The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Indeed, my lord.” Beiste inclined his head.

  Ambeal felt sick. The three of them sat at the long table in the solar together, the fire flickering in the grate, the afternoon sun shining through the clouds and into the long windows that lined the side of the room. She looked down at her trencher, where a healthy helping of stew was set before her. Then out of the door. Anywhere to avoid the cool gaze of Beiste who sat opposite her.

  “My lady,” he said, raising a glass to her. “If I may say so, the years have made you blossom.”

  Ambeal swallowed and looked through the door, trying to avoid his eyes. “Thank you, sir,” she managed.

  “It's been too long, eh, Beiste?”

  “Indeed, my lord,” he said solemnly to her father.

  Ambeal looked at her father's satisfied smile and wanted to shout at the pair of them. I will have no part in this! I am married. Nevertheless, she kept silent.

  A serving man arrived with a platter of fresh bread and she took some, breaking off a piece and chewing, hoping to settle her stomach.

  “You have kept well up here?” Beiste asked. “I recall you as a keen rider.”

  “I do ride, sir,” Ambeal said tightly. She wasn't sure why, but she felt a need to keep as much of her life secret from this man as possible.

  Her father snorted. “You never stop, daughter! Why be so secretive? Beiste is a close friend of ours.”

  He was never a friend of mine.

  Ambeal looked at her plate, making herself take a spoonful of the stew, which, she had to admit, was delicious.

  “Now, Beiste,” her father said, turning to him. “Tell me about this plan you had for the household guard...”

  Ambeal barely listened as the two discussed some aspects of household defense. She chewed on the stew, appreciating the fact that the cook had managed to whip up something this delicious at such short notice.

  Our wood went missing today. The day Beiste arrived. And it suits him to make Father believe I am unstable. I wonder.

  She listened idly to the conversation, having nothing better to do. She didn't want to let her mind wander too far, or she would think of Alf and wonder where he was.

  “And so you propose to use these new siege engines in a defensive way?” her father asked.

  “Yes,” Beiste replied musingly. “Though as you can imagine, getting the supplies to create them has been hard.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “I've had to make friends with all the woodcutters in the district.”

  They both laughed at that. Ambeal's eyes opened wide.

  He knows all the local woodcutters. Suddenly, when we will need a load of kindling delivered, it doesn't get here. Was it him?

  “So, daughter,” her father said, interrupting her thoughts. “I may need to excuse myself early from this luncheon. My steward is in desperate need of my seal on some charter. And I take my duties to heart.”

  Ambeal felt the barb of that last remark cut into her. She knew it was unfair, but again she could not protest. She felt that if she did, she would only open herself out to worse unkindness.

  “Very good,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Ah! Here's Wallis. Dessert, man!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As the servant cleaned away their trenchers and another man brought in baked apples and a plate of marzipan, Ambeal focused on her plate and not on the man opposite. She lifted a spiced mouthful to her lips and her father scraped his chair back.

  “Right,” he said. “I'm off to work. I'll leave you youngsters here.”

  “Father...” Ambeal protested. Here she was, trapped at the table with Beiste. She considered leaving too, but it would be very rude while Beiste still ate. She cleared her throat, considering it anyway.

  “My lord, we will meet later,” Beiste said. “I regret I will not join you now, but I have sweeter things to face.”

  He grinned at Ambeal, who felt herself flush. It was anger more than embarrassment, she told herself. How dare he behave like this?

  Her father chuckled. He left. Ambeal listened as the hollow ring of his footsteps in the stone hallway echoed and faded off.

  She looked up, heart pounding, into Beiste's dark eyes.

  “My lord, I...” she scraped back the chair, feeling a desperate need to get away. She knew it was rude. However, sometimes rudeness was a necessary thing.

  “Stay,” he whispered. His foot came out and stroked her calf. She tensed, feeling sick. He had no right to touch her! She was Alf's and his only.

  “No,” she said. She stood.

  He was beside her in an instant, taking her arm.

  “You are a fool to argue, milady,” he said. His eyes, looking down into hers were dark and narrow. She could see the rage in them. She twisted her wrist free.

  “If you dare...” she hissed.

  “Oh, but I do dare,” Beiste replied. “And why? Because your father would put you out of this house if I told him the way you treated me.”

  “The way I treat you?” Ambeal stared at him. “Beiste McGormond. Are you daft?”

  He gave a mirthless grin. “I'm not remotely daft,” he said peaceably. “On the other hand you are distressed and distracted. You can't even control the housekeeping adequately...”

  “How dare you?” Ambeal spat.

  “I do dare,” Beiste said. He came round the table toward her. He took her shoulders in his big, muscular grip. “I dare very much.”

  His lips were on hers and he kissed her. Ambeal wanted to spit.

  She twisted and tore her mouth away. Then she slapped him.

  She was crying, her eyes filled with tears. It was shock and horror. Not sadness.

  “Get away!” she whispered. He raised a fist and with fear she thought he would hit her with it.

  He let it fall by his side.

  “You think you can play with me,” he said. “You think you have a say in this? Well, you haven't.”

  “I have my own say in this,” Ambeal said angrily. She was white with rage, shaking with it, her voice she knew was trembling, though she could not keep it steady. “I am not yours. I am a wife.”

  She held up her hand and showed him the ring. He seized her wrist and stared at it. Then he threw her hand down and laughed.

  “A pretty token,” he said. “It means nothing.”

  “What do you...” she hissed. She backed away until her spine pressed the wall.

  He smiled. It was not pleasant. “You think that your father countenances that?” he asked. He laughed. “He will arrange otherwise. He wants me to wed you. He always has. You need a strong hand.”

  Ambeal felt the blood drain from her. She had never felt so angry, so insulted in her life. She walked up to him and felt her hand lift, ready to slap him again. He caught her wrist. This time he twisted it back and it hurt her. She cried out.

  “You will not think to strike me again,” he said harshly. “I am not to be trifled with. I'll wed you.”

  Ambeal took a step back. He let her wrist go. She was shaking. Nevertheless, she still had something she had to say.

  “I will not wed you. If it's the last thing I do, I will prevent this from happening.”

  He chuckled.

  His laugh followed her down the hallway as she turned and fled, heading back to her bedchamber.

  Once there, she shut the door and sat down on the bed, too shocked to cry.

  She was all alone here, with no-one to trust. What must I do?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A HIDDEN ENEMY

  A HIDDEN ENEMY

  The fortress at Inverglass reached up to the sky. A high, thin, impenetrable tower on a crag inaccessible except from the front, the place was defensible in ways Alf could not have expected.

  A handful of men could hold this place.

  Why the thane of Inverglass would want to discuss terms with anyone, he had no idea. The thane could simply stay in this fortress and never worry about having enemies. It was easily the most d
efensible fortress Alf had ever seen.

  Well, I have to negotiate with him. He shrugged, thinking it. What more could he do?

  He rode up the long, winding road to the distant fortress tower.

  At the gate, he stopped as the sentry challenged him. He gave his name and said he had business with the thane. The gate opened.

  “Weapons, sir,” the guard at the door said. Alf, looking up at the entry to the hall, sighed loudly. Here he was, about to walk into dangerous territory, and he wasn't allowed to take a weapon in? He sighed. Drawing his knife out of his belt, he handed it over.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Alf removed the small knife from his sock and handed that over, too. He might as well be without any risk of being accused of fighting. If he was discovered carrying arms into the presence of the thane, it could spark an incident. Better safe than sorry.

  All the same, as he followed the tall, silent man through the gate and into the great hall, he had never felt less safe in his life.

  I could come in here and not leave.

  He shivered. He would leave. He had to because of Ambeal. If he died here, he wouldn't be able to see her again, so he would live.

  “This way, sir.”

  Alf followed the man into a vast room. At the end of it, a man sat on a high-backed carved seat on a dais. Alf swallowed hard.

  “My lord thane,” he said. He bowed low. He couldn't see the man's face.

  “Arise,” a voice like dry leaves said. Alf stood, feeling his heart thud in his chest.

  “My lord, I...”

  “You come from Dunkeld, yes?” he asked. Alf stared at him. How could he know that?

  He nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Approach.”

  Alf did so. The voice was the merest whisper, but it still held an immense power, though Alf could not have said why. Compelling and frightening at once. He went forward to the chair. He knelt.

  “Ah.” The man looked down at him. He had pale, pale blue eyes, so close to colorless that Alf felt sure that he could be blind. He could see him though, for he looked at him a long time, and then nodded.

  “Take him away.”

  “What?” Alf shouted. “My lord, I...” He shook his head as two guards seized his arms. “This is ridiculous!” he said. “I'm here to negotiate! I...” He looked round wildly. “My lord!”

  “Silence him,” the man said tiredly.

  Alf shouted as one of the guards hit him in the stomach, hard; a blow that drove the breath from him. When he looked up, he was beyond distressed. He was furious.

  “Why is someone like you, who lives in this fastness, so afraid of visitors?” He shouted. “You could defend this place with five people...oh...” he groaned as the guard on his right hit him on the side of the head, hard. He felt his head go back and he saw stars. The men dragged him.

  “Release him,” the thane said abruptly.

  Alf felt their hands release his shoulders and felt confusion fill him as he hit the ground. What was wrong with this man?

  “My lord, I...”

  “Leave him,” the thane said distantly. He waved a hand, dismissing the guards. They left, reluctant.

  That left Alf on his stomach on the floor in front of the thane. He groaned. His head hurt. His solar plexus ached where the guard had punched. His shoulders and arms burned from how they had dragged him about. He lay on the floor, coughing. Then he rolled and sat up as a strange noise filled his ears.

  When he looked up, the thane was laughing.

  Alf stared. Was he insane?

  “My lord, I...” he began again.

  “Oh,” the thane laughed. “I declare. I'm glad you arrived.”

  “You are?” Alf was thoroughly confused now. What was happening here?

  “Yes,” he said lightly. “Now. Stand. Come. We must discuss.”

  Alf groaned. He wasn't sure standing was what he was most able for, but he pulled himself to his feet and gave it a go. He shuffled after the man as they went up the stairs and along a hallway, heading, Alf guessed, to the solar.

  They went in and sat down. Alf was relieved to feel a cushioned seat beneath him. After the beating and then the ride earlier, sitting down was a relief.

  “Now,” the thane said, turning to the door. “Bring us refreshments. Disturb us not.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  As they waited for ale and cakes, Alf studied the man carefully. He had no idea what motivated him to behave as he just had. He seemed sane, though, and, when the cakes and ale arrived, he passed the tankard to Alf as if they'd always been acquaintances.

  “Now,” he said with a grin, “mayhap you can tell me how I could defend this place with five men.”

  Alf wet his lips, considering that reply. “Well,” he paused. “You only have one entrance. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your men have the longbow?”

  “I have two bowmen.”

  “Well, good. Put them on the wall, have three men on foot at the gate...a narrow gate means only one man at a time enters. And who the archers don't pick off, the groundsmen handle.”

  The thane grinned. “A wise answer.”

  Alf let out a breath. He felt relieved. It was as if he's testing me. He shivered. Powerful men and their power games left him unmoved.

  “My lord?” he asked, looking up. The old man drank a sip of ale, and then grinned. Alf shivered. He was still unsure if he was entirely sane. Right now, he seemed thus.

  “Well, then,” he said with a grin. “Welcome to Inverglass, young man.” He clicked his glass with Alf's, who frowned. What was the thane doing now? He seemed determined to confuse Alf.

  “Thank you, milord.”

  “Now,” he said. “I was told you were here to negotiate. I was told to expect your arrival. Word had it you were not to be trusted. But I see you are.”

  Alf stared at him. “Word, my lord?” Who? The thane, McDonnell?

  “Never mind,” he said with a broad smile. “The point is that I trust you. So, what would you say to me?”

  “I was to come here to negotiate a peace treaty between you and the McDonnell's,” he said, feeling as if he was negotiating a sheet of ice. “I was told to offer you terms. A parcel of land at the border in exchange for the boundary remaining unchallenged.

  “Well, then,” the thane said, smiling. “I agree.”

  “You do?” Alf stared at him. “Really, milord?”

  He chuckled. “You didn't expect that, did you?” he said with a grin. “Well, I was told to expect you and as it happens I have little interest in McDonnell land. Of course, they may donate it to me if they choose. I see no moral obligation not to take it,” he added with another smile.

  “No, my lord.” Alf nodded. This whole scenario was confusing to him. Who had sent him? Who had told the thane? Why?

  “Well, then,” the thane said again. “We are agreed.”

  “Yes, my lord. Milord?”

  “Yes?” he asked. He seemed to have already forgotten the conversation, for he was reaching for a slice of fruit-studded cake as if there was nothing to be discussed.

  “My lord, if it pleases you to tell me...who told you?”

  He chuckled. He had surprisingly white, surprisingly straight teeth. He showed them now in a broad grin. “Who do you think?”

  Alf swallowed. He did know already.

  “He did,” he said bitterly.

  “Indeed,” the thane nodded. “Which is why I will accept his contribution only on one condition.”

  “My lord?” Alf frowned. “You mean, the agreement? What is it?”

  “I accept only if you become thane after him.”

  Alf gaped. “My lord! But...why me, sir?”

  The thane chuckled again. It was warm, rounded and quite sane. He smiled. “You are trustworthy. A man who betrays a guest, sending him on a false errand into death, is not.”

  Alf smiled, amazed at that response. “Yes. But, milord?”

  “Yes?” th
e thane said. He lowered the tankard and perused the plate for another piece of cake.

  “Why trust me instead?”

  The thane chuckled.

  “I trusted you because you bore no knife to my hall.”

  Alf frowned. Then he realized something. By having him seized, the thane effectively checked if he was armed or not. If he'd had a weapon, he may well have drawn it to fight his way out.

  This man is far from insane.

  He was easily one of the saner, self-possessed individuals Alf knew. He liked him.

  “My lord,” he said, raising the tankard. “Cheers.”

  The old thane gave a raspy laugh. “Well, then,” he said. “Are we agreed?”

  “We are agreed, yes, my lord,” Alf said.

  “But you think McDonnell will not agree?”

  Alf nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” He had taken the words out of Alf's own mind.

  “Well, then,” the thane said. “I think I shall have him informed in writing. Webster?”

  “Yes, my lord?” An older man with a long beard approached. From the way he was dressed – not very finely but neither in the linen garb of a servant either – Alf guessed him to be the man's steward.

  “See to it that a document is written to McDonnell. State very clearly that I wish the land to be passed to me in exchange for truce. Add that I accept these terms only if this youth – his son-in-law – becomes his rightful successor.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Alf gazed after the steward as he departed. He still couldn't quite believe what had just occurred. He had come here expecting to be betrayed. Expecting to die. Yet, here was this man, a stranger, ensuring his right to a succession.

  “My lord, thank you,” he said.

  The look the man gave him made a chill creep up his spine and made him question his earlier assumption that he was quite sane. He shivered.

  “Don't thank me,” he said darkly. “It's not for that reason I did it.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he said quietly.

  “And don't humble yourself,” he snapped. “You're an arrogant wretch. And I like that. It's honest. I like honest men.”

  Alf stared at him. Then, meeting his eye, he grinned. “Thank you, my lord.”