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“She most certainly isn’t a leper,” Lucy repeated, coming up to the table.
Blanche pointed a long, gloved finger at Alyce, who lifted the caul about her neck high enough to cover her chin. “But she’s disfigured on her face.”
By now, several others close to them had turned to stare. Anne came up beside Blanche, her hands against her cheeks. “We could all be disfigured and scarred.”
Lucy’s heart ached for Alyce. It had taken Lucy an hour to convince her to come with Catherine and Nick, who had been so excited at the idea. The fact it was a masque was the only thing that gave Alyce the courage. And now she was being called a leper.
“’Tis a scar from an accident,” Greer said, walking around to the side of the table where the children stood.
Anne glanced at Lucy. “The Lady of Misrule knows quite well that scars and disfigurements are not permitted at court and should order this abomination away.”
“A ridiculous rule,” Greer said. “I have scars that show my experience in battle. They’re permitted.”
Johnathan Whitt scoffed. “They show you’re weak enough in battle to have been hit.”
Holy Mother Mary, Greer would lop off the fool’s head right here in the Great Hall.
“How many battles have ye fought in, sir?” Greer asked Johnathan.
Lucy knew that Johnathan was still young enough not to have gone to war, although he trained with the army. “Several,” he lied, expecting that no one would give him away before a foreigner.
“There’s no proof of that,” Greer said. He stood tall, his broad shoulders back. The expanse of his chest seemed built of muscle beneath his white tunic. He raised a finger to the scar on his face. “This shows that I battled. Ask me what happened to the man who gave me this scar.”
“What happened to him?” Mary Hill asked, her eyes wide. She stood next to Blanche, and several others had moved closer to listen.
“I slashed his—”
“The Lady of Misrule rules this not a merry speech,” Lucy said, overriding Greer’s bloody description. “But you can be assured that this child, who is my personal guest, does not have leprosy or anything that could spread to anyone except kindness and acceptance, if your hearts are open to it.”
Lucy had meant to shut down the conversation, bringing them back to merriment so that Alyce could escape the attention that had been cast upon her. Greer apparently had other ideas.
“Scars,” Greer pronounced as he stood firm beside Alyce, “whether from an illness or some attack against your person, show that you were strong enough to endure the battle and survived to live and fight another day.” His glance slid across the onlookers, ending at Lucy where their gazes connected, holding fast. “They are badges of honor not to be despised.”
Lucy couldn’t swallow. It was as if Greer spoke directly to her heart.
“So you would have me flaunt the scars that haunt my face?” Elizabeth said as she drew near, her smooth, white face giving her pinched, red lips a ghostly background. “Scars that remind me of nearly dying from pox?”
Greer met the queen’s fierce stare. “The very scars that prove ye are stronger than the disease that takes so many away from this world? That ye fought and beat the devil? Aye.”
“There is ugliness in them,” she said.
“There is strength in them,” Greer countered.
They stared at one another, and Lucy, along with the whole room, waited.Look away.Royal opinions and fragile haughtiness could send him to the Tower.
He broke the stare and bowed his head to the queen. “I owe that ’tis different when one must represent a kingdom, Your Majesty. That ye must display the perfection of England. But the fact that ye were tested by sickness and won shows that ye have the favor of God and the heart of a king.”
Lucy exhaled with relief.
“I have the heart of a king, Highlander,” she said, and he looked up, “but I must have the face of a queen.”
“Hear, hear!” Lord Leister called beside her, and the room echoed it.
“But,” Elizabeth said, obviously happy with the outcry of support, “for those who do not carry the burden of the crown, marks that show a battle won against death could demonstrate strength in a person.”
The queen looked to Alyce, who had backed against the wall where she probably wished to melt away. “Guest of my Lady of Misrule, you are welcome here, as an example of the strength of the common Englishwoman.” Elizabeth flipped her hand. “You may cover your scars or not, child.”
As if becoming bored with the conversation, she turned with a flourish of her long fingers. “Find me something safe to drink, Robin,” she said to Leister. “I am parched from our dance.”
