string, and handed it back to Julius. “Here,” he said. “Now, let’s have a glass of wine and retire to livelier quarters. Marion and I insist you dine with us tonight, and I’ve been dying to ask you about that room.”

  “Room?”

  “Where you held me prisoner. That room. ’Tis only been a little over a month, but I’d love to be able to arrange another extended stay. The lords are already whispering in my ear that I must find a suitable wife; England’s on the verge of negotiating a treaty with France, and there’s a bloody and unlawful matter between the Montgomerys and the Cunninghams in Ayrshire that may require royal attention. You wouldn’t even need to tell me where it is. I don’t wish to know. All I’m asking is if you think we could pull it off a second time?”

  Julius laughed aloud. “God no! And even if we could pull it off, I’m done abducting kings.” Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a snapping brown gaze from the doorway. Like the full moon drawing the gaze of a lone wolf, he turned. Marion Boyd, dressed and bejeweled in a manner befitting a princess, was standing just beyond the threshold watching him. Her eyes narrowed coyly, and she graced him with a smile of pure, delicious irony.

  “Maybe you’re finished abducting kings, but I say there’s not a lass within a hundred miles of either side of the border who’s safe from the likes of you! Welcome back, Julius. James has missed you.”

  There was a quiet order that slowly began to settle out of the chaos George Douglas had unleashed on our family. After the trial in Edinburgh where Julius was thankfully acquitted of the long-standing charge of treason against him, and where George Douglas, fighting to the end, was finally charged with murder, I was eventually able to return home. It had been a trying time for us all. On four separate occasions I took the stand on my brother’s behalf, and I was the key witness in the brutal murder of Mme. Seraphina. It was with a big sigh of relief that I was back home in Blythemuir, resting, healing, and attempting to come to terms with the fact that Seraphina was no longer with us. There was a haunting emptiness within the walls of Blythe Hall that Hendrick, Tam, and I felt perhaps most acutely. Seraphina was gone, and my childhood home had been ransacked, burned, and badly damaged by Lord Kilwylie and his men. Yet the biggest injustice, aside from the murder of Seraphina, was the violation—the heartbreaking destruction—of my father’s chapel, the Chapel of Angels. The room at the top of the tower stairs had taken on new meaning for me, for my eyes had finally been opened to the truth of what I was—the truth my father was still seeking. I now understood that the chapel was sacrosanct; that the works of art, beautiful beyond words, were precious and irreplaceable because they were the highest expression of the human longing to understand the precarious and capricious nature of what it means to be divine. Angels really do exist; and I had been guarded by them all along.

  And yet there is a dark side to the light. There were devils who wanted to take it from us. Sir George had been a devil, and he destroyed everything—the artwork; the statues, even the beautiful stained-glass window of Saint Matthew—all in his quest to find the ancient scroll. We still had it, and although the chapel would never be fully restored to its former glory, Mr. Cochrane, Julius’s architect, was doing a magnificent job of putting it back together. The scroll would finally rest in the altar my father had made for it.

  In fact, Blythe Hall, if I were being totally honest, was teeming with new life and a new purpose. From the ashes was being built something wonderful, and Julius and his men were a big part of it. Most of his men were living with me now until their leader came home. And I had put them to good use. I had just finished working in the kitchen garden with Dr. Hayes, a man who possessed a remarkable knowledge of healing herbs. He had been instructing me on the common uses of some of our new plants, and I was eager to learn, for Gabriel, after all, had taken vows in an order founded on service to the poor and the sick. He had nursed Julius and Dante back to health on Rhodes after their terrible ordeal, and I had resigned myself to the fact that I was also somewhat of a healer. I felt it was in my best interest to understand and investigate all of what that meant. I stood up, brushing the dirt off my hands, and smiled at the freshly planted black earth next to the budding vegetable garden.

  “Very well done, m’lady. I’m sure Sir Gabriel will be pleased to see these when they come up. Angelica, a favorite of the Benedictines and brought from the Archangel Gabriel himself, as legend has it. And lemon balm, marigold, chamomile, basil, sage, rosemary, thyme, sweet marjoram, plenty of cabbage, onion, garlic, leek, houseleek, yarrow—”

  “Oh, please don’t tell him, Doctor. I want him to be surprised … if, in fact, any
thing should happen to sprout at all. I’d best get back to the house,” I said, catching the trill of laughter emanating from the direction of my solar. “I left Buccleuch’s three daughters with Dante, and heaven knows I should not have done that. If Mr. Scott finds out his daughters are here at all, my sheep won’t just be shorn, they’ll be butchered. Will you excuse me?”

  It always gave me a start to see Dante, more so now because of what memories lay in my head, and the odd pang that tugged at my heart. It was not a physical attraction; he was not my type. Gabriel St. Clair was my type. No, with Dante it was something different; it was a connection on a level that I could not yet fully comprehend, a connection that had formed when I had pulled him back from that lonely, dark place, the emptiness of which still haunted me. I was thinking on this emptiness when I came upon my sitting room. It was far from empty and was filled with young women, not only the three Scott sisters who had come earlier, but Janet Kerr, younger sister of Nichole, Lady Hume, and her cousins Sara and Felicity Cranston of Greenlaw had come as well. No one had told me of their arrival. This, no doubt, was due to a combination of two things, the first being that the gates were still under repair and the guards, though diligent, were easily overcome by a pretty face. They were overcome often, for ever since word of Dante—the dashing young Italian gentleman who was so near death at Hume—had gotten out, women had been flocking in. The other reason was because I had recently gained the reputation of being somewhat of a she-wolf guarding her cub and, most disparagingly, I even heard it whispered that I was a convent-bred killjoy, simply because I believed that Signor Continari, as he was now styling himself, needed, above all else, his rest. As it was, young Incubus himself was sitting in a richly upholstered chair, his slippered feet propped on a cushioned stool, while the soft light from the windows fell across his languid form, caressing his dark beauty and domesticating it with the illusion of purity. This illusion was largely bolstered by the simple white robe he’d taken to wearing—a garment that was loosely belted at the waist and revealed with elegant malaise and artful nonchalance a good deal of the smooth and, yes, impressive sculpted chest. The blindfold, however, was a new accessory. With a deprecatory shake of my head, I saw that the game was very familiar.