When they arrived back at the print shop Tristan briefly thought of taking Emma to the downstairs sitting room but changed his mind and took her upstairs to his private rooms.
He settled her onto the couch—an old, worn, but clean piece of furniture that was far more comfortable than it appeared.
Emma sat without complaint, straight back not touching the couch, and stared at a spot in front of her shoes.
Tristan had a thousand questions but was smart enough to know that things would reveal themselves in due time. Obviously something had spooked her at Kirk o’ Field and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t brought her there for that purpose.
Tristan didn’t like the facts that were adding up concerning the night the king was killed and he suspected that Emma knew more than she was saying. Then it had occurred to him that maybe she’d not remembered the whole night due to the bump on her head.
He felt a bit disingenuous taking her there but he’d had to know and he was fairly certain he had his answer. Something had either jogged her memory, or suddenly she was putting pieces of a puzzle together.
Either way she did not want to go back to Holyrood when she’d been determined to return just hours earlier, which meant that something had frightened her and that something was probably at Holyrood.
He was treading on rocky ground here, housing a person very close to the monarchy when he was performing seditious acts. One slipup and he could find himself imprisoned and possibly hanged for treason.
He warmed a cup of wine by the fire and handed it to her. She held it between her hands as if she needed to absorb its warmth.
“I have tea,” he said. “But I think warm mulled wine is better.”
“This is fine,” she said woodenly.
He settled into his favorite chair. The fire crackled and hissed and popped into a silence that he allowed to drag on. Eventually she would speak and he would be ready to listen.
Absently she took a sip of wine and her gaze moved to the fire, where she seemed to be transfixed. Tristan picked up his block of wood and began whittling. He had no idea what he was carving. Usually it came to him while he worked. Maybe a shoe. He liked carving old shoes with the wrinkles and holes in the leather represented in the wood. Or maybe he would carve a mouse.
Emma continued to sip her wine, lost in thought. He should probably offer her some food seeing as it was getting late in the day and they’d only eaten the breakfast he’d brought from the pub. But he had nothing to offer her here and would have to go out to get food, and he didn’t want to leave her just yet.
She cradled the cup in her hands, looked into its depths and cleared her throat. She was ready to speak but he continued to whittle. With some people it was easier for them to speak when they thought you were occupied with another task. Emma seemed to be that way.
“I was once married,” she said.
He was surprised at the topic of conversation and a wee bit disappointed that she was not going to talk about Kirk o’ Field but he kept both emotions to himself.
“You’d said he was deceased,” he said, careful to keep all inflection from his voice.
“Ten years now. His name was Angus Howard.” She looked at him sharply, sheepishly, but he didn’t mention that she had given him a different name when they’d first met. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Howards.”
“Everyone has heard of the Howards,” he said while he continued to whittle. “Large clan. Loyal to the queen.”
“After her advisor’s death Mary didn’t feel safe in her own palace so she surrounded herself with Howards, knowing they would help keep her safe.”
“Is that when you arrived at the palace?”
“No. I’ve been at the palace for nearly five years now.”
“Since Mary arrived in Scotland.”
She nodded and fell silent and Tristan allowed her the silence, knowing she needed to tell her story in her time and in her way. While frustrated that she didn’t get to the point of Kirk o’ Field he was also interested in the story she had to tell.
“I was born a Bruce and Angus desperately wanted to join the Howard and Bruce clans. Such an alliance would make a formidable opposition. Angus was consumed with the need to procure power, prestige and money. His reputation was everything to him and wedding a Bruce was quite the coup.”
She took another sip of wine and seemed to go to a place inside of her that Tristan was not invited to. Much time passed and the block of wood was shaping up to be a bird. Tristan studied it but couldn’t determine yet what bird it would be.
“After fierce negotiations, Angus and I wed. I was sixteen. He was twenty-eight. The marriage lasted four years. Four miserable, horrific, terrifying years.”
Tristan finally looked up at her, his heart and his gut twisting at the dead tone of her voice.
“Nothing was ever good enough for Angus,” she said. “Everything always had to be perfect to his standards but his standards were impossible. Servants were beaten for slight indiscretions. Even animals weren’t immune to his rages.”
She rolled the cup between her palms and stared into the fire, her back still straight, her feet pressed together.
“And you?” Tristan finally asked. “Were you immune to his rages?”
“I especially was not immune. My biggest failing was my inability to conceive an heir. After a year of trying he deemed it my fault, my failure, and he never let me forget it. I got on my knees every night and prayed to God that I would not conceive. More than anything I wanted a child of my own but I did not want to bring a child into that environment.”
Tristan had stopped whittling and was staring at her, trying to comprehend living a life of such fear, always trying to anticipate another’s moods. He had seen much in his line of work as Elizabeth’s spy but he never understood anyone who could abuse women or animals. The thought infuriated him and he almost wished that Angus was still alive so he could beat the life out of him.
“He died four years into our marriage and it was the best day of my life,” she said. “They said it was a hunting accident but Angus had so many enemies that I never knew for certain if that was the truth. Neither did I care. He was dead and that was all that mattered.”
“I’m glad that you are free of him then,” Tristan said.
She smiled a sad smile. “I’m free of his physical presence but not of the memories.” She sighed and placed her cup on the floor by her feet and finally leaned back. She looked at Tristan for the first time. “I’m telling you this because I want you to know that to this day I find it difficult to trust anyone, especially men. I keep clear of them most of the time and it is well known at the palace that I will entertain no one’s attention, let alone proposal of marriage. I am content to die a widow, free of any man.”
“It’s understandable after what you have been through.”
“You’re the first man that I feel I can trust,” she said. “I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t know what it is about you that instills my trust, but there it is anyway.”
“I’m flattered.” And a bit worried. He was not a good person to trust. He was an English spy sent to Scotland to crack the foundation of the monarchy. Tristan considered himself a good person. He was loyal to a fault, a fun person to be around and could be relied on under any circumstances. His talents ran toward the use of weapons, specifically the knife. He’d been sent into difficult situations to kill important people who threatened England. And now he could add printer to his list of accomplishments.
He too had been married once and it had not gone well. His story was nothing compared to Emma’s but he’d also vowed never to wed again after Annabelle’s death.
All of that and more were valid reasons for Emma not to trust him and yet she felt that she could when she’d trusted no one before him.
The thought was humbling.
But he was also a good enough spy to know he had to use that trust for his own gain and it twisted his insides, made him feel ugly and dirty.
“You know that I was there the night of the explosion,” she said.
His heart hammered. They had finally arrived at the explosion and his instincts told him that he was going to learn what he needed to know.
“I picked you up and carried you away from it.” He grinned, sliding back into the Tristan who found humor in almost any situation. The man who could be counted on to lighten the mood.
“I think I saw Darnley murdered.”
His grin faltered, died. “You think the king was murdered?”
“I believe so. And I believe that I saw it happen.”
“What do you believe you saw happen?” he asked quietly, afraid to break the moment, afraid that she would suddenly decide she didn’t trust him anymore and keep her secrets to herself.
“I saw a man lying on the ground, surrounded by other men. I saw one of the other men bend down and then the man on the ground started kicking his legs and then he went still.”
Damnation. That was a very powerful story and it seemed almost indisputable.
“The man was lying where you said they’d found the king’s body,” she added softly.
If this were true then Tristan had the only outside witness to the king’s murder sitting on his couch.
“Do you think it was the Douglases like that woman said?” She looked at him with those clear, blue eyes brimming with doubt and fear.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly.
She passed a hand across her brow, then drew her long, golden hair over her shoulder and played with the fringed ends.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, staring into the fire. “Whom do I tell? Whom do I trust? What if that placard is true and Bothwell was involved? He has his hand in everything. If I say something it will eventually reach his ears.”
She was right in every aspect, and Tristan knew for certain that Bothwell was involved, although he couldn’t tell her that without revealing how he knew and then that would lead to a discussion about Will and how Will knew.
“I’ve been told they are examining the body. Maybe we’ll discover more after that,” he said.
She looked at him hopefully. “Do you think it wasn’t the king I saw? Maybe it was someone else.”
“I think it would be very strange if it wasn’t the king. Two people killed on the same spot? Or maybe one person was killed, the body moved and the king’s placed there? It doesn’t make sense.”
Her shoulders drooped. “You’re correct, of course.”
Tristan stood. “We aren’t going to conclude anything tonight. It’s far past suppertime so let me run out to get something for us to eat. Maybe we will be able to think better on a full stomach.”
She seemed startled to think that they hadn’t eaten all day. “Of course. I feel bad that you must keep feeding me. I can pay you room and board until I figure out what to do.”
“Nonsense. You’re my guest and it’s been far too long since I’ve entertained guests.” Like never, but that was fine. He could handle this.