Page 14 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

We ride the rest of the way to Stirling in silence. I don’t dare think it’s companionable…more like she’s only tolerating my presence. Alyth’s focused on the terrain, on staying alert, and I can’t fault her for that. I should be doing the same.

But all I can think about is last night.

She talked in her sleep about someone withering away. I didn’t tell her she said that, but she was dreaming about killing that man, wasn’t she?

I eye her where she rides ahead of me, shoulders pulled back, chin high.

Her posture’s all regal. She’s not gonna be out of place at all in a court, and I’d expect someone like her to have no problem murdering a man in cold blood.

She’s a lady of the queen, sent off with what must have been fae magic to kill people; she shouldn’t have nightmares about doing dark deeds.

And yet she woke up crying.

How did I factor into her dream? Why did she say my name?

The longer the day drags on, the more I try to force myself to stop rolling these thoughts over and over in my head. But Alyth’s a puzzle my brain’s happy to mull on, saving me from thinking about other puzzles, bigger problems coming my way.

Like the walls of Stirling Castle that pop up in front of us about an hour out from sunset.

It’s a big complex, with sharp, jagged towers wrapped up tight in a gray stone wall, the lot of it set high on a hilltop that lets it be seen easily from surrounding land. There’s a village nearby too, but we bypass it, and Alyth nudges her horse up a trail leading to a wide-open gate.

She jerks on her reins, slowing her horse enough that I come up alongside her. Her face is fixed in a studious frown again, this one locked on that open gate.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

She flicks her eyes to me, and we both feel that this is the first full look she’s given me since this morning.

I watch her breath catch. Her lips part, her chest jerking in a rise that gets trapped.

“We are not the only ones who have arrived tonight, it seems,” she tells me, then clears her throat hard and looks away.

Her hands fist in the reins, and she pushes on without another word.

Inside the castle complex, it becomes clear our arrival is of little importance; there’s already a full fit of pomp happening for someone else.

Stable hands and servants flood the area where two grand, gaudy carriages are being unpacked.

A cluster of people stands near the main building, someone shouting in the center of ’em, but I can’t make anything out.

Alyth dismounts as a stable boy scampers up to us. She talks quietly to him, and he nods. Then she’s walking toward the new arrivals, skirts bunched in her hands, marching with that intensity she wears like a shield and sword all in one.

Is she not exhausted, burning so bright all the time?

She goes up to an older man in the bedlam and starts having some tense conversation with him, lots of scowling looks and waving arms.

I slide off the horse—I’m getting better at dismounting intentionally, damn all this riding—and the stable boy takes my reins too.

He asks me something in Scots.

I stare blankly at him.

Well. That weakness didn’t take long to catch up to me.

The boy cocks his head. “Anything you need, sir?” he asks in English.

I grin at him, hoping it hides my wince. “Ah, no. Thank you—” I linger on it.

“Callum,” he fills in.

“Callum.” I pause, but his eager expression doesn’t change. “You aren’t gonna hate me for being English too?”

He snorts. “Nah, we got worse Englishmen at Stirling now.”

His face flashes with panic.

I can’t figure out why—until it hits me.

My eyes go to the big group causing all the ruckus, where Alyth’s currently talking to someone at the edge of the crowd, arguing, it seems.

“Is that Lord Darnley’s group?” I ask.

Callum ducks his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything, sir. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey now, it’s all right,” I try. He peeks up at me, and Christ, I see Hal in him. All big eyes and innocence and earnestness.

My throat closes, and I have trouble speaking for a moment, because this boy isn’t looking at me with fear, not like Hal came to.

How long will that last?

What if Cecil’s got something planned for me that leads me to killing someone up here?

Nausea burns fast and harsh in my gut.

I manage a smile for him. “You got stories about this Darnley, eh? Spill ’em.”

My tone’s light, all in good fun, but Callum’s fixed in disquiet now. He shifts uncomfortably, clutching at our horse’s reins.

“I’ll see your bags get to your room, sir. ’Scuse me.”

“It’s Samson—” I call to his back. Not “sir.”

But he’s gone, head down, pulling our horses off toward the stables.

There’s a loud shout from Darnley’s group. Alyth’s still arguing with the older man at the edge, but the energy out of the center of the group is fixing for some kind of explosion. Is it Darnley himself who’s yelling and carrying on?

I need to get the lay of things in this castle, and the fastest way to do that is to throw myself into whatever ruckus is happening.

I walk across the yard, shoulders back. My cloak’s still dirty from me sleeping in the moors and using it as a shield against the birds, so I peel it off and tuck it under my arm as I walk.

The chill winter air hits me in my doublet and linen shirt like daggers, but I yank on the persona I need. Confident, brazen.

Here we go.

The bustle of the arrival is chaotic, but it doesn’t take long to spot the source of it.

A man stands near the middle of all these people, braying louder than any of the horses.

He’s about my height, bit older though, with sickly pale skin and short-cropped brown hair.

He’s the fanciest in the lot by far, and that’d set him apart even if his tantrum wouldn’t, all decked out in silks and heavy, finespun wool bordered with fur.

He’s clutching a hat in one hand and waving it around as he rants.

“—expected a reception upon my arrival,” he’s shouting in English at a man with a bowed head. “This is a grievous offense to us. We shall not stand for such appalling treatment!”

The man, who’s clearly a servant of some kind, bows deeper. “Your Grace arrived earlier than anticipated—”

“You would blame us?” Darnley’s screech rips across the yard. But it’s a further mark of his character that no one stops what they’re doing; a few share looks so brief, they’re there then gone, but no one reacts to him. They’re used to it.

My jaw sets, and I study him from a few paces back, separated by horse hands and servants unpacking a carriage.

“You’re waiting for an introduction?” Alyth is suddenly next to me.

I swing my gaze down to her, and my smile blooms unconsciously. It’s not hard to play my part around her. Not hard at all. Maybe she can follow me about for my whole time here to remind me to keep a bit of cocky arrogance up.

“Do I want one?” I ask honestly.

Darnley, still a few paces from us, chooses this moment to wail in agony with more flair than any kid I’ve ever known, and when I glance over, his head’s thrown back, his hands balled, and he kicks a nearby barrel.

“No,” Alyth says softly. “My best advice is to stay out of his way. He’s a gowk.”

I grin and angle that grin down at her, for her, because I get the feeling she doesn’t have much laughter in her life.

She stares at me for a beat, her face rippling with what might be confusion, before she cocks a brow and her lips pulse with the barest smile.

There’s something sad in her eyes though.

It sets me even more on edge. What’s Darnley done to her?

I point at the ghost of her smile. “I’ve figured you out, Alyth. All it takes to win you over is to not do nothing suspicious for”—I think back on how long we were traveling—“eight hours.”

Her eyes flip skyward in exasperation before she faces Darnley again. “Aye, you’ve cracked me. I trust you implicitly now.”

“Good. You should.” My chest spasms.

No. She shouldn’t. Not now, not here.

What about once I break this curse? Will she be able to trust me then? I could come back one day. Once I’m free.

Then, maybe—

I see Callum again. He’s been conscripted back into helping this group, now carrying a bridle in both arms, and with the press of people around him, he ducks too close to Darnley’s outburst.

The lord’s still raging about the impropriety of his welcome, the barrel on its side now, his fists swinging and his legs thrashing as he has at it.

I’m moving unconsciously. Driven by the same grip that dragged me into the town where the baby’d been attacked, the same grip that’d seize me pretty much everywhere in Southwark. It’s a honed sense of danger being imminent, like I can see something terrible happening a flicker before it does.

Distantly, I realize Alyth’s next to me, moving in tune.

Darnley whirls from kicking the barrel, his arm swinging wide, and clocks Callum square in the back.

The boy goes down, bridle spilling over the dirt.

I scramble the rest of the way just as Darnley’s realizing what happened. He glares down at Callum, and I know the look that transforms his face. Sizing up a fly in his web. Might as well lick his lips.

Darnley rears, and I have only half a second to fling myself between him and Callum. My cloak drops out of my arms, half covering Callum. Good. Make him as sheltered as possible.

“Lord Darnley,” I hear myself say over the rushing of blood in my ears, over the part of me going dizzy with fury thanks to that damned fae curse on me.

But I grip my resolve with both hands, clinging like my life depends on it.

Because it does. If I have a slip here, black out and attack the queen of Scotland’s husband, I’m dead.

Fully. Be lucky if all they did was chop my head off.

I shake it off. I have to. I’m playing a part, and right now, I’m center stage.

“Lord Darnley, Your Grace,” I say again and bow. “I haven’t had the honor of making your acquaintance. I’m Samson of Clan Maxwell, Lord Latimer’s secretary and proxy, and I—”