The Highland Secret Agent

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Ambeal,” he said, turning to her. “Come, sit down. I hope you are not tired by this sudden warmth in the air?” he indicated the blazing sunlight that poured down through the arches.

  “I find the warmth invigorating,” Ambeal said lightly. “As well you know, Beiste. How many summers did we spend in the fields, as children?”

  Alf felt his own heart ache at that. This was someone she had known as a child. Someone to whom she had given the precious gift of her trust. Only, he had twisted it, used it to try and steal her birthright and her choices in her own life!

  Beiste smiled, though it was not a smile that reached his eyes, not a pleasant smile. “I recall,” he said. “Though I do recall your delicate nerves were agitated by the heat you enjoyed back then.”

  Ambeal blinked. “That's not true,” she said.

  Alf saw Beiste look at her father, as if in confirmation of some long-held suspicion. Her father nodded.

  “Daughter, you are not well. Come; let Beiste take you down to the great hall. Luncheon has been set out there.”

  Ambeal stared at him. “Father...” she protested.

  Beiste was there at her side. “Come, dear. I'll help you down. We have so much to discuss, you and I. Many plans...” he trailed off as Alf clenched his fist, standing in the way.

  “Sir,” Beiste said, his voice growing ice. “I do not believe we've met. I do know you're in my way. Now step aside, please, and we will make acquaintance later.”

  His eyes, baneful and expressionless, seemed to suck at Alf's soul, draining its warmth. He glared back.

  “We have not met, no,” he said. “And I am in your way. I'll clear off when you leave the lady to speak for herself. She's most capable.”

  Beiste laughed. He bit his lip. “Oh, dear,” he said ruefully. “I see you are mistaken. The lady has need for assistance. If you've been informed otherwise, you were lied to.”

  Ambeal looked up at Alf, her face a picture of horror. Alf looked back, eyes shining.

  “Lady Ambeal tells the truth,” he said thinly. “As you should now. Now, let her go.”

  Ambeal looked a warning at him, but Alf stood firm. He stared down Beiste, who stepped back, snorting in distaste.

  “Fine,” he said, though his voice was so brittle Alf thought it might shatter in the open, like a badly tempered steel sword.

  He said nothing, but stood back to let Ambeal pass. She stepped past both of them and, head held high, headed to the door. At the door she stopped, and turned.

  Alf was standing in front of Beiste. The thane had crossed the room and stood on his left. His one hand on his hip, his presence radiated anger and threat. Alf looked back at Ambeal, rather glad she'd stopped there. The air smelled of murder, loosely held.

  “Ambeal,” he said quietly. “I'll follow you.”

  Ambeal stayed where she was, waiting. Tense with frayed nerves, Alf made himself walk past Beiste. The man looked at him with eyes narrowed murderously, and Alf almost felt that that stare cut him. He walked out of the room.

  “Alf,” Ambeal whispered as they walked down the hallway together. “You mustn't test him.”

  “I can't help it,” Alf said grimly back. “That man's looking for trouble. If I didn't, he'd start it anyway.”

  He wasn't sure if that was true – he had been provocative to Beiste, intentionally so. However, he suspected he was right. He wanted a fight. He wanted to clear the place of all opposition to Lady Ambeal's hand. If Brodgar had wed her, it would have been the same, Alf thought slowly. However, he had to wonder if Beiste would have tried so desperately to separate Ambeal from his cousin, with whom she had only had the most tentative bond of friendly acquaintance.

  Does he hate me for my interference? Or because it is obvious, the depth of our regard, mine for Ambeal, and she for me? Is he jealous?

  He had no idea. All he could do was walk, tense and with his back alert for strikes from Beiste, who walked three or four paces away from him, to the great hall, behind Ambeal.

  In the hall, all the men-at-arms were assembled at the benches and a great feast had been laid out. Alf felt his mouth water as his nose carried the scents of roasting, baking and spice toward his stomach. He felt his stomach rumble ambivalently, and looked across at Ambeal. Her face was white, cheek tense, as if she held back her instincts to either fight or run.

  He looked into her eyes, his own eyes soft with care. Hers were tense, closer to gray than brown, her pupils spiraled down to points of tension. He could see how drawn she was, how clearly terrified of Beiste she had become.

  The more he saw of her response, the more he felt he hated the man. He glanced back at him, but he was behind in the dimmer shadows of the hall, talking to someone.

  Ambeal stepped up on the dais, and Alf followed. The steward, Roderic, was already there. He bowed and shuffled round to his lordship's seat, clearly wanting to put in a word. The thane joined him. Beiste took the place beside Ambeal and Alf stubbornly sat opposite. That put him at the left hand of the thane.

  “Friends!” the thane declared as the steward left, his message clearly delivered. “Welcome to my hall! We celebrate another visit from my exemplary ward, Beiste, heir to the clan McGormond.”

  The men-at-arms knocked on the wooden tables, their tapping growing to a roar that signified approval. Alf closed his ears to it, unable to help wondering if he would be as welcome. He sought Lewis at the benches and saw him, a dim outline against the darkness of the place, lit only by clerestory window or by the licking, shifting light of the vast hearth fire.

  “Well, then!” the thane shouted, grinning and clearly pleased by the positive reception. “With no further ado, welcome! Let us eat.”

  A roar went up from the assembled men and Alf noticed that the servants were there also, at another table further to his right. The visit from Beiste was clearly meant to be an important event. Why though?

  Alf looked about, feeling uncomfortable. On his left, the thane was sitting, eyes narrowed with resentment, a festering rage loosely held in the semblance of polite restraint. Opposite him, Beiste was glaring with unconcealed hate. Ambeal, sitting between the two, looked at her plate, head bowed.

  The sight of that fired anger in Alf he had not thought possible to feel. All courtesy went out of him and he wanted to strike, to maim, to kill. How dare they reduce her to a shadow of herself? The Ambeal he knew was bright as sunlight on a lake, as effusive and as irrepressible.

  The Ambeal who sat between these two was reduced, silent, gray in their shadows. He would not have it.

  His lordship had raised a goblet and held it out.

  “A toast,” he said thinly. “To our illustrious future.”

  “To the future,” Beiste said, a small grin illuminating his face.

  “Future,” Ambeal said. Her eyes were pools of shadow and Alf felt his heart clench with concern for her.

  “To the future,” he said stiffly. His voice rang with hope.

  They all drank.

  Down in the hall, the men were murmuring, talking among themselves, and food was circulating, brought in by the serving men who walked out from the arches in the back. Alf felt his own stomach roil with anticipation and was relieved when a man stepped out from the shadow of the wall to bring the first course of fish soup to the table.

  As they ate, Beiste related some incident from his year's visit to the castle at Edinburgh.

  Alf didn't listen. He sat and watched him. Watched the way the two men talked among themselves as if Ambeal was not even there. Beiste reached across her for the dish of salt where it sat, pride of place, beside her father's dish. His arm reached past her and then withdrew and neither man said so much as “pardon me”. Alf tensed

  They both seek to use her for their own gain. She is a piece in their struggle for power, to be traded. Nothing more. I love her.

  He looked across the table as Beiste scraped back his chair, sighing contentedly, and his eyes met hers. He gave a small, uncertain smile. She look
ed into his eyes. He could almost see the color return to her face. He let out a weary sigh. At least the old Ambeal was still in there, ready to resurface when she could.

  The meal stretched out in uncomfortable tension, course following course and finally dessert. Alf stretched his legs under the table, feeling restless. He'd spoken maybe three words the entire time.

  When the dinner was over, the thane stood.

  “Friends,” he announced to the group at large, his big, genial voice filling the hall and echoing up to the rafters. “I am about to take my leave! But that does not impinge on my hospitality. Stay awhile, enjoy! We'll feast again, doubtless, before long.”

  Alf felt his own brows shoot up. What was it that the thane was so sure they'd celebrate, so soon?

  The thane left and Ambeal pushed back her chair, looking desperately at Alf, who understood. She didn't want to be stuck here with Beiste. She also wished to leave. Alf stood first, scraping back his chair over the wooden, rush-strewn boards below them.

  “I am tired,” he said clearly but thinly. “I will retire. Excuse me.” He gave Beiste a cold-eyed stare.

  “I also will retire,” Ambeal said quickly. She stood and, before Beiste could stop her, hurried to the edge of the dais.

  Beiste stood, too. He followed her. Alf let her past, and then stood at the head of the stairs, blocking his passage down behind her.

  The two men glared at each other.

  “You will leave her alone,” Alf said.

  “You will not meddle in my concern,” Beiste said, voice hard as he stared him down. “I warn you.”

  Alf stared back at him. His back tensed and he felt his hair stand on end with the threat, but he held his ground. “Did I say I that was not a warning?”

  He turned and walked out of the room.

  In the hallway, he caught up with Ambeal, who was running, quickly, to the stairs.

  “Ambeal!” he called. “Wait.”

  She turned round. Her eyes were damp with tears. “I must get away,” she said.

  Alf caught up with her. He held her against his chest while she sobbed and sobbed. He didn't move, just let her sob against his chest, all her rage and fear draining as he held her close.

  She looked up at him, frightened. “Alf,” she whispered. “What is happening? What do they plan?”

  Alf sighed. “I don't know,” he whispered gently. “All I know is, we won't let them.”

  “Alf,” she whispered. “Please. Don't do anything dangerous. You've seen him. How unpredictable he is. Please. I need you to live. I don't care about them, one way or the other. Just, don't risk it.”

  Alf sighed. “I cannot leave them,” he said softly. “I cannot let this go unanswered.”

  “Alf, please,” she said. “Don't do something foolish.”

  Alf sighed. He looked down into her eyes. “I promise I won't take any unnecessary risks.”

  She sniffed. “Thank you.”

  She still looked worried, though, and, as he led her up the stairs to their chamber and shut the door, very gently, behind him, heading to the window and looking out, he brooded.

  He would not take unnecessary risks. However, that did not mean he would do nothing about this. He would take the very necessary risks.

  He would not let Beiste get away with what he was trying to do. He would stop him. Whatever the cost. It was necessary. He would fight him if he had to. If it had to happen.

  Somewhere, in the back of his heart, he knew it would, the man was itching for a fight, and he was ready – more than ready – to give him that.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AN UNEXPECTED OUTCOME

  AN UNEXPECTED OUTCOME

  The challenge came the next day. Alf was walking in the colonnade, waiting for Lewis, the chief guardsman, to appear. They had agreed to finish the swords that day and also to discuss new plans for the defenses on the gate. Alf was eager to introduce new weaponry his father spoke of.

  Where is he? Ah! There he is.

  The courtyard was dark under scudding clouds and he saw the older war chief cross the flagstones, heading up to him.

  “Alf,” he said, only his eyes smiling, his face set in its usual serious expression. “I was delayed...”

  As he spoke, someone stepped out from behind Alf, heading from the castle. “Lewis,” an imperious voice said. “What's the trouble? Why do you go to him? I am his lordship’s aide.”

  Alf turned and looked at him. “No, you're not,” he said.

  The taller man's eyes widened and narrowed as if he's slapped him. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “I am his lordship's trusted man; his heir. You challenge that?”

  “I do,” Alf said boldly. “You're nothing here. His ward. I am his son-in-law. His heir. Invited to it by the thane.” He didn't mention the thane in question lived sixty miles away in the north and was not the thane of Bronley, but anyhow.

  “You lie,” Beiste hissed. He stepped back. “Lewis, hear this. That man lies.” He shouted it aloud, so the whole courtyard could hear and bear witness to his proclamation. “All of you! I call that man,” he pointed squarely at Alf, “A liar and a fraud. I am the rightful heir here. My sword proclaims it.” He slapped the hilt of his sword where it hung at his side. “Does anyone dispute my right to claim that?”

  No one answered. Beiste turned to Alf, a thin-lipped smile on his brooding features. “Do you accept my challenge, sir?” The last word was sneered, a deliberate insult.

  “I do,” Alf said plainly. Inside, he was tense with nerves. Outwardly, he was perfectly composed.

  “Fine,” Beiste snarled. “Well, then. You, sir, map us out a ground. We'll fight this here and now.”

  “You must give lord Alf the leave to fetch his sword,” Lewis said levelly. “It is protocol.”

  Beiste snorted. “Very well.”

  Alf raised a brow and Lewis looked down, every line of him speaking of his disapproval. However, he chalked out the fighting square on the flagstones and stepped back.

  A crowd had assembled by the time Alf returned, every man-at-arms in the castle seeming to want to watch them battle it out in the small square drawn on the flagstones. Beiste was already there, his mail donned, his sword in one hand. He looked down at Alf and gave a grim smile.

  Alf swallowed hard. The man was taller and broader than him – half a head taller at the least, he reckoned – and he held the great-sword with a casual ease that spoke of training as long as his own. At best, they were evenly matched. At worst, the advantages were not with Alf.

  He drew in a long, slow breath. He had trained with his father, chief guard at Dunkeld, until his arm ached and his head blurred with exhaustion. He had sparred with Brodgar, his cousin and the thane's heir, since he was a small boy, and they had both received the same tuition as each other. His sword was Frankish steel. Not perhaps as good as that of his opponent, which was Spanish made, to judge from the style and the hilt of it. Nevertheless, it would do.

  “Lord Alf, Lord Beiste,” Lewis said, clearing his throat and explaining the rules of the combat. “You fight over a dispute of views. This fight is to the first blood, strictly.” he leveled a look at Beiste, as if to enforce that view. “You will stay in that square and fight until this feud is over. You will not leave nor call any to your aid. You start when I drop the kerchief and you stop when the fight is concluded, or when I tell you to. No other time. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Alf said firmly.

  Beiste nodded grimly. “Agreed.”

  They walked into the square. The guardsmen ringed them, a silent wall of mail, spears, and eyes. Alf drew in a breath. He was not used to having such a considerable audience. He tensed, wondering if the thane was there somewhere, looking down from the upper level. Or Ambeal?

  He heard feet then, and a gasp of horror. Ambeal. She was up there in the solar, looking down. He saw her plum red dress and felt his heart settle. Good. If he died, there was a chance to say goodbye.

  The whole world seemed to flow
slowly after that. He saw Beiste walk slowly to the end of the square. Saw him turn and lower his blade. He stood where he was, tense and ready. The breeze ruffled round the courtyard. Somewhere, a cloth snapped in the wind. He looked at Lewis.

  “Ready..?”

  He dropped the kerchief. The wind caught it and took it.

  Beiste raised his sword, stepped forward and brought it down in a singing arc. Looking at the sword, it seemed to be going slowly, but Alf almost heard the whistle as it sliced through the air, arcing for his head.

  Distantly, as if in a dream, he heard someone scream. Ambeal.

  Then, suddenly, everything was happening very fast. His body responded and he was parrying the blow, his torso dancing back, his arm lifting. The blow raked down the sword, making his arm ache. Sparks struck and he heard Beiste grunt.

  Then he was dancing back and swinging up and it was his blade that was singing down, down and cutting straight for Beiste's head. On the edge of his vision he saw the swirl of a crimson cloak and knew that, somewhere, she was watching him.

  “Hai!” he heard himself screaming as the battle-rage possessed him and there was no holding him back as he launched himself at his opponent. He had no idea that this was inside him, this untamed, wild spirit of the fight.

  Forward, back. Block. Swing. Dance back. Arc down. Cut. Move, he's cutting for your head. Step back. And back again. Now up.

  He knew this and he did not know how he knew it. Somehow, his soul was above the battle, and it felt as if he witnessed it as much as he fought in it, his body knowing how to do this, had always known how to do this.

  He could see his opponent sweating and he did not feel anything but a strange detachment as the blade sang down for his head. He lifted the blade. Then Beiste stepped sideways, tripping him.

  Alf felt his foot go out from under him and he felt the surprise as he collapsed. His sword was in his hand, but he could not lift fast enough to block the blade that was singing down, a high thin song as it cleaved the idea, arcing for his head.

  A scream cut the air. “No!”