Page 122 of The Crimson Throne
The chapel is close to the Great Hall, but no one here tonight isthinking 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 straightenbehind 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 withme, 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?”
