The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

walkway-level shop windows were open and counters spread with fine wares: ribbons and gloves, gold and silver jewellery, beautiful leather-bound books that enticed her more than anything; their colour and shine flashed through the gloom and then were gone as she moved ever forward.

      And the smell! Rosamund pressed the fur-lined edge of her cloak to her nose, her eyes watering as she tried to take a deep breath. The cold air helped; the latrine ditch along the middle of the street was almost frozen over, a noxious stew of frost, ice and waste. But there was still a miasma of rotting vegetables, horse manure and waste buckets dumped from the upper windows, overlaid with the sweetness of roasted meats and sugared nuts, cider and chimney smoke.

      The previous year had been a bad plague-year, but it seemed not to have affected the London population at all to judge by the great crowds. Everyone was pushing and shoving their way past, hurrying on their business, slipping on the cobbles and the churned-up, frozen mud. They seemed too busy, or too cold, to harass the poor souls locked in the stocks.

      A few ragged beggars pressed towards Rosamund’s litter, but her guards shoved them back.

      ‘Stand away, varlet!’ her captain growled. ‘This is one of the Queen’s own ladies.’

      The Queen’s own lady—gawking like a milkmaid. Rosamund slumped back against her cushions, suddenly reminded of why she was here—not to stare at people and shops, but to take up duties at Court. Whitehall grew closer with every breath.

      She took a small looking-glass from her embroidered travel-bag. The sight that met her gaze caused nothing but dismay. Her hair, the fine, silver-blonde strands that never wanted to be tidy, struggled from her caul. She had hastily shoved up the strands after her excursion in the woods, and it showed.

      Her cheeks were bright pink with cold, her blue eyes purple-rimmed with too many restless nights. She looked like a wild forest-spirit, not a fine lady!

      ‘My parents’ hopes that I will find a spectacular match at Court are certainly in vain,’ she muttered, tidying her hair the best she could. She put on her feathered, velvet cap over the caul and smoothed her gloves over her wrists.

      Having made herself as tidy as possible, she peeked outside again. They had left the thickest of the city crowds behind and reached the palace of Whitehall at last.

      Most of the vast complex was hidden from view, tucked away behind walls and long, plain-fronted galleries. But Rosamund knew what lay beyond from her reading and her father’s tales—large banquet-halls, palatial chambers, beautiful gardens of mazes, fountains and manicured flower-beds. All full of lushly dressed, staring, gossiping courtiers.

      She drew in a deep breath, her stomach fluttering. She closed her eyes, trying to think of Richard, of anything but what awaited her behind those walls.

      ‘My lady?’ her guard said. ‘We have arrived.’

      She opened her eyes to find him waiting just outside the finally still litter, Jane just behind him. She nodded and held out her hand to let him assist her to alight.

      For a moment, the ground seemed to rock beneath her boots; the flagstones were unsteady. The wind here was a bit colder at the foot of a staircase that led from the narrow lane in St James’s Park up to the beginning of the long Privy Gallery. There were no crowds pressed close to warm the air, no close-packed buildings. Just the expanse of brick and stone, that looming staircase.

      The stench too was much less, the smell of smoke and frost hanging behind her in the park. That had to be counted a blessing.

      ‘Oh, my lady!’ Jane fussed, brushing at Rosamund’s cloak. ‘You’re all creased.’

      ‘It does not signify, Jane,’ Rosamund answered. ‘We have been on a very long journey. No one expects us to be ready for a grand banquet.’ She hoped. She really had no idea what to expect now that they were here. Ever since she’d glimpsed that man Anton spinning on the ice, she felt she had fallen into some new, strange life, one she did not understand at all.

      She heard the hollow click of footsteps along flagstone, measured and unhurried, and she glanced up to find a lady coming down the stairs. It could not be a servant; her dark-green wool gown, set off by a small yellow frill at the neck and yellow silk peeking out from the slashed sleeves, was too fine. Grey-streaked brown hair was smoothed up under a green cap, and her pale, creased face was wary and watchful, that of someone long at Court.

      As she herself should be, Rosamund thought—wary and watchful. She might be just a country mouse, but she knew very well there were many pitfalls waiting at Court.

      ‘Lady Rosamund Ramsay?’ the woman said. ‘I am Blanche Parry, Her Grace’s second gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber. Welcome to Whitehall.’

      Rosamund noticed then the polished cache of keys at Mistress Parry’s waist. She had heard tell that Blanche Parry was truly the first gentlewoman, as Kat Ashley—the official holder of the title—grew old and ill. Mistress Ashley and the Parrys had been with the Queen since she’d been a child; they knew all that went on at Court. It would certainly never do to get into their ill graces.

      Rosamund curtsied, hoping her tired legs would not give out. ‘How do you do, Mistress Parry? I am most honoured to be here.’

      A wry little smile touched Blanche Parry’s pale lips. ‘And so you should be—though I fear you may think otherwise very soon. We will keep you very busy indeed, Lady Rosamund, with the Christmas festivities upon us. The Queen has ordered that there be every trimming for the holiday this year.’

      ‘I very much enjoy Christmas, Mistress Parry,’ Rosamund said. ‘I look forward to serving Her Grace.’

      ‘Very good. I have orders to take you to her right now.’

      ‘Now?’ Rosamund squeaked. She was to meet the Queen now, in all her travel-rumpled state? She glanced at Jane, who seemed just as dismayed. She had been planning for weeks which gown, which sleeves, which headdress Rosamund should wear to be presented to Queen Elizabeth.

      Mistress Parry raised her eyebrows. ‘As I said, Lady Rosamund, this is a very busy season of the year. Her Grace is most anxious that you should begin your duties right away.’

      ‘Of—of course, Mistress Parry. Whatever Her Grace wishes.’

      Mistress Parry nodded, and turned to climb the stairs again. ‘If you will follow me, then? Your servants will be seen to.’

      Rosamund gave Jane a reassuring nod before she hurried off after Mistress Parry. The gallery at this end was spare and silent, dark hangings on the walls muffling noise from both inside and out. A few people hurried past, but they were obviously intent on their own errands and paid her no mind.

      They crossed over the road through the crenellated towers of the Holbein Gate, and were then in the palace proper. New, wide windows looked down onto the snow-dusted tiltyard. A shining blue-and-gold ceiling arched overhead, glowing warmly through the grey day, and a rich-woven carpet warmed the floor underfoot, muffling their steps.

      Rosamund wasn’t sure what she longed to look at first. The courtiers—clusters of people clad in bright satins and jewel-like velvets—stood near the window, talking in low, soft voices. Their words and laughter were like fine music, echoing off the panelled walls. They stared curiously at Rosamund as she passed, and she longed to stare in return.

      But there were also myriad treasures on display. There were the usual tapestries and paintings, portraits of the Queen and her family, as well as glowing Dutch still-lifes of flowers and fruits. But there were also strange curiosities collected by so many monarchs over the years and displayed in cabinets. A wind-up clock of an Ethiop riding a rhinoceros; busts of Caesar and Attila the Hun; crystals and cameos. A needlework map of England, worked by one of the Queen’s many stepmothers. A painting of the family of Henry VIII, set in this very same gallery.

      But Rosamund had no time to examine any of it. Mistress Parry led her onward, down another corridor. This one was lined with closed doors, quiet and dark after the sparkle of the gallery.

      ‘Some