Chapter 30

Simon Armstrong, Andrew’s uncle, pulled the cap lower over his brow as he limped down Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, resisting the impulse to glance up at the imposing gray stones that frowned down at him as if to say he didn’t belong here.

’Twas the truth, he supposed. He was English. He didn’t belong here. But neither did Queen Mary. She’d shunned King Henry’s son, after all, and fled to Paris. In Simon’s opinion, she should have stayed there and left Scotland to Queen Elizabeth. And if Simon had anything to say about it, the self-professed Scottish queen would go back to France—the sooner, the better.

Of course, Simon didn’t have anything to say about it. He was only a pawn in Elizabeth’s chess match with Mary. But even pawns could distinguish themselves, and that was his hope.

Unlike his brothers, Robert and Thomas, he was no longer fit enough to go to war. His last skirmish with the Scots five years ago had left his only son dead and Simon crippled, and his old eyes weren’t what they used to be. But he’d be damned if he’d let his injuries keep him from serving the English crown. His brothers’ sons served in Elizabeth’s army. Even Andrew—the son of their dead brother Edward and a swordsman beyond compare—fought in tournaments throughout England, honing his skills for the coming war with Scotland. Simon might be crippled, but he could still serve his country.

So a month ago, when Queen Elizabeth’s secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham, approached the loyal Armstrong brothers—Simon, Robert, and Thomas—with this unique opportunity to serve the queen, they were honored beyond words.

For two weeks now, the three of them had shared a remote cottage in Scotland, a few miles south of Edinburgh. ’Twas all they shared. Their service was a matter of great secrecy, and they never disclosed their assignments, even to each other.

Simon turned off the Royal Mile and down a narrow lane. A pair of unruly university students ending their day of studies jostled him as they passed, but Simon kept his eyes trained on the cobblestones. Above all, Walsingham had told him, a spy must be invisible.

In a place as crowded and active as Edinburgh, ’twasn’t a difficult task. He usually ventured out at twilight, when nobody paid heed to a gray-bearded old cripple in a tattered coat and worn leather boots.

Simon leaned heavily on his walking staff as his old wound throbbed. He squinted down the curving road from beneath the brim of his cap. ’Twasn’t much farther to The White Hart. Once inside, he could settle into his dark corner and order a pint, keeping alert for any snippets of relevant conversation, and give his leg a much needed rest.

’Twas rumored the tavern was a favorite haunt of Mary’s secretary, Philipe de la Fontaine. Walsingham had sent Simon there to be his eyes and ears. He was to report any unusual activity or suspicious characters and note everything that de la Fontaine said.

He’d been coming every evening for two weeks now, and he had to admit ’twas a rather dull assignment for a man trained for combat. He’d sat for hours, sipping at his beer, which he’d quickly learned was much stronger here than in England. No one had mentioned the name of Mary.

The only day that Philipe de la Fontaine showed up, he chatted with the innkeeper for a few moments, asking how his son was faring and inquiring after the French wine he had on order, which the innkeeper said hadn’t yet arrived. He then joined a table of three merchants, played a single game of dice, which he lost, and, after less than a quarter hour, he left the tavern.

Simon had been tempted to follow the secretary, but Walsingham’s admonition about remaining inconspicuous rang in his ears. There would be other opportunities, he told himself.

Perhaps this evening he’d learn something valuable, he thought as he pushed open the door of The White Hart.

When his feeble eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, he was disappointed to discover his usual table was taken. A man sat there with a lass who frequented the tavern. They were conversing over trenchers of leek pottage.

He squinted at the other tables around the room. There was an empty spot near the counter. ’Twasn’t quite as secluded, but as long as he sat quietly and made no trouble, he’d blend into his surroundings, as innocuous as a stick of furniture.

Easing onto the stool and propping his walking staff against the wall, he huddled over a beer and surveyed the occupants of the room.

De la Fontaine wasn’t here, but that wasn’t surprising. Mary probably kept him busy looking for English spies under her bed. Two lads chatted with the tavern wench, but ’twas nothing unusual—the same two lads came by every evening to flirt with the lass. A trio of men played at dice, and their conversation was mostly quarrelling over whose turn ’twas or who owed whom how much.

Simon took a sip of foamy beer.

Two gentlemen at one of the tables were studying a piece of parchment. One of them shook his head gravely. The other’s shoulders slumped, and he gave the first a disgruntled frown. Then the first pointed at something on the page, and the second cocked his head, as if considering it.

Could they be planning something? A rendezvous? An ambush? A plot to assassinate Elizabeth?

He couldn’t hear them, so he had to rely on what he could guess from their gestures.

They were arguing over whatever was on the parchment. The first man obviously wasn’t happy with it, and the second kept offering changes, albeit reluctantly. The first frowned over the document and finally dismissed the thing with a wave of his hand, which sent the second one scrambling in panic to please the first.

Simon had to find out what they were discussing. They might well be putting the polish on a conspiracy to overthrow the English crown.

Leaving his beer and his cap conspicuously on the table so no one else would usurp his place, he slowly hobbled past the pair toward the hearth, ostensibly to warm his hands at the fire.

As he passed, he squinted down at the parchment. ’Twas a drawing of a cupboard with leaves and flowers carved into the doors. The man was obviously a craftsman then, presenting plans to an exacting patron.

Whatever their differences were, they didn’t seem to be engaged in a dangerous plot, so Simon moved on to the hearth.

As he stretched his fingers toward the fire, he glanced at the couple occupying his usual table. As he’d remarked on previous nights, the lass was quite lovely…for a Scotswoman. She was fair of face with golden locks and looked to have all of her teeth. Her companion…

Simon frowned.

There was something familiar about the man. ’Twas hard to tell in the shadows of the tavern, especially with his weak eyes, but Simon thought he might have seen him before.

’Twas possible, he supposed, even in a place as big as Edinburgh, to see the same person twice. But this was something more than simple recognition. There was something hauntingly, eerily familiar about him.

Then the man laughed at whatever the lass said, baring his teeth in a grin that was unmistakable, and Simon staggered, catching himself on the hearthstones to keep from collapsing.

Invisible. He had to remain invisible. He turned his back on the couple and fought to breathe steadily, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen.

There was no mistaking the young man. Aye, two years had passed—his hair had grown shaggy and there was a day’s growth of beard on him—but he was the same bright-eyed lad Simon and his brothers had raised from the age of six.

What the hell was Andrew Armstrong doing here?

Simon stared into the flames, his eyes mirroring their fierce heat. The lad was supposed to be in England, fighting in tournaments. What the devil was he doing in a Scots tavern?

Simon balled his fists against a mad urge to grab the lad by the scruff of the neck and march him out of The White Hart all the way back to England, where he belonged. Of course, he didn’t dare. ’Twas just the sort of irresponsible action that would earn him Sir Walsingham’s disapproval and subsequent dismissal.

But seeing Andrew here had thrown a loose cog into the machinery of Simon’s mission, and he knew he’d be of no use as a spy until he solved the mystery of what his nephew was doing in Edinburgh.

He racked his brain for an explanation. Was it possible the lad had been recruited by Walsingham as well? Could he be an agent of the queen? It seemed too improbable, and yet ’twas the only thing that made any sense.

He heard the scrape of a chair behind him, and he froze, wondering if Andrew had recognized him after all. But no tap on his shoulder followed, and when Simon dared peek again, Andrew was on his way up the stairs with a hand around the lass’s waist. To his further disgust, he saw that the lad was dressed in a saffron shirt and tartan trews, like a bloody Highlander, and he carried a satchel of golfing clubs over his shoulder.

Simon glowered in revulsion and disappointment. Andrew wasn’t a spy, and he wasn’t a swordsman on the tournament circuit. He was apparently enjoying a life of leisure, consorting with the enemy, playing Scottish golf and swiving Scottish whores.

He was dishonoring the memory of his father, who had died at the hands of these despicable people. ’Twas an unforgivable affront. It broke Simon’s heart to know his nephew had lied about everything, and he wouldn’t rest until he discovered the reason why.

But first he had to get the lad out of this Godforsaken country. Andrew was family, and Simon had sworn on Edward Armstrong’s grave to protect his son. Walsingham’s men were thick here. If any of them discovered the lad was consorting with the enemy, he might well be viewed as a traitor to England.

His heart heavy, Simon limped back to his table, slugged down the beer, jammed his cap down over his head, snatched up his walking staff, and headed home. Kidnapping was an undertaking that would require all three Armstrong brothers.