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“Were you stealing dogs at the Bear Garden today?” Leister asked, his words succinct.
It was the perfect, wrong question to ask. Lucy smiled at him. “No, Lord Leicester. I was not stealingdogsat the Bear Garden today. I came across Master Buchanan on Bankside Street and led him back along the bridge. He was quite alone when I found him and certainly lost. He said someone told him Whitehall was on the opposite side of the Thames. I say, they were leading him astray because of his costume.”
No lies. She’d stolen two young pups, not dogs. And was rescuing really stealing? Also, Greer was indeed alone when she’d met him. She glanced at Greer. “What happened to the woman with whom the guards saw you?”
He didn’t even blink. “Hastened away after we saw the lad chasing off the cocks.”
Walsingham stared at Greer for a long moment and then released an exaggerated sigh. “Go change into appropriate attire, milady, before the queen sees you.”
He walked closer and reached toward her cloak, picking off one of Percy’s dog hairs. He flicked it, frowning at her, and turned to Greer. “And you will tell me why Lord Moray feels it necessary to send you south to Whitehall over Christmastide.”
Cordelia looped her arm through Lucy’s, and the two of them bobbed quickly and strode off together. When they turned the corner, Cordelia leaned closer. “The Highlander lied for you? Why?”
Lucy let out a gusty sigh. “Well, I was praying quite hard.” In truth, she had no idea. Perhaps he loved animals too.
*
Greer had liedfor the lass. The whole incident had happened so fast. She’d thrown her trust at him as if she knew he wouldn’t fail her. He’d played along without thought. Had surprise been her strategy, like when someone throws a ball, and you instinctively catch it to avoid being hit?
Greer followed Walsingham, while the Earl of Leister departed to do whatever pompous aristocrats did on the eve of Christmas. The impressive great hall, decorated with portraits and tapestries, had been adorned with holly garlands swooping along the walls between sconces. Expensive cloves studded oranges, hanging on ribbons, gave the room a sweet and spicy smell.
“See that a bedchamber is readied for Master Buchanan as the emissary from Lord Moray, regent of Scotland,” Walsingham said to a man in Elizabeth Tudor’s scarlet and gold livery. “And see that his horse is tended in the stables.”
Walsingham indicated a set of padded chairs, and they sat before the fire that was opposite the one where the yule log awkwardly burned at the other end of the hall.
Walsingham tugged on his beard and fixed his dark eyes on Greer. “So, Moray is confident that an act of treason will be done over these twelve days of Christmas? Done toward her majesty, Elizabeth?”
“Aye. Confident enough that he sent me to warn ye and find the culprit.”
“From where does his information stem?”
“Intercepted from a Lady Cranfield of London.”
Walsingham’s brows rose, and he glanced toward the doors. “Which Lady Cranfield?”
“It did not say. In fact, there were only initials, but the crest pressed into the wax seal with the shield, crown, and fleur-de-lis, was identified as the Cranfield crest.”
“And the initials?”
“AC.”
Walsingham leaned back in his chair. “Agatha Cranfield was killed as a traitor two years ago. And this was recently intercepted?”
“Aye,” Greer said, crossing his arms. “Perhaps her accomplices are still active and using her name and crest to remain in the shadows.”
Walsingham sniffed through his long nose. “Or it could be an old letter that resurfaced to cause alarm.” He sat straighter in his seat. “Lord Moray worries over the health of Queen Elizabeth?”
“He doesn’t want Mary Stuart to be released from her prison here in England. She will rally the Catholic nobles to put her on the throne of England and perhaps try to take Scotland from Moray and her son.”
“Moray wants James named as heir to the English throne,” Walsingham said.
“I’m not privy to his thoughts, but I believe he’d want to see our king named as such by gaining Elizabeth Tudor’s favor.”
Walsingham shook his head. “There’s an assassination plot hatched every week it seems. Some dissolve to nothing more than disgruntled men drunk in their cups. Others grow into real threats against Her Majesty’s life.”
Several women and men entered the room, silently laying out a light meal for the last day of the advent fast before the decadence of Christmas began. Did anyone watch them? Surely, Walsingham employed someone to taste the queen’s food before she ate.
Walsingham shook his head. “Catholics continue to rise up, because Her Majesty does not actively suppress their activities when they are vicious in their convictions. The brutality I witnessed in France last year on Saint Bartholomew’s Day was nothing short of a massacre of Protestants.”
