Page 72 of The Highlander and The Lady of Misrule

“How does a lad walk then?” she said, her gaze scanning the people up ahead.

“Straighter. Less hips.”

Greer kept his grin inside as she tried to walk without her hips moving. Even with treasonous poisoners, false accusations, and danger everywhere, Lucy lightened his soul. And she wanted to marry him. What would it be like to have her by his side through the challenges of life? At the Edinburgh court, she’d know how to work around royalty, winning their hearts, while still taking risks to help animals and the less fortunate. But could she be satisfied going home to their cottage outside town?

“Lucy,” he said as they turned onto another road.

She stopped, her brow pinched. “Jasper Lintel has got to be the traitor,” she said, her voice low. “He showed up a month ago from Ireland. His wife befriended Mistress Wakefield.”

“So they suddenly had a good reason for needing to be up at Whitehall,” Greer said. This topic was much easier to discuss than his lack of riches.

“To make the acquaintance of the queen,” Lucy said. “The same thing Richard Whitby was doing.”

“And Mistress Wakefield,” he said. “She obtained access during the festivities when the queen invited simple townsfolk inside.”

“We need to find him,” Lucy said. “And prove he’s the traitor.” She huffed. “Because if he’s not, I don’t know how we can save Cordy.”

And Simmons and probably Mistress Wakefield now.

“I’m not even sure I could spot him,” she said. “I only saw him briefly that night when we took Pip and Percy to Cranfield House.”

“Simmons knows what he looks like.”

“He shouldn’t go near the court right now,” Lucy said.

Greer stopped, and they looked at each other. “The children,” they said in unison.

Lucy caught his arm as if it were the most natural thing. The two of them against the darkness in the world. “They saw him those nights he came for their meetings.”

“If Jasper Lintel is up at Whitehall, they could identify him.”

They rounded the corner onto Gracechurch Street where Wakefield’s Laces and Baubles stood. Mistress Wakefield had a sign hanging that had white lace painted on it, with what looked like a vial of perfume.

Before Greer could ask if she would be in since it was still Christmastide, two guards dressed in red and gold tromped out of the store. Greer grabbed Lucy’s arm, leading her in a casual walk to the alley where they could see.

“Mistress Wakefield,” Lucy whispered, as the woman was marched out of her store, Lord Walsingham following her.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” a town crier called at the corner, making Lucy jump. Criers went about telling the latest news and gossip, stopping every street or two to repeat it. This lad stood on a barrel under a tall lamp that would be lit at dusk.

“’Tis the second day of January in our Lord’s year fifteen seventy-three. Twelfth Night is in three nights hence. Food and shoes for the needy and destitute are being given out at Whitehall gates.

“Harry Hunks, the vicious bear, will be tried at the Bear Garden on the morrow.” The boy cupped his hands around his mouth. “No executions today, but Lady Cordelia Cranfield is to be put to death for treason by the end of the week.”

Chapter Eighteen

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbablefiction.

William Shakespeare,Twelfth Night,1600

“Put to death,”Lucy whispered, her knees buckling. Greer’s hand came under her arm, and he pulled her farther into the shadow of the building. “My God,” she breathed, sucking in large draughts of air as she sunk down, her behind in the trousers sitting on a pile of wet snow.

“Even breaths, Lucy.”

“Poor Cordy,” she said. “Executed? Why are they acting so fast? Oh, my poor Cordy.”

“Even breaths, lass,” he said, near her ear and lifted under her arms. “Else ye will swoon.”

Lucy’s heart squeezed so hard, she rubbed it through the tunic. How would she survive without her sister? Cordy didn’t deserve to die. Would it be hanging? Or by the axe?

---