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“Aye. I plant carrots and turnips to harvest, and I go to war when my king calls me. I am not a nobleman. Ye would not be…satisfied there.”
Lucy frowned. “How do you know that? I love animals. I could be happy on a farm.”
“How doyeknow that? Ye’ve never lived on a farm.” He glanced about the hall that had carved molding and polished floors. “Ye’ve lived at Cranfield House or at the English court. A cottage on a farm is squalor compared to thick rugs and tapestries draping the walls. Gold plates and crystal chandeliers.”
“We are dressed,” Alyce said from the doorway. Her brows rose as she looked between them. “Pardon,” she said and disappeared back into the room.
“Let’s get Cordy released,” Lucy said, her eyes narrowed in anger, “and then we will talk about what requirements I have for being happy and satisfied.”
She pulled a shawl up over her head. It hid her golden braid. Even with her face peeking out, she was beautiful with the gentle strength in the lines of her face.
The five of them kept to the shadows as they walked toward Whitehall in silence. Catherine held Greer’s hand, her small fingers clutching his. He bent near her head. “Ye do not need to go inside,” he said. “Alyce and Nick have seen the Irishman.”
She looked up at him and scrunched her nose in a way that reminded him of Lucy when she was seriously irked. “I’m as brave, and I’m smaller, so I can scurry into places that others cannot reach.”
“Quite so,” he said, squeezing her hand. “We are fortunate to have ye.”
Whitehall was lit for Twelfth Night with torches lining the thoroughfare up to the entrance. The children, Lucy, and Greer moved as a group under the watchful eyes of the gatekeeper. To them, they looked like another group of actors hurrying inside to entertain.
Lucy led them to the right under another arched gateway so they could enter near the chapel and wine cellar. The door opened as one of the actors from another troop stepped out into the night. Lucy caught the door before it could close.
“Stick the rock in there,” the man called, pointing. “I’ve gotta piss.”
Greer set a rock in the door so it wouldn’t close, and they hurried inside. About twenty men stood in various types of dress outside the Great Hall, bantering and holding scripts, some of them making wide gestures as if practicing.
“Oh, my heart,” Catherine whispered. She smiled and raised excitedly onto her toes. “I want to be an actor.”
“Girls aren’t actors,” Nick said, straightening his cloak.
“Tonight I am,” Catherine shot back.
Lucy knelt before her, checking the straps that held the sheep skin over her back. “Tonight you are also an assassin hunter.” The wee lass nodded, her face serious.
“Who are you?” asked a man as he walked up, his nose tipped high so that he looked down on the children. He wore a deep red velvet jacket with gold thread along the seams.
“The Scottish Thistle group,” Greer said.
“You have children and a woman working for you?”
Lucy walked up. “Aye. ’Tis allowed in Scotland,” she said in something similar to a northern accent. “We Scots are more modern and practical.”
The man snorted. “I wonder what the queen has to say about that.”
“A queen?” Lucy continued. “A woman who has had to defend her position against outdated ideas about women? I think she would tell ye to hold your wagging tongue before she orders it cut out.”
The leader of the acting troop gave her an evil look. “Just stay out of our way.”
Lucy followed him with a steely gaze as he walked off. “Are all actors so horrible?”
“Ye are the first I’ve met, so I would say nay,” Greer said.
She grinned at him. “I am a fine actor, am I not?”
“Especially when ye are on a mission to save animals or a sister.”
She inhaled deeply, her smile flattening into determination, and she gave a quick nod.
A couple came out down the hall, a liveried man and a kitchen maid. Behind them walked William Darby.Daingead. He would recognize them right off.
