Emma woke the next morning feeling sore but it was a good kind of sore. Not the type that she was accustomed to with Angus. She knew that there would be no bruises to hide, nothing to clean up before the servants came in.
She stretched, loving the feel of her aching muscles, then reached for Tristan. Would he mind doing it again? She might be sore but her body was ready and she wanted to discover all those different ways that he’d mentioned.
But the other side of the bed was cold and Tristan was gone. There was a note propped up on his pillow.
Gone on an errand, it read. Will bring back food.
She smiled and wanted to hug the note to her but that was for a lass in her first throes of love, and she was far from that. She did not know how old Tristan was but she figured he was several years younger than herself. Maybe she thought that because he seemed so carefree and she felt like she had lived a hundred years already.
Normally she didn’t mind her age. It simply meant that soon men would stop being interested in her and turn their eyes to the younger girls but right now she wished she were younger. She wished a lot of things, like that she wasn’t related to the Bruces or the Howards and that she wasn’t born a lady but a common person who would be allowed to fall in love with a printer.
Those were silly thoughts. She had no idea if Tristan even felt the same way. He’d made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t marry again, and she had vowed a long time ago never to wed again.
But that was before she knew that men like Tristan existed. And she was smart enough to know that there weren’t many men like Tristan. He was once in a lifetime and she ached knowing that in this lifetime a love between them was impossible.
She might be an independent widow with money of her own but neither the Bruces nor the Howards would ever allow a marriage between her and a printer.
And how ridiculous even to entertain such an idea.
She flung the blankets off and stepped onto the cold floor. Quickly she hurried to her room, where the fire had died down and frost had gathered on the window. Maybe she should use some of the money that she never spent and go to the South of France. Or maybe Italy. Somewhere warm. She’d heard Italian lovers could be the best lovers.
She laughed out loud. Who was this woman thinking of moving to Italy to take up a lover? Certainly not the same woman she’d been yesterday.
Feeling light and carefree she made her way downstairs where it was dark and quiet. The sun had not yet come up but it would soon. She hoped Tristan would return shortly because she was hungry and she wanted to make love to him again.
She was becoming insatiable and she didn’t care. For once in her life she would do what she wanted instead of what was right and proper. But in the back of her head she knew that she needed to return to Holyrood soon. She had friends who would be wondering about her, and she was curious to see what Gelis had told people about where she was. She was also worried about Mary.
She would spend one more day with Tristan if he agreed. One more day of bliss. One more day of hiding from her responsibilities and the heavy burden of the knowledge she possessed.
If there truly had been a conspiracy to kill the king then it was Emma’s duty to warn her queen. Her duty and obligation because Mary had been so kind to her the last few years.
Emma peeked into the kitchen but it was dark, the hearth cold and the only thing she could find was the heel of the loaf of bread that Tristan had bought for them yesterday. It was hard as a rock so Emma left it be.
She wandered into the sitting room with the straight-backed chairs and no rug and shook her head. This was not a warm and welcoming room. Not like the upstairs sitting room that reminded her of Tristan.
Next she looked into the printing room. Here the scent of printing ink was strong and she wondered if he’d had to get up early to print something for someone. She wasn’t exactly sure how a print shop worked. She thought that people came to the printer asking them to print something for them. Books and pamphlets and such.
Emma wandered around the cold print shop, stopping to look up at the print machine that seemed so big and overpowering. It appeared to be a complicated piece of machinery. She moved closer, careful not to touch the levers and such. She did spy a dot of fresh ink that told her that Tristan had indeed been printing this morning. She felt bad for keeping him from his livelihood.
What had he been printing? Was that the errand he’d had to run?
There were shelves of paper and a cabinet with closed doors. Curious she opened the door to look inside. This was where he kept his typecase. All of the letters were neatly arranged in a box. Some she could tell were still wet from the earlier printing.
At the bottom of the box of letters she spied something that wasn’t a letter at all but a small something. She looked closer but it was too dark to see what it was.
Carefully she picked it up and carried it to the window where faint light was beginning to spill through.
Her heart skipped a beat, then sped up. Nestled in the palm of her hand was a carving of a small hare.
The same small hare that she had seen on the placard hanging on St. Giles church. She folded her fingers over the wooden piece and closed her eyes.
She could be wrong of course. But why else would Tristan have a carving of a hare for his printing press? Was it coincidence that a slew of placards was appearing all over the city with this same hare on it?
Was Tristan printing those placards?
Her heart was telling her no, but her mind was screaming that this was no coincidence. She felt the essence of him inside of her, thought of their night of lovemaking and how gentle and wonderful he had been.
She didn’t want to believe it. Not her Tristan.
She thought back to their conversations.
“My life does not lend itself to marriage.”
“Your life?”
“My life at the time. I was busy with other things and not home very often.”
“What other things kept you away from home?”
“I worked for the court,” he said. “As a messenger. It took me out of the country frequently.”
“You were a messenger for the court and you left that to become a printer in Scotland?”
“I was a messenger for a very short time and discovered it was not an ideal situation for me. I think I felt guilty for being away from Annabelle and guilty that she had to die alone because I was at the whim of someone else, having to go when they told me to go. I left it all behind. England was too painful after that and Scotland seemed like a good place to land for a bit.”
At the time it seemed plausible but she’d also been worried about making love to him and disappointing him in the process. She’d not really been thinking about his marriage to Annabelle and why he chose to become a printer.
But now she could see how strange it was that he went from working for the court of Queen Elizabeth to being a printer. One did not fall so far from a much coveted position.
Exactly what type of messenger had he been?
She’d originally thought of it in literal terms. The queen gave him a message to take to someone and he delivered it. It was not too far-fetched that a queen would need to communicate with other countries, and so it seemed believable that he was traveling all over the world. That certainly would take him away from his wife.
And he could have been that type of messenger. But why become a printer? Certainly messengers received certain benefits and they were paid well, it would seem. He left all that to struggle as a printer in a different country?
Or was something else afoot?
If he was a messenger for the Queen of England would it be possible that she sent him here? But why?
Emma looked down at the tiny carved hare. The placards were a menace to Mary, shining an unfavorable light on her and her ability to rule the country. Emma had been out there. She had seen the people’s reaction firsthand. They were questioning Mary. Questioning that she might have had a role in her husband’s death. For years the Scottish people had not looked favorably upon Lord Darnley and the way he treated their queen but the horrific way he’d died had shifted public opinion. Now he was suddenly becoming a martyr.
And Mary was becoming the enemy.
The placards had a part to play in this, Emma just knew it. The placards helped sway public opinion. At first Emma had thought they were being printed as an underground movement led by disgruntled citizens. But now she wondered.
Were they being printed by agents of Queen Elizabeth to sway public opinion away from the Scottish queen who made it no secret that she wanted the English crown as well as the Scottish crown?
Someone pounded on the front door making Emma jump and squeak. She curled her fingers around the hare and stared at the door. Should she answer it? Surely it was someone for Tristan because no one knew she was here.
She hurried over to the cabinet, put the hare back inside and closed the doors. Belatedly she realized she’d gotten ink on her hand from holding the hare but there was nothing to be done about it now.
She ran her clean hand down her skirts, smiled and opened the door.
A man stood on the other side, well dressed, older with a fringe of white hair peeking out from his cap. He looked at her and frowned then looked up at the sign hanging above the door indicating this was a print shop.
“May I help you?” Emma asked.
“I’m searching for a Mr. Fitzherbert. The printer?”
“He’s not in at the moment. He should be back later in the day. Can I tell him who came calling?”
The man hesitated, appearing flummoxed that a woman had answered the door.
“Tell him Killigrew stopped by. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“I will let him know, Mr. Killigrew.”
The man paused as if he wanted to say something more, nodded and turned around and left. Emma shut the door and leaned against it, her mind whirling with information and speculation.
Could Tristan still be a messenger for Queen Elizabeth and were these her messages he was posting all over Edinburgh?
If this were true then the murder of Lord Darnley was becoming stickier and stickier.
With a purpose that made her heart sink Emma grabbed a piece of paper from the shelves and found an inkwell and quill and quickly penned a note to Tristan. She hurried upstairs, wanting to be gone before he returned.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him again. It was that she didn’t want to face him because she would not be able to keep herself from asking and she didn’t want to know for certain that he was here as an agent of Queen Elizabeth.
Because if he was then he wasn’t altogether innocent in nursing Emma back to health and letting her stay in his home. Suddenly all the questions he asked her took on new, nefarious meanings and she was hurt and disappointed. He’d lied to her. He’d passed himself off as an innocent printer when that’s not what he was at all.
She blinked away her tears and refused to think about the night they’d spent together. That was not a lie. She refused to believe it was. For whatever reason Tristan had made love to her because he’d wanted to. Not because he’d wanted something from her.
She swiped away her tears and looked around her small room. There was nothing here she wanted to take with her. The gown she’d worn the night of the murder was beyond repair and held too many bad memories. She grabbed her cloak and hurried out, poking her head into the street to make sure he wasn’t coming and closing the door firmly behind her.
She did not look back at the little shop that held so many fond memories to her. The only place she’d felt truly safe. It just went to show what she knew. All her life she’d felt naïve and stupid and this just proved that she really was both.
She kept her head down as she walked up High Street, passing people and listening to their conversations. Apparently there was real speculation and fear that Bothwell had been involved in Darnley’s murder. People were commenting that the man needed to go to trial.
That was serious if the Scottish people were calling for a trial.
They were also speculating about Mary’s involvement because she was so close to Bothwell. That was not good for Mary. Emma cursed her queen for her habit of always trusting the wrong men. This was just proof that Bothwell was not good for Mary’s reputation but you’d never be able to tell the queen that.
Emma slowed as she neared Mercat Cross. This was the place where all announcements were hung. This was where one went when you wanted to hear the latest news. And it seemed there was a crowd gathering. That wasn’t too out of the ordinary, especially considering recent events.
Emma pushed her way through the crowd to find another placard, this one more damning than the others.
There were no words, just pictures.
Of a mermaid—the sign of a prostitute—holding a sword over a hare.
Emma stared at the horrible message.
The mermaid was obviously Queen Mary because she was wearing a crown. And the hare was obviously Bothwell because the hare was his heraldic device.
Mary holding a sword over Bothwell. To make him do what she wanted?
To make him kill her husband?
Emma’s gaze strayed to the hare, and her heart slowly rolled over and died. It was the exact same hare that she’d held in her hand not even an hour ago.
She looked down at her hand smeared with printer ink and closed her fingers over it, tears blurring her vision.
Oh, Tristan. What have you done?