Wed to a Spy

by Sharon Cullen

  “The placard—”

  “I’ve ordered our meal. I am going to the privy out back, but I will return straightaway. Do not talk to anyone. Don’t leave. Don’t move from this chair. Do you understand me, Magpie?”

  She nodded, the glazed look coming back to her eyes. Yes, he was worried about her.

  When he returned, she was staring at the plate of food before her, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Eat,” he said as he sat down and tucked into his meal. For days all he’d eaten was cheese and bread, sacrificing his portions so Aimee could eat, and while he didn’t mind doing so because it was his job to protect her, he was ravenous.

  She leaned forward, pinning him with those gray eyes that reminded him of storm clouds gathering over the Highlands.

  “Did you see those placards?” she whispered.

  He looked around, not wanting to discuss this here, but here was better than other places, he supposed. “I did.”

  “They were disgusting.” Her lips twisted and color rose to her cheeks. “That…that drawing. It was of…” She looked around and leaned even closer, dropping her voice. “…Mary, and she was a…mermaid.”

  He took another bite and chewed while watching her. He’d seen the placard. He knew what it was all about.

  “In case you don’t know,” she said, all righteous indignation, “a mermaid is a symbol for—”

  “Prostitution.”

  Her shoulders went back and her eyes flashed. “A lady of the night.”

  He shrugged and took a drink of ale. “Different names for the same thing.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  He looked around again. They were in their own little corner, the closest people being the three men playing cards, and none of them paying Aimee and Simon any mind.

  “There are people who are not happy with the queen. In fact, they are quite angry with her.”

  Her brows rose. “Why? She is their queen. They should respect her and honor her.”

  Aimee was clearly on the side of Mary; Simon wasn’t surprised. Mary had been raised in France since she was a lass of six; she’d grown up in the French court, under the thumb of Catherine de Medici, and had married the dauphine of France. Aimee was very loyal to her country.

  “For many years the Scottish nobles have survived without a monarch. The nobles have had free rein of the country, making the decisions themselves. Mary’s presence has taken their power away, and they want it back.”

  “Are you saying the nobles are responsible for those despicable placards?”

  “I don’t know who is.” He knew exactly who was responsible for those placards, but he would never tell Aimee that. Simon pointed to her plate. “Eat. We have a long way to go tonight, and you need sustenance.”

  She picked up a tiny bite and nibbled on it. God’s blood, but if she ate like that, they would be here all night and into tomorrow.

  He motioned to the barmaid for a refill and settled into his chair. The barmaid filled his mug and topped off Aimee’s, then sauntered away as if she wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “I was afraid you would not come back,” Aimee said quietly.

  “Pardon?” His focus sharpened on her.

  “When you went to the privy, I realized that I have no money to pay for my food and drink. I have no money to procure lodgings for tonight. If you hadn’t come back, I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

  “Aimee, look at me.”

  She slowly raised her eyes from her plate.

  “I am your husband. It is my job to take care of you and provide for you. If I hadn’t come back, it would have been because I couldn’t.”

  Which made him think that he needed to provide for Aimee in the event that something happened to him. Elizabeth had said this would be his last mission, but she was a fickle monarch, as most were, and he didn’t trust her word on that.

  He also had to tell Elizabeth that he was wed, per Mary’s orders. How would she take that bit of news? A fellow monarch and rival, forcing one of her spies to wed?

  It almost made him want to smile.

  “I have nothing,” Aimee said. “Not even my gowns or my jewelry. I’ve come to you a pauper.”

  “You are a very rich lady now that you’re wed to me.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and looked down at her food. She appeared dejected, and he didn’t like that.

  “We will discuss money at a more appropriate time. If you want an allowance, you may have one. Whatever you want, Magpie.”

  She raised her head and looked into the distance, deep in thought. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking of her Pierre. Had she given up on the idea of him? Had she accepted their marriage? Or was she still pining for him?

  He tried not to think of the elusive Frenchman because it only made him feel angry and helpless. He touched the outside of the pocket in his doublet, where the letter lay.

  “Why did they depict Mary as a mermaid?” she asked.

  Startled out of his thoughts by the change in conversation, he hesitated. “Because they don’t believe the baby in her belly is Darnley’s.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Eat,” he said in a commanding tone.

  She took another small bite, but he could tell her mind was far away.

  “Do you think that was why Rizzio was…” Her voice trailed off and she went pale.

  “I think Rizzio’s death had more to do with the fact that she was relying increasingly on his advice and certain people didn’t like it, but the rumor that he fathered her child could have aided their decision.”

  She sat back and pushed her plate away. “I can’t eat another bite.”

  “You didn’t even eat one bite. Nibbling is not biting.” He dug a bawbee out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. “We should be going, anyway.”

  They’d stayed far longer than he was comfortable with, but he’d wanted Aimee to rest and eat. She’d rested, but she’d definitely not eaten.

  He led them outside. It was beginning to get dark, twilight well past its prime. The streets were starting to empty of the merchants and the merchant class, leaving behind the undesirables. There was a criminal element to Edinburgh that was fascinating and frightening at the same time. Simon was on his guard, alert and watching, always keeping Aimee within an arm’s length. Shadows lurked in the doorways, sinister and forbidding, as Simon led Aimee down High Street, then ducked into a wynd. Aimee made a sound of protest but otherwise kept quiet.

  Edinburgh was surrounded by a protective wall that kept the enemies out and the citizens in. Hemmed in, the people of Edinburgh had no choice but to grow upward, building story upon story on existing houses and shops until the buildings towered over them, leaning inward until it looked as if they would topple over. Some were as high as fifteen precarious stories.

  He and Aimee exited into a smaller, narrower wynd where a dog was chewing on the carcass of a smaller animal and the stench of human sewage was overwhelming. Aimee put her hand over her mouth and her eyes watered, but still she did not complain.

  Here it was darker, more dangerous. Men lounged in doorways, watching Aimee and Simon’s progress. A scream came from one of the many rooms above them. Aimee’s steps faltered, but Simon pressed on.

  “Did you hear—”

  “I did.”

  “Should we—”

  “No.”

  They emerged onto High Street, closer to Edinburgh Castle. Simon stopped and leaned against a shop wall, looking at his surroundings, appearing to have nowhere else to go and nowhere else he wanted to be. Really he was making sure that they weren’t being followed. There were few people around them and none of them looked familiar. It was full-on nighttime now, and the good citizens of Edinburgh had given up their streets to the unfavorable criminal class.

  Aimee leaned against the wall beside him. “Are we almost there?”

  “Almost.”

  She eyed her surroundings warily
. “It might be best to find lodgings until daylight.”

  “I have lodgings arranged.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

  He nodded, keeping his eye on a shadow that was edging closer to them. “Come.”

  He pushed off the wall and walked in a steady lope, not running, but not sauntering, either. One more loop through the city, and he would guide Aimee toward Tristan’s.

  Chapter 20

  Aimee was lagging farther and farther behind, and Simon had to keep slowing down in order for her to catch up. She was nearly asleep on her feet as she stumbled down the wynds and streets of Edinburgh.

  “Almost there,” he said.

  She mumbled something, but it wasn’t clear what she was trying to say.

  Simon ducked down a wynd but had to reach back and drag Aimee with him, else she would have kept wandering down the street.

  By the time he reached the back wynd of Tristan’s print shop, Aimee was nearly unconscious on her feet. Finally free from all prying eyes, Simon picked her up and cradled her like a baby in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder. She was as light as a feather, barely anything in his arms. She mumbled again and he smiled. Even she probably had no idea what she was saying.

  He tapped on the back door of the print shop in the signal that he, Tristan, and Will had devised. The door opened immediately, golden light spilling out, the warmth enticing and welcoming. Simon slipped through with Aimee and Tristan quickly shut the door.

  “Is she alive?” Tristan asked.

  “Of course she’s alive. Where should I put her?”

  “Follow me.”

  Tristan led them up a set of narrow, creaking steps and into a small bedchamber that faced the street. Simon carefully laid Aimee on the bed and covered her with a blanket. Immediately she turned onto her side with a sigh and tucked her hand under her chin to fall further into sleep.

  Both men quietly left the room and returned to the back of the print shop, where a fire burned brightly in the sparse sitting room. Tristan poured Simon a mug of warm malmsey, a sweet wine that Simon had a fondness for. Will was sitting in a chair in front of the fire with his own mug of ale, and Simon felt a wave of relief that his friend had made it out of the palace as well.

  “We were worried about you,” Will said as he watched Simon wearily fall into the opposite chair.

  “I was, too, for a bit.”

  “What happened?” Tristan asked.

  Simon took a fortifying sip of ale. “Rizzio was murdered. Aimee and I saw the entire thing.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Tristan said gravely.

  “Where were you?” Simon asked Will.

  Will grinned. “With a certain Lady Bess.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s probably for the best, as it kept you from the scene of the crime.”

  “Tell us about the murder,” Tristan said. “All I’ve heard is rumors, and you know how those go.”

  “I’ve not heard the rumors, as Aimee and I have been holed up in an unused part of the castle, waiting for our opportunity to escape.” He took another swig of ale and looked into the fire, remembering that night, but mostly remembering his fear for Aimee when Ruthven rushed Rizzio. “Aimee was standing next to the queen when Ruthven walked in, looking very ill but determined and in a full suit of armor.”

  Tristan made a sound that was half laughter and half disbelief. “Armor?”

  “I know. I wonder about that, too. My only guess is that he is half mad as well as ill.”

  “Then what happened?” Tristan asked.

  “Ruthven attacked Rizzio right in front of the queen, while Darnley hid behind his wife like a cowering lad in swaddling.” Simon shook his head in disgust. He’d never been fond of Darnley, but this had been pathetic, in Simon’s estimation. No real man hid behind a woman, especially a woman with child.

  “So Ruthven killed Rizzio?” Tristan asked.

  “He wasn’t dead when Aimee and I left.”

  “Rumor has it that he wasn’t killed right away. A few people are thought to have killed him. There were multiple stab wounds,” Will said.

  “I saw them carrying his body out,” Simon said quietly, even though it was just the three of them. The image was still disturbing. An adviser killed before a monarch by her own noblemen did not reflect well on Scotland.

  “Supposedly he’s been buried in a pauper’s grave, his clothes stolen from him,” Will said.

  “These are troubling times,” Tristan said as he turned to stoke the fire, causing sparks to shoot up the chimney and a blast of hot air to hit Simon in the face. “But we all know that Elizabeth predicted there would be troubles ahead for Mary.”

  “That she did,” Simon said.

  “Tell us about Aimee,” Will said. “How is your wife?”

  “Exhausted. We spent the days since the murder hidden in an unused bedchamber at Holyrood and eating food I pilfered here and there. But she’s been amazingly resilient as well. Not once did she complain during our captivity or our escape.” He looked up to find both Will and Tristan grinning like damn fools. “I see nothing funny about any of this.”

  Tristan covered his grin with his hand, pretending to rub his beard, and Will buried his face in his mug.

  —

  Aimee woke with a start, sitting up in bed on a gasp as she clutched her stomach. She’d been dreaming of the attack on Rizzio. She’d been standing next to Queen Mary, as she had been during the real attack, but instead of stabbing Rizzio, the darkened figure—who she assumed was Ruthven—turned the knife on Mary and stabbed her in the stomach, then turned to Aimee with the knife raised.

  That was when she woke up.

  Her heart was pounding, and she was breathing hard as she looked around the small room. Where was she? How had she come to be in such a small, crude room? She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. And what was that smell?

  She pushed the blanket off and was glad to see that she was still in the servant’s gown. She remembered nothing past leaning with Simon against the wall of the shop on High Street. She’d been exhausted and frightened. Edinburgh was a different place at night, and undesirables had been lurking about, putting her on edge.

  Bits and pieces of images floated around in her brain—of walking, then light from a fire? She wasn’t sure. She remembered being warm and feeling safe, then nothing until waking moments ago.

  Where was Simon?

  She slid off the bed and winced as her feet touched the floor. Walking all day and most of the night in the formal slippers she had worn to dinner the night of the murder had not been kind to her feet. The soles were raw, her ankles swollen. She was definitely not looking or feeling her best.

  She hobbled to the small lone window. The glass was rippled and pitted, making it nearly impossible to see out. It appeared they were still in Edinburgh, and was that High Street she was looking at? She couldn’t tell.

  Male voices drifted toward her from below. She cocked her head to the side to listen more intently. She couldn’t make out what they were saying or even who they were. Was Simon one of them?

  Trying to step lightly so as not to make any floorboards creak, she made her way to the door. Stepping lightly was nearly impossible, however, with her raw feet.

  She opened the door slowly and poked her head out. The hallway was narrow, so narrow that she could touch the opposite wall while standing at the threshold of the bedchamber. It was also dark, but that made it easy to see flickering light on the landing below. It appeared to be firelight, and she shivered, craving the warmth that a fire would provide.

  The voices were louder out here, but not by much, so she left the bedchamber and inched toward the steps that led downstairs. She carefully made her way down, her fingers trailing against the rough wooden wall, and stopped at the second-to-last step.

  “Things are only going to get worse,” a male voice said.

  “I fear you are correct.” That voice came from Simon, and Aimee’s s
houlders drooped in relief. She hadn’t wanted to admit how frightened she’d been, not knowing where he was or if he’d left her alone.

  “This isn’t the end,” yet another male voice said. “Darnley is much hated, and the lords are saying he was part of the plan to kill Rizzio. I fear Darnley’s life is in danger now.”

  Aimee put a hand to her mouth to keep her gasp inside. They were speaking of the king and his life as if it were of no consequence to them. They were talking treason!

  “What should we do?” one of the men asked.

  Silence fell, as if they were all thinking about what their next move would be.

  “I should check on Aimee,” Simon finally said.

  She could hear a chair squeak, movement, and heavy footfalls coming toward the stairwell. She backed up a few steps and pretended she was just coming down as Simon rounded the corner and headed up the stairs. He stopped when he saw her.

  “There you are,” she said a little too brightly. “I’d thought you’d left me.”

  “Never.” He held his hand out to her and she took it. “You’re limping.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  He looked like he didn’t believe her as he led her down the stairs and into a small sitting room that contained only straight-backed chairs and no carpets but a warm fire dancing in the grate.

  Two men stood as she entered. She recognized the short dark-haired one, but not the tall blond-haired one.

  “Aimee, I’d like to introduce William Sheffield and Tristan Fitzherbert. Gentlemen, Lady Aimee Marcheford.”

  She jerked at the mention of her married name. It still shocked her to hear herself called such.

  Both men bowed and Aimee tilted her head in acknowledgment, not knowing what the right etiquette was in such a strange situation.

  “Please, sit down, my lady.” The one named Tristan indicated one of the straight-backed chairs.

  Aimee looked at all three men, who were looking at her as if she had sprung fully formed from the floorboards. Even Simon was looking at her oddly.

  She sat and stretched her hands toward the fire to warm her frozen fingers.