Page 19 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

It wasn’t exactly hard to round up the lairds and confirm the meeting place, although minding men is like minding cats.

Especially Bothwell, the bastard, who made a point to pinch my rear as I walked away from him.

I whispered to the brownies to ensure his fire goes out for the next few nights; a man like him deserves nothing but bitter cold of a morning.

We don’t meet in the Great Hall—too much commotion there, in preparation of the grand ceremony—nor in the chapel, which the Protestants would refuse to step foot in, even if it would be a private place to talk.

Instead, the lairds gather in the palace block, the place where the queen and king consort stay at Stirling Castle, consisting of two sets of chambers made of multiple rooms and suites.

Darnley’s off hunting with some of his cronies, leaving the area free of his stench.

Mary’s bedchamber is the most remote and private; only a few select people, including me, are allowed in the privy chambers, especially the place where the queen sleeps.

Once we’re through those rooms, the Great Chamber awaits.

Anyone with reasonably high rank in court has access to the Great Chamber, although today, only the men in Mary’s inner circle wait, with guards stationed at every door.

On the other side of those doors is the outer hall, a public area that Mary has used for masquerades and balls and that will no doubt be decorated soon for baby James.

And on the other side of that hall are the king’s chambers.

The Great Chamber is decorated in patterns of red, gold, black, and white. The shutters are closed to the growing darkness of night, and fires roar in the hearths.

The lairds, who’d been quietly talking and barely registered my presence when I came in, silence as Mary enters.

They each extend a leg in a formal bow, creating a pathway directly to the throne set in the far wall of the room.

I peel away from the crowd and walk a pace behind the queen, her loyal servant, while her other ladies are playing cards or sewing in the solar.

When she mounts the single carpeted step leading to the ornate throne, I shift to the side, finding a corner to watch from the shadows.

Joseph catches my eye and gives me a nod. I’m glad he’s here at least.

All the lairds ignore me. It’s not unusual for Mary to have a lady-in-waiting with her, even in the privy council, and none of them blink when Mary holds out her hand and I step closer, giving her the embroidery cloth she likes to fidget with when the lairds talk.

I am invisible to them all.

Except for Samson.

I feel his eyes watching me even as the Earl of Moray—Mary’s half brother—moves in to speak directly to the queen. Everyone’s curious about what she wants done with Darnley and how the tangled web she’s trapped in can be unraveled.

But Samson’s eyes track me and me alone, pinning me against the velvet wall covering.

I am so used to being unseen. The least of the queen’s lady maids, the lowest at court.

The queen ignores me except when she needs me.

I make a point of being ignored by the king consort whenever possible.

The only person in the entire castle who’s ever tried to see me as a person is Joseph, but he doesn’t look at me the way Samson does right now.

As if he can see my very soul, the dark as well as the light, and he wants nothing more than to devour it—me.

My breath catches, then escapes my lips, stuttering and unsure, and even though he’s across the room from me, I catch the smirk that twists his mouth, the little glint of satisfaction in his eye.

Well, feck that. I don’t even trust the man. How dare he look at me as if he knows me?

But even so, I feel my cheeks burning, and I cast my look away, focusing on the ceiling in the corner.

I can still feel his gaze on me. My heart thumps, and I clench my hands in my skirts, willing my body to calm. To not think about that dream the night we met, to not think about how easy it would be to make it come true. There’s not just promise in Samson’s hot gaze; there’s possibility there too.

Focus.

I turn my full attention to the queen, who is taking her sweet time calling the meeting to order.

She laughs about the gifts that were recently delivered to the men as they praise her generosity.

It’s so painfully obvious that these gifts were essentially bribes to ensure the lairds continue to support Mary and not her husband, but no one seems to mind.

She looks down, a pretense of being demure. But in her lap is her embroidery cloth, which I have charmed so I can communicate with her privately in plain sight.

I twirl my finger in a circle, then rub it against my thumb. On the throne, Mary tugs at the thread she pulled taut, and it knots. She pulls her needle harder, and the thread snaps. With a little frown, she looks up at me.

Get on with it, I think, and even if the queen cannot read my mind, I’m certain my expression is eloquent.

Mary sighs and makes a gesture with her hand. “Gentlemen,” she says. Her voice isn’t raised—in fact, it’s soft—but everyone hears.

Everyone obeys.

“I have gathered you today to discuss the Darnley problem.” The queen fiddles with the raw edge of the cloth she’s been working on, the needle tucked safely in the corner, the broken thread dangling.

My eyes shoot to Samson. And he’s…shocked? Surprise is plain on his face. What did he expect? Surely Latimer filled him in on the tensions at court between the monarchs.

His attention focuses on me, and his mask slips back on, but I know what I saw.

He did not think Darnley was going to be the subject of this meeting.

Does he know about the Red Cap weapon Darnley used?

I wonder. He clearly has some sort of knowledge of the fae, but not, I think, too much. What does he know?

There’s a more important question though: What does he hope to learn?

“How you could have married him in the first place…” Moray starts.

As the closest living relative to Mary by both blood and proximity, Moray is sometimes allowed to say things that others dare not even think.

From the queen’s glare, it’s clear that the past mistake of her marriage is not to be discussed.

Moray ducks his head, clasping his hands in front of him.

“What do we do with him now?” Mary asks simply. I don’t think she’s using the royal “we.” Darnley’s not just her problem. His drunken gambling, obtuse manners even during political negotiations, and overbearing desire to have power without responsibility have harmed everyone in Scotland.

I look around the assembled meeting. There are two Leths here, and they know of the heightened threat Darnley has brought to the kingdom.

Ninian Cockburn, a former chamberlain and now a captain, from the borderlands.

Thomas Crisholm too, Laird of Strathglass in the Highlands.

The two men could not be more different—from opposite ends of the country, one Protestant and one Catholic, one born to wealth and one not.

But they’re both Leth, and their auras waft with waves of loyalty.

The queen may count all these lairds as her allies, but I’ve got Cockburn and Strathglass in my pocket. Joseph too to a certain extent.

And Samson—

No. I shake my head to dispel him from my mind. No matter how he looks at me, no matter how much I want him to look at me, Samson is not an ally.

I scour the room. Of all the men gathered here, there’s not a hint of deceit or ill intent among any of them. Some don’t share the same passion, some clearly are more motivated by promises of gold or power, but none intend harm to Mary.

Not even Samson. He’s…confused more than anything else. But not a threat. And that fact still does not make him someone I can trust, I force myself to think.

I twitch my fingers, lifting the gold threads on Mary’s embroidery. She glances down at it, then over to me, nodding subtly, recognizing our shared code that all is well.

“We could kill the bastard,” Bothwell says, looking around as if evaluating to see whether the words would be taken seriously or not. I can tell from the bright red sparks of his aura that the man absolutely intends to follow through on his offer. It is no idle threat.

“Kill the king?” Moray says, shocked.

“King consort,” Bothwell mutters.

Eyes shift to Mary.

She doesn’t shut down the suggestion.

She just picks up her embroidery and rethreads her needle.

“Murder is for the old days,” a laird says, glaring at Bothwell. “What of divorce?”

“The pope would never allow it,” Bothwell counters. “We have proof enough of that to the south.” When Henry VIII wasn’t granted a divorce, he just started beheading his wives, including Queen Elizabeth’s mother.

“If my sister the queen would convert to Protestantism, divorce would be rather simple,” Moray offers.

On the throne, Mary frowns.

Apparently murdering Darnley’s not entirely out of the question, but converting from Catholic to Protestant is.

“Besides, murder is…practically a tradition,” Bothwell says, elbowing past a laird to get closer to Mary. “My grandfather used to tell me how James the Second stabbed Douglas just across this very hall. And need I remind anyone of the murder that happened half a year—”

Mary’s head whips up, her eyes bright and flashing. My eyes go to Joseph, whose skin is sallow, jaw tight.

Silence descends.

No, Bothwell need not remind us of David Rizzio’s stabbing in Holyrood.

No one talks about the murder anymore, but no one has forgotten it. Least of all Cockburn and Strathglass. The captain has his hand on his sword hilt, and Strathglass’s eyes flick to me. All the Leths at court know a Red Cap weapon was used in our kingdom and are ready to defend against the threat.

We just need to find out where the threat really came from.

My eyes flick to Samson. His aura tells me nothing.

Bothwell is just smart enough to shut his mouth.

Pity. Argyll steps forward. “We’re not English. No one’s getting a divorce. Murder? Well…before we take that off the table, what other options are there?”

What is going on? I think. I had been assuming the solution to the Darnley problem would involve some high-level political machinations, and while I certainly agree that stabbing the man in his yellow liver would get the job done, I expected more out of the royal court.

Seven hells, this conversation is veering closer to what I’d expect of the Seelie Court than the Scottish one. For all the fae justly hate the Red Caps, they’re not too shy about staining their hands with blood.

Bothwell’s suggestion is inspiring the men gathered here today, and it’s as infectious as a curse.

Nearly all the men now have sparks of red in their auras.

Every single one of them is tempted by the idea of violence. Even Mary. She was hesitant before, but the last murder attempt with the needle seems to have swayed her more than I realized.

The more that seed of temptation burrows into the lairds’ minds, the more I start contemplating another possibility.

I think about how all the Jameses before Mary died young, many due to violence. Is there some magical corruption at court that I never saw because it’s been here for generations? Have the Red Caps been worming their way back into Scotland slowly somehow?

Scotland doesn’t have a bloodless past. No one could argue that.

Except…men don’t need a Red Cap weapon to long for violence.

Besides, I was wrong. Not every man is ready to take up arms. There’s one who completely lacks violence in his aura.

Samson.

“What other options are there?” Bothwell says, pushing closer to Argyll. “Darnley’s a problem that has only one solution. Not divorce, obviously.”

“But not murder, surely?” Moray says. “Don’t forget—Darnley has royal blood. He’s not just a commoner.”

Idiot man. Blue bloods are red when their veins are split.

“If not murder, then what?” Bothwell insists. “If Elizabeth would just die already, we could put Mary on the throne in London, but that would still leave Darnley here. Unless—”

“The king, my husband, will never rule from any throne,” Mary says quietly. She stabs her cloth, pulling the thread through, glaring at it. Mary will not let Darnley have an English crown nor a Scottish one. She’ll be happy only when she’s taken away every possible avenue he has to take power.

“Would he…” Moray starts. “Would the king consort be open to retirement? He’s already given you a male heir, fine and good. Orkney, perhaps? Or give him a ship, let him captain it…”

“And hope Manannán takes him,” Cockburn mutters, referencing the old god of the sea, the one who drags lost sailors down to the underworld.

Mary lifts her head. “That is also not an option,” she says. “For one, it would be seen as a failure. I will not have my son’s birth be marred by his father’s public ineptitude.”

I snort. Public failure? Sure, if the king consort were sent to sea, everyone would assume it’s because he and the queen didn’t get along. But anyone with eyes can already see that.

No, part of Mary’s refusal to do this is because it’s what Darnley has told her he wants to do.

I’ve heard them arguing before. He knows that leaving will embarrass Mary, and he’s tried to claim that he’ll get on a ship and do it anyway if she won’t grant him the Crown Matrimonial.

The only reason he hasn’t is because Mary forbade it.

Plus, he’s such a dumbarse he’s gambled away the private funds he’d need to commission a ship on his own.

No divorce.

No separation if Mary can ascend to a higher court.

No letting Darnley traipse off to sea.

Uncomfortable silence weaves around the Great Chamber. Bothwell smiles smugly. Killing the arse seems to be the only option left.

But before that happens, I must find out how he got a Red Cap weapon.