Page 49 of The Crimson Throne
“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 Iwanthim to look at me, Samson isnotan 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 forgottenit. 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 threatreallycame 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.
