“We are not the only ones who have arrived tonight, it seems,” she tells me, then clears her throat hard and looks away.
Her hands fist in the reins, and she pushes on without another word.
Inside the castle complex, it becomes clear our arrival is of little importance; there’s already a full fit of pomp happening for someone else. Stable hands and servants flood the area where two grand, gaudy carriages are being unpacked. A cluster of people stands near the main building, someone shouting in the center of ’em, but I can’t make anything out.
Alyth dismounts as a stable boy scampers up to us. She talks quietly to him, and he nods. Then she’s walking toward the new arrivals,skirts bunched in her hands, marching with that intensity she wears like a shield and sword all in one.
Is she not exhausted, burning so bright all the time?
She goes up to an older man in the bedlam and starts having some tense conversation with him, lots of scowling looks and waving arms.
I slide off the horse—I’m getting better at dismounting intentionally, damn all this riding—and the stable boy takes my reins too.
He asks me something in Scots.
I stare blankly at him.
Well. That weakness didn’t take long to catch up to me.
The boy cocks his head. “Anything you need, sir?” he asks in English.
I grin at him, hoping it hides my wince. “Ah, no. Thank you—” I linger on it.
“Callum,” he fills in.
“Callum.” I pause, but his eager expression doesn’t change. “You aren’t gonna hate me for being English too?”
He snorts. “Nah, we got worse Englishmen at Stirling now.”
His face flashes with panic.
I can’t figure out why—until it hits me.
My eyes go to the big group causing all the ruckus, where Alyth’s currently talking to someone at the edge of the crowd, arguing, it seems.
“Is that Lord Darnley’s group?” I ask.
Callum ducks his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything, sir. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey now, it’s all right,” I try. He peeks up at me, and Christ, I see Hal in him. All big eyes and innocence and earnestness.
My throat closes, and I have trouble speaking for a moment, because this boy isn’t looking at me with fear, not like Hal came to.
How long will that last?
What if Cecil’s got something planned for me that leads me to killing someone up here?
Nausea burns fast and harsh in my gut.
I manage a smile for him. “You got stories about this Darnley, eh? Spill ’em.”
My tone’s light, all in good fun, but Callum’s fixed in disquiet now. He shifts uncomfortably, clutching at our horse’s reins.
“I’ll see your bags get to your room, sir. ’Scuse me.”
“It’s Samson—” I call to his back. Not “sir.”
But he’s gone, head down, pulling our horses off toward the stables.
