Page 17 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

She still doesn’t say that word the way we do. Scots stretch the vowels like bread dough; “lord” becomes “laird.”

“Why?” I ask. “Did something happen?”

“I called them here. For a…private meeting.”

My eyebrows shoot up. All of noble Scotland will be here for the prince’s christening, but this “private meeting” and my need to weigh in on the lairds seems to be something more.

“Which you would know all about,” Mary adds snidely, “if you’d bothered to listen before traipsing God knows where.”

I don’t deign to reply to that. “Why did you summon your lairds?” I frown. “And Lord Darnley?” I always pronounce the titles of Scottish men correctly—laird. But I force my tongue to say “lord” the English way when I talk of Darnley, a subtle insult even he cannot reprimand me for.

Mary scoffs. “I didn’t summon my husband to arrive early. He just turned up.”

Like a dead rat a cat leaves on the step. I suppose it is his son getting baptized too. But whatever bonus meeting Mary has planned is going to get mucked up with her husband’s arrival if we’re not careful.

“Very inconvenient,” Mary mutters.

“Being married to a traitor with the emotional depth of dog shite?” I ask. “Yes, extremely inconvenient. Why did you call for a special meeting?”

“To deal with the problem of my husband, of course.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Explain.”

Mary actually seems excited now. She stands and starts pacing, her hands flailing as she punctuates her words with gestures. “You know I need a solution to the Darnley problem. And as I must constantly remind you, we cannot just kill him.”

Those words hit me like a punch. Now that I have killed, I no longer feel so flippant about it.

Mary sighs blissfully. “One day, I’ll be rid of him.”

I narrow my eyes. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing at the moment,” Mary says quickly. Then she adds, “But I’ve called my lords to determine some possible solutions at least.”

I’m not sure what she hopes a group of men would come up with that could be helpful, but I suppose she’s free to try.

“Most have arrived. I’ve been waiting on just a few more.”

My stomach sinks. “A few more…including Laird Latimer?”

Her eyes widen slightly, then narrow in suspicion. “Yes.”

“He couldn’t come. Sent his secretary in his place. A lad named Samson. I ran into him on the road.”

“What did you see?” Mary asks.

“His aura was…” I start. His aura was muted, but I saw no indication of danger from him, despite him being English.

“I have no evidence, but I’m uncertain about him.

I don’t think he’s outright lying to me, but he’s hiding something.

” Even reading his aura tells me little more than that.

I wouldn’t even be that on guard if it weren’t for the way he reacted to Darnley—and how Darnley reacted to him.

“Aren’t we all?” Mary asks. “Well, Moray, Argyll, and Bothwell are already here.”

The first two are not necessarily Mary’s closest allies but respectable men. But not Bothwell. He’s worse than Darnley if the rumors are to be trusted, but he’s got a shrewd mind and ruthless ambition where his heart should be, and that may be what’s needed in this situation.

“And even though Darnley has arrived early, I shall carry on with my plan. This secretary…he can come. But you need to be there too. Watch for…” She waves her hands about some more, still unsure of the language to use.

Mary sometimes hopes that if she doesn’t name a problem, it’ll simply go away.

That didn’t work for the Protestants, who are here to stay, and it won’t work on me, who’s not actually a problem. Usually.

Still, I get her meaning. “You want me to test them, be sure of their loyalties.”

She nods firmly. “Précisément.”

I give her a look. She may say she trusts me, but she’s still not telling me everything. She always uses French when she’s holding something back. “What are you planning, Your Grace?”

A divorce from Darnley would betray all the Catholic promises she’s given to the pope, the king of Spain, the queen mother of France—her most powerful allies.

While she can refuse to give Darnley the Crown Matrimonial, which would elevate him to equal status as her, she can’t strip him of the titles he was born to, regardless of how irate the other lairds are.

And much as she may hate him, having a husband and—more importantly—a son has put Mary in a better position than her cousin Elizabeth of England.

Darnley may be a shackle around her ankle, but even a lead weight can be used as a stepping stone.

“You are the one who told me the attacks were still coming from those red fae creatures.”

“Red Caps,” I say, the name distasteful.

She nods. “Yes, well. Darnley was working with them, I got so ill, and then that needle thing that made you run off…I refuse to be held hostage by that man’s violent whims any longer. And for that freedom to happen, I need to know which men are on my side.”

“I understand.” I understand she’s still not telling me everything. She may keep me in the shadows, but I don’t like it when she keeps me in the dark. She has had months since David’s death to stew up something.

A servant arrives at the door. He bows and announces Mary’s new secretary.

After David was killed, his family sent his brother, Joseph, to take his place.

The young man has adjusted slowly to the Scottish court.

He’s hard to understand; he doesn’t speak Scots, his English is limited, and his French—the other language of Mary’s court—is thick with an Italian accent.

But he trusts me, and I think he even likes me, despite the fact that we’ve known each other only a few months.

In this court, trust is rare, but true friendship is rarer still.

I can trust plenty of people not because I like them but because I know what the price of their loyalty is. Joseph has no price.

But he’s consistently offered kindness for free.

After he bows to the queen, Joseph glances at me, offering me a sly grin in welcome before he turns back to Mary. He’s younger than his brother had been, with a sharp chin, dark hair, and warm eyes that always hide a laugh.

“Your Highness, Lord Latimer has sent his secretary in proxy for the upcoming christening.” He gestures to the door, and Samson enters, all lanky body and bright red hair.

My stomach does a little flip as he steps inside the room. After seeing his reaction to Darnley, I wasn’t expecting him to come here, to the queen.

“Thank you, Joseph.” Mary flicks her fingers, dismissing him. He leaves, as does the servant, and Samson is left watching us. Yellow curiosity swarms around him. He knew I was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, but the fact that I have a private audience with her in her office means something more.

He focuses on the queen, and his aura sinks into a panicked violet.

“Her Highness Mary Stuart, Queen of the Scots, rightful heir to the English throne.” I say that last bit just to jab at him, but it’s true. The current queen of England is childless, and Mary’s her closest blood relative.

Samson’s aura changes more, the colors turning muddy and dark and indecipherable. He steps past me, extending a leg and sweeping into a gracious bow, seamlessly shifting his bag to the side.

He’s put his mask on, I think, my eyes tracking colors no one else in the room can see. He’s so good at pretending to be confident that he’s convincing not only Mary of that fact but himself. He’s embodying his role absolutely.

Shite. That’s going to make it harder for me to see through him. Fae can disguise with glamours, but they can’t easily lie. Samson, on the other hand?

Lying seems to be second nature to him.

Mary laughs at something Samson said, something I missed. This secretary may not have any magic, but he can still be dangerous.

I’m watching Samson’s colors so intently that I can barely focus on what he’s saying, how Mary responds. She’s looking at some of the papers he’s brought from his bag, proof of his connections.

“Did you run into any problems on your journey to Stirling?” Mary asks.

He flicks his eyes to me, his gaze soft. “No, Your Majesty.”

Mary pauses. “Unlike the English queen, I do not pretend to own a wider kingdom beyond my borders.”

Another flare of purple, quickly repressed.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Samson says, correcting his mistake in her title.

The English monarchy insists on the higher label of “Majesty,” pretentious and overreaching.

A smooth wash of bright green bravado tempers Samson’s nerves.

“I was raised in the south, in London, but I’ve been Latimer’s man long enough to know, well—” A sly little smirk from him.

“It’s only a matter of time before we all have to shift our manner of address to you. ”

Mary laughs, clearly delighted. “Oh, you’re naughty!” she trills.

The smug arse shoots me a triumphant look.

If he worked for Queen Elizabeth, he’d be used to calling a monarch by “Majesty,” but this little flattery has charmed Mary so completely that she’s ignored the very real possibility that Samson just turned a slip of tongue into a step up her personal hierarchy.

Because that’s what that was, I’m certain of it. It doesn’t take reading auras to see his mistake.

And “accidents” like that?

Maybe he is a spy…

Mary says something to Samson that makes him bark in laughter, true mirth wrapping around them both.

I catch a flare of emerald in my reflection on the window across from me. Feck that. I’m not jealous. I’m not. Mary’s only a few years my senior, and Samson’s of an age appropriate to both of us, but…

Feck’s sake, Alyth, I tell myself. He’s ENGLISH.

It helps, remembering that.

“Latimer has always been kind to my…cause,” Mary tells Samson, oblivious to my internal flailing. “And I do believe I can trust you to support what we all want.”

I narrow my eyes at both what was said and what wasn’t.

Samson too sees through the polite speech. “And what may that be?”

She smiles, close-lipped. “Now is as good a time as any. With my husband’s unexpected arrival, perhaps I should simply call the meeting of my lords early. Alyth, could you please summon them to the council chambers?”

I nod respectfully, but something about all this still feels so off , if I could just put my finger on it—

“Now, Alyth,” Mary adds.

I see another flare of rapidly shifting emotions from Samson. He does not want to be alone with the queen.

Which is a sentiment I share. Why is she shoving me out the door now? Right this fecking instant, when this English snake is still in the queen’s private chambers? I gape at her, but she ignores me. A queen doesn’t repeat her commands.

“Yes,” I say through my teeth. “Your Highness.”