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’Twas the eveof the New Year, and the night was bright and clear. Many of the courtiers had ventured into the open bailey before Whitehall to chat and stare up at the stars, which were bright enough to be seen even with the torches set about.
Lucy had donned her bright gown and taken up her scepter as Lady of Misrule once again. To make up for her lack of jumping around, which her skirts hindered, she used her arms and voice to add a merry spectacle. Elizabeth loved to dance and could easily laugh when given a reason. So Lucy made certain the minstrels played all her favorite songs, and she encouraged the courtiers to imbibe in wine and recite some poetry or a song.
“In the north,” she said, raising her scepter to draw the attention of the clusters of people in the bailey, “they celebrate Hogmanay on the eve of the New Year. They swing balls of fire on rope and chain to make paths of light in the darkness.” She swept her scepter about as if it were aflame. “Perhaps our Highlander can demonstrate,” she called and signaled to the two guards she’d asked to make balls of dry peat.
Greer stood near her, looking out at the people. But with her declaration, he turned to her and gave a shake of his head.
“Come now,” Lucy said, her voice loud and her smile broad. “You know the way of it, and we are in a pebbled courtyard where people will stand back.”
“Yes,” Queen Elizabeth called from her spot with Walsingham and Leicester. “Let us see this spectacle. I have heard about it but never seen it.”
The guards came forward, handing the ends of two ropes to Greer. “What are these made of?” he asked.
“Peat covered with pitch,” one guard said and held up a torch. “Same as what we use to keep the torches burning.”
Lucy looked closer at the balls. “I should have told you, but I knew you’d have refused.”
“But now ’tis a request from a queen,” he grumbled.
She patted his arm. “Exactly.”
Lucy hurried over to the minstrels. “Please play a fast and festive jig for Master Buchanan’s fiery balls.”
“Fiery balls?” the man asked and laughed.
“Look, they are on fire,” the lute player said with a snort. He pointed to where Greer stood, the guard backing away with a torch. The two balls flared, the fire spreading around the globes so that Greer held them out from himself, measuring how much slack he needed on the lengths of rope.
The flute player started a festive rhythm, and the crowd drew closer to Greer.
“Everyone must stay back,” Greer’s voice easily overrode the rumble of conversations, and the people retreated several steps, leaving him and Lucy in the center of a dark bailey. The guards moved the lit torches set at intervals along the wall toward the back of the bailey which made the space darker.
“Ye too,” Greer said to Lucy.
“Thank you,” she said. He answered with a grunt, and she ran back to the edge of light.
“Perhaps we need to hire a Scottish piper,” Lord Leister called out and laughter wove out to accompany the flute.
Greer stood in the center, wearing his plaid wrapping over a bright white tunic, the sash flung over one shoulder and across his short jacket. His boots were laced and lined with fur. They braced apart as his arms swung outward, and he started the balls turning. The golden orbs of fire flew up into the air, crossing before swinging down, the trails of their light bright in the darkness like comets.
Ladies gasped as Greer swung the fireballs out along the perimeter as if they’d fly off to burn them. He lifted them, spinning with the rhythm, displaying the control and strength in his well-muscled form. She could imagine him swinging his blades.
“Is there no end to his talent?”
Lucy looked next to her where William had come up. Her stomach tightened. “William, I am sorry about…” What was she sorry about exactly? “That I hurt you.” She touched his arm. He was tall, strong, and handsome. “If you thought…”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Lucy,” he said. “And everything about that man screams danger.”
“Danger to me?” she asked. “Or danger to your idea of how things could be between us?” Her words were slow and soft, but his stiff stance showed that they slashed. She squeezed his arm. “I would not hurt you, William. You are like family to me.”
“And that’s the problem,” he said, turning to walk off into the darkness.
Around her, everyone cheered as if on cue to William’s exit in a play. But there was nothing to cheer about hurting a friend.
Lucy looked to the center where Greer threw one of the balls high into the air, catching the rope on the way down to send the flash of light into an arc around the circle of spectators. Greer’s strength kept the heavy balls moving exactly where he intended, and his footwork danced with the grace of an experienced warrior on a battlefield. He was glorious, and Lucy’s skin tingled in the dark. She ran her hands over her arms, remembering the feel of his touch. She’d mistakenly thought one night would be enough with him. Could she entice him into a second?
Greer spun. The power in his arms, chest, and back were so obvious. The brightness of the flying globes imprinted on her vision, and she blinked to clear them so she could see him better.
The crowd gasped, and Lucy’s gaze followed one of the fiery balls. The ball had broken away from the end of the rope and hurtled straight toward the queen. Ladies around her screamed and ran away from the miniature sun as it raced toward their sovereign, ready to strike her dead.
