The bright, shimmering cord that was her, that was the ephemeral bond between them, tightened around his heart. Suddenly he knew too well how Lord Langley felt—but fighting against desire only made it flame hotter.
Rosamund whispered something to Mary Radcliffe, who sat beside her, before hurrying out of the hall. Anton followed, needing to make sure she was well and safe. He would not let her see him; if they spoke, if she came close, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from kissing her. And more—much more.
She hurried up the stairs toward the maids’ apartment, her gown a white beacon in the night. At the top she glanced back down, and he thought she glimpsed him there, that she would call out.
But she just shook her head, running back along the corridor out of sight. He stood there until he heard her door shut, a click in the distance. Even then he could not quite turn away, could not leave her.
He sat on the bottom step, resting his elbows on his knees as he listened to the laughter from the hall. His plans had been so carefully laid out when he’d left Sweden for England; he’d known just what he wanted, what he had to do. Now it all seemed in complete disarray, like a pair of dice tossed up in the air and yet to land. What danger awaited when they came to earth?
‘Good eve to you, cousin,’ he heard a soft voice say.
He glanced up, cursing his distraction, to find Celia Sutton standing across the corridor as still as a marble sculpture. He rose to his feet, watching her warily.
If Rosamund Ramsay was a bright winter-fairy, Celia was a night bird, all glossy black hair and black-satin gown, her jewels onyx and dull diamonds. Her pale, pointed face was framed by a high, fur-trimmed collar. She, too, gazed at him with wariness in her eyes.
‘I see you also needed a respite from false merriment,’ she said.
‘Is it false?’ he said. Another burst of loud laughter drifted out of the hall. ‘The pleasures of the holiday seem real enough here.’
‘Of course it is false—as everything is here at Court.’ She took a step towards him, her gown whispering over the stone floor. ‘I will give you warning, cousin—I don’t know how it is in Sweden, but here one must always beware the promises of princes. Of all men. For they are as hollow and changeable as Christmas cheer. And I will say this too—an English wife will not help you to Briony Manor, even a daughter of an earl.’
There was a chilly bleakness to her words, a flat hollowness in her eyes that made him half-raise his hand towards her. She was his family, after all, his own mother’s niece, despite their rivalry, despite the fact that they were strangers to each other. Despite her warnings.
But she’d already turned away, vanishing down the corridor like a black wraith. He was alone again. Alone with the secrets of his own heart, and the yearnings that could prove his undoing at last.
Chapter Seven
St Stephen’s Day, December 26
‘Make way for the Queen! Make way for the Queen!’
The guards in the lead of the royal procession cried out as they made their slow way down the Strand, through Cheapside and towards London Bridge. Eventually they would make it to Greenwich Great Park for their hunt, but the Queen seemed in no hurry at all. From atop her prancing white horse, she waved and smiled at the crowds as they cheered for her and tossed bouquets of winter greenery.
Everyone seemed so happy they did not notice the extra number of guards, the way they suspiciously scanned the throngs of people, nor did they notice Leicester and his sword close by Elizabeth’s side. The bitter winter and all it entailed was lost in the excitement of seeing their queen.
Rosamund also studied the scene from atop her own horse, trying to keep the prancing, restive little mare from edging out of line. These were the same narrow, dirty, crowded streets she’d traversed on her way to Whitehall, yet they were transformed. The cobbles were scrubbed clean, covered by a new layer of snow and frost in the night that made the greys and browns of the city shimmer. Wreaths and swags of Christmas greenery draped from windows, where more people strained for a glimpse of their queen.
And the Queen rewarded them. Clad in a riding costume of red and dark-brown velvet, a tall-crowned, plumed hat on her head, she waved and laughed.
‘Good people, pray do not remove your hats!’ she called out. ‘It is much too cold.’
But still they did remove their hats, brandishing them in the air as she passed by. A merry, excited gathering indeed.
Rosamund remembered her father’s story of the Queen’s first entrance to London after her accession to the throne. He had been there, witnessing the pageants and plays, the yards and yards of white satin and cloth-of-gold, the fountains running with wine; the ecstatic jubilation after years of fear and oppression under Queen Mary and her Spanish husband, the hope centred around the young, red-haired princess.
It seemed none of that had faded in six years. The crowds happily gathered in the bitter cold just to wave at Queen Elizabeth.
‘Is it like this every year?’ Rosamund asked Anne, who rode beside her.
‘Oh, yes,’ Anne said. ‘Londoners wait all year for the St Stephen’s Day hunt, or for the Queen to leave on her summer progress. It takes hours to depart the city then, with all the baggage carts.’
Rosamund laughed, picturing the endless train of carts it would take to transport the contents of Whitehall, both humans and furnishings. ‘I can imagine.’
‘But you needn’t worry about that, Rosamund! You will be married and settled in your own home before we go on progress again.’
Rosamund smiled, but in her heart she doubted that prospect. Ramsay Castle, Richard—it all seemed terribly far away, further with every day amid the sparkling distractions of Court. Richard’s face faded in her mind, like a painting left too long in the sun—and other, more vivid images replaced it. Had her father been right? Yes, indeed, he had. For Anton was different from Richard, from anyone else she had ever known, and her feelings for him were richer and deeper than any she had ever known.
She shook her head. She could not think of all that now, with her horse frisking about and crowds pressing on all sides. She had to keep her place in the procession and not fall behind.
On London Bridge, that vast edifice lined on either side with looming structures of houses and shops, they stopped to listen to a children’s chorus sing a Christmas tune for the Queen.
‘Blessed be that maid Marie, born was he of her body! Very God ere time began, born in the time of Son of Man.’ Their sweet, young voices rang out in the cold, clear air, like holiday angels soaring over the earth. Their little round faces, scrubbed clean for this important moment, reflected nervousness, joy, terror and sheer pleasure.
Rosamund had to smile as she watched them, for she knew how they felt. It reflected her own emotions ever since she’d come to Whitehall and begun learning new, frightening things about herself: that she was not entirely the quiet, shy girl her family thought her; that she needed a man who could bring out those depths in her, could understand them. And someone whose own depths she could spend a lifetime discovering for herself.
She had grown up, and found her woman’s heart.
She glanced back over her shoulder to where the Swedish party rode. Anton was in their midst, once again clad in black wool and leather riding-clothes. He almost looked like a centaur on his glossy black horse, a powerful warrior set to thunder into battle. His face was drawn in serious, thoughtful lines, his shoulders held taut under his short cloak, as if he planned his war strategy.
How endlessly interesting he was, she thought as she studied him. He was constantly revealing new facets, new contrasts of light and shadow. He could laugh and jest as if he hadn’t a care in the world, could tease and flirt and play the courtier, the lover of ladies. Yet she could see the flash of granite-hard determination beneath the laughter. He hid secrets there, she was sure of it.
What was his life like in Sweden? What did he really hope to gain here in England—a disputed estate? Or something more?
Anton caught her watching him and grinned at her. Once again that secret solemnity vanished, like a cloud burned away by the sun. She smiled back, facing ahead as the song ended and a girl stepped forward to give a bouquet of herbs to the Queen.
Rosamund’s gaze caught the heads displayed over the entrance to the bridge, a gruesome contrast to the music, the happy cheers. Their empty eye-sockets proclaimed silently that all was not entirely merry in the Queen’s realm, even now at Christmas. Everyone had their secrets, and some led to pikes on the bridge.
They moved forward again, their long train snaking along the bridge and out of London proper. The congestion of narrow streets flowed to large estates along the river, and then to farms and fields. There were people to cheer even there, but they were fewer, and progress was quicker. Then they were on the road to Greenwich.
The tightly packed procession fanned out, still following the Queen and Lord Leicester, but more fluid. Conspirators and couples found each other, hoping for a quiet word before the rush of the hunt.
Anton drew up next to Rosamund just as Anne discreetly pulled away, falling back to ride with Catherine Knyvett. Rosamund smiled at him tentatively, not sure what to expect after he’d left their dance lesson so abruptly the day before.
‘Good day to you, Master Gustavson,’ she said.
‘And to you, Lady Rosamund,’ he answered. ‘How do you fare this morning?’
‘Quite well, thank you. Fortunately for me, it was Mary Howard who dropped the Queen’s necklace and bore her temper today, so I escaped!’
She nearly clapped her hand to her mouth for joking about the Queen’s temper in public, but Anton laughed. ‘May you fare so well every day at Court.’
Rosamund smiled ruefully. ‘We must all take our turn, I fear.’
‘But you have had no more encounters with masked villains?’ he asked in concern.
‘Nay, thankfully.’ Rosamund shivered, as much from remembering the Lord of Misrule and his tight grasp on her hands as from the sudden, sharp breeze. ‘I have seen nothing at all suspicious, though I’m afraid I am not as observant as I should be here at Court.’
‘We must all be vigilant,’ Anton said. ‘Her Grace does not seem worried, though.’
He gestured towards the head of the procession, where the Queen appeared to be teasing Lord Leicester about something. She leaned from her saddle towards him, laughing as he smiled reluctantly.
‘Lord Burghley urged her to curtail the Christmas festivities,’ Rosamund said. ‘But she refused.’
‘Hmm,’ Anton muttered. ‘She is probably wise. People who plot in the shadows thrive on fear and disruption.’
‘So, to combat evil we must laugh and make merry?’ Rosamund said. ‘La, but I can do that!’
Anton laughed. ‘I hope that will always be so, Lady Rosamund. The winter day looks brighter when you smile.’
Rosamund bit her lip, absurdly pleased at his compliment. ‘I will smile even more when I win our wager. Should we have a dance lesson tomorrow?’
‘I have a better idea,’ he said. ‘We should go skating.’
‘Skating?’ she said, startled. ‘Already?’ She had known that by the terms of their wager she would have to strap on skating blades eventually and launch herself out onto the ice. But not just yet.
‘There is no better time,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘A few of us are going to the pond tomorrow, if you would care to join us once your duties to the Queen are finished?’
A few of us? Rosamund remembered the first time she’d seen him at that pond, when Lady Essex had held onto his arm. And then there was the lady in the gardens, and Lady Essex again yesterday, after he’d left their lesson so abruptly. Would all those ladies be there?
‘Your friend Mistress Percy is to be one of the party, I believe,’ he said, as if he read her doubts. ‘It will be a fine respite from the Court. And I promise to be a very careful skating-teacher. I will not let you fall.’
The thought of escaping from the palace for a while, even if it was just a few hours, was very tempting. She missed quiet time to think, to just be, and this hunting excursion just whetted her appetite for more.
Not that she would be doing much thinking around Anton! When she was near him, all rationality seemed to fly away. She was just like all those passion-addled courtiers who ended in the Tower, and she surely did not want to be one of them. But there was not much trouble to get into in a large group, surely?
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘The Queen always meets with her Privy Council in the afternoon and will not need us.’
‘Ganska myttig.’ They fell into a companionable silence for a moment as they rode along the country lane. The grime and noise of the city was left far behind, and there was only the rustle of hooves on the frosty earth, their own laughter and talk. Their harmony with each other.
‘I am sorry, Lady Rosamund, for my sudden departure from our lesson,’ Anton said slowly. ‘You must think me ill-mannered indeed.’
Rosamund smiled at him. ‘Perhaps manners are different in Stockholm?’
He smiled back wryly. ‘We Swedes are rougher, I suppose, but I hope we are not so ungallant.’
‘I don’t think anyone could accuse you of lack of gallantry, Master Gustavson,’ she said. Except perhaps Celia Sutton. But Rosamund had not been able to discover the exact nature of their family quarrel yet. It was yet another of Anton’s facets, one of the things that drew her to him to the exclusion of all else.
The gates of Greenwich Palace stood open for them as they turned down a new lane. In the distance, the palace’s red-brick towers stood against the pearl-grey sky, but they rode instead towards the waiting Great Park. The undulating hills and slopes, no doubt beautifully green in the summer, were brown and black, streaked with white veins of snow. The bare trees stood like bleak skeletons, frosted with ice at the tips. This would be the last hunt for a while.
But Rosamund did not mind the bare landscape at all. The rush of the cold, fresh wind against her face, the clean, country smells and wide, open spaces felt wondrous after long days indoors. She had not realised just how very much she missed it all, the freedom of the open fields. The horse pranced beneath her, as restless as she was to run.
Rosamund held tight to the reins, keeping the mare in check as they all came to a halt outside the head gamekeeper’s cottage. The Queen’s stewards had to greet her before the St Stephen’s Day fox and the Queen’s hounds could be set free and they could all take off in pursuit.
She glanced at Anton, who grinned at her again. In his expression, eager and excited, she saw some of her own exhilaration at the day. He was a wild creature, set free from his Court confines at last.
Then the fox was released, streaking away across the field in a russet blur, and the Queen and Leicester shot off after him. Everyone else galloped behind them, fanning out in pursuit to cover the extensive fields and woods. The horses thundered along, as thrilled as their riders to be set free at last.
Rosamund laughed as she urged her mount faster, the wind rushing through her hair, past her ears, in a high, whistling whine. ‘I’ll race you!’ she shouted to Anton.
He also laughed, his horse gaining on hers. They leaped over a shallow ravine, and Rosamund felt as if she was flying. They skittered around a corner through a stand of trees, tumbling down a slope.
The hounds set up a howl in the distance, and the riders turned to follow the beckoning sound. Rosamund tightened her thighs, swinging her horse around, with Anton close behind her. Her horse galloped deeper into the woods, leaping lightly over fallen logs and ditches, veering around corners and off the pathway into the trees, excited by the chance to run. Rosamund laughed, just as excited. She felt free! Free of the stuffy rooms of the palace, of her worries and cares.
Perhaps a bit too excited, for suddenly up ahead of her was a low-hanging branch. She ducked
her head, but she was just an instant too slow. The branch snagged at her hat, snatching it from her head. Laughing helplessly, she reined up her horse, leaning over its neck as her stomach ached from the laughter, from the pure wonderment of the chase.
Anton clattered to a halt beside her. His own hat was gone, his black hair rumpled over his brow. ‘Rosamund! Are you hurt?’
She shook her head, quite unable to draw breath to speak. ‘Only my dignity, I fear.’
He swung down from his saddle, reaching up to grasp her waist and lift her down beside him. She leaned against his shoulder, gasping for breath. His heart pounded in her ear, and he smelled delicious, of leather, soap, snow and honest sweat.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. How he seemed a part of this day, of the freedom and excitement. Of the wide outdoors and the wild, winter beauty.
‘I am quite sure the Queen never loses her hat,’ Rosamund murmured.
‘The Queen would be fortunate to be half the rider you are, Rosamund,’ he answered. ‘You led me on a grand chase.’
She tilted back her head, staring up at him. His high cheekbones were stained a dull red with exercise and emotion, his eyes as black as midnight. A few tendrils of hair clung to his brow.
She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
‘What will you do now that you have caught me?’ she whispered.
In answer, he kissed her, his mouth taking hers hungrily as they clung together. His hands at her waist dragged her closer, until they were pressed together. She went up on tiptoe, wanting more, wanting to feel every inch of his body against hers.
His lips opened, welcoming the press of his tongue to hers, the wet, humid heat of desire that blotted out all else. The day wasn’t cold now—it sizzled with a need so deep, so elemental, she could no longer deny it even to herself.
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