The Winter Queen

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘You look sad, Rosamund,’ Anton said, turning his intent gaze onto her. ‘You are unwell.’

  She shook her head. ‘I am not ill. I was just thinking of my family, my home. Christmas is a very merry time there.’

  ‘And this is your first holiday away from them?’

  ‘Nay. Sometimes, when I was a very small child, really before I can remember, my parents would come to Court. My father served the Queen’s father and her brother. But in the last few years we have always been together. My father takes special pride in his Yule log, and my mother would always have me help her make wreaths and garlands to put all over the house. And, on Christmas night, all the neighbours come to a feast in our hall, and it is…’

  Rosamund paused, the homesickness upon her again. ‘But I will not be there tonight.’

  Anton leaned closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers. Rosamund blinked up at him, startled to read understanding in his eyes. Sympathy. ‘It is a difficult thing, to feel far from home. From where one belongs.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘But your home is much farther than mine, I fear. You must think I am ridiculous, to be so sad when I am here at Court, surrounded by my own countrymen and all this festivity.’

  ‘I do not miss Sweden,’ he answered. ‘But if I had a family like yours I would long for them, too.’

  ‘A family like mine?’

  ‘’Tis obvious that you love them, Rosamund, as they must love you. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to have a home such as that. A place to truly belong, not just possess. A place where there are well-loved traditions, shared hopes, comfortable days.’ He smiled at her. ‘And feasts for the neighbours.’

  ‘I…’ Rosamund stared at him in astonishment. He described so exactly her own secret hopes, the dreams she had come to feel were impossible in an uncertain world such as theirs. ‘That sounds wondrous indeed. Yet I fear it is an impossible dream.’

  ‘Is it truly? And here I thought your England was a land of dreams. Of families like yours.’

  ‘But what of your own family?’

  His lips tightened. ‘My family is dead, I fear. Yet my mother, she left me tales of her homeland here. Of, as you say, impossible dreams.’

  Rosamund watched him, suddenly deeply curious. What was his family like—his home, his past? Where did he truly come from? What other dreams did he hold? She so wanted to know more of him, to know everything. To see what else they shared. ‘What tales did she tell you, Anton?’

  But the moment of quiet, intense intimacy was gone, vanished like a rare snowflake drifting towards earth. He gave her a careless smile.

  ‘Far too many to tell now,’ he said. ‘Don’t we have a great deal of work to do if I am to dance a volta on Twelfth Night?’

  Rosamund sensed he would share no more glimpses of his soul now, and she should guard hers better. ‘Quite right. Come, we will begin our lessons, then.’

  ‘Just as you say, my lady,’ he said, giving her an elaborate bow as he offered his hand with a flourish. ‘I am yours to command.’

  Rosamund laughed. She doubted he was anyone’s to command at all, despite the fact that he was here on an errand for his king. But she would play along for the hour. She took his hand, leading him to the centre of the gallery.

  As his fingers closed over hers, she had to remind herself that they were here to dance. To win—or, rather, lose—a wager, not to hide behind tapestries and kisses. To fall deep, deep into that blissful forgetfulness of passion. To leave behind the Court, the Queen, all she owed her family, all the careful balancing that life at Whitehall was. She wanted him, and that could not be. Not here, not now.

  ‘Now,’ she said sternly, as much to herself as him. ‘We begin with a basic galliard. Imagine the music like this—one, two, one, two, three. Right, left, right, left, and jump, landing with one leg ahead of the other. Like so.’

  She demonstrated, and he followed her smoothly, landing in a vigorous leap.

  ‘Very good,’ Rosamund said, laughing. ‘Are you certain you do not know how to dance?’

  ‘Nay. You are merely a fine teacher, Lady Rosamund.’

  ‘We shall see, for now we come to the difficult part. We take two bars of music now to move into the volta position.’ Rosamund drew in a deep breath, trying to brace herself for the next steps.

  Her parents considered the volta a scandalous Italian sort of dance, and had only allowed her to learn it when Master Geoffrey had insisted it was essential at Court, the Queen’s favourite dance. But Master Geoffrey was an older, mincing, exacting man who tended to have loud, ridiculous tantrums when frustrated by her slowness. She had a feeling that dancing the volta with Anton would be a rather different experience.

  ‘Now, let go of my hand and face me, like so,’ she said, trying to be stern and tutor-like.

  ‘And what do I do now?’ he said, smiling down at her as they stood close.

  Rosamund swallowed hard. ‘You—you place one hand on my waist, like this.’ She took his right hand in hers, laying his fingers just where her stiff, satin bodice curved in. ‘And your other hand goes on my back, above my…’

  ‘Your—what?’

  ‘Here.’ She put his hand above her bottom, her whole body feeling taut and brittle, as if she might snap as soon as he moved his body against hers.

  His smile flickered as if he, too, felt that crackling tension. ‘And what do you do?’

  Stand and stare like a simpleton, mayhap? Rosamund could hardly remember. ‘I put my hand here, on your shoulder. Now, you face me thus, and I face to the side. We turn with a forward step, both with the same foot at the same time. One, two…’

  But Anton got ahead of her, stepping forward before she did. His leg tangled in her skirts and she tilted off-balance, falling towards the floor.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, clutching at his shoulders. His balance from skating on the ice stood him in good stead, though, for he caught her swiftly in his arms, swinging her upright before she could drag both of them down.

  ‘You see why I do not dance?’ he muttered hoarsely, his gaze on her parted lips as he held her above him, suspended above time. ‘Disaster always ensues.’

  Rosamund shook her head. ‘You give up too easily, Master Gustavson.’

  ‘Me? I never give up. Not when something is of importance.’

  ‘Then we should begin again,’ she whispered, her mouth dry.

  He nodded, slowly lowering her to her feet until they once again had themselves in position.

  ‘After—after the step, which we take together,’ she said, ‘We turn with another step. Hop onto the outside foot—’ she tapped at his foot with her toe ‘—and lift the inside foot ahead. See?’

  They made the step and hop with no incident, and Anton grinned at her. ‘Like thus? Perhaps this dancing business is not so very difficult.’

  ‘Do not get too confident, Master Gustavson,’ she warned. ‘For now is the difficult part.’

  ‘I am ready, Madame Tutor.’

  ‘After the hop, there is a longer step on the second beat, close to the ground, thus. And that is when I bend my knees to spring upward.’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘You lift me up as I jump, like…’ He suddenly swung her into the air as if she was a feather, his hands tight at her waist. Rosamund laughed in surprise. ‘Aye, like that! Now, turn.’

  He spun her around, both of them laughing giddily. The bright glass windows whirled around her, sparkling as diamonds. ‘Not so fast!’ she cried. ‘We would knock over all the other dancers.’

  He lowered her slowly to her feet, still holding her close. ‘Then how do we turn properly?’

  ‘We, well, it is a three-quarter turn at each measure. When the crowd cries out “volta!” we do it again. Then we return to the galliard position.’

  ‘That does not sound so jolly,’ Anton said, twirling her up into the air again. ‘Is not our version much better?’

  Rosamund laughed helplessly, laughed until her si
des ached and tears prickled at her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever laughing so much, or ever being with anyone who made her feel as Anton Gustavson did—as if she was carefree again, as if the world was all laughter and dancing.

  ‘Our version is merrier,’ she cried. ‘But I do not think it would win the Queen’s wager!’

  He lowered her to her feet again, yet the gallery still spun around her. She clung to his shoulders, aching with laughter, her breath tight in her lungs. This, surely, was how all those ladies who got into trouble with the Queen for their amorous affairs felt right before they plunged down into ruin? It was intoxicating—and worrying.

  ‘Why does it feel as if we have already won?’ he whispered against her hair.

  Rosamund stared up at him, startled by his words. He, too, looked startled; for a mere instant, it was as if his courtly mask had dropped. She saw surprise and a naked longing in his eyes that matched her own. And briefly a flash of loneliness, assuaged by their laughter.

  Then it was gone; the armoured visor dropped back into place. He stepped back from her, giving her a quick, small bow.

  They were separate again, as if the frozen Thames lay between them. And it felt even colder after the bright sun of their shared laughter.

  ‘Excuse me, Lady Rosamund,’ he said roughly, his accent heavy. ‘I fear I have an appointment I have forgotten. Perhaps we can have another lesson tomorrow.’

  Rosamund nodded. ‘After the Queen’s hunt.’

  He bowed again and walked away, leaving her alone in the middle of the empty gallery. Rosamund was not sure what to do; the silence seemed to echo around her, the air suddenly chilled. She rubbed at her arms, wondering what had just happened.

  Everything had been turned tip-over-tail ever since she’d arrived at Court. She hardly seemed to know herself any longer, and she did not know how to set it aright again. She seemed to be infected with the pervasive air of flirtation and romance all around at Whitehall, that danger and amorous passion all mixed up into one intoxicating brew.

  Perhaps if she went home to Ramsay Castle? Yet, even as she thought it, Rosamund knew that would not be the cure. Even if she did go back, and everything there was just the same, she would be different. She was not the same as she had been before she’d come to Court and seen the wider world. Before she’d met Anton.

  She left the gallery, walking down the stairs and turning back towards the long walk to the Privy Chambers and the Great Hall. She needed to be around people, to find some distraction.

  But even in the crowded hall, where the Yule log at last smouldered in the vast stone grate, she found no respite from her restless thoughts. Anton stood near the fireplace, but he was not alone. Lettice Devereaux, Lady Essex, stood beside him; the two of them had their heads bent together in quiet conversation, her hand on his sleeve. The pretty countess’s dark-red hair, laced with fine pearls, gleamed in the firelight.

  So that was his urgent ‘appointment’, Rosamund thought, feeling some hot emotion like temper rise in her throat, choking and bitter. She suddenly wished she was the Queen, so she could throw her shoe at his too-handsome, too-infuriating head! She had been all in a quandary over him, while he’d merely had one of his many flirtations to see to.

  First Richard had vanished, never writing to her, and now this. ‘A pox on all men,’ she muttered.

  ‘I see you have at last settled into the ways of Court,’ she heard Anne Percy say in a most smug tone.

  Rosamund glanced over her shoulder to see her friend standing close behind her. Anne smiled at her. ‘We must all be in either a passion or a pique over someone,’ she said. ‘It is not Court life otherwise.’

  Rosamund had to laugh. ‘I don’t wish to be in either.’

  Anne shrugged. ‘You cannot escape it, I fear. There is only one cure, though I’m afraid it is only a temporary one.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shopping, of course. Catherine Knyvett tells me that Master Brown’s mercer’s shop in Lombard Street has some new silks from France. The Queen is with her Privy Council now and does not need us until this evening, we should go purchase a length or two before all the other ladies snatch them away. There is no better distraction from thoughts of dim-witted men than looking at silks.’

  Rosamund nodded. She needed more than anything to cease thinking of men—one in particular. It had all gone much too far. ‘Yes, let’s. A temporary cure is surely better than none at all.’

  ‘Here comes I, old Father Christmas!’ proclaimed the player on the Great Hall’s temporary stage, striding about in his green-velvet robes and long, white beard to much laughter from the audience. ‘Christmas comes but once a year, but when it does it brings good cheer. Roast beef and plum pudding, and plenty of good English beer! Last Christmastide I turned the spit, I burnt my finger and can’t find of it!’

  The gathering burst into more helpless laughter as Father Christmas hopped and flailed around, but Anton found he could pay no attention to the stage antics. He could not look away from Rosamund’s face.

  He stood along one of the panelled walls, hidden in the shadows, while the rest of the company sat on tiered benches rising behind the Queen’s tall-backed chair. The maids were on either side of her in their shining white-satin gowns, and Anton had a perfect view of Rosamund as she watched the mummers’ play.

  Her cheeks, usually winter-pale, glowed bright pink as she laughed. Every trace of the wariness that often lurked in her eyes was gone as she joined with the others in the holiday fun.

  He could not turn away; he was utterly enraptured by her. Despite the way he had made himself leave her that afternoon, had made himself remember why he was in England—why there was no room for such a lady in his life—he had not been able to cut her from his emotions. From his thoughts, his heated imaginings.

  She pressed her hand to her lips, her eyes shining with mirth, and he remembered too well what those lips felt like against his. How she tasted more intoxicating than any wine, sweet and tempting. How their bodies felt pressed together in the darkness. And how he wanted so much more, wanted to taste her breast against his lips, feel her naked skin, wanted to drive himself into her and feel that they were one.

  Would nothing ever erase that raw need he knew whenever she was near? For one more smile from her, he would forget all he worked for here—and that could never be. He had promises to keep, to himself as much as his family, and he could not be lured from them by Rosamund Ramsay’s kisses, by the softness of her white skin—as hard as it would be to resist! Perhaps harder than anything he had done before.

  But his passion put Rosamund into danger, made her place at Court threatened. He could not do that to her.

  ‘I’ll show you the very best activity that’s shown on the common stage,’ said Father Christmas, sweeping his long sleeves to and fro. ‘If you don’t believe me what I say, step in, King George, and clear the way!’

  A knight in clanking, shining armour leaped onto the stage, and for a moment a ripple of silent unease spread across the room as everyone remembered the strange Lord of Misrule at the Christmas Eve banquet. Leicester and his men gathered closer to the Queen, and Anton reached for the dagger sheathed at his waist. If that villain dared return, he would not again touch Rosamund!

  But the knight threw back his helmet’s visor, revealing the pretty face of Anne Percy. She bowed elaborately amid much applause and relieved laughter, the elaborate plumes of her helmet flourishing.

  Anton noticed Lord Langley scowling as he watched the stage, watched Anne Percy swagger back and forth, brandishing her sword. For an instant, he almost looked as if he would snatch her off the stage, but then he just swung around, pushing his way out of the mirthful crowd.

  Anton shook his head ruefully. So, he was not the only one infatuation had wreaked havoc with here at the English Court! Cupid played at Christmas too. Langley and Anne were bold indeed, and surely braver than Anton when it came to matters of the heart at Court.

  ‘I am King Ge
orge, this notable knight!’ Mistress Percy proclaimed, waving her sword high. ‘I shed my blood for England’s right. England’s right and glory for to maintain! If any should challenge me, I stand ready.’

  As she swung the sword in a wide arc, another knight, clad in matte-black armour and a black-plumed helmet, leaped onstage.

  ‘I am that gallant soldier, Bullslasher is my name,’ he announced, his voice deep and muffled behind the visor. ‘Sword and buckle by my side, I mean to win the game! First I draw my sword—then thy precious blood.’

  Anne Percy laughed. ‘Don’t thou be so hot, Bullslasher! Don’t thou see in the room another man thou has got to fight?’

  ‘Nay—a battle betwixt thee and me, to see which on the ground dead first shall be. Mind the lists and guard the blows—mind thy head and thy sword.’

  Their swords met in a great clash; for a moment Anton—and, it appeared, everyone else—forgot it was a mere mock Christmas battle. The two players fought fiercely, first one then the other driven back to the very edge of the stage. The laughter in the hall faded, replaced by a taut tension, a breathless silence as the battle ground furiously on.

  At last, King George was the one pushed back, falling to the stage as her sword skittered away. Bullslasher’s blade pressed to her armoured breast, but she was undaunted, heaving up to push his helmet away.

  Lord Langley’s face was revealed, streaked with sweat, set in anger.

  ‘You!’ Anne cried. ‘What have you done with Master Smithson? How dare you…?’

  Queen Elizabeth rose abruptly to her feet, her emerald-green skirts swaying. ‘Enough,’ she said loudly. ‘We are bored with this scene, bring back Father Christmas. Lord Leicester, perhaps you would escort the gallant King George from the hall so he can change his garb?’

  In only a moment, Leicester had herded Anne Percy from the stage and Lord Langley had vanished, leaving a rather bewildered Father Christmas to resume the play with a doctor but no wounded King George. He managed it, though, helped by the Queen’s loud laughter, and soon the rest of the company was laughing and clapping again.

  Anton looked to Rosamund. She still sat in her place behind the Queen, but her rosy laughter had faded; her brow had creased with puzzlement. Her gaze suddenly met his, and she did not turn away. She just watched him, and the rest of the room faded into a dark silence.