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Greer sat back on his heels. “No need to rush.” He met her wide eyes. “He’s already dead.”
Chapter Five
The twelve days of Christmas, which ran from 24 December to Epiphany on 6 January, was a two-week period when tools were set down and work was forbidden. To keep women from their chores, it was customary to decorate all the spinning wheels with flowers so they couldn’t beused.
HistoryAnswers.co.uk
Lucy sat atthe long table in the nearly empty great hall. After she’d returned to tell Lord Walsingham about Richard Whitby, all festivities had turned to whisperings and conjecture. Many attendees had rooms at Whitehall and returned to them. Others departed to their houses in town. It seemed that Greer’s mission was not in vain. Someone was trying to kill the queen over Christmastide, and poor Richard Whitby had fallen victim.
“Poison,” Elizabeth said, sitting in her throne-like chair at the top of the table. “Poison meant for me.”
Lord Leister sat next to her, and squeezed her hand, his face grim. “Master Whitby didn’t sample anything set before your seat, Bess. The poison was meant for someone else.”
“Are we certain it was poison? Could it have been a failing of his heart from the festivities?” Lucy asked. She had known the man as always kind, and the thought that he’d fallen to an assassin’s trickery made her ill.
“That is what Masters William and Reginald Darby will determine,” William Cecil, Lord Burghley said from his station next to the queen. However, he didn’t look hopeful. The slight foaming at the corners of Richard’s mouth pointed to poison.
Lord Leicester walked along the table, inspecting the plates for missing sweets.
The entire kitchen staff was assembled along the edge of the room with Lord Walsingham and Lord Burghley going down the line, questioning each of them. Several young maids cried into tattered handkerchiefs, the men standing as if already condemned, their faces gray.
The queen looked up at Greer who stood beside Lucy. Cordelia had remained in the hall while the ladies of the bedchamber had hurried away to kiss and touch every pillow and linen in the queen’s bedchambers to make certain no poison was spread upon them. It was a custom that her father, King Henry VIII, had insisted upon, but Elizabeth had relaxed the practice. William and Reginald Darby would investigate anything they found, bringing in their vials and beakers.
“I saw him eat a sweetmeat off Lord Burghley’s plate, which was set right next to mine,” Elizabeth said, staring at the golden plate where the rest of her untouched food still sat, waiting to be torn apart and tested. “The villain made a mistake, or my sweets are poisoned as well.” She glanced along the line of cooks and maids. “I should make them each bite off my plate.”
“The Lord of Misrule was also eating from other plates,” Cordelia said softly.
Elizabeth’s eyes snapped to her. “As if someone would risk their head to poison you, Lady Cordelia, or one of my ladies. Nay. It was meant for their queen, their God-anointed queen.” The last of her words came out like a roar, making several servants cringe. “Who made the sweetmeats?”
Lord Walsingham pointed to three women he’d set to stand together. “Come forward Goodwives Mary O’Brien, Fiona MacKenzie, and Jane Welsh.” He looked at the queen. “Who all helped bake and set the sweetmeats out.”
Jane had tears in her eyes. She shook her head and bobbed a curtsey, barely raising her eyes to the queen. “Your Majesty. I ate some myself.”
Mary O’Brien nodded vigorously, her eyes round. “I sat them out at random, Your Majesty.” She swallowed hard, using her handkerchief to wipe an eye. “Could it have been in the wine or a goblet?”
“Or on your plate?” Fiona MacKenzie said.
“Hush!” Elizabeth roared. “I will not be bombarded by your casting of blame.” She snatched away from Leister, who had returned to her side, and held her forehead with overlapping hands. The queen’s eyes were wide with a mix of fury and fear. It was the type of look that could lead to hangings.
As if realizing the same, Lord Leister slowly pulled her hands back into his. “Let us retire to your salon, Bess. Let your ministers question and find the culprit. Your most trusted ladies will find you safe food.”
She closed her eyes. “I couldn’t eat, dearest Robin,” she said, the anger leached out, leaving only exhaustion.
He tugged her slowly to stand, making Lucy and Cordelia also stand. “Come now,” Leister whispered. “You are safe now.”
She looked at Greer. “It seems your Lord Moray’s concern is valid. You may work with my Lord Walsingham to ferret out this criminal.”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” Greer said.
“I will appoint another Lord of Misrule,” Lord Burghley said. “We must not let a traitor ruin the rest of Christmastide or word will travel abroad. Our stalwart queen has the courage of a lion in the face of such attempts.”
Elizabeth looked more like a bedraggled cat, but Burghley’s words made her stand taller. “Of course,” she said, her eyes sliding to the few people about the room. “Let it be Lady Lucy, with her easy smile and laughter.” She flipped her hand. “You cheer me most often, despite your horrid mother.”
“Pardon, Your Majesty?” Lord Burghley asked, looking between Elizabeth and Lucy.
Lucy stood, her breath caught, waiting for explanation. Elizabeth waved her beringed hand in Lucy’s direction. “Lady Lucy Cranfield. She can be ourLadyof Misrule for the rest of the season. Through Twelfth Night.” A small smile returned to her thin lips, and she nodded to Greer. “I have faith she can even get the ruthless Highlander to laugh.”
The pain in Lucy’s chest reminded her to inhale. “Yes, Your Majesty.” She dipped into a curtsey.
