The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

glanced towards where her own lodgings would be, just before she was led onto yet another corridor. She had no idea how she would ever find her way about without getting endlessly lost! This space too was full of life and noise, more finely clad courtiers, guards in the Queen’s red-and-gold livery, servants carrying packages and trays.

      ‘And these are the Queen’s own apartments,’ Mistress Parry said, nodding to various people as they passed. ‘If Her Grace sends you to someone with a message during the day, you will probably find them here in the Privy Chamber.’

      Rosamund swept her gaze over the crowd, the chattering hoard who played cards at tables along the tapestry-lined walls, or just chatted, seemingly careless and idle. But their glances were bright and sharp, missing nothing.

      ‘How will I know who is who?’ she murmured.

      Mistress Parry laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, Lady Rosamund—you will learn who is who soon enough.’

      A man emerged from the next chamber, tall, lean and dark, clad in a brilliant peacock-blue satin doublet. He glanced at no one from his burning-black eyes, yet everyone quickly cleared a path for him as he stalked away.

      ‘And that is the first one you must know,’ Mistress Parry said. ‘The Earl of Leicester, as he has been since the autumn.’

      ‘Really?’ Rosamund glanced over her shoulder, but the dark figure had already vanished. So, that was the infamous Robert Dudley! The most powerful man at Court. ‘He did not seem very content.’

      Mistress Parry sadly shook her head. ‘He is a fine gentleman indeed, Lady Rosamund, but there is much to trouble him of late.’

      ‘Truly?’ Rosamund said. She would have thought he would be over the strange death of his wife by now. But then, there were always ‘troubles’ on the horizon for those as lofty and ambitious as Robert Dudley. ‘Such as…?’

      ‘You will hear soon enough, I am sure,’ Mistress Parry said sternly. ‘Come along.’

      Rosamund followed her from the crowded Privy Chamber, through a smaller room filled with fine musical instruments and then into a chamber obviously meant for dining. Fine carved tables and cushioned x-backed chairs were pushed to the dark linen-fold panelled walls along with plate-laden buffets. Rosamund glimpsed an enticing book-filled room, but she was led away from there through the sacred and silent Presence Chamber, into the Queen’s own bedchamber.

      And her cold nerves, forgotten in the curiosities of treasures and Lord Leicester, returned in an icy rush. She clutched tightly to the edge of her fur-lined cloak, praying she would not faint or be sick.

      The bedchamber was not large, and it was rather dim, as there was only one window, with heavy red-velvet draperies drawn back from the mullioned glass. A fire blazed in the stone grate, crackling warmly and casting a red-orange glow over the space.

      The bed dominated the chamber. It was a carved edifice of different woods set in complex inlaid patterns sat up on a dais, piled high with velvet-and-satin quilts and bolsters. The black velvet and cloth-of-gold hangings were looped back and bound with thick gold cords. A dressing table set near the window sparkled with fine Venetian glass bottles and pots, a locked lacquered-cabinet behind it.

      There were only a few chairs and cushions scattered about, occupied by ladies in black, white, gold and green gowns. They all read or sewed quietly, but they looked up eagerly at Rosamund’s appearance.

      And beside the window, writing at a small desk, was a lady who could only be Queen Elizabeth herself. Now in her thirty-first year, the sixth year of her reign, she was unmistakable. Her red-gold hair, curled and pinned under a small red-velvet and pearl cap, gleamed like a sunset in the gloomy light. She looked much like her portraits, all pale skin and pointed chin, her mouth a small rosebud drawn down at the corners as she wrote. But paintings, cold and distant, could never capture the aura of sheer energy that hung all around her, like a bright, burning cloak. They could not depict the all-seeing light of her dark eyes.

      The same dark eyes that smiled down from the portrait of Anne Boleyn, which hung just to the right of the bed.

      Queen Elizabeth glanced up, her quill growing still in her hand. ‘This must be Lady Rosamund,’ she said, her voice soft and deep, unmistakably authoritative. ‘We have been expecting you.’

      ‘Your Grace,’ Rosamund said, curtsying deeply. Much to her relief, both her words and her salute were smooth and even, despite her suddenly dry throat. ‘My parents send their most reverent greetings. We are all most honoured to serve you.’

      Elizabeth nodded, rising slowly from her desk. She wore a gown and loose robe of crimson and gold, the fur-trimmed neck gathered close and pinned against the cold day with a pearl brooch She came to hold out her beringed hand, and Rosamund saw that her long, white fingers bore ink stains.

      Rosamund quickly kissed the offered hand, and was drawn to her feet. Much to her shock, Elizabeth held onto her arm, drawing her close. She smelled of clean lavender soap, of the flowery pomander at her waist and sugary suckets; Rosamund was suddenly even more deeply aware of her own travel-stained state.

      ‘We are very glad you have come to our Court, Lady Rosamund,’ the Queen said, studying her closely. ‘We have recently, sadly, lost some of our ladies, and the Christmas season is upon us. We hope you have come eager to help us celebrate.’

      Celebrating had been the last thing on Rosamund’s mind of late. But now, faced with the Queen’s steady gaze, she surely would have agreed to anything.

      ‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘I always enjoy the Christmas festivities at Ramsay Castle.’

      ‘I am glad to hear it,’ the Queen said. ‘My dear Kat Ashley is not in good health, and she seems to live more and more in old memories of late. I want to remind her of the joyful holidays of her youth.’

      ‘I hope to be of some service, Your Grace.’

      ‘I am sure you shall.’ The Queen finally released Rosamund’s arm, returning to her desk. ‘Tell me, Lady Rosamund, do you wish to marry? You are very pretty indeed, and young. Have you come to my Court to seek a handsome husband?’

      Rosamund heard a quick, sharp intake of breath from one of the ladies, and the room suddenly seemed to go suddenly still and tense. She thought of Richard, of his handsome blue eyes, his futile promises. ‘Nay, Your Grace,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I have not come here to seek a husband.’

      ‘I am most gladdened to hear it,’ Queen Elizabeth said, folding her graceful hands atop her papers. ‘The married state has its uses, but I do not like to lose my ladies to its clutches. I must have their utmost loyalty and honesty, or there will be consequences—as my wilful cousin Katherine learned.’

      Rosamund swallowed hard, remembering the gossip about Katherine Grey, which had even reached Ramsay Castle—married in secret to Lord Hertford, sent to the Tower to bear his child. Rosamund certainly did not want to end up like her!

      ‘I wish only to serve Your Grace,’ Rosamund said.

      ‘And so you shall, starting this evening,’ the Queen said. ‘We are having a feast in honour of the Swedish delegation, and you shall be in our train.’

      A feast? Already? Rosamund curtsied again. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

      Elizabeth at last released Rosamund from the force of her dark gaze, turning back to her writing. ‘Then you must rest until then. Mistress Percy, one of the other maids of honour, will show you to your quarters.’

      A lady broke away from the group by the fireplace, a small, pretty, pert-looking brunette in white silk and a black-velvet sleeveless robe.

      Rosamund curtsied one last time to the Queen and said, ‘Thank you, Your Grace, for your great kindness.’

      Elizabeth waved her away, and she followed the other girl back into the Presence Chamber.

      ‘I am Anne Percy,’ she said, linking arms with Rosamund as if they had