A Symphony of Echoes (The Chronicles of St Mary's, #2)

Oh yes, History was with me that day.

‘Mistress Hampton. They told me you were in the outer chamber.’ She looked over my shoulder for the charming Sir Richard.

I backed against the wall and sank to a deep curtsey. ‘Your Grace, we have been given a room, whilst we awaited your pleasure.’

‘You have been well attended to?’

‘Oh, yes, Your Grace. We have been playing chess to pass the time.’

She smiled. ‘I have eagerly awaited the chance to pit my skills against your brother.’

I smiled back.

‘I wish you would, Your Grace. Three straight games have I lost to him. You can imagine how he crows.’

She laughed. ‘Indeed I can.’

‘We have a snug room along here, Your Grace, and a good fire to await your pleasure.

I could see the idea pleased her. An intimate evening with a personable man. A peaceful interlude with fire and wine. A little gentle flirting. A chance to display her talents. She had only one lady with her. She’d planned for this … It all hung in the balance. If she dismissed her woman then I would go for it. If she didn’t … I don’t know. I’d think of something. Some other opportunity would present itself. No it wouldn’t. It was this or nothing. I could feel History at my shoulder.

She was speaking to her lady-in-waiting, sending her away. I was passing the point of no return. My heart-rate picked up and my palms were clammy. I could hardly believe my luck. Bothwell, alone, in a room nearby. The Queen, unattended. What were the odds? This was what happened when History was with you. I gripped the key until it hurt and worked hard at keeping my face neutral.

She walked slowly before me, chattering gaily, excited and happy. I never heard a word. There was still so much that could go wrong. I half hoped it would. That someone could come along and see us, that a door would open somewhere, that guards would suddenly appear. Nothing irrevocable had yet happened. I could still walk away from this. A pulse was beating hard in my throat. I swallowed, but there was no relief.

Because once she was inside that room, her life would never be the same again.

Ten paces to go.

Then six.

Then three.

I murmured, ‘Just here, Your Grace,’ took a painful breath – and opened the door.

I stood back to let her go in first.

She paused on the threshold and peered into the dimly lit room. Second thoughts? A premonition of danger? We will never know. I put my hand in the small of her back and pushed as hard as I could. She was a tall woman and I was worried I might not be strong enough but – whether she was off-balance or I found the strength from somewhere – I don’t know. I only know that I pushed her into that room and everything that happened to her subsequently was my fault.

No time for that now. I pulled the door shut, fumbled for desperate seconds trying to get the key in the lock and eventually it turned.

I knelt on trembling legs and pushed the key under the door. So much for any protestations of innocence. They – the world – would say the door had been locked on the inside and the key had simply fallen out of the lock. I leaned my forehead against the cold, hard door and tried not to think about what I had just done.

From inside the room came a very faint sound.

Then silence.

I had taken a woman, a decent, intelligent woman who had never done me any harm and betrayed her in the worst possible way one woman could do to another. I had deliberately pushed her into a room containing a man who was, under his superficial charm, an unstable, violent rapist. And then I had locked the door and walked away. There was no way she would get out of that room unscathed. I had ruined her life. The events of tonight would alienate her court, her nobles, everyone. Her reputation would be in shreds and not in any way redeemed by her subsequent marriage to Bothwell. All her years of careful, patient work undone in one single night. By me. She was only twenty-five. Younger than me. Her life was over. This was not something of which to be proud.

But now I had to get out. I had no idea how long I would have before someone raised the alarm. I had to move. Retrieving my cloak, I called up Peterson.

Anxiety sharpened his voice. ‘What’s happening?’

‘The queen is with Bothwell,’ I said, suddenly very tired. ‘And we need to go. Now.’

‘We have a problem.’

I stopped. ‘What?’

‘We still don’t have Ronan. They all split up when they went after him and Guthrie’s not back yet.’

‘Can you raise him?’

‘No, he said he’d call us. He was very definite.’ He would be. If he was stalking Ronan through the dark alleyways of Edinburgh, he wouldn’t want us yammering away in his ear.

I said, ‘Major, this is Max. Abort. Get back to the pod or the house. We’re in trouble and we have to go now. Abort Ronan. Confirm please.’

Nothing.