The Winter Queen (10 page)

Christmas Day, December 25

A
nton stared down at the garden from the window of the sitting room of the Swedish apartments. It was quite early yet; the walkways and flowerbeds were shrouded in curls of frosty morning fog blending with the smoke from the chimneys to form a thick, silver veil. No one was yet abroad except for one lady who strolled the paths.

Celia Sutton. She walked along slowly swathed in a black cloak, the hood thrown back to reveal her smooth, dark hair. Her head was bent, her hands clasped tightly together as if in deep spiritual contemplation on this Christmas Day—or, more likely, plotting her next move in their battle over Briony Manor.

He had never met her before, this cousin of his, the daughter of his mother's brother, yet he felt he knew her. They had exchanged letters for months, ever since their grandfather's will had been read and Briony had been revealed as Anton's. Letters that were full of a palpable
anger he knew could not be assuaged while they remained strangers to each other.

The opportunity to travel to England with the marital delegation had been a most welcome one. King Eric had no chance of marrying Queen Elizabeth, everyone knew but him that after his last failed mission when the Queen had been new-crowned. If even the king's charming brother Duke John had not been able to finish the deal back then, none could. But it was perfect for Anton's personal business of claiming Briony Manor and making a new home there, a new start where he could right old wrongs.

And meeting his cousin, the only family he now possessed.

His lost family despised him as a stranger. He'd seen it in her eyes last night, those dark eyes so like his own and those of his mother. It would not be easy forging new links here in England. But he could not go back to Sweden.

Anton frowned as he watched Celia wend her way around hedges and fountains, her black cloak like a raven's wings in the cold mist. He thought of his home in Sweden, the ancient, chilly stone castle on the shores of a frozen lake, solitary and hard. Ruled over by an even colder father.

Roald Gustavson was a man of most uncertain temper, of no human emotion or feeling. Fortunately for Anton and his mother, he'd usually been away from home over the years, leaving them to their own devices. Anton's days had been spent studying with his tutors, skating on the lake and hunting in the forest that lurked behind the castle.

At night, his mother had told him tales of her English home, enticing stories of green woods and lanes, of people of learning and music; old stories of knights and
quests; new stories of her own childhood visits to Briony Manor. Briony sounded like a magical place as the land of distant as Arthur and his knights. But his mother had insisted it was a real place, and one he would see some day. One day it would be his reality too, and the cold castle a memory.

And, when he was older and she'd been dying, she'd told him secrets too—secrets that had made him more determined to come to England, to Briony Manor. To find a new beginning.

His path had not been easy. It had been forged in battle against the Russians, in long days at the court of a king going mad. A knife's edge of a court, where there'd been none of the colour and merriment that surrounded the English queen's.

Much as he'd hated the place, he'd had to see to his father's castle too. After his father's death, before he'd gone off to battle, Anton had put his father's own cousin as steward of the place. Now he cared not if he ever saw it again.

Briony Manor was to be his new home. And, much as he hated to disoblige a lady, Celia Sutton would not stop him. She had dower property from her late husband; Briony was all he had now.

He watched as his newfound cousin turned back towards the palace, and he remembered how she had looked last night as she'd talked to the Queen: determined—just as determined as he was. There'd been no eager family reunion there!

And Rosamund Ramsay knew Celia. Were they friends, then? Co-conspirators of some sort?

If that was so, they were not very good at it, as Rosamund had obviously been surprised by Celia's appearance at Court. But that did not preclude them from
being confidantes. And that meant he had to be very careful around Rosamund and not be drawn in by the warm, welcoming glow of her sky-blue eyes, the eager passion of her kiss.

Ah, yes—that kiss. Anton scowled as he remembered last night, the two of them wrapped around each other in the heated, secret darkness. The sudden rush of desire had taken him by surprise, but it had been no less potent for being unexpected. Indeed, it had been building between them like a spark grown to a roaring flame since he'd first glimpsed her by that pond.

The taste of her soft lips, the way her body felt pressed to his, the smell of her rose perfume—it was intoxicating, wondrous. He wanted more and yet more of her, wanted everything she could give. Her body, her smiles, her laughter—her secrets.

But she would surely demand the same of him in return, and that he could not give. Not when she knew Celia Sutton and when she was a loyal servant of Queen Elizabeth. His secrets were buried too deep, and they could cost him everything he wanted if he grew incautious. He had learned from his mother's mistake, and put the demands of his head above his heart. He had come here to find a sort of justice for his mother, to retrieve her estate and start a new life. He could not abandon that mission.

That left the question—what
could
he do about Rosamund Ramsay? He could not avoid her; there was the Queen's silly wager. The Court was too small, too intimate, to maintain distance from her for long.

There was yet one more consideration too—the mystery of the Lord of Misrule, the masked figure who had taken Leicester's place then disappeared. The plot was a strange one, and thick with the miasma of some sinister intent. The Queen was well guarded, but what
of Rosamund? The villain had danced with her, after all, and she had seemed frightened of him. It made anger stir deep in Anton's heart, a burning desire to protect her from anything that could ever frighten her.

He folded his arms across his chest, frowning as he stared out at the empty garden. He had to be cautious, to be watchful. He could protect Rosamund from the Lord of Misrule and see what she knew of Celia's doings.

Without letting a lower part of his anatomy rule his brain again.

 

‘I am no shivering coward, Cecil!' Queen Elizabeth cried. ‘I will not let some misguided mischief ruin my Christmas.'

As Rosamund looked on, astonished, the Queen slammed her fist down on her dressing table, rattling Venetian-glass bottles and pots, upending her own jewel case. Pearl ropes and ruby brooches spilled out onto the floor, and maidservants scrambled to scoop them up.

William Cecil, Lord Burghley, leaned on his walking stick, a look of long-suffering patience on his bearded face.

Rosamund stared at the scene—the Queen clad in her fur-trimmed bedrobe with her hair half-down as her ladies scrambled to ready her for the day, the bedchamber strewn with the results of her temper, tossed shoes, spilled pearl-powder, terrified faces.

She feared her own face might be one of them. Anne had told her the Queen had fits of pique at least once or twice a day, but they soon passed and she calmly turned to her business. The trick was to stay out of her way, as one would shelter from a rainstorm until the thunderclouds drifted away. So Rosamund stood half-hidden behind the looped-up bed curtains, clutching at a stack of prayer books as she watched the scene.

She doubted she could ever be as sanguine as Lord Burghley. No doubt he had witnessed such storms many times before and knew ways to persuade the Queen to do things for her own good. Today he tried to urge her to curtail the elaborate Christmas festivities in order to see to her safety. To stay guarded in her privy rooms until the mysterious Lord of Misrule was captured and questioned.

It would surely not be long, not with a furious Lord Leicester and his men tearing the palace apart. But the Queen would hear none of it.

‘Your Grace,' Burghley said. ‘None could ever accuse you of being a shivering coward. But it would not be wise to go among crowds when there is some plot at work.'

‘Plot!' Elizabeth snorted. ‘It was hardly a
plot
, just some holiday mischief against Leicester, who could certainly stand to be taken down a peg or two, anyway.'

‘I cannot disagree with Your Grace about that,' Burghley said wryly. ‘Yet we cannot know if it was solely a prank against Robert Dudley, or if deeper forces are at work. The fact that some villain was able to infiltrate your feast is most alarming. With the Spanish, the French and the Queen of Scots all in communication…'

‘Do not speak to me of the Queen of Scots!' Elizabeth shouted. A maidservant who had cautiously begun to pin up her red hair hastily backed away. ‘I am sick of the sound of her name. First Lady Lennox constantly beseeching me to let her useless son go to Edinburgh, and now you. Can I not enjoy my Christmas at least without
her
intervening?'

‘I fear we cannot stop her from “intervening”,' Burghley said. ‘She is a constant threat, Your Grace, just over the border as she is and with France at her back. Her ambition has long been well-known.'

‘If she would do as I say and marry Lord Leicester, her ambition would be curtailed,' the Queen muttered, reaching for a scent bottle. The smell of violets filled the chamber as she dabbed at it distractedly.

‘Do you really think she will do that?' Burghley said.

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Not with Leicester distracted by some silly prank.'

‘And what if it is not some silly prank, Your Grace?'

The Queen sighed. ‘Very well. Add more guards to the chapel and the corridors. But that is all I agree to!'

‘It would be best for you to stay here in your apartments.'

‘Nay!' Elizabeth shook her head fiercely, dislodging the pins that had just been eased into her hair. ‘It is Christmas Day, probably dear Mistress Ashley's last, and I want her to enjoy it without worry. Time enough for doom and gloom later.'

‘Very well, Your Grace.' Burghly bowed and departed, leaving the ladies to hover indecisively.

Until the Queen again pounded on her table, tumbling the jewels back to the floor. ‘Why are you all standing about so slack-jawed? We must to church! And those sleeves will
not
do, fetch the gold ones.'

At last she was dressed in her fine green-and-gold garments, her hair bound up in a gold-net caul and jewelled band, her fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders. She held out her beringed hand for her prayer book, which Rosamund hastened to give her.

‘Thank you, Lady Rosamund,' the Queen said. ‘Will you walk with me to the chapel?'

‘Of course, Your Grace,' Rosamund said, surprised. Her allotted place was at the end of the procession with the other maids. But she could hardly protest with the Queen. She stayed by Elizabeth's side as they left the
bedchamber and made their slow way through the Presence and Privy Chambers and along the gallery, where other courtiers joined the retinue.

‘You danced with our unknown Lord of Misrule last night, did you not?' the Queen asked quietly, smiling and nodding at the crowds who made their obeisances to her.

‘Yes, Your Grace,' Rosamund answered. She had been woken far too early that morning by Burghley to be questioned about it, too. She had no more to add, and was afraid of what might happen if they thought she did know more.

‘You have no idea who he was?'

‘None, Your Grace,' she said, giving the same answer she'd given Burghley—the only answer she had. ‘He was masked, and I have not been at Court long enough to recognise anyone by their mannerisms.'

‘It was probably not a courtier anyway,' the Queen said with a sigh. ‘If you see anything else, anything at all, you will tell me immediately.'

‘Of course, Your Grace.'

‘In the meantime, I believe you know our newest arrival at Court, Mistress Celia Sutton?'

‘Her family lives very near mine at Ramsay Castle, Your Grace. I do know her a little.'

‘She has brought us a petition, one of dozens to be considered this holiday. Perhaps you will speak with her about it and tell me your thoughts.'

‘Certainly, if Your Grace wishes it,' Rosamund said slowly. She had no idea what sort of petition Celia could be bringing to the Queen, or what she, Rosamund, could think of it. But if she helped the Queen then perhaps in turn the Queen could help her—and Richard.

If that was what she still wanted…

Rosamund remembered well the night before, kissing Anton Gustavson behind the tapestry. Nay, not just kissing, wrapping her bare legs around his hips, feeling his mouth on her breast, the hot, heady plunge down into desperate desire. A wild recklessness that was unlike her but could not be denied. She had wanted Anton, wanted him madly, beyond all reason.

She wanted him still.

She had been awake all night, pretending to sleep as she'd listened to the whispers of the other maids. In reality, she thought of nothing but him, of his kiss, the way his hands had felt as they'd slid against her naked skin. Of all the things she wished he would do to her—naughty, wicked, delicious things she had never dared think of before. That she had never wished of Richard. And that was what really worried her. She had come here to serve the Queen, to prove herself to her family again, not get them into even more trouble.