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 riding 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 tendril 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?
Henry closed his eyes. She saw a strange expression cross his face, a sort of wistful sadness. She wondered how long he'd been outside his homeland and felt abruptly sorry for him. He sighed.
“England is...green. Different to Scotland's greenness. With rolling hills and sweet grass and meadows full of contented livestock. At least,” he added with a grin, “the bit where I live is like that. Further north, it's bleak, cold, and rainy.”
“Like Scotland?” Amice laughed.
“Almost like.”
“Well, if you all think it's so bad here, why would you wish to invade us?”
He shook his head, laughing. “I am sorry, my lady. I meant no insult. I like the rain.”
She nodded, placated. “Well, then.”
“Well?”
“Well, you left all that behind, your beautiful home, to come out here on...spying...and now what happens? Will you go back again?”
Henry sighed. He ran a weary hand over his face. “That's the trouble,” he said softly. “I don't know.”
“You don't know what?” Amice asked kindly. The fire was making her feel warm now and sat back a little, still holding her hands to the blaze. The hood fell back from her hair and she didn't lift it, but stayed where she was. It was nice to be looking into his eyes.
“I don't know when I can return,” Henry said. Amice frowned, wondering what secrets he held. She listened to the slow crack of the wood on the fire, and waited while he framed his reply. At length, he cleared his throat.
“I am...I am here, searching for a man. A French spy. That was why I sought to be French – to throw off those agents of your king who would know of his arrival. If they thought I was French, it would deter them from risking to end my life.”
“Oh.” Amice bit her lip. A thought was starting to take shape in her head. She turned to Henry, a horrified expression on her face.
“What is it?” he asked. He looked concerned.
“Henry, they think my cousin is the French spy, don't they? That's why he's being detained.”
Henry frowned. Then he inclined his head. “I thought that too, my lady. It's quite possible. We have reason to think the French envoy is expected and will be welcomed by many of the officials at the court. So he shouldn't be harmed.”
“Oh.” Amice paused, considering. “Well,” she added, and now she couldn't help that she was smiling, “if they detain Conn and take him to the court, they'll be in for the surprise of their life! Anyone less like a spy, you couldn't imagine!” she chuckled.
“Oh?” Henry raised a brow. His face wore an amused expression. “How is he not like a spy? Who is like a spy?” he added, smiling.
“You are.”
Henry laughed. “How so?”
“Well,” Amice thought about it. “Well...you're secretive. And...well, and thoughtful, and observant. Conn is...not those things.” She chuckled ruefully.
“He's quite impulsive?” Henry asked. He sounded interested.
Amice nodded vigorously. They both laughed.
“Well, I pity the Scots officials who have detained him, thinking him the spy. I think it won't be long before they realize the error of their ways and release him. If he is nothing like a spy, as you said it, he's in no danger at all.”
Amice let out a long, relieved breath. She felt herself slump a little sideways, close to him. It is the relief, she thought. And the warmth. The fact that she felt safe here, for some odd reason, also, safe and cared about. She was in a wood-burner's hut with a foreigner and she felt as if she'd found her first true friend in years.
She looked up into his eyes. They were deep sapphire blue, the firelight weaving traces of yellow over their liquid surface. He looked back at her. Amice shivered, remembering their kiss. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed impossible.
“Try and rest, milady.” His voice was thick with feeling. Amice nodded.
“Goodnight.” She curled up on the floor beside him and, before she knew it, was fast asleep.