“Open up under the queen’s orders!”
Tristan’s and Emma’s gazes clashed. They had come, just like she’d warned Tristan they would, and now it was too late. He should have run when she’d told him. They shouldn’t have been standing here talking while the guards had been marching down the street. Or worse, making love while Tristan’s life was in peril.
They’d been such imbeciles!
“Go,” Tristan whispered as he pushed her toward the back of the shop. “The wynd behind the shop will eventually take you to High Street.”
She grabbed his arm, her heart hammering in fear. “You’re coming with me.”
“No, Emma. They will only chase us, and I won’t put you in that danger.”
“Tristan—”
He was dragging her through the kitchen where the string bag, now empty, still lay on the wood block counter and the tray from their meal in bed was still scattered with crumbs and a hunk of hard cheese.
She was clawing at his arm, desperate, determined that he was to leave with her. “Run with me,” she pleaded. “Please.”
There was more pounding on the front door, more calling out to open under the queen’s orders.
“I’m not going with you,” he said, his voice far calmer than she was feeling. He pulled a dagger from his boot and handed it to her, hilt first. “Take this and go.”
She dropped the wooden falcon in the pocket of her cloak and grabbed the dagger. He would never run with her. He wasn’t like that.
“I love you,” she whispered.
They were beating on the door now with what sounded like clubs, trying to break it down. Tristan glanced behind him and opened the back door.
But before he shoved her through he kissed her, a hard, quick kiss, all that they had time for. “I love you, Emma Howard. Go to Italy and be the independent woman you want to be. Get out of Scotland as quickly as you can. Please, for me.”
She clung to him. She couldn’t help it. Even though they would surely break down the door soon. But Tristan pushed her out, ripping her away from him and making her stagger backward just as the front door splintered and boots clattered against the wooden floor.
“There is a man named LaGrange who works in the stables at Holyrood.” Tristan was talking quickly. “Find him. Tell him what happened to me. He’ll get word to Elizabeth.”
Then he slammed the door shut.
“No!” Emma lunged at the door but stopped short. There were shouts and the sounds of things falling on the floor and flesh hitting flesh. There was a grunt and then silence.
Emma backed up, looking at the closed door in horror, the dagger clutched in her hand. She could hear them beating him through the door.
She wanted to rush in and save him, but she knew she was no match against the queen’s guards.
There is a man named LaGrange.
Find him.
She turned and ran, the sound of fists pounding flesh following her down the narrow wynd. She knew she couldn’t really hear the soldiers hitting Tristan but she heard them in her mind and it propelled her faster until she reached High Street.
She slowed because it wouldn’t look good for a madwoman to rush out of the back wynd, clutching a dagger. She tucked the dagger into the folds of her cloak and pulled her hood up as she hurried toward Holyrood. Occasionally she glanced behind her but there were no soldiers bearing down on her and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. People were going about their day and she wanted to shout at them, Don’t you see what is happening? Don’t you realize that your government and your queen are being taken over by a man who will destroy you all?
He was already destroying Emma’s life.
But she pushed those thoughts away and chanted under her breath, LaGrange, LaGrange, LaGrange.
The name sounded familiar and she realized that Margaret had spoken of him as well. Something about Lord Sheffield and Rose Turner. Emma could not remember exactly what Margaret had said. Now she wished she had asked more questions of Margaret. Like who exactly was this LaGrange, what had he to do with Elizabeth and why had he been seen talking to Lord Sheffield?
An idea was forming in her head but it seemed so preposterous. Could Lord Sheffield, Tristan and LaGrange all be spies for Queen Elizabeth? She’d understood that Tristan had been sent by Elizabeth to stir sentiment against Mary but instead of being her messenger was he her spy?
The more she thought about it the less absurd the idea became. It made sense that Elizabeth would want to keep an eye on the Scottish court, especially since Mary had made no secret of the fact that she wanted to be named Elizabeth’s heir and thus Queen of Scotland and England.
Emma passed Kirk o’ Field and glanced at the spot where Lord Darnley had been killed. But she hurried on, intent on finding this LaGrange.
Where would the soldiers take Tristan, and would he survive whatever they did to him? Did they have proof that Tristan was the one printing the placards or were they fishing?
Or were they using Tristan as an example to the other printers?
She hurried through the outer gate of Holyrood and into the dark confines of the palace. It’d been her home for five years, the one place she felt safe, but she didn’t feel safe here anymore. She felt the evil penetrating the walls and she wanted nothing to do with it.
Emma hurried to Margaret’s rooms, thinking that she would be the best person to find this LaGrange since she’d seen him before. But Margaret wasn’t there. The room looked like it had been ransacked with gowns draped everywhere, petticoats and underthings lying in piles on the floor. Emma had a feeling that this was the way Margaret lived. Books mattered to Margaret, everything else took second place.
Vaguely it occurred to Emma that Margaret would have liked Tristan. They could have talked about books.
Tristan’s books!
What was to become of them?
She shook her head at such foolishness. Books did not matter when his life was in such grave danger.
She found Margaret in the music room, tucked into a chair by the windows so she could read by the sunlight. She was absorbed in a book that looked to be fifty pounds at least, studiously turning the pages, her brow furrowed as if she were to be tested on the information later.
“Margaret.”
The poor girl jumped and put a hand to her heart. “You scared me to death, Emma.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is important.”
Margaret slowly shut the book and frowned. “You’re winded and your cheeks are red.”
Emma knelt before Margaret and took her hand.
“Why are you wearing a servant’s gown?” Margaret asked.
“I need to find LaGrange.”
“LaGrange? Why would you need him?”
“Please, Margaret. This is important, a matter of life and death. I must get a message to him but I don’t know who he is.”
Margaret hefted the heavy book off her lap and with much effort and a few grunts of exertion placed it on the floor.
“Come with me,” she said.
“I don’t want you involved in this. Just tell me where he is and what he looks like and I’ll find him.”
Margaret put her hands on her hips and glared at Emma. “If this is so important to you then I will help. Besides, that was almost the same thing that Lord Sheffield said to me. This is becoming a habit with people. What is it that all of you are aware of that I am not?”
“It’s best you not know,” Emma said.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Let me get my cloak.”
Emma wanted to protest. Time was of the essence but the poor girl needed her cloak to go out into the cold weather.
Impatiently Emma followed Margaret to her chambers. Margaret waded through the clothes strewn about and dug through a few piles before she pulled out a red cloak.
“Your lady’s maid has given up, I see.”
Margaret grinned. “A long time ago.”
She pulled her cloak on and they hurried out of the chambers, passing no one as they made their way through the palace. This was such a change from just a few weeks ago when there were people about enjoying themselves, still flushed with the enjoyment of the prince’s baptism. Now they were afraid to laugh, afraid to speak for fear that suspicion would fall upon them.
Margaret moved quickly and with purpose and before Emma knew it, they were slipping through a door that led to the queen’s gardens. Snow was falling softly, making everything seem pristine and muffled. They were the only ones foolish enough to be outside in this weather and they stuck close to the side of the building so as not to be seen.
Where was Tristan now? Where had they taken them? Would Emma be too late to save him?
Margaret opened the heavy door to the stables and closed it behind Emma. Immediately they were engulfed by the pungent scent of horses and hay. A few velvety noses poked out of the stalls and curious brown eyes assessed them. One whickered and the others went back to doing whatever horses did when humans weren’t around.
Emma wasn’t a horsewoman. She could ride if forced but she never particularly enjoyed it as a pastime the way Mary did.
One of the biggest men Emma had ever seen stepped out of a room at the far end of the stables. He stood heads above her and was twice as wide. If Tristan was sleek and supple, this man was the opposite. He was made completely of muscle from the rounded, boulder-like shoulders to the massive arms. His blond hair was pulled back at his nape and a bushy dark blond beard covered his face.
He saw Margaret and Emma hurrying toward him but Emma could not read the expression on his face for he hid it well. Tristan had been able to do that same thing.
“Lady Margaret, what a surprise.” Unsurprisingly, his voice was very deep to match his large physique and again Emma could not glean his thoughts from his tone. What was surprising about him was his eyes—a bright, piercing blue.
“LaGrange,” Margaret said breathlessly. “This is Lady Emma Howard and she has need to speak to you.”
Ah, so this was LaGrange.
Those penetrating blue eyes swiveled to her and he waited for her to speak as if he had all the time in the world.
Emma stepped forward and glanced at Margaret, wondering how much she should hear.
“I’m not leaving,” Margaret said, as if reading her thoughts.
“Maybe it’s best if you did.” Emma looked at LaGrange, surprised to hear him say that. It was as if he knew what she’d come here for.
Margaret huffed in exasperation. “I’ll go to the other end of the stables but no farther.”
LaGrange inclined his head to her and waited until she had moved far enough away.
“Tell me,” he said to Emma.
“Tristan Fitzherbert sent me. He said to tell you that he’s been taken by the queen’s men and that you are to inform Elizabeth.”
LaGrange’s eyes never so much as flickered. Not a muscle moved in that large body.
“Tell me everything,” he said after a moment.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“I know he saved you the night of the explosion and that he nursed you back to health.”
Emma started. “You know all of this?”
LaGrange did not even acknowledge her question, as if it were frivolous, but Emma wondered when Tristan had spoken to LaGrange and selfishly she wondered what the two men had discussed about her.
“Why did Mary’s men arrest him?”
“I think it was more Bothwell’s men,” Emma said lowly. “But at this point they are one and the same. I overheard Bothwell say that he was going to round up the printers and have them questioned because of the placards.”
LaGrange nodded as if he knew all of this. Again Emma wondered at his presence in Mary’s court. His presence, Lord Sheffield’s presence and Tristan’s presence in Edinburgh.
“And Bothwell was good to his word and arrested Fitzherbert,” he said.
“We have to help him. Please. You’re one of the queen’s guards, surely you can find where he is and get him out.”
LaGrange shook his head. “Those were not Fitzherbert’s instructions. His instructions were to tell me so I can pass this on to Elizabeth.”
Emma grabbed his arm, knowing it was a foolish thing to do but unable to help herself. She was desperate and LaGrange was her only salvation. His arm tensed under her touch but he did not strike her or shake her off. He merely looked at her hand on his thick arm and then looked back at her.
“You can’t leave him there,” she said, appalled. “He’ll die. They’ll kill him as certainly as they killed Darnley.”
He finally moved away and her hand fell to her side. “I know nothing about Darnley’s death other than he was killed in an explosion. But Fitzherbert was clear that I was only to tell Elizabeth.”
Anger swirled through her, so fierce and all-consuming that she had no control over it. “You are a heartless creature,” she said between clenched teeth. “If you will not help him then I will.”
He raised his brows. “And what will you do?”
“I don’t know yet but I will do something. I will not allow this good man to die at the hands of Bothwell when all he was doing was what his queen instructed him to do.”
“Tristan knew the dangers before he started this mission. He knew his arrest was a real possibility.”
“That does not mean we cannot save him,” she cried out.
Margaret watched them curiously, standing far enough away that she couldn’t hear their conversation except for the last that Emma said.
She lowered her voice. “There is no reason for him to die. We can find him and save him. I know we can.”
LaGrange sighed and unfolded his arms. “He does not want this,” he said. “He does not want you involved.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I know him well.”
Emma studied him for a long time. “Are you like him? And like Lord Sheffield?”
LaGrange’s eyes became hooded. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I will leave it at that. But I will find him. I don’t care if I have to go to the queen herself and ask for help.”
“Do you really think she will help you? She’s under Bothwell’s protection. If I didn’t know any better I would think there was witchcraft the way Bothwell has bewitched her and made her rely on him.”
“Then something else must be done.”
LaGrange thought for a moment, giving Emma hope, before he shook his head. “There is nothing to be done. I can’t help you because that would expose me and my mission and that is not acceptable.”
Her hope shriveled and died as fast as it had come. “So that’s it? You will allow a fellow countryman and a friend to die?”
“We all know the dangers.”
“Well, I don’t! I was not made aware of any of this until now, and I have no allegiance to your queen but I do have an allegiance to Tristan and I will help him somehow. Tell me where you think he might be. That’s all I’m asking of you.”
LaGrange considered her for a long moment and then his gaze flickered to Margaret, who was petting the nose of a horse and throwing covert glances at them.