Emma was more reluctant to view the king’s body than she’d thought she would be. On the way there she had a dreadful feeling in her stomach, almost as if she’d eaten rocks instead of bread.
Tristan did not say much as he walked beside her and his silence only added to her unease. For some reason she kept wondering if he was regretting their kiss. What a silly thing to think while going to view a dead body. But her mind kept going there and she hoped that he did not regret it because she didn’t regret it. She should. But she didn’t.
And part of her wondered what it would be like if he kissed her more…passionately.
In her marriage to Angus passion had equated to pain and humiliation, but Emma sensed that with Tristan passion would be something entirely different and she found that she would not be averse to exploring such a thing.
She. Emma Howard. Who’d cringed every time Angus had come to her at night. Who’d lain in bed and prayed that he would forget she was there. Who’d celebrated her monthly flow because that meant he would leave her alone for at least a week. But it also meant that she would endure his wrath the next week because she was not with child.
She shook her head. Really, this was ridiculous. She had far more serious things to think about than kissing Tristan Fitzherbert.
They were passing St. Giles cathedral when she spotted another placard fluttering in the breeze blowing down High Street. Again people were gathered around it.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she veered off to read it, curious as to what this one had to say. She was still outraged by the last one that nearly outright accused Bothwell of murder.
“Emma…” Behind her Tristan cursed and she could hear him following her.
“What does this one say?” she asked him.
“I don’t know but really we should be going.”
BLOODY BOTHWELL.
Emma stared at the two words on the placard. In the back of her mind she was listening to the others around her.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Bloody bastard, more likely.”
“He wants the crown. Only one way to rid ’imself of the king.”
“Poor Lord Darnley. Killed by ’is wife’s lover.”
“Feel bad for the bloke. He didn’t stand a chance against Bothwell.”
Emma wanted to tell all of them they were wrong. She wanted to say that Mary was not having an affair with Bothwell, that she took her marriage vows seriously. That there was nothing “poor” about Darnley. He had been an embarrassment to Scotland and to Mary.
But Tristan took her arm and pulled her away.
“He didn’t do it,” Emma said.
“Didn’t he?”
She stopped to stare at him. “You don’t believe that defamatory placard, do you? Bothwell did not murder the king.”
“So you believe that a bolt of lightning lit the sky and blew the king to the other side of the building and landed him in the orchard?”
Emma opened her mouth then closed it because of course she didn’t believe that. It was a preposterous rumor.
“I believe that someone killed him,” she said softly, leaning closer to Tristan so no one could overhear. “I saw something in that orchard. But I don’t believe it was Bothwell. I’m certain he has an alibi.”
“Don’t be naïve, Emma. Men like Bothwell don’t do the deed themselves.”
She’d never heard such disdain in his voice before, especially directed at her, and it brought her back, made her feel gullible and silly. Angus had been an expert at making her feel silly.
“I saw at least half a dozen men that night,” she said vehemently. “Do you think all of those men can keep silent about what they did? Someone surely will say something to give them away.”
“Not if they were paid well enough. Or were threatened.”
She huffed, frustrated at the lack of clues as to what happened and irritated that so many people would believe those silly placards defaming Bothwell and accusing him of murder. Bothwell was a dangerous man and not one to cross. Whoever was posting those placards had better be careful for their life was in danger.
“Let us view the body,” Tristan said, his voice much gentler now. “Maybe that will prove one theory over the other.”
BLOODY BOTHWELL.
Emma was more concerned by what these accusations would do to the queen, rather than the fact that Bothwell was guilty of the deed. Emma did not know Bothwell well. What she did know was that he was always there for Mary when she needed him, far more than Darnley had been. She’d thought it was because Bothwell was loyal to his queen, as Emma was loyal to her.
Bothwell had been able to step in every time Mary was incapacitated—after the death of her advisor and now after the death of her husband.
Was that a well-orchestrated plot or merely the actions of a friend and loyal servant to the queen?
They approached the place where Darnley was laid out and discovered a line of people waiting to see the body.
“This is not a performance,” Emma said. “They need to show respect. He is the King Consort of Scotland.”
“People are curious and his death was tragic. It’s only natural they come out to see him.”
“To pay their respects or to gawk?”
“A little of both, I imagine.”
She huffed and stood at the end of the line with Tristan, who remained stubbornly silent.
“Poor soul. No one should die like that,” someone said.
“Witchcraft, it is.”
“I heard it was assassins.”
“Assassins? Preposterous.”
“A blight on Scotland, it is. For shame. ’Twill make us all look bad.”
“Some says ’twas Lord Bothwell and that the queen approved it.”
Tristan grabbed Emma’s elbow and squeezed it hard. She shot him a reproachful glare but remained silent. The rumors circulating were ridiculous and frightening. Witchcraft, indeed. And Mary most certainly would never condone murdering her husband and the father of Prince James.
The wild rumors continued as they waited in line but Emma tuned them out or else she would explode from anger.
Finally, they reached the front of the line and Emma took a deep breath for courage, strangely reluctant to be doing this. It didn’t seem right or respectful but she had to see for herself how he died. The queen’s guards flanked either side of the body and he lay on a stone platform, dressed as a king should be dressed, in red and gold velvet. His eyes were closed, his skin looked like it had been carved from wax. Emma wondered if Mary had seen him yet. Or was she in mourning having retreated to her private chambers that would be draped in black?
Emma stopped in front of the body, her gaze immediately going to his neck. But he was wearing a ruff and his neck was completely covered. Pale hands were folded over his stomach, unadorned with the rings he liked to wear. She found her gaze going to his chest, watching for the rise and fall of it but it remained still.
She remembered doing that with Angus, watching for him to breathe, holding her own breath and still not able to believe that he was dead.
But Darnley was most certainly dead and with his hand to her back, Tristan guided her away. She wanted to stay longer to look closer for bruises or burn marks, but a long line of people behind her wanted to pay their respects as well and so she had to move on.
They exited into weak sunshine and a few snow flurries. For a long moment they both stood there, breathing in the crisp air, unable to move forward, prohibited from moving backward.
Eventually Tristan took her elbow and escorted her away. Emma followed, feeling hollow inside after seeing a man who had been in the prime of his life, lively and good spirited, uncontrollable and at times wicked and sinful, but still a man, a person who had been living and breathing and dreaming just days ago.
Death always made one think of their own mortality and this was no exception. One never knew when their last day on earth would be. It was a sobering thought.
“Food,” Tristan said.
“Pardon?”
“We need food. Sustenance. We need to sit down and eat and think.”
She wasn’t hungry but she followed anyway. Tristan led her to an inn that was serving supper. They sat at a table in the corner, Tristan with his back to the wall. He seemed to be watching everyone who entered and exited.
“Mutton pies is all’s we have t’day,” the serving girl said as she plopped down two mugs of ale.
“That will do,” Tristan said.
All around them was nothing but talk of Darnley’s death.
“Public opinion seems to be swaying toward the king consort,” Emma said. “As if he were a martyr.”
“It happens when one dies. People only remember the good.”
“The opposite seems to be true for Bothwell. The placards are doing a fine job of tarnishing his reputation.”
“Maybe the placards are just reinforcing what everyone was already thinking.”
“Do you truly think so?” she asked.
Tristan shrugged. “I know nothing for certain. But they’re certainly not helping the man.”
“I’m surprised that this has caused so many rumors and such speculation.”
Tristan raised a brow. “The king has died in a mysterious way. This will be discussed years from now.”
The serving girl brought their mutton pies, put them on the table then walked away. Emma’s stomach turned. Seeing Darnley’s body, being forced to face the truth of the king’s death, had dampened her appetite. It also made her relive that night and those men and what she saw in that orchard.
“Do you think he did it?” she asked softly so others wouldn’t overhear.
Being in the streets, being with the common, everyday people who lived and worked and scratched out a living in the city made her rethink everything that she’d formerly believed. Maybe they weren’t wrong. They all couldn’t be wrong, could they? Maybe there was some truth to what they were saying.
“I think you need to find out who had the most to gain from his death,” Tristan said, ignoring his meal too.
“Do you think it was Bothwell?”
“What would he have to gain?”
“He already had the queen’s trust. He already had her ear. She had given him land and estates for his service. He had power given to him by her.”
“In essence he had everything he wanted. But did he?”
She furrowed her brows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He had all this power and money and even the queen’s undivided attention. But Darnley was still in her life.”
“Well, yes. Darnley was her husband.”
Tristan gave her a pointed look and she drew in a breath, everything suddenly clear.
“He wants to be king,” she said. It was the next logical step. He had everything, everything except the crown itself.
“Who else would benefit from his death?” Tristan asked, finally taking a bite of his pie.
“Besides Bothwell? I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Come now, Emma. You’re a smart woman. Think.”
She felt a spark of anger at his words for they were the same words Angus had used on her when he wanted to make her feel especially stupid. But she pushed the anger away because this was too important for petty, useless feelings rooted in her past. She was beginning to realize that not all men were like Angus. Not even most men were like Angus.
“I’m certain he had enemies,” Emma said. “He was not a very nice man at times.” She thought of her friend Rose. Quiet, little Rose had caught the king’s eye and had been molested by him more than once. But she knew Rose had not killed him because Rose was dead herself from a tragic carriage accident.
“Exactly. Powerful enemies. Very powerful enemies. Maybe one enemy was the most powerful of them all.”
Emma made to push away from the table and issue a giant set-down to Tristan but he grabbed her wrist and forced her back down. “No scenes,” he said ominously.
She sat and looked around but no one was paying them any mind. They were all too busy creating their own stories of how the king had died and who had been involved and who had been responsible.
“You’re insinuating that Mary had something to do with this,” she whispered harshly. “You are wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yes!”
He started ticking things off on his fingers. “They were not in love. They fought whenever they were near each other. He embarrassed her at every turn and he was an embarrassment to Scotland. He drank, caroused and slept with other women. Some say he slept with other men as well.”
“Stop,” she hissed. “That’s enough.”
He leaned forward. “She could not divorce him because that would put into question the legitimacy of their son and possibly ruin James’s chance to someday become king.”
Emma was silently fuming but Tristan was chipping away at her anger with every point he made about the queen. She was appalled and alarmed to realize that he was right in every aspect. Put like that it was easy to see that Mary could have been involved in the king’s death.
“Darnley was constantly after her to sign the Crown Matrimonial.” A document that would grant him ruler of Scotland if anything happened to Mary. Everyone with any sense knew it would be a bad move on her part for it endangered her life. If Mary were to die, Darnley would become a true king with all the powers that Mary had.
Tristan lifted a brow as if to say, You see?
Emma leaned forward. “If she did condone this…deed…then she did so out of fear for her life.”
She was not ready to give up on her queen and the woman who had taken her under her wing and given her a chance at a new, independent life.
“Possibly,” Tristan said. “Who else would have benefited?”
“You feel there are more?” Good Lord, but the list of possible murder suspects was becoming quite unwieldy.