AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER
In the inn at Queensferry, Henry, Captain Quinn, leaned back on his chair and looked out of the window, pretending to study the rain clouds that rolled up from the coast. In truth, he was watching the blue-coated guardsman in the street. He straightened up as the innkeeper came past.
“More mussel stew, sir?”
“Oh.” Henry blinked. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
The innkeeper shot him an inquiring look and Henry swallowed hard.
For goodness' sakes, man. If you only know five words of Scots, you could at least pronounce it properly.
That was the one problem in his current situation. He was here, spying at the Scottish court, and his Scots was not good. Henry narrowed his sapphire eyes and sighed.
It's no trouble at the court, they speak French there. But here on the street, it's a real difficulty.
It wouldn't have been too bad if he had gone further south. There, they spoke Lowland Scots, which had some words in common with his own. Up here though, Gaelic was more often than not the language of the townsfolk, that wild, impenetrable language of the hillsides. He found it almost impossible to speak.
He lifted his spoon and sampled the stew. It was good – and another advantage was with a mouthful of victuals, no one was likely to talk to him. He could remain quiet.
A serving-man appeared at his elbow and said something incomprehensible. Henry chewed stiffly, making it obvious.
The man opened his mouth to say something else – it could have been an apology, Henry didn't know. When he still hadn't gone, Henry swallowed, and then threw a plausible fit of coughing. That sent him scuttling off.
Good, Henry thought sourly. That was close. This is ridiculous! Anyone could betray me. And all because of an oversight! He was frustrated with himself. He had another week to stay here, as he still hadn't managed to find the French envoys his master was expecting at the Scottish court. It was his mission to intercept them and find out what their purpose was.
In these troubled times, the last thing we need is France and Scotland allying to squash England in between the two.
It was a major worry at the court. It had set into motion the chain of command that led to Henry Quinn, English ship-master and spy, sitting in a cold inn in rainy Scotland, fearing for his life and cursing weather worse even than at his home in Darbyshire.
Just then, two men came into the inn courtyard. Henry noticed them mainly because of how ordinary they looked. Gray cloaks, dark tan trews, plain unadorned boots.
If I ever saw two people trying desperately not to stand out, it's them.
He leaned back in the chair, cautiously keeping an eye out on the two men. What were they up to here?
He tensed as, a few minutes later, they disappeared from the yard. He heard the stamp of boots in the upstairs hallway and, in a moment, they were here.
Henry studied them from out of the corner of his eye. They were both well-built, one slightly shorter than the other. They had a competent air that suggested they didn't mess about. He swallowed hard.
I think they're looking for me.
He wasn't sure why he thought that, unless it was simply the way they stood like fighters but tried so hard not to draw attention to themselves.
Henry watched fixedly. The two chatted to the innkeeper, who gestured rapidly, back and forth. He inclined his head. The men said something. One of them looked at Henry.
Oh, no. Here we go.
A sailor who had started as the first mate and then graduated to captain in his own right, Henry was not shy of brawling. He didn't much enjoy it, but he could do it when he had to. All the same. Those two were lethal-looking, and he didn't much like the thought of the odds if they both took him on at once.
They'd be fishing my dead self out of the port before tomorrow.
He looked about, noticing the only exit was the one in which the one man had, surreptitiously, positioned himself. His heart thudded. The other man was coming across the room toward him.
“Fáilte!”
Henry frowned at the man. What had he just said? It could be anything from “arrest this man,” to “what's your name,” to “where did you get that coat?” He closed his eyes, thinking hard.
Suddenly a flash of inspiration hit him. He was here seeking Frenchmen. Why not pretend he was one? That would confuse these two, especially if they were counter-spies. If they thought he was the Frenchman they were supposed to be protecting, then that would change their views somewhat.
“Pardon, monsieur?”
He had to smile when the man looked taken aback. Henry saw him compose himself.
“Je cherche un gentilhomme anglais. Il est là?”
Henry frowned. “Pourriez-vous répéter cela, s'il vous plait?” he said politely. Can you please repeat that?
The man rolled his eyes. Repeated his statement, slowly. Henry already understood perfectly – an English noble, he spoke French most days – but he wanted time. He cleared his throat to reply.
“Non, il est pas ici.” No, he's not here. However, he knew he was too late. They already knew he was no Frenchman. He swallowed and slowly stood, pushing back his chair.
“Pourquoi vas-tu?” the man asked. Why are you leaving? Henry looked around desperately.
“Uh...”
At that moment, he saw her. She walked in through the door behind the two, caught his eye. Her soft brown gaze held his. Then she cleared her throat.
Rapid words fell from her lips in Gaelic. The two men looked affronted, then embarrassed. When the lady had finished berating them, they were both left standing there like two blushing mountains. Henry frowned.
What did she say?
He watched her as she continued to the landlord, speaking words he didn't understand, firm, emphatic ones. As she spoke, he stared. She was not tall, nor short. She had a trim, curvaceous figure that would have kept him awake at night with longing when on board. She also had a face like one of the priceless porcelains he had seen adorning cathedrals in Ghent. She was lovely.
She looked up at him. When she caught his eye on her, she blushed warmly. She looked so sweet that he felt heat rise in his blood, stirring him to longing. Then he looked away.
As he looked up again, she crossed the room.
“Pardon, monsieur. V´Veuillez nous excuser.” She inclined her head towards the men, looking embarrassed for them.
Henry nodded. “Pas ta faute.” It isn't your fault.
She looked up and smiled. Then she blushed. “I am Lady Amice. Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said. She spoke flawless French, Henry noted, amazed. It was better than his. Who was she?
“My lady.” He bowed low over her hand. He also spoke in French. With the threat removed, it came more easily to his mind. “I thank you for removing my assailants. Thank you, truly. I am Henri de Courin.” He made up a name quickly. “I am honored to meet you.” He raised his eyes to her face.
The lady blushed again, prettily. He felt his throat tighten with need. He cleared it and gestured to his chair. “If you are taking repast, will you join me?”
Lady Amice nodded. “Thank you, sir. Yes. I would like that. I am traveling with my groom, but he is still busy with the horses outside. I would be pleased to join so gallant a gentleman.”
Henry smiled. Some of her French was spoken a little fast for him, for he was still a bit rusty and recovering from the shock, but he guessed the meaning of the last words and they truly touched him.
“I am glad to have your company, fair lady.”
She looked up at him, a small smile on her face. Then she settled herself at the table in a prim sort of way that made Henry's blood ignite.
My, but she's a lovely woman.
He sat down opposite her. He suddenly realized that he was going to have to call the innkeeper to ask what she wanted to eat, and froze. He'd have to speak to him and he couldn't. As he thought it, he realized it didn't matter overmuch. He was supposedly French now and no one was going to question that he couldn't speak a word of Gaelic. How lucky she'd come along!
“My lady,” he said softly. “I must ask you to do me the honor of eating at my expense,” he said. He had gold, and that was one thing of which he had plenty. The spymaster had paid him generously for this and they needed enough for him to be able to stay at inns until he could return.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said in a small voice. “You are from the French court?”
Henry paused. “I traveled from Calais yesterday,” he said carefully. It didn't answer her question, but it was close enough for her to think it had.
“Oh.” She swallowed and he saw a frown cross her face. He wondered what troubled her. She bit her lip and the gesture, sweet and tender, sent blood rushing to his loins painfully.
“My lady? What is it?” He tried to ask. His voice came out as a croak and he cleared his throat impatiently. “Is something amiss, my lady?”
She cleared her own throat. “Sir...I had to ask. Did you perhaps see any ships from Calais, halted at the harbor? Or perhaps a small ship with two of your countrymen aboard, barred from port?”
“Barred from port?” Henry's brow shot up. Why would they be? Unless the ship held the spies, of course! How did this woman know about it? Was she involved? What was this all really about? “No, my lady,” he said sincerely. Better be honest. “I did not.”
“Oh,” the lady – Amice, her name was, he must remember it – said. She looked disappointed. He saw her shoulders slump and felt suddenly sad also.
“Oh, my lady. I am sorry. Who was it you seek?”
“My cousin,” Amice said sadly. “And his new wife. They were meant to visit us a week ago and...” she sniffed and Henry felt wretched. He fished in his pocket.
“Here.” He passed her a kerchief. It was a linen one with a monogram in the corner.
“Oh.” Amice sniffed. “Thank you sir.”
He handed it to her and, as he did, their fingers touched. He twitched at the contact, as if sparks struck between them. It felt as if they had been ignited. His whole body caught fire. She looked up into his eyes, intensifying the blaze with that sweet, solemn stare.
“Um.” Henry coughed. Amice dabbed her eyes. Put the handkerchief on her lap, and held it in one hand.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I am sorry. I'm just weary...I traveled many days to reach here. I was so hoping that...” she sniffed again. “That they would be here somewhere. Silly me.” She dabbed at the tears with the back of her hand, scuffing them off.
“No.” Henry, without even thinking, held up his hand. His own thumb pressed back the tears. So sweet, so sad! He felt as if her tears were somehow special, like the special balm that wept from certain trees, curative to illness.
“Sir.” She didn't sound as if she was angry. It was a small voice, slightly confused, perhaps. However, not upset.
Henry sighed. “Forgive me, milady. It grieves me sore to see you so sad.”
Amice smiled. “That is very kind of you, sir. Pray tell. Are all Frenchmen as polite as you?”
Henry bit back a smile, flattered. Then he thought about it. Why did she ask that? Did she suspect he wasn't French? Spies were everywhere. How did he know there wasn't someone watching them?
“Some of them,” he said mildly.
Lady Amice laughed. “Well, I can't imagine a world made up of so many gentlemen! So thank Heaven it is only some of you.”
He made a wry face. “And what would be wrong with a world of gentlemen?” he teased her.
“Oh, nothing,” Lady Amice said lightly. “Only that, with so many gentlemen, I wonder how a lady of France decides on one.”
Henry roared with laughter. My, but the girl was witty! He frowned, drawing his cheeks in to stop his grin. “Well,” he said, pretending to consider. “I am pleased to hear you would select a gentleman.”
“Assuredly,” she nodded. “A gentleman is what I want. I set no other measure.”
“No other?” Henry pretended to be shocked. “Well, my lady! You make it too simple to woo a beauty like yourself.”
He hadn't meant to tell her so baldly how he felt, but it had shot out before he'd the time to stop it. He saw her blush. It warmed his soul.
“Oh, sir. You are kind.”
“No,” he said sincerely. “I'm just forthright.”
Their eyes met. He found himself staring into those warm brown eyes as if he could drown there. It felt almost as if he were indeed drowning, pulled down into those warm depths by a seething whirlpool. Nothing could make him look elsewhere.
When she dropped her gaze, black eyelashes resting on pale lower lids, he coughed.
“Forgive me, Lady Amice. I am not always so...forthright.”
She smiled, slowly. “And I am not always so easily affected.”
He grinned, feeling the warmth of that statement sear through him like a knife in lard. So he was making an impact! She certainly was. He hadn't felt like this about a woman in ages. He hadn't, if he thought about it, really felt this about any woman, not ever before.
At that moment, someone came in through the door. A tall, thin-faced man in a gray tunic approached Lady Amice's shoulder. He guessed it to be her groom. He nodded at the man, who inclined his head politely, but didn't smile.
He said something to Amice, and she nodded. When he had gone, she turned to Henry, translating for him.
“Apologies for that, Monsieur de Courin. I just discussed our lodgings with my groomsman. He said he will sleep in the hay loft, and I have a room on the first floor. I trust that you have managed to arrange your own accommodation?”
Henry noticed that her cheeks blushed when she asked that. He was almost tempted to say no, he hadn't, just to see what she would do. As it happened, he had arranged lodgings with the innkeeper by the simple precedent of producing twice as much money as he thought the room was worth and passing it wordlessly over the counter. He still didn't know what he had been given for his pains, but hoped he would be able to stay as long as he needed and settle the account after.
“I did,” he said truthfully. “But thank you, my lady. Your concern warms my heart.”
Amice cleared her throat. “It's nothing, my lord.” Her voice, too, sounded hoarse, surprising Henry.
“Well, then,” he said. His mouth turned down ruefully. “Since we are both settled in lodgings, I suppose I ought to bid you a goodnight.”
He could see her servant hovering, evidently unhappy with his charge speaking to a strange man. He guessed her to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty years of age, traveling chaperoned. She was perhaps headed to the court at Edinburgh? He didn't know.
“I suppose. Goodnight, my lord.” She said it in French, sweet and mellifluous.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
He stood, bowed extravagantly, and hurried off.
As he went up the dark, creaking stairs to his lodgings, he wondered who she was, where she'd arrived from, and what she did here. Whatever those answers, the one thing he knew for certain was that he was going to find out.