The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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 court.’

      ‘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.’