The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

The inn is on fire.

  On pure instinct, Henry rolled out of bed and came up standing. He dragged on his shirt, which he'd left by the bed instinctively, and drew on his trews unseeing. The room was almost completely dark; the only light the fitful light of the night sky, leaking in through the uncovered window by the fire.

  He dressed and knelt, blowing on the embers to give faint light. Then he looked about. He grabbed his case – he traveled with a single saddlebag, bearing only a few papers and his coin, and nothing else – and headed out.

  Smoke filled the hallway. He coughed. He knelt down, breathing in the clearer air that hung just above the ground. Anyone who traveled on a ship regularly knew some things about what to do if it caught on fire – fires at sea were more common than people thought. On a contraption made of wood, all it needed was a cook with a careless hand or one forgetful sailor to get roasted in the dark.

  He coughed. The smoke stung his eyes. It burned his lungs. All the same, he headed on down the hallway.

  Amice! The thought of her seared into his brain. He couldn't leave without finding her! What if she was in the part that was burning? Where was her room? He made himself remember.

  She was on the first floor.

  He reached the stairs and crawled down them. The first floor was even more smoke filled than his, were it possible.

  No, he thought, crawling, coughing and trying to haul fresh untainted air into his lungs. If she is here, asleep, it's possible I'm too late. She might have choked to death in her sleep, unheeded.

  He felt about beside him, keeping to the wall, feeling for doors. The chambers were on the right, the taproom on the left. It must be one of these rooms. His hand went into the first space where a door must be. He drew a breath and shouted.

  “Amice!”

  No sound. He risked hammering on the door. It was locked and no one answered when he cried out.

  He drew in another breath, coughing and spluttering. His eyes were watering so much that he shut them, feeling forward on hands and knees, fingers trailing the wall.

  The next door.

  Draw breath. Knock. Shout. Try to push it, test if it's open.

  “Amice!”

  No answer. He shouted her name again. This door swung open on a dark black, cold, and empty room. No one had slept there tonight.

  Henry crawled on down the corridor, feeling his senses swim. It was getting hard to think straight. Getting hard to move. He was tired. So tired. He wanted to stay where he was, right here in the hallway. He needed to sleep.

  Next door. Draw breath. Shout. Stay awake. If you pass out, she dies. You, too. Breathe.

  “Amice!”

  He banged on the door, shouting. This time, it opened.

  “Henri? Oh! Oh, no!”

  She coughed, then. A hacking, rasping cough that said the smoke was in her lungs. Henry stood, reaching for her. He pulled her down beside him. When she gasped, he whispered, using all the breath he had to tell her.

  “On the floor. Air...clearer. Breathe...low.”

  Amice must have understood, for she nodded. Henry shook his head as they crawled to the stairs. He had no idea what language he'd spoken – French or English or Scots – but she'd understood him, which was what mattered. Explanations, were there to be any to give, could come later.

  If we're still living.

  He shelved the thought and wrapped her wrist in his hand.

  “Stairs,” he murmured. This time he was sure it was French. He paused and she nodded – he felt the movement at his side, for he could no longer see a thing. He clamped her wrist in his hand and they crawled down the first step.

  “Easier, to...lie.”

  Henry lay down flat, letting his stomach scrape the stairs as he pulled himself down with his arms. It was an uncomfortable way to move, and every edge bumped into him, almost driving the life giving air from him. Still, it was better than standing. Faster than crawling.

  Eventually he heard the sound of fabric slithering beside him and knew Amice was doing the same thing he had done. He nodded.

  “Good.”

  He couldn't talk above a whisper. He couldn't breathe beyond a rasp. Couldn't see.

  Now they were on the ground floor. Henry didn't need to look to see the flames. Down here the roar of them, the creak of wood groaning as it twisted and expanded, the crackle of fire on oaken beams, was loud. The heat seared their faces. Henry coughed.

  Amice was coughing too – he could feel her spasm as she doubled over, big coughs that would likely have her dinner up if she didn't stop soon. He held her arm.

  “Easy,” he whispered. “We...that way.”

  He tried to maneuver her to her right, where he could hear less of the crackle. She moved back and round and then they were crawling along beside the staircase, hugging the wall of it beside them. They were heading to the door to the yard, Henry thought.

  The room they entered was surprisingly cold. Here, there was no wood or paneling, only raw stone. He guessed it must be where the traders entered; no attempt had been made to beautify or to keep it warm, which was the only reason, likely, it was spared thus far. He stood, gasping, as they breathed the clean air that still hung here in the cold space.

  “Door,” he murmured between gasps. Amice was already there, lifting the latch.

  Cold air seeped in. Henry gulped it as if it were water in a desert. Amice did the same.

  “Must...go...now,” Henry said between sobs. Amice nodded. She crawled out through the door. Henry followed, stumbling out into the dark.

  In the yard, they looked around them. The thatch was blazing, clumps of it falling to the yard stonework, then fizzling into red and then black ashes. The smell of smoke was everywhere. The screaming of those who had escaped was saddening.

  “We have to help!” Amice protested. “What if someone...” she trailed off as he gently took her wrist.

  “They're there.”

  A crowd of people stood near the stables, watching the inn go up in flames. He dimly recognized the innkeeper and his wife, and a tall man with white hair who he had noticed in the dining room the night before. There were others there he had seen at the inn, he realized, and some townsfolk who had dined there the night before.

  The other guests are out already.

  As the relief of that flowed through him, he turned to Amice, frowning. If the others were already out, had this fire been set deliberately? Had someone meant to end their lives?

  Not wanting to stand around to find out, he took Amice's wrist.

  “We need to go.”

  Amice nodded. She was drawing in breath after breath. Her face was white, hectic spots of crimson flush on her cheeks. She looked ill.

  Henry dragged her after him, heading for the stables. He felt her slip and held her arm firmly. As he did so, he sighed.

  “We need to get out of here. Can you reach the stables, do you think?” Here, there was enough air to breathe. He could talk again.

  She nodded. “Let's go.”

  They ran to the stables and found their horses. It was only when Amice was mounted and saying something about her groom blessedly being safe now that he noticed something.

  She was only wearing her nightgown.

  Feeling a slow flush spread through him, knowing it was ridiculous to think thoughts like that at such a time, but unable to help it, he turned his horse.

  “We're out.”

  They rode away, leaving the burning inn and its horrified crowd behind them as they headed into Queensferry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ESCAPE

  ESCAPE

  Air, chill and cold, whipped past Amice as she rode, her legs tight around the body of her horse. She was holding onto the mane, not even thinking about what she did, riding with terror and instinct and the deep, driving need to escape.

  She could hear hoof beats, and not just those of her own horse, but of another. Henri rode the horse her groom had ridden earlier, a tall, gray stallion called Mist. He was ri
ding bareback, as she was, guiding his horse with his knees.

  As she glanced back, he slowed. They rode side by side across the grasslands.

  Amice felt her body cool off as they entered the shelter of the trees. They had ridden across a field and were entering the forest. Behind them, perhaps ten minutes' ride away was the port of Queensferry and, in it somewhere, an inn, burning. To their left was Edinburgh.

  The night air was cold and it was only as they rode into the cover of the trees that Amice realized two things. Firstly, that she was riding astride, like a man, with neither saddle nor bridle to help her grip, and she was doing it instinctively. Second, she was wearing a nightgown with a blue riding cloak over it. Then she remembered she was riding in male company. She blushed.

  Looking sideways at Henri, she felt a mix of shame and amusement. She looked at him closely. His hair was matted with ashes, his white tunic stained and with holes in odd places where embers had landed and burned through the linen, unnoticed. He was ash pale.

  She laughed. “Oh, sir!” she said. Now that she was laughing, it was hard not to carry on. The laughter was relief, she knew, uncontrollable and swamping. She bit her lip, holding it in tight.

  Henri looked at her. His brow rose. He smiled.

  “What?”

  Amice chuckled. “We are a sorry pair, not so?” She tried again, realizing she'd spoken Scots. “We look dreadful.”

  He nodded, grinning. “I look awful. You couldn't look dreadful.”

  Amice blushed. She drew her riding cloak around her with her left hand, though that necessitated holding her horse's neck one-handed. They were walking now, a slow, rolling walk, but even so it was still awkward, and she winced and held on with both hands, nervous to let go lest she took a fall.

  Henri smiled at her. “We're safe now. But we need warmth.”

  Amice nodded. It was strange – strange and ironic – to run from burning, only to freeze in the forest at night. She paused.

  “We could return to the town?”

  Henri shook his head. “Tempting, my lady. But no, we mustn't.”

  “Why not?” Amice demanded, feeling confused.

  “We don't know what just happened,” Henri explained to her. “We think the inn caught fire by accident, but suppose that's untrue?”

  “What do you mean?” Amice felt her heart thud. Why would anyone wish either of them harm? Was Henri quite mad? Who would wish to harm them, or even know who they were or that they were in that inn now?

  Henri sighed. “I'm sorry, Amice.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I apologize for being...not quite honest. I told you who I am, but it wasn't quite true.”

  “What do you mean?” Amice asked. Then she laughed, a small, desperate sound. “Henri, for Heaven's sake! We're in the woods, in winter. We have just escaped. If we don't get into a warm shelter soon, we'll freeze to death. We're neither of us in any fit state to hide the truth. And whatever it is, you saved my life. The truth cannot harm us anymore.”

  Henri looked at her as if he'd never seen her before; studying her with something like wonderment in those blue eyes. Then he sighed.

  “Amice, you're right. I owe you truth. I'm not a French lord at all.”

  “Oh.” Amice frowned. “Well, you speak it well. But then, so do I.”

  Henri frowned at her, his lips lifting in a half-smile. “I think I might be playing a dangerous game here,” he said.

  “Why?” Amice was confused. “What do you mean?”

  Henri laughed. He shook his head. When he looked up, his face still smiled, but his eyes were sad and weary. “I think it's fitting,” he said slowly.

  “Fitting?” Amice felt her patience snap. “Henri. For Heaven's sake, please stop talking in these strange riddles. You're not a Frenchman, fine. I don't really care right now if you're the King of Scotland in disguise. I'm cold, tired, and sick of being confused. I want to go somewhere warm and safe. Somewhere where I don't have to think.”

  Henri laughed. “As you ask.” He paused. “Well, as it happens, I'm not the king of Scotland. However, I am here on state business. Does that tell you what you need to know?”

  “No.” Amice felt stubborn.

  Henri laughed. “Very well. First, I have to tell you I am full of admiration. If anyone was going to apprehend me, I'm eternally grateful they sent you to do it.”

  “Apprehend you?” Amice shook her head. “Whatever would I want to do that for?”

  Henri was laughing at her now, shoulders shaking. She felt her anger dissolve. Without it, she was colder. She shivered and looked about, vainly, for any sign of life in these deserted woodlands.

  “Well then. If you are...not what I think...then I can tell you this. I am a spy.”

  Amice's eyes flew wide. She wasn't even sure what that meant. She had heard there were intrigues at court, but she and her family spent their days out in the hills, her father only meeting with the duke of Buccleigh, their local representative of the King's Council, once or twice a year. As it happened, he was Joanna's father-in-law and that tended to make things much easier. But a spy?

  “What do you do? Spy what? And where?”

  Henry chuckled. “My dear, either you are absolutely brilliant at your own job, or you are the sweetest, most innocent creature. But either way, I am full of admiration.”

  “Flattery doesn't help anything.” Amice said, but all the same she gave him a sidelong look, feeling her own cheeks flush.

  “Well, then,” Henry paused. “I shall answer your questions. But first, I must ask if you can smell what I can smell.”

  Amice stared at him, feeling cross. “If this is one of your enigmas, then...Oh.” She sniffed, and then frowned. “I can smell cinders.”

  “Yes. Burning. Wood burning, to be precise.”

  Amice felt her heart thump. “What is it? Do...” she stopped. Had they just now avoided death in the inn fire only to meet another in the woodlands? She looked round wildly. Where was it?

  “I think we're lucky. Not only were we immensely lucky to escape that fire, but we just found shelter. A charcoal burner's cottage.”

  “Oh.”

  Amice felt herself weaken with relief again. The charcoal burners lived in the margin of the forest, working with the woodcutters or sometimes independently, turning dry wood and kindling into charcoal. It was a lengthy process, requiring the fire to be built up just right and then watched all night to make sure the wood didn't burn utterly.

  “Do you think they'll offer us place in their cottage?”

  Henri raised a brow. “We can ask. Or we can just hope they're out, stoking the furnaces somewhere – which is awfully what it smells like, isn't it – and go in.”

  Amice was shocked. Then she nodded. “We can explain later.” It was far too cold to want to do anything except find four walls, a roof, a fire, and sleep.

  “I also think so.”

  They rode on and before long came to the charcoal burner's hut. It was a small place, made of logs piled up and faced with clay, a thatch laid over the poles that made the roof. However, it was warm.

  “Let's go in.”

  “I'll tether the horses here. We should make sure they're also kept warm,” Henri said quietly.

  “Yes. We must.” Amice slid down off her horse and patted her nose. “You sleep here,” she said. Her horse snorted at her.

  In the end, they brought them both just inside the door. Amice couldn't bear to leave them in the freezing cold, and Henri had to agree with her. They all went inside.

  Amice coughed, breathing in the dusty air of the hut. All the same, with the wind kept out by the clay-covered walls, it felt almost impossibly warm compared to outside. Even so, it was still chilly and she wrapped her arms around herself, sitting down on the rush-strewn floor.

  “I'll light a fire,” Henri said. He went to the fireplace and tinkered with the logs. Then he found a flint by feel, left near the fireplace, and struck it.

  Light. A thin tendr
il of it, curling up from pine-bark. Then a flame. Amice joined in, feeding their small flame leaves and scraps of grass and twigs until they had a small blaze on the hearth between them. She held her hands out to it, grateful for the warmth that bit into her cold skin.

  “That's better.” Henri opined.

  As they sat there, the light flickering over their faces, Amice studied Henri covertly out of the side of her gaze. He was undeniably handsome, with that chiseled nose and blue eyes, with the curling blond hair and that hawk's smile. Still, who was he?

  “I owe you an explanation,” Henri began dryly. Amice coughed.

  “You don't need to tell me if you'd rather not.”

  His brow shot up. “That's kind of you. But, foolish as I am, I want to.”

  Amice shrugged. “If you wish to tell me something, I want to know it.” In truth, she was deeply curious and wanted to find out all she could of Henry. However, she wasn't about to press him. If he'd concealed his identity from her, he had his reasons. Whatever he was here to spy on, she was sure the less she – or anyone else, for that matter – knew about it, the better for him, and her too.

  “Well, then.” Henri coughed. “My name is Henry. I'm not French. I'm an Englishman, in service of the king's spymaster.”

  “Oh.” Amice frowned. She turned round to stare at him. It was all a bit much to take in. The bit about the spymaster she discarded – it meant little to her. The first bit was more important. “You're English?”

  He laughed. “It's not a disease.”

  Amice giggled self-consciously. “I'm sorry, Henry. I'm sure it isn't. It was just a surprise, is all. I never met anyone from England before.”

  He smiled. “Honored to be the first Englishman of your acquaintance, then, milady.”

  He looked so hesitant, those sapphire eyes looking up from under his brows at her. He was so handsome that the awkward expression was all the more unexpected.

  She chuckled. “You are the first Englishman, and the first spy. But I don't want to know of that. I want to know of England. What's it like?” She had so many imaginings of the place – the home of their historical enemies. Were all the people like Henry, with that flax-pale hair? Was the land so barren and stony, that they sought to invade Scotland?