The Winter Queen

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘Rarely,’ she said. ‘It must seem foolish to you, me getting so very excited about these tiny flurries, after the great blizzards of Sweden.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he answered. ‘I love anything that makes you smile.’

  Under the cover of the robes, she linked her arm through his, feeling the tension of his lean muscles as he drove, the strong heat of him. It held her up, made her strong. Strong enough to face any danger.

  ‘This day makes me smile,’ she said. ‘But what do you think of our puny English winter?’

  ‘I think that I hope to see many more of them just like this,’ he said.

  They fell into a companionable silence as they flew along on the ice as if the sleigh had wings. They went under London Bridge, waving at the people above, and past the Tower. In the haze of snow and laughter, even its dark, ominous roof-lines, its thick walls, seemed muted. They rushed past Traitor’s Gate, where once the Queen herself had passed through as a princess, and it was behind them.

  At the docks, they went around the curve of the river and were released into the countryside. The trees along the river, thick enough to hide the fine country estates, were heavy with ice. They sparkled and glinted, like massive clusters of diamonds.

  They passed a set of broad water-steps, a gate crusted with more ice, and in the distance Rosamund could see the square battlements of an old red-brick manor house. For just a moment she allowed herself a distant, impossible dream: that it was her house, hers and Anton’s. That they would stroll along those battlements in the evening, arm in arm, looking out over their gardens before they went inside to sit by their fire.

  In her dream, her parents came to dine with them, to play with their grandchildren, all quarrels forgotten, a true family once again. But then the fantasy house was past; the dream burst like a shimmering ice-bauble. Like the delicate moments she had with Anton.

  ‘Did your mother truly quarrel with her father before she married?’ Rosamund asked wistfully.

  Anton glanced down at her, his brow arched in surprise. ‘Indeed she did. He did not approve her choice of a Swedish diplomat she met at Court, and protested that she would go too far from home. That she would be lonely and unprotected. Sadly, he proved correct in the end.’

  Rosamund bit her lip, staring out at the countryside as it flew past, a grey blur. ‘It is sad when families are torn apart by disagreements. We all have so little time together as it is.’

  ‘Rosamund, kar,’ Anton said gently. He shifted the reins to one hand, putting his other arm around her shoulders to draw her closer. ‘This is not a day for melancholy! I do so hate to see you sad.’

  Rosamund smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘How can I be sad when I’m here with you? It’s only…’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘It is so difficult to admit when one is wrong and one’s parents are right!’ she said, laughing. ‘Your own grandfather was surely right in a terrible way, but I admit I am glad now of my father’s advice.’

  ‘And what was his advice to you?’

  Rosamund remembered her father’s words: when you find the one you truly love, you will know what your mother and I mean. Then, it had made her so angry, so confused. Now she saw the great foresight of it. Her feelings for Richard had been nothing but a girlish infatuation, a candle flame next to the bright sunlight of Anton.

  How long could their time last? A fortnight, a month? Rosamund feared it could not be long, not in such a world of uncertainty. She just had to make the most of every moment.

  ‘My father said I would one day find my own place, the place that is right for me, and I should never settle for less,’ she said.

  ‘And have you found it at Court?’

  Rosamund laughed. ‘Nay, not at Court! I am not clever enough to survive long there. But I think I am close. What of you, Anton?’

  He hugged her closer against him. ‘I think I might just be close myself.’

  The sleigh swung around a curve in the frozen river and up over a rise, and a magical scene was revealed before them.

  On the banks a flat space had been cleared and open-sided pavilions of green and white erected. The Queen’s banners snapped from the poles, bright streamers of green, white, red and gold embroidered with Tudor roses. Bonfires were blazing with rising orange flames that sent out tendrils of welcome warmth even from that distance.

  Under the pavilions, liveried servants rushed to and fro, bearing laden platters and jugs of wine.

  ‘A snow banquet!’ Rosamund said happily. ‘How lovely. You are quite right, Anton.’

  ‘I know I am,’ he answered. ‘But what am I right about just now?’

  ‘That this is not a day for sadness. It is Christmas, after all. We must make merry.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I am quite sure I can do that,’ he said. He bent his head, kissing her quickly before they could be seen. His lips were warm on hers, sweet and perfect. Rosamund longed to wrap her arms around him, holding onto him tightly, but he was suddenly gone from her side.

  He leaped down from the sleigh, reaching under the seat and drawing out a knapsack.

  ‘I brought you a gift too,’ he said. ‘In honour of the holiday.’

  ‘A gift?’ Rosamund cried in delight. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and see,’ he said, grinning.

  She pulled aside the sack, wondering what it could be. Jewels? Silks? Books? But out tumbled a shining pair of new skates, just like Anton’s, only in miniature.

  ‘Skates?’ she said slowly, holding them up to the light.

  ‘Made especially for you, my lady. It took a great deal of searching in London to find a blacksmith who could make them,’ he answered. ‘I did say I would teach you to skate.’

  Rosamund smiled down at them, cradling them in her lap. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Anton.’

  ‘You will be a veritable Swede in no time at all,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘But I fear I have no gift for you!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he whispered. ‘You gave me a most wondrous gift last night.’

  Rosamund felt her cheeks burn, but Anton just kissed her again and took the skates from her hands, tucking them back under the seat. He lifted her down from the sleigh, leading her to their place in the procession into the pavilion. Once there, they were separated, Anton seated with the other Swedes and Rosamund with the maids at the table just below the Queen’s.

  ‘Your cheeks are all red, Rosamund,’ Anne whispered.

  ‘Are they? It must be the cold wind,’ Rosamund answered, reaching for a goblet of wine to cover her silly urge to giggle.

  ‘Oh, aye. The cold,’ Anne said. ‘We will have to start calling you “Rosie”.’

  ‘But what of you?’ Rosamund said. ‘You and Lord Langley seem to have mended your quarrel, whatever it was.’

  Anne shrugged. ‘I would not say mended. But if he makes proper amends…’

  Rosamund longed to ask what was really going on between Anne and Lord Langley, longed to see her friend as happy as she was herself. But it was obvious Anne was not in a confiding mood, so she turned her attention to the food, to the fine tapestries draped around the pavilion walls to keep the wind out.

  To trying not to stare at Anton like a love-sick schoolgirl. That was a great challenge indeed.

  Anton walked along the bank of the frozen river, listening to the hum of laughter and music from the pavilion behind him. The merriment grew louder as the wine flowed, and he had found he desperately needed a breath of fresh air. A moment alone to try and break the spell he seemed to have fallen under.

  The cold wind cleared his head of the music and the wine, but not of the one thing he most needed to banish. The sight of Rosamund’s wide, sky-blue eyes gazing up at him as they’d dashed over the ice. Of her smile, so full of sweetness. The sweetness that was so much more alluring than any practised flirtation could ever be.

  It drew him in, closer and closer, until Rosamund was all he could see, all he cared
about. It was so dangerous for both of them.

  Anton raked his fingers through his hair, cursing at how complicated everything had become since he’d arrived in London. He’d thought to gain his estate, start a new life free and clear—not tumble into infatuation with one of the Queen’s ladies!

  Anton, my dearest, he suddenly heard his mother say, the memory like a whisper on the wind. In his mind he saw her face, white with illness as she clutched at his hand. Anton, you are so dutiful, so ambitious. But I beg you—do not let your head always rule your heart. Do not let what is really important slip by you. I regret nothing in my life, nothing I did, because I followed my heart.

  He had not understood her then, as she’d lain on her deathbed. What could be more important than duty, than bringing honour to his name? His mother had followed love and it had brought her unhappiness.

  But now when he heard Rosamund laugh, when she looked at him with those eyes, he saw what his mother meant. The demands of the heart could be just as strong as those of the mind, twice as clamorous. Could he afford to listen to them?

  Were they telling him what was really important in life?

  Anton shook his head; he wasn’t sure he knew any longer. His old, stone-solid certainty, the certainty that had carried him through battle and all the way to England, was turned to ice, liable to crack at any moment.

  He turned to look back at the pavilion. Rosamund stood in the doorway, rubbing her arms against the chill as she glanced around the bleak landscape. Then she saw him and smiled.

  Even from that distance it was as if the summer sun emerged from the grey cold of winter.

  She waved to him, beckoning him to return to the party. Anton took one more long look at the frozen river before making his way back to her.

  Surely that cracking sound he heard was his own heart, breaking open to let her peek inside for one instant before it froze up again for ever.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bringing in the Boar Day, December 30

  ‘The boar’s head in hand bear I, bedecked with bays and rosemary! I pray you all now, be merry, be merry, be merry…’

  The gathered company in the Great Hall applauded as the roasted boar was carried in, borne aloft on a silver platter. It was a large boar, adorned with garlands of herbs and surrounded by candied fruits, a whole apple in its mouth. It was presented to Queen Elizabeth, who received it on her dais, and then paraded around the chamber.

  More delicacies followed—roasted meats of all kinds, including deer and capons brought in from the Queen’s hunt, pies, stewed broths and even a few fish dishes, carefully prepared with spices and sauces. These were doubly precious with the river frozen. On the multi-tiered buffets the sweets were displayed—gold-leafed gingerbread, cakes topped with candied flowers, the Queen’s favourite fruit-suckets with their long-handled sucket spoons. The centrepiece was an elaborate subtlety of Whitehall itself, complete with windows, cornices, brickwork and even a blue-sugar river rippling alongside with tiny boats and barges.

  Rosamund applauded along with everyone else, laughing as the Queen’s jesters tumbled and gambolled between the tables. It was yet another lavish Christmas display, with everyone happily flushed with the fine malmsey wine, with flirtation and with the reckless joy of the holiday.

  Yet underneath all the loud merriment there was a knife’s edge of tension, of some darkness, some desperation, lurking underneath. There was always that heated blade under everything at Court, waiting for the unwary to fall onto it and destroy themselves.

  Rosamund peeked over her shoulder, searching for Anton in the crowd. He sat with his Swedish friends, observing the gathering with quiet, watchful eyes. He must feel it too, she thought. That taut sense that something was just on the verge of happening.

  What that something was, none could say. But the foreign delegations seemed the most tense of all, as if the usual perils of manoeuvring through a foreign monarch’s Court were increased, even darker and deeper than usual. Like the hidden, swirling depths beneath the ice outside.

  Her gaze slid along the wall, over the extra guards placed about the hall by Lord Leicester. At least no enemy could invade tonight. The merriment was safe for one more banquet.

  She turned back to Anton, finding him watching her. He grinned at her, and she laughed into her serviette. She could not help it; whenever he smiled at her thus it was as if the bright sun emerged from the winter clouds. As if she soared free above any danger or worry.

  That was foolish, of course, because nothing could change their tenuous circumstances. But for one moment she could forget, could dream.

  ‘You seem happy tonight, Rosamund,’ Anne said, sipping at her wine.

  ‘And you seem pensive,’ Rosamund answered. Anne had certainly seemed happy enough on their sleigh-ride along the river, but she had received a letter on their return and was now quiet. ‘I hope you did not have sad news from home?’

  ‘Certainly not. Merely more lectures from my aunt,’ Anne said. ‘What of you? Have you lately heard from your parents, or your lost suitor?’

  Rosamund was startled. She had almost forgotten Richard in all that had happened here at Court. He seemed almost a dream now, a ghost of sorts who had drifted into and out of her life, leaving only a mist of memories. Memories of the girl she had once been.

  ‘Nay, to either,’ she said. ‘My father sends my allowance, but I have had no other word. I’m sure they want me to think only of my work here.’

  ‘And do you?’ Anne asked. ‘Have you found new distractions here to make you forget the old?’

  Rosamund laughed, thinking of Anton’s kiss—his smile, his eyes, the way his body felt against hers as they made love. Aye, she had found ample distractions in the present to make her forget the past. Or forget the dangers of the present.

  Would it break her heart all over again in the end, far worse than the smaller pain Richard’s desertion had caused? She feared it would, for her feelings for Anton were a hundred times whatever the infatuation she had felt for Richard had been.

  ‘I have enjoyed my time here,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you, Anne?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘’Tis better than cooling my heels at home, I dare say! At least there is dancing and music.’

  And handsome men such as Lord Langley? But Rosamund said nothing, and soon the remains of the food were cleared away and the tables moved for the dancing. The Queen and Leicester led the figures for the galliard.

  Anne joined the dance with one of her admirers, but Rosamund retreated into a quiet corner to watch. She was suddenly weary—weary of the feasting, the loud holiday-gaiety, the music and laughter. She longed for a warm fire to curl up next to in her dressing gown, for a book to read, a goblet of warm cider—and Anton beside her to laugh with, to kiss. To keep the endless cold winter away.

  Could such dreams ever truly happen? Or was she merely fooling herself again? Perhaps Anton would go back to Sweden and disappear from her life, as Richard had. What would become of her dreams then?

  Suddenly she felt a gentle touch on her arm, warm through the thin silk of her sleeve. She spun round to find Anton standing there, his eyes dark and fathomless as he watched her. As if he divined something of her strange, sad mood. He, too, seemed in a strange mood tonight.

  ‘Are you well, my lady?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Quite well, I thank you, Master Gustavson,’ she said. ‘Merely a bit tired from all the feasting.’

  ‘It would be enough to make anyone out of sorts,’ he said. ‘But you seem rather melancholy.’

  ‘Perhaps I am a bit.’

  ‘Is it because…?’ His words broke off as a rowdy crowd passed near to them, jostling and laughing drunkenly. Anton’s hand tightened protectively on her arm, drawing her away from them. ‘Follow me.’

  He led her around the edge of the crowded hall, keeping close to the wall where the flickering shadows hid them from view. Everyone was far too busy with their own flirtations and quarrels to notice them anyway as the
y ducked behind one of the tapestries.

  It was the same one where they had first kissed, Rosamund saw, with her kissing bough still hung high above. The heavy cloth muffled the raucous noise of the dance, and the only light was a thin line of torch flame at their feet.

  Anton held her lightly by the waist, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. At last that tension she had felt all night began to ebb away, like a tight cord unwinding, and she sensed a slow peace stealing over her. Perhaps he might be gone from her soon, but they were together tonight. As alone as they could be at Whitehall, closed around by their own shelter of quiet.

  ‘Tell me why you are sad, Rosamund,’ he said.

  ‘I am not sad,’ she answered. ‘How could I be, when you have rescued me yet again?’

  Yet he seemed unconvinced, drawing her closer in the darkness. ‘Is it because of what happened between us?’

  Because of their love-making? How could that be, when it had been the finest, most glorious thing that had ever happened to her? ‘Nay! I could never regret that. Why? Do you?’

  Anton laughed, kissing her brow. ‘Regret being with the most beautiful woman in all of England? Oh, alskling, never. I am a man, after all.’

  Rosamund grinned. ‘That fact did not escape my notice.’

  ‘I truly hope not! But there must be something that has you melancholy tonight.’

  ‘I was just thinking of my home,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Of how I have not heard from my family for a while.’

  ‘And you miss them?’

  ‘Yes. That is it.’ She did not want to speak of her fears for the future, of what would happen when he left. Not now, not yet. Not when every moment they were alone, like this one, was so precious.

  ‘Well, we shall just have to make a merry holiday here ourselves,’ he said, drawing her closer and closer until they were pressed against each other in the shadows.

  Rosamund slid her hands around his neck, twining his hair over her fingers, tickling the nape of his neck. ‘Oh? And how do you propose we do that?’