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Lucy laughed. “You dance in battle? La volta or a galliard?”
“The movements of battle are like a dance, a deadly one.”
William appeared at her side. “Lady Lucy, would you honor me with a dance?”
Lucy cast her smile on William. “Yes, I would.”
Ignoring Greer, William offered her his arm, and she took it. “Perhaps,” she said, looking at Greer, “you’d enjoy the game of Snapdragon there in the corner.” She nodded toward the game of snatching almonds and raisins out of a pan lit on fire. Squeals of fear and delight came from all around it as the ladies were encouraged to take off a glove and reach through the flames. There amongst them stood the Lord of Misrule, Richard Whitby.
William obviously knew the steps to the English dance where two rows were made, one of men and one of lasses. The red dress twirled around Lucy, and her easy smile made everyone jolly around her.
Several servants had entered the room, dressed in Elizabeth’s scarlet and gold livery. Small sweetmeats were placed on trays alongside the wine and then one was placed at each place setting on the long, central table.
Whitby scattered salt into the Snapdragon pan, making the flames crackle. A round of gasps and laughter ensued before the man skipped away. As the Christmas jester, he wore a split velvet cap, also bedecked with little bells, and held his walking stick high, a bell jingling from the top knob. He jostled behind several ladies on the dance floor, playing the bumbling suitor. The perfect Lord of Misrule.
Upon one turn away from the center, Richard pushed William aside and took his place dancing opposite Lucy, much to everyone’s delight. Everyone except William of course. But he smiled good naturedly and waited, watching as Richard danced around Lucy in her bright red dress. She was a shining light in the crowd of boring decadence.
As the dance ended, William stepped toward Lucy, but Walsingham strode beside him. With a word, William turned away, following the man over to where his father stood.
Greer left his wine and strode over to her. “Are ye brave enough to snatch the nut or fruit?” he asked.
She hesitated but laid her gloved hand on his arm, and he led her over to the Snapdragon table. Several ladies laughed, daring each other to reach into the flames. The flame was blue, so Greer reached through it slowly and without fear. He plucked several raisins, pulling them out as the ladies around the table clapped.
Greer held one of the raisins up to Lucy, and she took it, popping it into her mouth. “It’s a wonder Richard left any,” she said. She tipped her head back down the long room to where Whitby was hopping from seat to seat, sampling everyone’s sweetmeats. He pretended that he would steal the queen’s but then swiped the one at Lord Burghley’s place.
“We added more back,” Lady Anne said. She smiled across the low flames at Greer, reminding him how she’d whispered to him that morning on the grounds of Westminster.Some ladies like the sting of a rough lover. He nodded to her and looked back to the game.
“Try it,” Greer said to Lucy. “I promise it doesn’t burn.”
Lucy’s easy smile dropped away. “No thank you. I stay away from flames.” She clutched her hands before her.
“You can try it with your glove on,” Lady Margaret said.
“She never takes them off,” Lady Anne said, but then pressed her hand over her mouth as if she’d let out some great secret.
“A lady keeps her gloves on as much as possible,” Cordelia said, coming up behind them, her gaze raking over Anne like a slap. The woman glanced away under the intensity.
“Unless you’re the queen,” Lettice said, glancing down where Elizabeth had taken to the dance floor with Lord Leicester. “She likes everyone to see her long, slender fingers,” she whispered.
“’Tis quite stuffy in the hall,” Lucy said.
“I will accompany ye,” Greer said, but she shook her head.
“I will return shortly.” She nodded to the ladies and turned away, striding across the hall. Richard Whitby walked quickly out before her.
William Darby was in deep conversation with Walsingham in the far corner and didn’t see her leave. Bloody hell. With a possible assassin nearby, Lucy shouldn’t walk the dark halls of Whitehall alone.
“Pardon me,” Greer said. Let the ladies whisper that he followed Lucy out. He’d be gone in a fortnight, and she’d probably be swept up in a romance with Darby. Although she deserved someone stronger, someone who wouldn’t let his loyalties to a queen make him turn his back on her. Wouldn’t he do the same for the Scottish king? The thought twisted his gut, and for a moment he pitied the tug Darby must feel. Greer had felt the tug between duty to his king and his aging mother before.
In the corridor, Greer caught sight of Lucy’s red dress as she passed the large wine cellar, entering the corridor beyond. He followed, his much longer stride taking him to the door quickly. He pushed through in time to hear Lucy’s gasp.
“Master Whitby? Holy Mary, are you ill? Richard.”
Greer jogged down the dark hallway, and Lucy turned her face up to him from where she knelt next to the Christmas jester, her red petticoat spread out about her. Her eyes were wide in the dim light of the glass enclosed sconce on the wall. “He came out of the hall before me and paused here, his hand on the wall,” she said. “And then he fell to the floor. I think his head is bleeding.”
Greer crouched before the man. Richard Whitby’s velvet cap lay on the floor, his flop of greying hair framing his drawn features. “Is there a physician near?” he asked and felt the side of Whitby’s neck, pressing. He held his hand over the man’s mouth.No breath. Just a slight foaming at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” Lucy breathed. “I can run for him.” She straightened, grasping her petticoats.
