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“I’m coming, Cordy,” she called, sliding her legs out of the warm blankets to hurry to the door, unbolting it.
Cordelia pushed inside, fully dressed in white, which made her red hair stand out even more. “Still abed?”
Cordelia’s eyes narrowed, and Lucy’s eyes tipped up, watching her sister’s hand rise to press against her forehead. “You look flushed, Lucy. Are you ill?”
“No, just tired.”
“Hmmph.” Cordelia strode to the wardrobe where several petticoats hung. “We are to wear white, black, or silver this morning so as not to outshine the queen. Colors are held off until the feast later.”
Lucy yawned behind her scarred hand. Cordelia was the one person from whom she didn’t bother to hide her burns. “The black then, to offset your lovely white costume. Sisters who are opposite. You are the good one, and I am the wicked one.”
Cordelia snorted. “I fear we shall have to switch gowns if we’re covering ourselves that way.” Cordelia had always been flirtatious, and Lucy was certain her sister had given into her lust on at least one occasion, although she wouldn’t talk about it. After the passion-filled dream from which Lucy had woken, she could understand her sister’s weakness.
Lucy pulled on a clean smock and secured warm hose to sit above her knees. Cordelia helped her dress with stays, tied-on pockets, inner and outer petticoats, sleeves, and a stomacher. The black silk was embellished with small freshwater pearls down the front and, in swirling patterns on the inner petticoat, showcased in the openV. Lucy slipped on long black gloves that would keep her warm and hide her imperfection, which was not permitted at court.
“Your pale hair stands out so nicely against the black,” Cordelia said. She brushed the wide curls, taming them before she placed the French hood in black velvet and pearls on Lucy’s head. “There, a vision of rich humbleness.”
“Or pretentious mourning,” Lucy said, but smiled at her reflection in the polished looking glass that stood tilted on her desk. Would Greer think her beautiful?Good Lord. The dream was affecting her head. Certainly, Greer Buchanan had other things to think about. Like whether she was an assassin or not.
Lucy looked to Cordelia. “We must stay close to the queen today, in case the assassin Master Buchanan has come to find decides to strike.”
“Maybe that means we should stay well away from Her Majesty,” Cordelia whispered, her arched brows even higher. Cordelia had been trapped with blades slashing when their mother had tried to kill the queen. It wasn’t something she would ever forget.
“Master Buchanan says Lord Moray has a treasonous letter from Mother,” Lucy said, watching Cordelia.
Her sister’s face tightened with surprise. “From the grave?” She gave a dark laugh.
“He fears the assassin is using the Cranfield name and crest to further her cause.”
Cordelia sighed long. “Will we never wash the taint from us?”
“You don’t have any information about it, do you?” Lucy asked.
Cordelia took both her hands, squeezing gently as she stared into Lucy’s eyes. “I was drawn into plots when Mother was alive,” she whispered even though they were alone. “I know how close I came to the execution block.” She shook her head. “I won’t even let myself think a negative thought about the queen, and I pray daily for our names to be cleansed. So no, Lucy,” she shook her head, “I don’t know anything about the letter or the assassin. My heart hurts that you had to ask.”
“I only want—”
“I know,” Cordelia said. “And I assume you are not a secret assassin either.”
Lucy smiled, knowing her sister only asked to make the exchange even. “I am not.”
“Good,” Cordelia said and linked her arm through her sister’s.
Petticoats lifted to prevent their toes from getting stuck on the hems, the sisters hurried out of the room and down the corridor to the front of Whitehall. Several carriages waited to take the queen’s ladies to Westminster Church, all of them dressed in white, black, or silver. The ensemble of these colors made a beautiful group, punctuated by Elizabeth coming out in bright green, her fiery hair in striking contrast.
The men were also dressed in black, silver, and white, except for the queen’s favorite, Robert Leister, the Earl of Leicester, who wore a green doublet and breeches to match the queen. The queen’s councilors grumbled over Leicester’s audacity, but the queen laughed and called him her peacock or dear Robin.
The only other man who stood apart was Greer Buchanan in his green and blue plaid over a bright white tunic. Beard and hair trimmed, his stern face accented by blue-gray eyes was causing a stir amongst the ladies of the court.
“Who is he?” Lady Margaret Russell asked.
“Is he married?” her sister Anne added. “Not that that matters,” she whispered, making several ladies laugh behind their gloved hands.
“He’s Greer Buchanan on mission from Edinburgh,” Cordelia said. “He’s rough and dangerous; no one with whom to trifle.”
Did her sister realize that her warning only made Greer more attractive to the bored group of ladies? They all watched from their spots in the carriages as Greer mounted his large black horse, master and animal matched in strength, stature, and seriousness.
“Does he never smile?” Lettice Knollys asked.
