The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

      Think of Richard, she urged herself, closing her eyes tightly. Yet even as she tried to remember Richard’s summer kisses, the way his arms had felt around her as he pulled her close, all she could see was a man spinning across the winter ice.

      ‘That is why the Queen keeps them here,’ Anne said. ‘They have proved a great ornament to the Court—almost worth the trouble.’

      Rosamund opened her eyes. Anton was still there, whispering in the lady’s ear as she covered her mouth with her gloved hand, no doubt hiding a peal of flirtatious laughter.

      ‘Trouble?’ she murmured. Oh, aye; she could see where he would be a great deal of trouble, especially to a Court full of bored ladies.

      ‘The Swedes and the Austrians detest each other,’ Anne said cheerfully. ‘The Queen has had to strictly forbid duels. And I am sure the Scots are involved somehow, though I have not yet devised how.’

      ‘Oh.’ Rosamund nodded, rather confused. She certainly did have a great deal to learn about Court life! Translating Greek manuscripts was simple compared to the complexities of alliances.

      ‘That dark one there—Anton Gustavson, his name is,’ Anne said, gesturing to the handsome Anton. ‘He is only half-Swedish, they say. His mother was English. He has come to England not only on behalf of King Eric but on his own errand. His grandfather has left him an estate in Suffolk, a most profitable manor, and he wants to claim it. But he is in dispute with a cousin over the property.’

      Rosamund watched as Anton laughed with the lady, the two of them strolling the walkways as if they hadn’t a care in the world. ‘I can scarce imagine a man like that in dispute with anyone. Surely he could charm the very birds of the trees into his hand?’

      Anne gave her a sharp glance. ‘You have met Master Gustavson, then?’

      Rosamund shook her head. ‘That is merely what I observe from watching him now.’

      ‘Oh, you must be wary of such observations! Here at Court, appearances are always deceiving. One never shows one’s true nature; it is the only way to survive.’

      ‘Indeed? And must I be wary of you, too, Mistress Percy?’

      ‘Of course,’ Anne said happily. ‘My family, you see, is an old and wealthy one, but also stubbornly Catholic. I am here only on sufferance, because my aunt is friends with the Queen. But I will tell you this, Lady Rosamund—I am always an honest source of delicious gossip for my friends.’

      Rosamund laughed. ‘Tell me this, then, Mistress Honesty—who is that lady with Master Gustavson? Does he seek an English wife to go along with that new estate?’

      Anne peered out of the window again. ‘If he does, he has made a great mistake with that one. That is Lettice Devereaux, Countess of Essex—the Queen’s cousin. Her husband the earl is away fighting the wild Irish, but it does not stop her making merry at Court.’ She tugged at Rosamund’s arm, drawing her away from the window and its enticing view. ‘Come, let me show you our chamber. I will have much more gossip to share before the feast tonight.’

      The feast in honour of those same quarrelling delegations, Rosamund remembered as she followed Anne along the corridor. It certainly should be a most interesting evening.

      Perhaps if she wrote to Richard about it he would write to her in return? If he ever received the letter, that was. He was a country gentleman, not much interested in labyrinthine Court affairs, but he did enjoy a fine jest. It was one of the things she had liked about him. That was if she still wanted to hear from him, which she was not at all sure of.

      Anne led Rosamund back to one of the quieter, narrower halls. It was dark here, as there were no windows, and the torches in their sconces were not yet lit. The painted cloths that hung along the walls swayed as they passed. Rosamund thought surely the intrigues of Court were already affecting her, for she imagined all the schemes that could be whispered of in such a spot.

      ‘That is the Privy Council Chamber,’ Anne whispered, indicating a half-open door. The room was empty, but Rosamund glimpsed a long table lined with straight-backed chairs. ‘We maids never go in there.’

      ‘Don’t you ever wonder what happens there?’ Rosamund whispered in return. ‘What is said?’

      ‘Of course! But Her Grace does not ask our opinion on matters of state. Though she does ask us for news of Court doings, which is much the same thing.’

      She tugged on Rosamund’s arm again, leading her into what could only be the chamber of the maids of honour. A long, narrow, rectangular space, it was lined with three beds on each side. They were certainly not as large and grand as the Queen’s own sleeping space. The beds were made of dark, uncarved wood, but they were spread with warm, green velvet-and-wool quilts and hung with heavy, gold-embroidered green curtains. A large clothes chest and a washstand stood by each bed, and the rest of the room was filled with dressing tables and looking glasses.

      It was a peaceful enough space now, but Rosamund could imagine the cacophony when six ladies were in residence.

      Her maid Jane was at one of the beds on the far end, unpacking Rosamund’s trunks; she clucked and fussed over the creased garments. The satins, velvets, brocades and furs her parents had provided were all piled up in a gleaming heap.

      ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘You are in the bed beside mine. We can whisper at night. It has been so quiet since Eleanor Mortimer left.’

      ‘What happened to her?’ Rosamund asked, picking up a sable muff that had fallen from the pile of finery.

      ‘The usual thing, I fear. She became pregnant and had to leave Court in disgrace. She is quite fortunate she didn’t end up in the Tower, like poor Katherine Grey!’ Anne perched on the edge of her own bed, swinging her feet in their satin shoes. ‘Did you mean it when you told the Queen you were not here to find a husband?’

      ‘Of a certes,’ Rosamund said, thinking again of Richard. Of the letters from him she had never received. One man to worry about at a time was enough.

      ‘That is very good. You must keep saying that—and meaning it. Marriage without the Queen’s permission brings such great trouble. Oh, Rosamund! You should wear that petticoat tonight, it is vastly pretty…’

      Chapter Three

      ‘She wants you, Anton,’ Johan Ulfson said. He was laughing, yet his tone was tinged with unmistakable envy.

      Anton watched Lady Essex stroll slowly away along the garden pathway, her dark-red hair a beacon in the winter day. She peeked back over her shoulder, then swept off with her friends, their laughter drifting back on the cold wind.

      He had to laugh, too. The young countess was alluring indeed, with her sparkling eyes, teasing smiles and her claims of vast loneliness with her husband away in Ireland. He could even enjoy the flirtation, the distraction from the hard tasks he carried here at the English Queen’s Court. But he saw it—and Lettice Deveraux—for what they were.

      And now he could hardly see the countess’s red hair and lush figure. A vision of silver and ivory, of wide blue eyes, kept overtaking his thoughts. Who was she, that beautiful winter-fairy? Why had she run away so fast, vanishing into the mist and snow before he could talk to her?

      How could he ever find her again?

      ‘You are blind when it comes to a pretty face,’ he told Johan, but he could just as well be talking of himself. ‘The countess has other game in her sights. I am merely a pawn for her.’

      He inclined his head towards Lord Leicester, who stood across the garden amid a cluster of his supporters. Everyone at this Court seemed entirely unable to move singly; they had to rove about in packs, like the white wolves of Sweden.

      Lady Essex might have her sights firmly on him, but Leicester had his on a far greater prize. It would be amusing to see which of them prevailed.

      If Anton would be here to see the end-game at all.