The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  “You first?”

  “Yes.”

  They giggled and he filled the dish, which she took with wide eyes.

  “Mm.” She laughed. “This is a proper breakfast.”

  “Yes.” Henry made a face. “I am sorry about that sorry mess yesterday.”

  “Well, we more than made up for it later.”

  “Indeed.”

  She smiled and reached for the silver cellar of salt, scattering a generous handful on the porridge, which was served with butter and well-salted. Henry frowned.

  “I must confess this is new to me.”

  Amice chuckled. “Scottish staple. Enjoy it.”

  Henry lifted a mouthful to his lips, wincing at how hot it was.

  She giggled. “Blow on it a little.”

  “Is that not rude?” He raised a brow.

  “It probably is, in company, but I'm here and I told you to.”

  He roared with laughter. He obeyed her command and blew, then ate it. It was delicious.

  As they ate, they talked.

  “I think I'll want to talk to Adair today,” Henry said. He made a face. “Well, that's too strong. I have to talk to Adair today. I'm trying to find this...information,” he sighed. “I would tell you more, but I don't want to endanger you. With these things, the less one knows, the better.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  Henry smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Well,” Amice frowned. “I don't much fancy staying in the castle – I find it scares me a little. His grace, too. I think I'll take a walk about the grounds.”

  “Take care,” Henry said, feeling worried. If he was suspected, so was she. He didn't like the idea of her alone here.

  Amice smiled fondly. “I'll not leave the manor's lands. And I can take Greer, my maidservant.”

  “Well, then.” Henry nodded. “We have our plans for the morning.”

  She giggled. “Indeed.”

  They sat quietly for a while, content to share the silence. After a few moments, they heard footsteps in the hallway. Henry looked up as the duke entered. He stood and bowed low.

  “My lord. Apologies for our early rising.”

  He chuckled. “Not at all, young man. Unusual, but not illegal.” His eyes narrowed as he said it and Henry felt that familiar tension fill him.

  He does suspect something. He laughed, trying to appear as if he didn't notice. “No. I suppose it would be difficult to ban it.”

  His lordship favored him with a grin. “Well. With all that needs to be done before we rise – including making breakfast for us – it wouldn't suit us that well.”

  Henry nodded. “Indeed.”

  Adair came in behind his father, looking brightly alert in a crisp green tunic. Henry nodded to him, distant but not impolite. Adair nodded back. He saw Amice and smiled.

  “Ah! Lady Amice! How lovely to see you awake.”

  Amice looked at her plate briefly, her cheeks flushing. Then she looked up. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Henry frowned.

  “Is this seat taken?” Adair asked. He lowered himself into the seat beside Amice with an engaging smile. She said nothing, but Henry noticed the vein in her forehead twitch.

  She's either nervous or alert. I wonder which?

  “Could you pass me the salt, my lady?”

  “Oh!” she smiled. “Yes.”

  They started chatting then, and Henry noticed they soon slid into their native language, both evidently more comfortable in it. He tried not to feel hurt. He looked at the table and made himself feel nothing. Eventually, as his lordship took porridge and settled to eat it, the talk died down.

  She looked up at Henry. “You mentioned something about saddles?” she asked.

  “I saw some in the market,” Henry said neutrally.

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I gather from Lord Adair that they have plenty here. We could ask him if there is anything to suit our requirements.”

  “We could,” Henry said mildly. In his heart, he added, I'd rather ask the Devil himself to lend me a farthing than ask that fellow for aught. However, he kept his face bland.

  “Mayhap later,” Amice said lightly. She looked at Adair, who said something. Adair nodded. She laughed.

  Henry felt oddly affronted. He reached for the jug in the center of the table, which proved to contain fresh milk. He frowned at her as he poured it. “This reminds me... Should we leave today?”

  “We could,” Amice agreed. She frowned too. “Though, where are we going to stay?”

  “I thought we could go back to the inn at Queensferry,” Henry said smoothly. “Then travel down the coast?”

  Amice nodded. She looked sad suddenly. He frowned. Had he upset her?

  “Of course, we could ask...”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No. If you want to leave, we should leave.” She was suddenly tense, her movements taut as she set the pitcher firmly on the table and moved her bowl.

  Henry frowned. What had he done?

  “My lady, we can stay tonight.”

  “No,” she said lightly. “Why should we? The sooner we move the better. Isn't that it?”

  Henry was at a loss. Why did she want to stay at this manor? Then it hit him. It was Adair, wasn't it? He could almost have laughed. He felt a bitter smile twist his lips.

  Of course she prefers him. He was certainly eyeing her, and why shouldn't she eye him back? And they are Scottish. I am an outsider. What am I thinking?

  He looked at Adair, who was regarding him blandly. “Is there a problem?” he asked at once.

  “No,” Henry choked. “Nothing at all. Just making plans.”

  “Well, our hospitality is here as long as you wish,” he said grandly.

  “You're too kind,” Amice murmured. Henry felt as if she had stabbed him.

  “Well, then,” Henry said briskly. “In that case, it would help us a great deal if we could stop here for another night as well. Not so, yes?” He looked at Amice, who frowned.

  “Well, yes, it would,” she said frankly. “We would welcome a respite from travel, thank you, sir.”

  Adair flushed dark red. He coughed. “It is an honor.”

  Henry looked at the roof, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He should have been expecting this to happen, he told himself. Why was it a surprise to him? The moment he met a girl he liked, he found out she was either betrothed or in love. It had happened to him before. Lady Gertrude, Lady Isabel. Why was it a surprise now?

  “I'm going for a walk,” he said tersely, as he pushed aside the breakfast things. He had to get out of here before his blood boiled. He saw Amice look at him with a hurt expression and gritted his teeth. “My lord Adair? It would please me if some time you could tell me about the use of those round shields I saw in the practice yard. They look most intriguing.”

  There. He'd made a pretext to talk to the loathsome creature. That would at least mean he could get on with his job.

  Find the spy. Find out why he's here and who he works for and who's paying him. Then leave.

  “Of course, my lord. We could arrange a demonstration...” Adair began slowly. Henry tensed.

  “No demonstration necessary,” he said quickly. “I am sure you can teach me about it admirably well.”

  Adair shrugged, giving Henry the same hurt look he seemed to have been eliciting all morning. First her, now him. He shook his head.

  “Excuse me. My lords, lady Amice.”

  He stalked out into the hall, feeling as if someone had sneaked into his heart with a hand-ax and cut it into bits.

  Out in the yard he paced across the flagstones, heading to the gate. He felt impulsive and restless. Now they were trapped here and he'd be forced to watch Amice simpering at that annoying, upstart, strikingly-handsome man for a day. He shook his head, hating himself.

  Why am I such a dolt?

  He found his feet taking him to the stables and didn't resist the idea. His mood was dark and he didn't care at this point if the
duke clapped him in chains.

  “My lord!” a groom said brightly. “I just had word from the castle. You're to take the two saddles from the tack room. They are yours.”

  Oh, for...Henry clenched his fists. Now the man was giving them saddles, too. He wanted to spit. Did he have to be so polite, so mannered? Lord Adair was turning out to be a real annoyance.

  “Fine,” he said ungraciously. The man blinked as if he'd slapped him and Henry closed his eyes. Did everyone in this wretched place have to give him that face? As if he'd just stood on the banquet table and shouted something rude? He sighed. “Thanks for telling me,” he added.

  The groom nodded. “Not at all, sir.” He watched, confused, as Henry strode down the rows of stalls.

  Henry felt quite pleased to see his horse.

  “Hello you,” he said fondly. The horse snorted. “At least you like me, eh, boy?”

  Tacked up and mounted, he rode into the street.

  It was only as he came out of the woodlands that surrounded the manor, and headed up into the town, that he realized something. Someone was following him.

  He glanced sideways, checking again. Perhaps he was being overly suspicious. No, there was the bay stallion again. A small, compact horse, it was of a breed that would have cost a packet, a hunting stallion, not a big, muscled warhorse.

  The duke. He sent him here.

  He closed his eyes, thinking fast. The duke had recognized him. He had hoped it was a coincidence, but when he was at court two weeks ago he had been several times in rooms where the duke was. He had been pretending to be a knight then, and hadn't thought he'd noticed. He must miss nothing, that man. He wanted to kick himself for his inattention. If he'd thought faster, he would have kept up the pretense with Adair. However, they'd met elsewhere in town and he hadn't made the connection, telling him a different story.

  Now I might die for that mistake.

  He turned up the street, riding through the market, heading into the less clean part of town. Here, the houses were shabby and seemed to lift themselves above the street, skirting the wastewater and muck that clogged the channels by the roadside. He breathed shallowly and his horse gave a whinny. I don't blame you boy.

  He rode on, and glanced back. He let out a long sigh. He seemed to have lost the rider. He looked around, planning a route back out of this place. He rode along and something made him turn at a gap between houses where the road opened onto a wider street.

  He's still following.

  The red stallion and his rider were both there. Henry froze, praying he hadn't noticed. However, the man looked up and saw him. He turned and beckoned to a soldier, who was loitering in the shadow of a building. This is it. Henry started sweating. He saw the man gesture to the solider, telling him something. They looked at Henry, who froze.

  “Left, boy,” he whispered to the horse. He spoke French, not sure whether his horse would understand or not, but he guided him with his knees and felt him respond to his urgency, moving quickly down between the houses.

  As soon as he entered the street he knew it was a mistake. It was tiny, narrow, and fetid. The tall buildings almost blocked the light. He might hide from the guard, but who else would be here? It didn't bear thinking about. As he hesitated, he heard feet. Someone shouted.

  “Way hey!”

  Henry closed his eyes. His mind raced. He looked behind him, but a big man, clad in castoff mail, blocked the way. In front of him were two others. They grinned.

  One of them said something else. He sounded menacing. Henry closed his eyes. It could have been funny if it weren't so serious. Here he was, escaping death, only to end up dying anyway in a tavern brawl.

  Henry smiled affably. “Now, will you let us pass?” He had dismounted, which was probably a mistake. Not only was the ground slippery underfoot, but he'd lost his height. Not that it would have helped – he wasn't armed with anything.

  I've got a knife, however. He remembered the one in his sock and felt a faint glimmer of hope.

  The man chuckled. He didn't say anything, which was unsurprising, since Henry spoke in Lowland Scots which he probably didn't understand. He raised the cudgel and lifted it, directing a blow at Henry's head.

  Henry ducked. Long hours training in his father's castle had been broadened by fist-fights at sea so that he had a repertoire of moves that included the most sophisticated and the most base. He was well-suited to such engagements.

  He lifted up as the stick moved past, narrowly avoiding his head, and then plunged the knife into the fellow's chest. He winced as he felt it grate on bone and pulled it out, hating the slide of warm blood on his hands. He was desperate, though.

  The man yelled and his face contorted. He struck out with the cudgel and this time it hit Henry's shoulder. He yelled too, and felt a bone crack. He could still raise his arm, and he did so, leveling the knife as the second man, roaring, ran at him.

  Henry felt the knife slide against the man's ribs, not entering but cutting him in a way that must have ached. The man roared and hit Henry's skull with a blow that filled his vision with white. He reeled back as the third man ran in from the side.

  I'm dead, Henry thought for the first time. No-one could fight three at once. The first man, the one whom he had stabbed, was falling, but he still lifted his stave to strike again. Then, just as Henry, the second man winding him with a punch, braced himself for the death blow, the man slipped.

  It would have been comical, were it not desperate. Henry saw the cudgel man fall and grabbed at the stick, and luck was with him in that the man was so surprised his hands unfurled.

  Now Henry was armed. He had a cudgel and a knife. He held the knife with his right, the cudgel with his left, and used the latter to block the second man as he ran at him again, fists flying.

  This time, the man moved sideways to avoid the blow and Henry moved with him, letting the swing take them both round, so that the wall ended up at his back and the second man tripped. The first man hadn't got up yet. The wound Henry had inflicted was clearly worse than he thought. At this point, he didn't have time to think about it. All he wanted to do was move, putting as much distance between himself and the thugs as he could. He had a clear moment and he ran.

  As he did so, the third man, the one with the mail, grabbed at him. He slipped but got up again and ran forward. The man lashed out and Henry discovered he had a knife too, for something stung him on the shoulder and a moment later he felt the warm sticky blood. He ran.

  As he headed up toward the hazed glow of the street, he ran into someone.

  “Whist!” the someone said. It was a woman, small and bent. She glared at him with black eyes. He yelled and gestured behind him and she nodded, pulling him aside as the big man rushed at them. In the shadow of a door-lintel, the two lay flat as the man passed.

  “Whew.” Henry let out a breath. He was panting, his back ached. His head still hurt and his shoulder was seizing up now. As they heard more noises, the woman beckoned. She led him back into the recess. It was pitch black here and he pressed his back against the wall, breathing shallowly in the foul dark. She nodded. Said some words he didn't understand.

  “I don't understand,” he said. He spoke in French, then broken Lowland Scots. She grinned.

  “Och, ye come from down there,” she smiled. “So did me granny. Now. You want to keep out of the way of Big Bill. Follow me.”

  Henry nodded, his heart soaring. He wanted to laugh with relief. He could have hugged the small, bright-eyed woman as she looked up at him. She was gaunt, with a plain face, jaw twisted as if it had been broken and inadequately reset. All the same, she was an angel sent to save him.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You just saved my life.”

  She chuckled. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Anyhow, you're better off now. Come on. You’re wounded. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A MISSING MAN

  A MISSING MAN

  Amice walked back up the hallway that led past the be
dchambers. Her heart was pounding. Where was Henry? She couldn't understand it.

  She tiptoed up the hallway past the guest bedchambers, wondering which was his. Should she take a risk and knock at one? She peered in through a half-open door. The bed was made, but she could see a cloak lying on a clothes-chest; a red velvet one. This was a lady's bedroom. She shook her head and walked on.

  She tapped at a door, but received no answer. Boldly, she tapped on another. A woman with a cloud of red curls popped her head out.

  “Aye, milady?” she frowned. “Milady? Are you lost?”

  Amice felt her heart thump. The poor maid, Greere, was looking at her like she was going mad. Amice almost felt as if she agreed with that diagnosis.

  A morning without him, and you're acting like you're deathly sick.

  “Is Lord Henri about?”

  The maid frowned. “This isn't his chamber, milady. It's the one two before this. Here – let me take you.”

  Amice thanked her distantly, following her. If the woman thought it was improper for her to be calling on a gentleman in his chamber, she said nothing. Just as well she didn't see us two days previous.

  Amice shook her head. She didn't want to recall that night. She didn't want to remember how they'd kissed.

  Henry has decided he doesn't like me any longer. He wants to be rid of me.

  She had been so hurt when he'd spoken of going to the port town again. He wanted to find Bronn at the inn and leave her to go home. She wanted to stay as long as possible, draw out the days they had together. However, he was all for leaving her.

  I'm being stupid. He's a spy. He has a task to complete. I helped him. Now he's here with a job and I'm a sudden liability.

  She bit her lip, feeling herself want to cry.

  “Here, my lady.” Her maid frowned up at her with big brown eyes. “Now, I'll go back to tidying.” She curtsied and Amice nodded.

  “Yes. I thank you.”

  She knocked at the door but there was no answer. She glanced up the corridor, but the maid had disappeared. She turned the latch and sneaked inside.

  No one. She looked around the room, tiptoeing further in. Greere hadn't tidied in here yet – the bed was disheveled and she could see the imprint where he'd been. She felt a pain in her chest that was almost a blow. He had lain here at night, slept here. She breathed in, noticing the spicy scent of him in the air. She sighed. How many times had she leaned close to him, smelling that scent? She felt her arms ache, longing to hold him.