The Accidental Bride

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Brian Morse moved swiftly through the dark alley leading away from the port. The man followed him; his cloak was drawn tightly around him, the hood pulled low over his forehead. He blended into the shadows as he hugged the damp stone walls of the houses pressing close on either side. of the lane. The opposing roofs almost joined over his head but the steady rain still drenched him as he picked his way silently over the slimy cobblestones.

The Englishman was aware of his pursuer. But he gave no indication, not by so much as a stiffening of his shoulder blades, that every nerve was stretched taut and alert. He came abreast of a narrow doorway and hesitated. Then he raised his hand as if to knock and stepped swiftly into the dark narrow space, out of sight of the lane, pressing himself against the closed door.

His pursuer stopped, frowning. The Englishman was not supposed to make a stop on this street. He was supposed to be going to the Black Tulip to meet with the agent of the Dutch king, Frederick Henry of Orange. The man swore under his breath. How could his informers have made such an error? Dolts, the lot of them.

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