The Winter Queen

by Amanda McCabe

  At night, his mother had told him tales of her English home, enticing stories of green woods and lanes, of people of learning and music; old stories of knights and quests; new stories of her own childhood visits to Briony Manor. Briony sounded like a magical place as the land of distant as Arthur and his knights. But his mother had insisted it was a real place, and one he would see some day. One day it would be his reality too, and the cold castle a memory.

  And, when he was older and she’d been dying, she’d told him secrets too—secrets that had made him more determined to come to England, to Briony Manor. To find a new beginning.

  His path had not been easy. It had been forged in battle against the Russians, in long days at the court of a king going mad. A knife’s edge of a court, where there’d been none of the colour and merriment that surrounded the English queen’s.

  Much as he’d hated the place, he’d had to see to his father’s castle too. After his father’s death, before he’d gone off to battle, Anton had put his father’s own cousin as steward of the place. Now he cared not if he ever saw it again.

  Briony Manor was to be his new home. And, much as he hated to disoblige a lady, Celia Sutton would not stop him. She had dower property from her late husband; Briony was all he had now.

  He watched as his newfound cousin turned back towards the palace, and he remembered how she had looked last night as she’d talked to the Queen: determined—just as determined as he was. There’d been no eager family reunion there!

  And Rosamund Ramsay knew Celia. Were they friends, then? Co-conspirators of some sort?

  If that was so, they were not very good at it, as Rosamund had obviously been surprised by Celia’s appearance at Court. But that did not preclude them from being confidantes. And that meant he had to be very careful around Rosamund and not be drawn in by the warm, welcoming glow of her sky-blue eyes, the eager passion of her kiss.

  Ah, yes—that kiss. Anton scowled as he remembered last night, the two of them wrapped around each other in the heated, secret darkness. The sudden rush of desire had taken him by surprise, but it had been no less potent for being unexpected. Indeed, it had been building between them like a spark grown to a roaring flame since he’d first glimpsed her by that pond.

  The taste of her soft lips, the way her body felt pressed to his, the smell of her rose perfume—it was intoxicating, wondrous. He wanted more and yet more of her, wanted everything she could give. Her body, her smiles, her laughter—her secrets.

  But she would surely demand the same of him in return, and that he could not give. Not when she knew Celia Sutton and when she was a loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth. His secrets were buried too deep, and they could cost him everything he wanted if he grew incautious. He had learned from his mother’s mistake, and put the demands of his head above his heart. He had come here to find a sort of justice for his mother, to retrieve her estate and start a new life. He could not abandon that mission.

  That left the question—what could he do about Rosamund Ramsay? He could not avoid her; there was the Queen’s silly wager. The Court was too small, too intimate, to maintain distance from her for long.

  There was yet one more consideration too—the mystery of the Lord of Misrule, the masked figure who had taken Leicester’s place then disappeared. The plot was a strange one, and thick with the miasma of some sinister intent. The Queen was well guarded, but what of Rosamund? The villain had danced with her, after all, and she had seemed frightened of him. It made anger stir deep in Anton’s heart, a burning desire to protect her from anything that could ever frighten her.

  He folded his arms across his chest, frowning as he stared out at the empty garden. He had to be cautious, to be watchful. He could protect Rosamund from the Lord of Misrule and see what she knew of Celia’s doings.

  Without letting a lower part of his anatomy rule his brain again.

  ‘I am no shivering coward, Cecil!’ Queen Elizabeth cried. ‘I will not let some misguided mischief ruin my Christmas.’

  As Rosamund looked on, astonished, the Queen slammed her fist down on her dressing table, rattling Venetian-glass bottles and pots, upending her own jewel case. Pearl ropes and ruby brooches spilled out onto the floor, and maidservants scrambled to scoop them up.

  William Cecil, Lord Burghley, leaned on his walking stick, a look of long-suffering patience on his bearded face.

  Rosamund stared at the scene—the Queen clad in her fur-trimmed bedrobe with her hair half-down as her ladies scrambled to ready her for the day, the bedchamber strewn with the results of her temper, tossed shoes, spilled pearl-powder, terrified faces.

  She feared her own face might be one of them. Anne had told her the Queen had fits of pique at least once or twice a day, but they soon passed and she calmly turned to her business. The trick was to stay out of her way, as one would shelter from a rainstorm until the thunderclouds drifted away. So Rosamund stood half-hidden behind the looped-up bed curtains, clutching at a stack of prayer books as she watched the scene.

  She doubted she could ever be as sanguine as Lord Burghley. No doubt he had witnessed such storms many times before and knew ways to persuade the Queen to do things for her own good. Today he tried to urge her to curtail the elaborate Christmas festivities in order to see to her safety. To stay guarded in her privy rooms until the mysterious Lord of Misrule was captured and questioned.

  It would surely not be long, not with a furious Lord Leicester and his men tearing the palace apart. But the Queen would hear none of it.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Burghley said. ‘None could ever accuse you of being a shivering coward. But it would not be wise to go among crowds when there is some plot at work.’

  ‘Plot!’ Elizabeth snorted. ‘It was hardly a plot, just some holiday mischief against Leicester, who could certainly stand to be taken down a peg or two, anyway.’

  ‘I cannot disagree with Your Grace about that,’ Burghley said wryly. ‘Yet we cannot know if it was solely a prank against Robert Dudley, or if deeper forces are at work. The fact that some villain was able to infiltrate your feast is most alarming. With the Spanish, the French and the Queen of Scots all in communication…’

  ‘Do not speak to me of the Queen of Scots!’ Elizabeth shouted. A maidservant who had cautiously begun to pin up her red hair hastily backed away. ‘I am sick of the sound of her name. First Lady Lennox constantly beseeching me to let her useless son go to Edinburgh, and now you. Can I not enjoy my Christmas at least without her intervening?’

  ‘I fear we cannot stop her from “intervening”,’ Burghley said. ‘She is a constant threat, Your Grace, just over the border as she is and with France at her back. Her ambition has long been well-known.’

  ‘If she would do as I say and marry Lord Leicester, her ambition would be curtailed,’ the Queen muttered, reaching for a scent bottle. The smell of violets filled the chamber as she dabbed at it distractedly.

  ‘Do you really think she will do that?’ Burghley said.

  Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Not with Leicester distracted by some silly prank.’

  ‘And what if it is not some silly prank, Your Grace?’

  The Queen sighed. ‘Very well. Add more guards to the chapel and the corridors. But that is all I agree to!’

  ‘It would be best for you to stay here in your apartments.’

  ‘Nay!’ Elizabeth shook her head fiercely, dislodging the pins that had just been eased into her hair. ‘It is Christmas Day, probably dear Mistress Ashley’s last, and I want her to enjoy it without worry. Time enough for doom and gloom later.’

  ‘Very well, Your Grace.’ Burghly bowed and departed, leaving the ladies to hover indecisively.

  Until the Queen again pounded on her table, tumbling the jewels back to the floor. ‘Why are you all standing about so slack-jawed? We must to church! And those sleeves will not do, fetch the gold ones.’

  At last she was dressed in her fine green-and-gold garments, her hair bound up in a gold-net caul and jewelled band, her fur-lined c
loak draped over her shoulders. She held out her beringed hand for her prayer book, which Rosamund hastened to give her.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Rosamund,’ the Queen said. ‘Will you walk with me to the chapel?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Rosamund said, surprised. Her allotted place was at the end of the procession with the other maids. But she could hardly protest with the Queen. She stayed by Elizabeth’s side as they left the bedchamber and made their slow way through the Presence and Privy Chambers and along the gallery, where other courtiers joined the retinue.

  ‘You danced with our unknown Lord of Misrule last night, did you not?’ the Queen asked quietly, smiling and nodding at the crowds who made their obeisances to her.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Rosamund answered. She had been woken far too early that morning by Burghley to be questioned about it, too. She had no more to add, and was afraid of what might happen if they thought she did know more.

  ‘You have no idea who he was?’

  ‘None, Your Grace,’ she said, giving the same answer she’d given Burghley—the only answer she had. ‘He was masked, and I have not been at Court long enough to recognise anyone by their mannerisms.’

  ‘It was probably not a courtier anyway,’ the Queen said with a sigh. ‘If you see anything else, anything at all, you will tell me immediately.’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

  ‘In the meantime, I believe you know our newest arrival at Court, Mistress Celia Sutton?’

  ‘Her family lives very near mine at Ramsay Castle, Your Grace. I do know her a little.’

  ‘She has brought us a petition, one of dozens to be considered this holiday. Perhaps you will speak with her about it and tell me your thoughts.’

  ‘Certainly, if Your Grace wishes it,’ Rosamund said slowly. She had no idea what sort of petition Celia could be bringing to the Queen, or what she, Rosamund, could think of it. But if she helped the Queen then perhaps in turn the Queen could help her—and Richard.

  If that was what she still wanted…

  Rosamund remembered well the night before, kissing Anton Gustavson behind the tapestry. Nay, not just kissing, wrapping her bare legs around his hips, feeling his mouth on her breast, the hot, heady plunge down into desperate desire. A wild recklessness that was unlike her but could not be denied. She had wanted Anton, wanted him madly, beyond all reason.

  She wanted him still.

  She had been awake all night, pretending to sleep as she’d listened to the whispers of the other maids. In reality, she thought of nothing but him, of his kiss, the way his hands had felt as they’d slid against her naked skin. Of all the things she wished he would do to her—naughty, wicked, delicious things she had never dared think of before. That she had never wished of Richard. And that was what really worried her. She had come here to serve the Queen, to prove herself to her family again, not get them into even more trouble.

  Nay, she had to be very, very careful.

  Her cheeks felt hot again as they turned onto yet another corridor, and she cursed her pale skin as she clutched at her prayer book until its leather edges bit into her hand. She was a most disloyal lover. Surely it was very wrong of her to think such things of the dark, dashing Swede, a man she had just met, when she had vowed to defy her parents for Richard?

  Perhaps it was the romantic intrigues of Court invading her thoughts and emotions, turning her from herself, from her plans for the future. Aye, that was it. She needed to talk to Celia, to hear news of home.

  Rosamund filed into the chapel, taking her seat on the bench behind the Queen’s high-backed chair with the other maids. Even in the chapel—a long, vast space of soaring, ribbed ceilings, and marble columns draped with royal standards—there were gossiping whispers, but they were hushed. A breath of wind blew along the aisles between the cushioned benches.

  Rosamund folded her hands atop the prayer book in her lap, staring up at the window high above the altar to the east of the chapel. But the reds and blues of the Crucifixion and Resurrection scenes were muted in the grey day and gave little scope for contemplation or distraction.

  Plus the nape of her neck prickled, as if someone watched her most intently. She rubbed at the tingling spot, peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder.

  Anton grinned at her from his place in one of the galleries. Rosamund instinctively wanted to laugh in return, but she pressed her lips tightly, returning her stare to her hands.

  She had been so busy with her own feelings about their kiss, about what it meant, but now she wondered what he thought. What he felt. Was he, too, moved by what had happened between them? Or was it a mere diversion to him, one of many? She remembered all the ladies who followed him about, and feared she was becoming one of them.

  Just another reason to stay away from him. If she could.

  She peeked at him again, to find that he still watched her. One of his dark brows arched, as if in question. But she had no answers, either for him or herself.

  She faced forward again as Master Buckenridge, one of the Queen’s chaplains, climbed into the pulpit. ‘On this blessed day of the Nativity,’ he began, ‘we must always reflect on the Lord’s many gifts to us for the year ahead…’

  ‘What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live!’

  The Yule log was borne into the Great Hall, carried on the shoulders of a dozen strong men. Anton and Lord Langley had indeed found a grand one, Rosamund thought, applauding with the rest of the company. As long and thick as a ceiling beam, the great, oak log was adorned with greenery and garlands tied up with ribbons. It would be lowered into the great fireplace, where it would burn until the end of the holiday on Twelfth Night.

  And, as it burst into light, who knew what would happen?

  Rosamund smiled as she watched the log being paraded around the hall, its streamers waving merrily. She remembered Christmases at Ramsay Castle; her father and his men had gone out to proudly carry back the largest, thickest Yule log from their own forest. Her mother had laughingly protested that it was too big even to come through the door. And the entire household would sing as the embers from last year’s Christmas had set it alight.

  Suddenly, she was engulfed by a cold wave of homesickness, of sadness that she was not there with her family to share their holiday. She felt terribly alone in the very midst of the noisy crowd, adrift.

  Rosamund eased away from the others as they pressed towards the log until she could slip out of the doors and into the comparatively quiet corridor. There was no one there to see her as she hurried towards the Waterside Gallery. No one to see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

  She furiously scrubbed at those tears, brushing them away as she dashed up a narrow staircase. She was a fool to cry, to miss something she’d never really had in the first place. Once, she had imagined her parents had truly cared for her and her happiness. She had envied their long marriage, their contented home, and had imagined she could have the same. It would never have been with Richard, though; she saw that now.

  ‘It is only the holiday,’ she muttered to herself as she tiptoed into the gallery. ‘Everyone turns melancholy and sentimental at Christmas.’

  She stopped by one of the high windows, leaning on the narrow sill as she peered outside. No one was in the gallery today; they were all in the Great Hall to watch the Yule log being brought in, and she had the echoing space to herself.

  The gallery was narrow but very long, running along the Thames to afford a view of the life of the river, the boats and barges that constantly passed by. But now the great river was frozen over, a silver-blue expanse that sparkled under the weak sunlight. Only a small rivulet of slushy water ran along the centre.

  Soon it would be frozen, through, solid enough to walk or ride on. Assuredly solid enough to skate on.

  Rosamund wondered what it felt like, gliding along as if on glass, twirling through the cold air, her hand anchored in Anton’s as he pulled her along. She knew his body now, the lean, f
lexible strength of it. He knew the ice; could he keep her safe on it too? Teach her his secrets?

  ‘Rosamund?’ she heard him say, as if her visions made him real. ‘Is something amiss?’

  She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing at the end of the gallery. He wore black as usual, fine velvet with an almost blue sheen set off with pewter-grey satin trim that made his dark hair gleam.

  ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘It was just too warm in the hall. I needed some fresh air.’

  ‘Very wise,’ he said, walking slowly towards her. His movements had a powerful, cat-like grace, reminding her of her ice dreams. ‘We should save our breath for dancing.’

  Rosamund laughed. ‘And you will need it. The volta is most challenging.’

  He smiled at her, leaning against the window sill at her side. ‘Do you think I am not equal to it?’

  She took a deep, unsteady breath, remembering the strength of his hands as he’d grasped her waist, lifting her against him as she’d wound her legs around his hips. ‘I think you have a fair chance of succeeding.’

  ‘Only fair? You have not a high estimation of my skills, then.’

  On the contrary, Rosamund thought wryly. His ‘skills’ were of a high calibre indeed. ‘I am sure you will be able to dance by Twelfth Night. But when can we skate on the Thames?’

  He peered out of the window, his dark eyes narrowed as he gauged the view of the river. ‘Not long now, I think. But I should hate to try it too soon and run into danger. Not when you have not tried skating before.’

  It is too soon; Rosamund remembered her father saying this about Richard. You do not know him well enough to know your own mind. He is not the one for you. She sensed, deep down, that Anton was not as Richard was, was not shallow. He was like the river under the ice, all hidden currents that promised escape and wondrous beauty such as she had never known. That was what made him so very dangerous.