Page 45 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

Despite the attack causing a commotion, the party still goes on.

Enough people assume it was a drunken assault that they merrily continue dancing and playing dice and guzzling wine.

But after Mary ensures her baby is safe in his nursery, with guards stationed around him, she calls a handful of trusted lairds to meet with her immediately in the chapel: Bothwell, Argyll, her half brother Moray, as well as Cockburn and Strathglass, there at my request.

And me, of course.

I raise my eyebrow at the queen when Bothwell walks in beside her, not behind. She shakes her head subtly. Moray knows of the fae through Mary; Argyll’s wife is a Leth, and so are Cockburn and Strathglass. They understand the stakes and what else is at play. But Bothwell…

Feck, she wants to climb into bed with him. A flick of my eyes confirms my suspicions: Mary has told Bothwell everything. He’s still loyal though. And still looking for his own gain in all this.

The chapel is close to the Great Hall, but no one here tonight is thinking of praying instead of partying. Mary dabs holy water on her head and chest as she makes the sign of the cross, dipping into a curtsy before the crucifix while the men and I cluster in the narthex.

“Another attempt on the queen’s life,” Moray utters darkly.

“Aye, and from Latimer’s secretary?” Argyll says, turning the statement into a question.

“He said he came from Latimer, but he’s been hunting and drinking with Darnley quite a lot,” Bothwell says.

I feel the need to defend Samson. “He was assigned to spy on Darnley, or did you forget the queen’s orders?”

Bothwell glowers. “Convenient for the lad, no? He’s English. Darnley probably paid him off.”

Bothwell is the only laird in the group who has not commented once about the vivid red line slashed on my pale skin above my bodice; all the others offered sympathy when we arrived. The cut is shallow but angry and red, aching.

“He is not working for Darnley,” I state, biting off each word.

Bothwell rolls his eyes. “You would think almost being stabbed to death by him would make you less enamored of the boy. A pretty face caught your eye, and suddenly you’ll forgive murder.”

My eyes narrow. I have swallowed down every dark thought, working in silence for the good of all, willing to accept being ignored if I can do my job, but I will not stand for this a second longer. He may not fully know my role in the realms, but he knows enough.

“You would think after all this time, you could pull your head out of your arse and learn to trust what I have to say, knowing that I speak from more knowledge than you have and more motivation than my own personal gain.”

Bothwell sputters, but I feel Cockburn and Strathglass straighten behind me.

I don’t know if the insolent mince head shuts his gob because I have two strong Leth men glaring him down or because I’ve finally said out loud the thoughts I’ve only whispered to myself before, but at least he doesn’t open his mouth again.

And there’s a thread of silver in his aura—he may not want to admit it to even himself, but the man fears me.

Good.

Mary approaches, eyes flicking between us. I feel a little satisfied when she turns to me, giving me her full attention. “What happened?”

“Darnley controlled Samson in a…similar way to how he controlled the rebels who attacked at Holyrood.”

Mary hides her terror well, but I see the hint of a quiver in her lip, the glassiness to her gaze. “He will stop at nothing to kill me.”

I shake my head. “He wasn’t trying to kill you. He was trying to kill me.”

Mary’s eyes widen.

“And David?” she asks softly, stepping closer to me. It’s like none of the men are here—it’s just her and me, and we’re back in Holyrood, watching the rebels stab David over and over and over again.

“I think, even then, he was after me, not you,” I say. I’ve gone over it a dozen times in my head; every attack we assumed would go to her could have been meant for me. As with each of Darnley’s attempts, none were focused enough for me to be sure of his target.

There’s something like relief on her face. “I… He put our baby at risk,” she says, her hand dropping to her belly. “But if he didn’t mean to…”

“Make no mistake,” I say, “your husband obviously doesn’t care who is hurt in his attempts to murder me.

” I laugh bitterly. “It’s clear he wanted to make a statement—using Red Cap weapons and then…

using Samson. He could have slit my throat in the night and been done with me, but he made a show of it on purpose, not caring about collateral damage. ”

Her face hardens. “Are you saying that is all my death would be to him? Collateral damage?”

I’m not sure if Mary is angrier that Darnley didn’t care if she got hurt or that she wasn’t “important” enough to be the target of the attack.

“Her?” Bothwell can’t help but protest. “That girl is no one.”

I raise my eyebrow at the queen. Perhaps she hasn’t told him everything.

“Bothwell,” Mary says, her voice icy. “You are dismissed.”

He gives her a look full of meaning, one that sets my teeth on edge.

I know Mary is close to him; in fact, if she were not religious, I’d have waged coin they were having an affair.

Whatever inside meaning their shared look has, Bothwell only nods once tightly and bows to the queen before storming out of the chapel.

What distracts me is their auras. Mary just dismissed Bothwell, but…he’s not mad about that. He has some sort of intent to his strides as he leaves, an intent I don’t know. And Mary’s fear, which had flared so brightly before, has settled down into something almost like…satisfaction?

Although not Leth, Moray knows enough to figure this is more than simple human politics at play. “What do we need to do to defend…” He pauses; he’s used to deferring to the queen’s safety. “To defend you, Lady Alyth?”

I look at the small cluster of people around me.

Mary, Moray, and Argyll will be able to spread word among the loyal nobles and guards of a threat that the humans will understand.

Probably best to keep telling people the attack was meant for the queen.

But Cockburn and Strathglass, as Leths, understand that the threat is more visceral.

At my prompting, the queen pulls Moray and Argyll aside. I’ll give her some credit—now that the danger’s at the gate, she is at least taking it seriously. I face Cockburn and Strathglass.

“We have to consider the very real possibility that the wall is about to be breached by the Red Caps,” I tell them, quickly relaying the warnings from Beira, although I withhold the way the High Blade spoke through Samson.

Cockburn is not just the queen’s chamberlain; he was also a captain in the royal guard. His face grows grim at my news. “We will fight,” he says.

There’s no question of that. “We will have to.”

Strathglass eyes me. “Red Cap weapons have made it through the wall, but that does not mean the Red Caps themselves—”

I have to tell the truth. The security of two worlds depends on it. “Samson is a Red Cap Leth.”

Cockburn curses, his hand going to his sword. “I will kill him for you.”

I shake my head. “No. He has Red Cap blood, but he is good. And he is in control of his…bloodlust state.”

“That was not control, Lady Alyth.” Pity tinges with kindness in Laird Strathglass’s voice. He thinks I’ve gone soft, like Bothwell believed. Am I that transparent?

I have spent my entire time at court feeling invisible, but apparently there were more eyes on me than I ever realized.

“You’re right.” I take a deep, shuddering breath.

“When I spoke to the Queen of Winter, she informed me…the High Blade still lives and is leading the charge against the wall. And whatever spell of command was on Samson…that reeks of the type of controlling magic the High Blade used to such devastating effect.”

Both men pale at that.

Samson’s empty aura reminded me of that particular story.

Mindless murder machines who never tire—who, in fact, grow stronger as the battle rages on—would be of little use if there were no way to command them and direct who was attacked.

The High Blade, the leader of all Red Caps, knew a secret spell to control them.

I am confident that is what made Samson attack me. Even if I had not seen his eyes, had not watched him struggle against his nature, I would still not believe he had attacked me of his own free will.

I was so angry before. But on the other side of my rage, there is only clarity.

Samson was controlled. And no one would know that spell of power without learning it from the High Blade.

My stomach clenches. Cecil is at the heart of all this.

He could be the High Blade. He used his own son to test the amulet from Darnley’s family, and he was already in communication with Darnley, giving him orders.

I can see it so clearly—Darnley would be the obvious choice of regent for his infant son if Mary were killed, and then Cecil could manipulate him into a marriage with Queen Elizabeth.

She’d be a pawn in the plan, but that marriage would give Darnley—but really Cecil—the entire British island to rule and access to the Seelie Court.

If Cecil is the High Blade, he could have shared the spell with Darnley.

Hells below, he could already be here. He knows the amulet works; he could have breached the wall with another.

Which means…

Not just a few Red Cap weapons used for assassination attempts or single Red Caps capable of breaking through the wall.

But a whole Red Cap army, controlled by the High Blade.

“The guards took Samson to the dungeons,” Cockburn states. “Our first order of business will be to interrogate him.”

All eyes to me, even the queen’s as she comes back to our group with the others. “I agree,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

Moray starts to protest, but Strathglass puts a hand on his arm. “She will see the truth more than any other.”