The midnight tide rolled in with the sound of distant thunder, its steady rhythm a heartbeat for the swelling unrest within the city’s walls. A pair of scarlet boots tapped against the cobblestone streets, their wearer a lone figure cutting through the shadows. Noise and laughter spilled from an alehouse at the end of the street—a sanctuary of sorts in this dangerous corner of 12th-century Edinburgh. The door creaked open, the golden glow of firelight spilling briefly into the night before snapping shut as the woman entered.
Lady Evelyne de Moray had arrived.
The tavern’s patrons, a mix of brash mercenaries, weary tradesmen, and rogue scholars, barely took notice at first. But their chatter thinned as they registered her. Evelyne was striking—a woman whose presence demanded attention. Her crimson overdress was tailored to precision, cinched tightly by a black leather girdle embroidered with red thread. Beneath it, a sheer black chemise shimmered faintly in the firelight, leaving little to the imagination. A ruby-red ribbon tied her hair back into a low braid, though loose ebony strands framed her pale, angular face. At her hip hung a slender blade, and her blackened chainmail boots clicked with purpose as she crossed to the bar.
The barkeep, a grizzled man with one eye and a suspicious tilt to his brow, approached cautiously, wiping his hands with a soiled rag. “You’ve made your entrance. What next, my lady?”
“Ale,” Evelyne replied curtly, slipping two copper coins onto the counter. Her voice was ice-cut velvet. “And silence, if you can manage that.”
The man chuckled dryly but complied, pouring her a tankard before shuffling away. She lifted the drink to her lips, stealing a glance at the room from over the rim of her cup. Cloaked figures huddled in quiet conspiracies. A bard strummed a somber tune on the lute in the corner. Yet Evelyne’s sharp gaze landed squarely on a man sitting alone, his hood up. His right hand rested on the table, where a dull ruby ring glinted—a signal Evelyne had been waiting for. Her contact.
But the moment shattered as boisterous laughter filled the air. A massive brute of a knight, clad in piecemeal armor and reeking of mead, swaggered toward her. He was followed by two lesser cronies who smirked as he stopped beside her and leaned an elbow against the bar.
“What’s a lass like you doing in a place like this?” he drawled, his grin missing a few teeth.
Evelyne didn’t flinch. “Drinking,” she offered plainly, her eyes still fixed on the hooded man across the room.
“Drinking and ignoring?” the knight pressed, his voice turning sharp as he didn’t like being overlooked. His hand dropped heavily on her shoulder.
In an instant, Evelyne moved like a serpent striking prey. She wrenched her shoulder free, twisted her body, and slammed her tankard full-force against the knight’s forehead. The impact sent the brute sprawling backward into his cronies, ale splashing everywhere. Chaos erupted as chairs were kicked back and swords were drawn.
The hooded man across the room rose, unshaken, and began to leave. Evelyne cursed under her breath. She grabbed the nearest heavy stool and flung it into one of the cronies, then vaulted over the bar to avoid the melee. She dropped behind the counter, snatched a throwing knife from her belt, and hurled it expertly. The blade impaled the wooden pillar near the exit, halting the hooded man in his tracks.
“You walk out that door, I’ll aim for your throat next time,” she called, her voice cutting clearly through the din.
The man hesitated before raising his hands in mock surrender. “Very well, Lady Moray. Shall we chat?”
Evelyne stepped out from behind the bar, calmly wiping her now-empty tankard with the hem of her overdress. “Lead the way,” she said, motioning toward the side door.
Outside in the narrow alley, the night was cold and unforgiving. Evelyne crossed her arms, her crimson and black garb now dusted with soot and ale. The hooded man lowered his cowl, revealing an angular face marked with the scars of a soldier. His piercing gray eyes betrayed nothing.
“You asked for this meeting,” Evelyne began, her voice steely. “Speak. What message did your lord send that required so much theater?”
The man smirked, unfurling a parchment from his belt. “Not my lord, my lady—your enemy’s ally. He wishes to negotiate. You’ve made quite a mess of his supply lines, and shall we say…he’s willing to trade peace for a price.”
Her brow furrowed. Another lie, another game. “Why me? Why not send emissaries to the king’s court? Or better yet, send swords?”
“You know why, Evelyne,” he said, his voice softening. “Because few dare face a ghost from their past.”
The color drained from her face, though her composure held. “You speak as though you know me.”
The man merely smiled and turned to leave. “I know the scars you carry, de Moray. Think on my master’s offer—but know this: not every shadow can be vanquished by light.”
As he disappeared into the foggy night, Evelyne stood motionless, her grip tightening around the blade at her side. The cobblestones beneath her boots glistened faintly as a light drizzle began to fall. For the first time in years, she felt the chill of fear creeping into her bones.
With a heavy sigh, she turned and began walking, her vivid red boots slicing through the mist like embers on a dying fire. The battle for the city—and more intimately, her soul—was far from over.
She would not go quietly.
Genre: Historical Fiction (medieval espionage/thriller)
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Red Corset and Black Fishnet Stockings with Bold Red Boots: Sultry Bar-Style Fashion Inspired by Confidence and Elegance
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