‘Holly and ivy, box and bay,’ she whispered, ‘put in the house for Christmas Day.’
There was a sudden commotion at the end of the gallery, a burst of activity as a group of men rushed inside, bringing in the cold of the day. Among them was the handsome young man who had winked at Anne the day before—and been soundly ignored.
And there was also Anton Gustavson, his skates slung over his shoulder, black waves of hair escaping from his fine velvet cap. They were full of loud laughter, noisy joviality.
The ladies all giggled, blushing prettily at the sight of them.
As Rosamund feared she did too. She felt her cheeks go warm, despite the sudden rush of cold wind. She ducked her head over her work, but there in the pearly mistletoe berries she still saw Anton’s brown eyes, his teasing smile.
‘Mistress Anne!’ one of the men said. Rosamund peeked up to find it was the winker. He was even more good-looking up close, with long, waving golden-brown hair and emerald-green eyes. He smiled at Anne flirtatiously, but Rosamund thought she saw a strange tension at the edges of his mouth, a quickly veiled flash in his eyes. Perhaps she was not the only one harbouring secret romances. ‘What do you do there?’
Anne would not look at him; instead she stared down at her hands as they fussed with the ribbons. ‘Some of us must work, Lord Langley, and not go frolicking off ice-skating all day.’
‘Oh aye, it looks arduous work indeed,’ Lord Langley answered, merrily undeterred. He sat down at the end of the table, fiddling with a bit of ivy. On his index finger flashed a gold signet-ring embossed with the phoenix crest of the Knighton family.
Rosamund gasped. Anne’s admirer was the Earl of Langley. And not old and crabbed at all.
She glanced at Anton, quite against her will; she didn’t want to look at him, to remember their wager and her own foolish thoughts of kissing boughs and ice-skating. But she still felt compelled to look, to see what he was doing.
He stood by one of the windows, lounging casually against its carved frame as he watched his other companions laughing with the Marys. An amused half-smile curved his lips.
Rosamund’s clasp tightened on her bough, and she had a sudden vision of standing with him beneath the green sphere, of gazing up at him, at those lips, longing to know what they would feel like on hers. She imagined touching his shoulders, heated, powerful muscles under fine velvet, sliding her hands down his chest as his lips lowered to hers…
And then his smile widened, as if he knew her very thoughts. Rosamund caught her breath and stared back down at the table, her cheeks flaming even hotter.
‘We were not merely skating, Mistress Anne,’ Anton said. ‘We were sent by the Queen to search for the finest Yule log to be found.’
‘And did you discover one?’ Anne asked tartly, snatching the ivy from Lord Langley’s hand.
He laughed, undeterred as he reached for a ribbon instead. ‘Not as yet, but we are going out again this afternoon. Nothing but the very best will do for the Queen’s Christmas—or that of her ladies.’
‘You had best hurry, then, as Christmas Day is tomorrow.’
‘Never fear, Mistress Anne,’ Lord Langley said. ‘I always succeed when I am determined on something.’
‘Always?’ said Anne. ‘Oh, my lord, I do fear there is a first time for everything—even disappointment.’
Lord Langley’s green eyes narrowed, but Anton laughed, strolling closer to the table. He leaned over Rosamund’s shoulder, reaching out to pick up a sprig of holly.
Rosamund swallowed hard as his sleeve brushed the side of her neck, soft and alluring, warm and vital, yet snow-chilled at the same time.
‘Ah, Lord Langley,’ Anton said. ‘I fear working with this holly has made the ladies just as prickly today. Perhaps we should retire before we get scratched.’
Lord Langley laughed too. ‘Have they such thin skins in Sweden, Master Gustavson? We here have heavier armour against the ladies’ barbs.’
‘Is there armour heavy enough for such?’ Anton asked.
Rosamund took the holly from his hand, careful not to let her fingers brush his. The ruby ring gleamed, reminding her of their wager. ‘They say if the holly leaves are rounded the lady shall rule the house for the year. If barbed, the lord.’
‘And which is this?’ Anton took back the holly, running his thumb over the glossy green leaf. ‘What does it signify if half the leaf is smooth, half barbed?’
‘The impossible.’ Lord Langley laughed. ‘For each house can have only one ruler.’
‘And in the Queen’s house every leaf is smooth,’ Anne said. ‘Now, make yourselves of use and help us hang the greenery in the Great Hall.’
Anton tucked the holly into the loops of Rosamund’s upswept hair, the edge of his hand brushing her cheek. ‘There, Lady Rosamund,’ he whispered. ‘Now you are ready for the holiday.’
Rosamund gently touched the sprig, but did not draw it away. It rested there in her hair, a reminder. ‘Best you beware my prickles, then, Master Gustavson. They may not be as obvious as this leaf, but they are there.’
‘I am warned. But I am not a man to be frightened off by nettles, Lady Rosamund—not even thickets of them.’ He laid his skates on the table, taking up a long swag of ivy and ribbon as he held out his hand to her. ‘Will you show me where your decorations are to go? I should hate to ruin your decking of the halls.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Rosamund nodded and took his hand, letting him help her rise. In her other hand she took up her kissing bough, and they followed the others from the gallery as a song rose up.
‘So now is come our joyful feast, let every man be jolly!’ they sang as they processed to the Great Hall, bearing their new decorations. ‘Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, and every post with holly.’
Rosamund couldn’t help being carried along by the song, by the happy anticipation of the season. She smiled up at Anton, surprised to find that he too sang along.
‘Though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine and let us all be merry!’
‘You know our English songs, Master Gustavson?’ she asked as they came to the vast stone fireplace. He let go of her hand to fetch a stool, and Rosamund suddenly felt strangely bereft, cold, without him.
She flexed her fingers, watching as he set the stool beneath the mantel. No fire blazed in the grate today, and they could stand close.
‘My mother was English,’ he said, climbing up on the stool. Rosamund handed him the end of the swag, which he attached to the elaborately carved wood. ‘She taught everyone in our house her favourite old songs.’
‘What else do you do at Christmas in Sweden?’ she asked curiously. She followed along as he fastened the swag to the mantel, tying off the bows.
‘Much the same as you do here, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Feasting, pageants and plays, gifting. And we have St Lucy’s Day.’
‘St Lucy’s Day?’
‘Aye, ’tis a very old tradition in Sweden, as St Lucy is one of our protectors. Every December we honour her with a procession led by a lady who portrays Lucy herself, who led Roman refugees into the catacombs with candles and then supplied them with food, until she was martyred for her efforts. The lady elected wears a white gown with red ribbons and a crown of candles on her head, and she distributes sweets and delicacies as everyone sings songs to St Lucy.’
Rosamund laughed, fascinated. ‘It sounds delightful. We have no saints here now, though.’
‘None in Sweden, either, except Lucy. And you would certainly be one of the ladies chosen to be St Lucy, Lady Rosamund.’
‘Would I? I am sure my parents would say I am the least saint-like of females!’
Anton chuckled. ‘You do seem rather stubborn, Lady Rosamund.’
‘Oh, thank you very much!’ Rosamund teased. ‘Is another Swedish custom insulting ladies at Christmas time?’
‘Not at all. Stubbornness is a trait that serves all of us well at a royal c
ourt.’
‘True enough. I may not have been here long, but I do see that.’
‘But you would surely be St Lucy because of your beauty. Lucy is always a lady with fair hair, blue eyes and the ability to convey sweetness and generosity. Those two attributes are surely not negated even by copious doses of stubbornness.’
Rosamund could feel that cursed blush creeping up again, making her face and throat hot in a way no one else’s compliments could. He thought her beautiful? ‘Perhaps, then, that is one tradition we could borrow from Sweden.’
‘And so you should.’ Anton stepped off the stool, examining their handiwork. ‘Does it please you?’
‘Does what please me?’ she asked, still dazed. Pleased by him? She very much feared she might be. He was so different from Richard.
‘The decorations.’
‘Oh—aye. It looks most festive.’
‘Ganska nyttig. Shall we find a place for that, then?’
He reached for the kissing bough Rosamund still held, half-forgotten. ‘It is a silly thing,’ she protested, stepping back. ‘The Queen would surely not want it in her hall.’
‘Why is that?’ Anton persisted, moving closer until he could take the sphere of greenery from her hand. As he examined the mistletoe, the fluttering ribbons, a slow smile spread over his face. ‘A kissing bough!’
Rosamund snatched it back. ‘I told you it was silly.’
‘My mother said when she was a girl she made kissing boughs at Christmas to divine who her future husband might be.’
‘Well, that is not why I made it. I merely thought it looked pretty.’
Anton stepped even closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. His cool breath stirred the curls at her temple, making her shiver. ‘She also said if you kiss someone beneath it at midnight on Christmas Eve they will be your true love for the rest of the year.’
Rosamund closed her eyes, trying to ignore the way his voice whispered over her skin. ‘I had best not hang it up, then. True love seems to wreak enough havoc here at Court.’
Anton laughed, taking the bough from her hand. ‘Nay, it is much too pretty to hide. We will hang it over there, behind that tapestry. Only those who truly need it can find it there.’
Before she could protest, he carried it off. A tapestry depicting a bright scene of wine-making was looped up, revealing the gap between it and the panelled wall. Anton leaped up to attach the ribbon loop to a ripple in the carving.
The bough swayed there, all verdant-green and enticing. Anton unhooked the tapestry, letting it fall back into place before the little hidey-hole.
‘There now, Lady Rosamund,’ he said with a smile. ‘Only we two know it is there.’
Their secret. Rosamund longed to run away as she had when she’d first seen him by the frozen pond. Yet she could not. It was as if she was bound to him, tied by loops of ivy and red ribbon. Caught by the dark glow of his eyes.
She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips, watching as his gaze narrowed on that tiny gesture.
‘Is the Thames yet frozen through?’ she queried softly.
‘Very nearly,’ he said roughly. ‘They talk of a frost fair in the days to come.’
‘A frost fair? There has not been one of those in many years, not since my mother was a child, I think.’ Rosamund twined her hands in her velvet skirts, feeling suddenly bold. ‘Then will you be able to teach me to skate, do you think?’
‘You seem a quick enough learner to me, Lady Rosamund. And will I be able to dance at Twelfth Night?’
‘That remains to be seen. Our first dancing lesson is not until tomorrow.’
‘I very much look forward to it.’
Rosamund curtsied and hurried away. She too found she looked forward to their lessons. Lessons of all sorts.
Z’wounds! She had been so comfortable in her cozy life at Ramsay Castle. Now she felt so unsure of everything. She felt as if she balanced on the edge of some vast, unknown precipice, between her old self and a new self she did not yet see. Just one push would send her one way or the other.
Or she could jump. But that was probably for bolder souls than herself, much as she wished to.
She rushed out of the hall, turning towards the staircase that led back to the maids’ apartment. But she went still as her foot touched the first step.
Anne stood in the darkness of the landing just above, deep in conversation with Lord Langley. Their voices were low and intense, as if they quarrelled. He reached for her hand, but she stepped back, shaking her head. Then she fled up the stairs, her footsteps clattering away.
Lord Langley swung round to come back down, and Rosamund shrank back against the wall, hoping he would not see her there in the dim light. He did not seem able to see anything. His handsome face, so alight with merriment earlier, was solemn, taut with anger.
‘Bloody stubborn woman,’ he muttered as he strode past her.
Rosamund lingered there for a moment, unsure what to do. Her own romantic life was so very confused, she was quite sure she could be of no help in anyone else’s. But Anne was her friend, or as close as she had here at Court.
Feeling like she dove between Scylla and Charybdis, Rosamund climbed the stairs and made her way to the maids’ dormitory.
Unlike last night, when the laughter and chatter had gone on for hours, the chamber was silent. All the other ladies were still decking the halls, and Anne lay alone on her bed, her back to the door.
She was very still, making no sound of tears or sighs. Rosamund tiptoed closer. ‘Anne?’ she said softly. ‘Is something amiss?’
Anne rolled over to face her. Her eyes were dry but reddened, her hair escaping in dark curls from her headdress. ‘Oh, Rosamund,’ she said. ‘Come, sit beside me.’
Rosamund perched on the edge of the bed, reaching into the embroidered pouch at her waist for a handkerchief in case it was needed.
‘Tell me more about your sweetheart at home,’ Anne said, sitting up against the bolsters. ‘Is he very handsome?’
‘Oh!’ Rosamund said, startled by the request. She forced herself to remember Richard, the way he had smiled at her. A smile with no hidden depths and facets, unlike Anton Gustavson’s.
‘Aye,’ she said slowly.
‘Is he fair or dark? Tall?’
‘Fair, and only middling tall.’
‘But a fine kisser, I would wager.’
Rosamund laughed. ‘Fine enough, I think.’ Though she had little to compare him to.
‘And he loves you. He wants to marry you and always has.’
Rosamund hesitated at that. ‘He said he did, when last I saw him.’ But then he had vanished, leaving her alone to argue their cause with her parents. The servants had said he had even quit the neighbourhood entirely in the autumn.
‘You are fortunate, then,’ Anne sighed.
‘Does Lord Langley not want…?’
‘I do not want to speak of him,’ Anne interrupted. ‘Not now. I would much rather hear of your love, Rosamund.’
Rosamund lay back with a sigh, staring up at the embroidered underside of the hangings as if she could read her answers in the looping flowers and vines. ‘I have not heard from him in an age. I am not sure now I want to hear from him at all.’
‘I would wager he has written to you but your parents intercepted the letters,’ Anne said. ‘That happened with my friend Penelope Leland when she wanted to marry Lord Pershing.’
‘Truly?’ Rosamund frowned. She had not thought of such a thing. ‘How can I be sure?’
‘Aye. We must find a way to contact him,’ Anne said, her voice full of new excitement at coming up with a scheme. ‘Once he knows where you are, he will surely come running to your side.’
Rosamund was not so certain. Her infatuation with Richard seemed to belong to someone else, a young girl with no knowledge of herself or of the world. But if it helped to distract Anne, and herself, she was willing to attempt it.
Perhaps then she would cease to drown in a pair of winte
r-dark eyes.
‘Round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine, and let all be merry!’
Rosamund laughed helplessly as the entire Great Hall rang with song. It was quite obvious that the whole company had already drowned their sorrows copiously as the Christmas Eve banquet progressed. The long tables were littered with the remains of supper, with goblets that were emptied, and the musicians’ songs were louder, faster than they’d been early in the evening.
The decorations of the hall, lit now by a blazing fire and dozens of torches, fairly shimmered with rich reds, greens and golds, making the vast space a festive bower. Laughter was as loud as the song, and glances grew longer and bolder, ever more flirtatious, as the night went on.
Not everyone was happy, though, Rosamund noticed. The Austrians seemed rather ill at ease, though they tried gamely to enter into the spirit of the holiday. A few of the more Puritanical of the clergymen hovered at the edges of the bright throng, looking on with pinched expressions.
Surely they would be happier if everyone passed the holiday in solemn prayer, Rosamund thought, not frisking about with song and greenery, which echoed of the old days of popery. But Queen Elizabeth seemed not to notice at all; she sat on her dais, clapping in time to the song.
On the wall behind her was a large mural, an early Christmas gift from her minister, Walsingham. It was an allegory of the Tudor succession, centred on an enthroned Henry VIII, right here in the Great Hall of Whitehall, with a young Edward VI kneeling beside him. To his left was Queen Mary, with her Spanish husband King Phillip with Mars the god of war, all dark blacks, browns and muted yellows. To his right was Queen Elizabeth, with Peace trampling on a sword of discord, trailed by Plenty, spilling out her cornucopia. They gleamed in bright whites, silvers and golds.
Just as the Queen herself did tonight, presiding over her own feast of plenty and joy. She wore a gown of white satin, trimmed in white fur and sewn with pearls and tiny sapphire beads. She looked on the holiday she had wrought with a contented smile.
The others on the dais with her did not look so very sanguine. The Queen’s cousin Lady Lennox, Margaret Stewart, sat to the Queen’s left with her son, Lord Darnley, her ample frame once again swathed in black. He was handsome enough, Rosamund had to admit, with his pale-gold, poetic looks set off by his own fine black-velvet garments. But he looked most discontented, almost sulky, as if there was somewhere he would rather be. Chasing the servants into his bed, as Anne had said?
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