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Greer Buchanan
Lucy looked at the door. William knew that she’d been with Greer all night. Would he have left the letter with that realization? No. Lucy looked at the wall between her room and her sister’s. Her eyes narrowed.
“Cordelia Cranfield!”
Chapter Twelve
“Queen Elizabeth I also suffered from a crippling fear of the dark. It’s possible that this started in childhood and was almost certainly made worse by the time she spent locked up in the Tower of London. Elizabeth was so scared of the dark that she refused to sleep alone. Each night, one of her trusted ladies-in-waiting would be ordered to sleep in the Queen’sbedchamber.”
History Collection.com
Greer walked alongthe raised, wooden tables where half a dozen cooks were busy kneading bread for more festive banquets. Others were pulling buns out of the stone ovens that would accompany fresh milk, eggs, and pheasant pie for breakfast. He recognized them all now, and several nodded to him as he passed. Guards also walked along, watching them work and making them sample things at random. Walsingham was clever to order it. Each of the cooks was vigilant about no one touching their creation because they would be the one to taste it.
“Would ye like an egg and bun?” the young Irish woman, Mary, asked. “They be safe. I made them myself.” She tore a piece off a bun and popped it in her mouth. “And one can’t poison an egg.” She smiled. “Unless ye be the chicken, I suppose.”
Greer nodded. “Thank ye.” He took the offering, cracking the eggshell off to bite into it. Mary nodded, smiling. “A big man like ye needs to be fed regularly.” She seemed to inspect his form. “Here,” she said, plucking a second off the tray. “Take another.”
Someone bumped his elbow. “I churned this butter myself,” Jane Welsh said, handing him a rosemary herb bun with a small slab on it. Greer remembered her as one of the other cooks that had been questioned about Whitby’s death. To show it was safe, she pinched off a bit of bun and a bit of butter and stuck them in her mouth.
“Thank ye,” Greer said and took them, biting into the warm bun. He looked around as he chewed. Several men brought in loads of coal and wood to keep the ovens and cook fires going. Keeping Whitehall fed was a major undertaking.
He nodded to the guards as he walked past them toward the Great Hall, his spare roll in hand to give to Lucy once he found her. His gaze raked over several intricate tapestries hung on the walls as he walked along the corridor. Such riches were rare even at the palace of Holyrood in Edinburgh. And this luxury was the only life Lucy knew. He sighed and turned the corner.
“It was found near the wines sent from the Loire Valley in France.”
Walsingham, the queen, several guards, and William Darby stood in the corridor before the wine cellar. The rapid clip of slippers on the polished wooden floor heralded Lucy, walking briskly toward them, her sister trailing behind.
Lucy looked flustered, angry, her lips clenched.
“We must have all the wines tasted before serving,” Elizabeth said. “Would you like some wine with your breakfast, Master Buchanan?” she called, pulling his attention.
“I typically stick to ale in the morn,” he answered, coming up to them.
Lucy stopped, her glance meeting Greer’s gaze briefly. “You called for us?” she said, looking to Walsingham.
“Yes,” he said. “You were seen exiting the wine cellar last eve. Were you meeting anyone in there?”
Being the excellent actor she was, Lucy shook her head slowly as if in thought. “No. I needed a break from my assignment as jester and sought some solitude.” She glanced at Greer and then looked back to Walsingham. “When I entered the wine cellar, I realized it was completely dark within. I spent perhaps a minute there collecting myself and departed.”
The queen shook her shoulders slightly. “No one would stay in a pitch-dark cellar for more than a minute. At least no one sane.”
Walsingham held up a golden clasp. “This was found by the wines at the back of the cellar. No one goes into the cellar unless they are there to fetch or turn the wines. Servants only, not someone who would own something so rich.”
“Perhaps someone was having a tryst amongst the wine,” Cordelia said.
“A tryst?” the queen said. “That never happens at court.” Her sarcastic declaration did not make anyone grin.
“Or,” Walsingham said, “someone was trying to poison the wine through the corks.”
“No syringes have been found,” William said, keeping his gaze on Walsingham and the queen.
“We will have the dogs in the royal kennel drink some of each bottle opened,” the queen said.
Lucy gasped. “That would be cruel.” She looked horrified. “Spirits could kill a dog even without poison. I would rather drink the samples myself then risk a dog’s life.”
“My father and I will check each cork for holes and a sample of each can be fired to search for poison,” William said. He glanced at Lucy and looked away quickly. “There’s no reason to have Lady Lucy sample them.”
“Nor the dogs,” Lucy said.
