The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  Amice let him lead her to the solar, and then sank gratefully onto the settee, covering her face with her hands. She didn't need to pretend the exhaustion. Keeping up this performance was wearing on her sorely.

  Then, as she heard the sentry withdraw, she stood. She had to go up to the ramparts. She slipped out and went up the spiral staircase in the tower, praying she could get up and down again before Lord Adair was summoned. If he finds me up here, I'll say I was looking for the privy closet and got lost.

  She found the door, slipped out onto the ramparts and walked to the front wall. She stood there for a full minute, shivering as the wind tousled her hair. Then she turned and went inside.

  When she went back down the stairs, the castle was in uproar.

  “Where is she?” Lord Adair was demanding. “I must see her.”

  “My lord, I...” her guard sounded terrified. Amice stepped lightly out of the turret door into the hallway, heart pounding against her rib cage.

  “Here I am,” she said quickly. She saw Adair's lean face soften with relief.

  “My lady,” he said gently. “It grieves me to learn of your distress. Come. Follow me.”

  He led her into the solar, where she had just been, and showed her to a seat. In her absence, spiced cakes and claret had appeared on the table. She schooled her face into a picture of horror and looked up at the duke's son brokenly.

  “My lord Adair, I...”

  “Hush,” he said gently. “Here. Drink. I understand whatever happened has distressed you. I am only so glad you brought your worry to me.”

  Amice smiled wanly. He was a kind man. She wished she didn't have to take advantage of that. She accepted the goblet and wet her lips with the dark, strong beverage, not wanting to drink overmuch lest she forget her lines.

  “Now,” he said when she had accepted wine and nibbled on a cake. “If you can speak of it, please tell me.”

  Amice cleared her throat. “Lord Adair, I...when I was with Lord Henri, I...we...”

  “Take your time,” he said gently. His thin face with its grave brown eyes was solemn.

  “Thank you. It's so recent. But I must speak of it. When I was walking in the market – we stopped in a village called Currie – we were suddenly set upon. A man – a red-haired man – he ran at Henri and he...” she swallowed, “he had a knife. He plunged it into Henri once, twice...Oh! The blood!” she sobbed. “There was nothing we could do. Of course, the villagers ran to our assistance, but it was near the woods and he ran in and escaped. Henri is...My lord, he is dying. I do not even know if he will last through today.”

  Adair's face had gone stiff. Amice frowned, heart thumping. “What, my lord?” her first thought was: he knows. He always knew. He was in on his father's plans to kill us.

  He cleared his throat. Reached out a hand to hers. “My lady,” he said tightly. “I am so sorry. More than sorry. But I must say that...the man was French. He was foreign. Who knows why he was here? In my heart, though I mourn with you. I am glad you are free of him.”

  Amice stared at him. “My lord, I...”

  “No. I am sorry,” Adair said, closing his eyes. “I should not be so honest. But it is true. My lady, he was not good enough for you.”

  Amice shook her head. “My lord is kind,” she said in a soft voice. Inside, her mind was racing. Adair had been sincere in his pursuit of her. He meant what he said, that he was glad Henri had died! Were they right in suspecting his father? Or had the knife man been sent by him? She couldn't fathom.

  “My lord, I think you are distressed, as I am,” Amice said gently. “I myself would like to lie down.”

  “Of course,” Adair said, standing abruptly. “I'll send Greere to have your room readied for you. Please, forgive me for my misplaced words. It was cruel of me to say such things now.”

  “You said what you felt,” Amice said. “That is no crime.”

  “It can be.”

  He paced to the window and Amice stood, following him. She looked out over the forest. Oh, Henry, please be safe.

  She had no idea at all where he was.

  Once in her chamber, she found she could not make herself sit still. She paced and sat, fidgeted restlessly with her skirt, trying to mend a hole in it using a needle she found in the drawer. When the door opened, she jumped, almost stabbing her finger with the needle.

  “My lady?”

  “Oh! Greere! You startled me.”

  “Beg your pardon. The master asked to see you in the colonnade.”

  “Oh.” Amice stood quickly. The master? “His grace the duke?”

  “No, milady. Lord Adair.”

  “Oh.” Amice turned in front of the mirror, reached for a comb and dragged it quickly through her hair. Then she went out to the colonnade.

  Adair was there when she arrived. “My lady,” he said. He bowed over her hand.

  “My lady.” He had changed into a fresh tunic, she noticed, one of raw linen worked with a patterned border round the neck. He had dark brown trews and his copper hair shone. Was he trying to impress her? She looked down, hiding her unease.

  “My lord.”

  “I wished to have you know that my father has dispatched a physician to Currie,” he said gravely. “Insofar as anything can be done, we will see to it.”

  I am sure your father will see it done, Amice thought gravely. I do not think the physician was Father Matthias, or that he was told to heal Henry. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “It is nothing. Now,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “The last time you were here, we discussed the subject of riding. I had wished to take you on a proper tour of our stables. I...”

  At that moment, a shout split the quiet air. A man was roaring at another, somewhere in the depths of the castle. The noise was followed by the sound of a sword blow, ringing on stone. Amice whipped round to face the noise, almost losing her footing.

  “That was Father.”

  The two of them, for different reasons, ran toward the noise. No, Amice thought. No, no, no. He cannot have found Henry. It cannot be.

  They ran into the castle.

  Inside, there was chaos as guards ran up toward the guest wing and other guards ran down. The person – Amice assumed it was the duke, Adair's father – still roared. The sound of weaponry had stopped. As she ran, they were passed by someone else, running in the opposite direction.

  “Henry!” Amice screamed.

  “Amice!” He panted. “Follow me!”

  Amice turned round and ran. Adair was staring at both of them, a look of such disbelief on his face that Amice knew, in that moment, that he had not known what his father planned.

  Then she was vanishing up the hallway behind Henry.

  “Here!” he whispered, pulling her into a room she hadn't been in before. He closed the door behind them, bolting it from the inside. She looked around. It must at one time have been a parlor, for there was a fireplace and a single wide-arched window. It was also bare of furniture.

  She looked at Henry. He face was ghostly white, eyes opened wide.

  “Henry,” she whispered. “You're bleeding.”

  It was true. A dark spot had appeared on his tunic, wet, red, and sticky. As she watched, it grew darker and spread. Henry shrugged.

  “It's nothing. Now. Go! Through the window. I found this room earlier. It's the only way out.”

  “Henry...” Amice stuttered. She was terrified of heights. She went to the window and looked out. Henry was right. A roof was below the window, jutting out over the yard. From there, the roof joined a vine trellis in the kitchen garden and they would be able to climb down. She slipped out.

  “You traitor!”

  “Spy!”

  The shouts through the door were loud and Amice held her breath as she heard them knocking on the wood. They would break through any moment. Henry was still inside.

  He grunted, swinging himself up to the window ledge. The wound was painful, clearly. He reached up.

  “Her
e!” Amice screamed, taking his hand. “Pull!”

  She braced herself against the ledge and leaned back as he drew himself through, using her hands as handholds. Then he was through. The door broke.

  “Run!”

  They ran. The roof was exposed to anyone who wished to aim a bow at them, but fortunately, the outer guards seemed oblivious to whatever was happening inside, for no one shot at them. Amice panted, terror giving her wings as she ran to the edge of the roof. The vine trellises were largely bare, the vines just starting to bud with the season's change. She stiffened and came to a halt. How would they get down?

  “Follow me!” Henry shouted. He gripped the edge, a long pole about the thickness of her upper arm, and swung down. He let go. His feet hit the ground with a thump and he wheeled his arms for balance, and then froze. “Jump, Amice. You can do it.”

  She put her hands around the pole, swung down as he had done. Opened her hands.

  She was on the ground beside him then, and they were running for their lives.

  “After him!” the duke himself shouted through the window. They saw him there, face dark and scowling, as they ran to the gate. A group of guards ran from there, running to head them off.

  “Left! Amice screamed. Henry nodded. They ran left. An arrow skidded overhead, almost hitting her. She screamed and weaved left, Henry grabbing her arm.

  “No shots!” a voice bellowed. Adair. Amice felt a pain in her heart even as she ran with Henry, into the grounds. He didn't want her killed.

  “Back...entry,” Henry yelled. He was exhausted – she could hear the way his voice dragged. “Must be...gate.”

  “Yes!” Amice shouted. They ran across the lawn, past topiary hedges and rose trees, around oaks and along paths. Then they were out of the ornamental part of the garden and there, in front of them, was a gate. A small one.

  Henry hauled at it.

  “Try the bolt!” Amice shouted. He reached through and moved it. It was rusty but it moved, slowly. Henry grunted as he pulled on it, and Amice felt her heart beat and her blood flare as she saw the soldiers running towards them.

  “It's stuck. No. It's...here.” Henry sighed with relief as the bolt slid back. Amice pushed him through ahead of her and followed, slamming the gate shut behind them. Then they were in the woods and running for their lives.

  Already, she could hear a hunting horn. The duke was sending his verderers and huntsmen after them.

  “Run!” Henry yelled.

  She nodded.

  Breathless, panting, slowed by Henry's wound and their own exhaustion, they ran. Into the woodlands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WOUNDED

  WOUNDED

  The forest was dark, the clouds returning overhead. Henry ran over slippery leaves, reaching back for Amice's hand. If someone attacked them now, how would he be able to protect her? His chest was aching and he could smell the acrid scent of his own blood, feel the tug and burn of the blood, drying. He was starting to feel sleepy. So sleepy...

  Run. Amice is with you. If they catch you, what will become of her? Run. Stay awake. If you die, who will find out what you discovered?

  He ran.

  Up ahead of them, he heard a huntsman's horn. He tensed. Stopped running. Looked at Amice.

  “If they have...dogs...” he paused, panting, trying to catch his breath. “We're dead.”

  Amice nodded, her eyes big. “Up the tree?” They were leaning against a big oak tree, its branches bare. It was tall and they might have escaped undetected up there. Henry shook his head.

  “We'll be...trapped,” Henry whispered. Amice nodded as he continued. “Got to...cross water.”

  “Yes.”

  If they crossed even a small stream, the dogs would lose their scent. It was worth a try.

  They waited to see if they could hear the hunters, then went forward. The woods were empty.

  Amice listened, every sense primed. They had to find water. They walked ahead, listening.

  “Henry,” Amice whispered. “Where are we?”

  “Heading...south,” Henry whispered back. He had to stop and rest. The pain was wearing at him, and the loss of blood making him dizzy. He could still feel it running, though the flow had lessened. The wound was a slice rather than a stab. If it was a stab it would have killed him.

  They went on through the trees. Henry saw Amice go tense.

  “Listen?” she whispered. He strained to hear what she heard. A trickle, faint and murmuring. He nodded.

  “Water. This way.” He pointed before him and a little left. Amice nodded.

  “Let's go.”

  They came upon the water after ten minutes of walking. A shallow stream, bisecting the forest floor. It was calm and tranquil, the water clear despite the leaves that crowded the bank. Henry sank down against a tree trunk, feeling suddenly weak.

  “Cross first,” he whispered to Amice. “Then I'll cross.”

  Amice nodded. She lifted her skirts a little and waded through the stream. She stood on the bank, looking over anxiously. “Come. Henry! I can hear something.”

  Henry stood, slowly. Why did everything hurt so much? He winced and walked across the stream. Then he collapsed.

  “Henry!” Amice shouted.

  Henry lay where he was, too weary to continue. He stared blankly over the leaves, knowing he would die if they didn't get help soon. He couldn't die. What about Amice? What about him? If he died now he would never see her again; never find out what happened in their story.

  Gritting his teeth, grunting with effort, he rolled over until he was kneeling, his torso slumped forward. Then he stood.

  “The village is that way.”

  Amice nodded. She was crying, the tears sliding wordlessly down her face. “We'll get there,” Amice said gently. “We will. You'll live. Please, live.”

  Henry chuckled but the action hurt his ribs so he stopped. “I'll try.”

  “Good.”

  They walked on, step by dizzying, aching step, through the trees.

  Smoke, sharp and rich, came from nearby. Henry breathed in the scent, the smell of it weaving up to his confused, weary senses. He coughed.

  “Smoke,” he said to Amice. She nodded.

  “I know. I can smell it too. Must be someone making a fire.”

  “We must be close now.”

  Amice nodded. “I think I can see a wall.”

  Henry felt his legs go weak under him as he looked to where she was looking. She was right. There at the margin of the trees, was a house. They had made it through the woods to somewhere.

  “Yes,” he said. “Now, I need to...walk.”

  Amice laughed. “Yes, love. Yes, you do.” She reached for his arm and, as much as he was reluctant to do it, Henry found it helped to lean against her. Together, weary and relieved beyond anything Henry had ever known, they stumbled out of the forest and onto the farm.

  The scent of hay and warmth floated up to Henry, mingling with the scent of smoke. He stumbled on the cobbles of the yard and felt Amice wrap firm hands round his shoulder, hauling him upward. His vision was swimming, now, a narrow tunnel of black that admitted one small image at a time.

  “Safe,” he whispered. They went to the door. He heard a farmhand shout something, and he shouted back.

  “Help.”

  He spoke in French and knew he wasn't understood, but he heard Amice repeat the words and the man came up. Then a woman came out of the door, hair covered by a linen cap. She took one look at Amice, at him, and came out to help.

  As the older woman took his other arm, hauling him up, Henry felt the blinding pain flare up on his left side as she stretched the wound. His vision swam and faltered. He passed out.

  The last thing he remembered seeing was Amice's lovely face, a wrinkle of concern lining her brow. If that is the last thing I see, Henry thought, his heart warming, I will have lived my life well.

  He let the blackness fill his vision then, sinking into it completely. The noise of a fire
, crackling, reached his ears. Lost in the memory of the burning inn, Henry strove to wake. He had to move, had to reach her. If he didn't, she would burn.

  He sat up, eyes wide. Where was he? The room was unfamiliar and he was in a broad four-poster bed, a fire roaring in the grate opposite.

  “Amice,” he said sleepily. “Where is Amice?”

  He heard an older voice say something. Whoever the owner of the voice was, she sounded confused. He heard another voice reply. Then he heard a third voice, one he recognized.

  “Is he...Oh!”

  Amice was there. He felt her hand take his and then he saw her, the soft face with its big brown eyes wide with tenderness and care. “Henry,” Amice said, sitting down by his side. “Thank Heaven you're awake.”

  “I do,” he said dryly. He tried to laugh but pain seared through him and he stopped. He could barely think or talk, every word coming to him through a fog. “Where are we?”

  “We're in the farmhouse. These people are called Lewis. They helped us. We would have died if they hadn't let us in.”

  “Probably,” Henry nodded. “What happened?”

  “We reached the farmhouse just as the huntsmen came out of the woods. They had crossed the river. I heard them near the farm. As we went inside, I heard them pass the yard. They would have seen us...” she shook her head, sobbing.

  “Well, they didn't. Thank Heaven,” Henry added. He chuckled, and then gasped. The pain seemed to be getting worse, if anything. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

  “Mrs. Lewis said you need doctoring,” Amice said, bringing his attention back to the pain of his wound. He nodded.

  “I think she's right.”

  Amice chuckled. Then she was serious again. “We need to get you to a monastery or something, somewhere where people will help you and won't ask questions.”

  “Good...idea.” Henry hissed out a breath. “Is there one?”

  “I asked Mrs. Lewis. She said the abbey of Saint Bernard is nearby.”

  “Good.”

  Amice took his hand. “You should rest. Try and eat something.