The Winter Queen (14 page)

Perhaps a bit too excited, for suddenly up ahead of her was a low-hanging branch. She ducked her head, but she was just an instant too slow. The branch snagged at her hat, snatching it from her head. Laughing helplessly, she reined up her horse, leaning over its neck as her stomach ached from the laughter, from the pure wonderment of the chase.

Anton clattered to a halt beside her. His own hat was gone, his black hair rumpled over his brow. ‘Rosamund! Are you hurt?'

She shook her head, quite unable to draw breath to speak. ‘Only my dignity, I fear.'

He swung down from his saddle, reaching up to grasp her waist and lift her down beside him. She leaned against his shoulder, gasping for breath. His heart pounded in her ear, and he smelled delicious, of leather, soap, snow and honest sweat.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. How he seemed a part of this day, of the freedom and excitement. Of the wide outdoors and the wild, winter beauty.

‘I am quite sure the Queen never loses her hat,' Rosamund murmured.

‘The Queen would be fortunate to be half the rider you are, Rosamund,' he answered. ‘You led me on a grand chase.'

She tilted back her head, staring up at him. His high cheekbones were stained a dull red with exercise and emotion, his eyes as black as midnight. A few tendrils of hair clung to his brow.

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

‘What will you do now that you have caught me?' she whispered.

In answer, he kissed her, his mouth taking hers hungrily as they clung together. His hands at her waist dragged her closer, until they were pressed together. She went up on tiptoe, wanting more, wanting to feel every inch of his body against hers.

His lips opened, welcoming the press of his tongue to hers, the wet, humid heat of desire that blotted out all else. The day wasn't cold now—it sizzled with a need so deep, so elemental, she could no longer deny it even to herself.

She twined her gloved fingers into his hair, holding him to her, half-fearing he would try to escape her. But he made no move to leave her; his kiss deepened even more, his lips slanting across hers.

Through the haze of her need, she felt one of his hands slide to her bodice, freeing the top button of her riding doublet, then the next and the next. As the cold wind bit through her thin chemise to touch her bare skin, Rosamund felt a shock shiver all through her. It was not frightening or surprising, though. It was just thrilling.

Their kiss seemed to
fit
, as if they had always been
thus, had known each other's mouths and bodies for years and years. He knew just where to press, to feather lightly, to touch just where it would make her world spin.

She moaned against his lips. He drew back at the sound, as if he thought she protested, but Rosamund pulled him back to her, back into their kiss. She didn't want him to leave, didn't want to lose that glorious moment, the way he made her feel. The wondrous, hot forgetfulness.

His fingers fell away from her bodice, but she seized them, carrying them back to finish what they had begun. It was as if her small gesture freed something in him too. He groaned, his kiss deepening; their tongues entwined as his arms tightened around her and he tumbled them both back down to the ground.

Her thighs fell apart and his body cradled between them, hard against her heavy skirts. He leaned his hands on either side of her, their kiss rough and wild, born of the desire that had been simmering like embers from the very first moment they'd met. It burst into flame now, threatening to completely consume her.

Her hands slid down to his backside, taut in his tight leather riding-breeches, and pressed him even closer, wrapping her thighs around his hips as her skirts billowed around them.

‘Alskling,'
he muttered, his voice tight, as if he was in pain. His mouth moved from hers, kissing her jaw and the curve of her neck as she tilted her head back against the soft ground. He impatiently spread the fabric of her riding doublet, revealing her breasts, which were barely concealed in her thin chemise, pressed high over the edge of her light stays.

The cold wind rushed over her, but not for long. His
hot kiss fell on the slope of her breast, making her gasp as his body covered hers.

‘Anton,' she whispered, revelling in the delicious sensation of his caress. When Richard had tried such a thing with her, it had frightened her. Now, with Anton, she wanted more and more…

A scream suddenly rent the air. For a shocked instant, Rosamund feared it was her scream, that the wild excitement was breaking free. But Anton rolled off her, his body tense and alert as he peered through the trees.

Rosamund slowly sat up, drawing the gaping edges of her doublet together, hardly daring to breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears, an erratic pattern veering from sexual desire to sudden fear in only a second.

Another cry rang out, and then a clamour of loud, confused voices. The baying of the hounds carried over it all, a discordant madrigal.

Anton leaped lightly to his feet, reaching out to help her stand. Her boot caught on her skirt hem as she lurched to her feet, and he caught her against him, holding her protectively close. His body was taut as he listened as if, like some graceful, powerful forest creature, he could sense danger tightening all around.

Rosamund curled her hands in the open vee of his shirt, holding on as she too listened. She tried to decipher where the cacophony came from, but it seemed both very distant and impossibly close.

‘What is it?' she whispered.

‘Shh,' he murmured. He hastily buttoned her doublet and then smoothed his own clothes before taking her hand, leading her back to the horses. ‘Stay very close to me,' he said as he lifted her into the saddle. ‘I have to get you to the palace, behind sturdy walls.'

Rosamund nodded, enveloped in a haze of confu
sion. Everything felt unreal, as if she was caught in a bad dream where all was disjointed, out of place. The woods, so peaceful and private only a moment ago, were dark and menacing.

And the man she had kissed so ardently, so overcome with need for him that she'd forgotten all else, was now a cold-eyed stranger. Suddenly she recalled all too well how very little she really knew of him. She had once liked Richard too—how could she trust what she thought of a man, what she felt? Yet still those feelings were there. The attraction, the trust. The danger.

He swung up onto his own mount, flicking the reins into motion. ‘Remember,' he said to her, looking at her through those black eyes that saw all and gave nothing away, ‘Stay close to me, Rosamund. I promise I will keep you safe.'

Her throat felt dry, aching, but she merely nodded. She urged her horse onto the path behind his, listening to the distant hubbub. The wind whispered through her loose hair, tangling it around her shoulders, and she remembered her lost hat and caul, the hairpins scattered as she and Anton had tumbled to the ground. But it did not seem very timely to mention it.

They emerged from the shelter of the trees to find the rest of the party gathered a short distance away at the edge of the woods. It first appeared that it was merely the capture, the end of the day's hunt, but then Rosamund noticed the pale fear on the ladies' faces, the fury on the men's. The horses pranced restively in a close pack, as if they sensed the confusion.

Anton reached out to grasp her mare's bridle, holding her close as they moved cautiously closer, coming to a halt just beyond the tangled edge of the crowd.

For a moment, Rosamund could see nothing; the
knot of people and horses was too dense. But then it parted, and she saw the Queen and Lord Leicester, their horses drawn up beneath one of the bare winter trees. Leicester held his dagger unsheathed, bellowing something in furious tones, but Queen Elizabeth just stared straight ahead, white-faced.

Rosamund followed her stare—and gasped. Hanging from one of the lower branches was a poppet, with bright-red hair and a fine, white silk gown, streaked with what looked like blood. It was topped with a gold paper-crown, and pinned to the bodice was a sign proclaiming, ‘thus to all usurpers'.

Leicester suddenly rose up in his stirrups, slashing out with his dagger to cut the horrible thing down. It tumbled to the frosty ground, landing in a white and red jumble. The hounds crept nearer to it, baying, but even they would not touch the thing. Surely it reeked too much of evil, of traitorous intentions.

A contingent of more guards came galloping over the crest of the hill. As they surrounded the Queen, Anne Percy edged her horse closer to Rosamund's.

‘Rosamund!' she cried. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you will be ill.'

Rosamund shook her head, sweeping her hair back off her shoulder. ‘I just fell behind,' she said. ‘I fear my riding skills are poor. And then at last I caught up, only to find—this.' She shivered, staring at the crumpled doll.

Anne nodded grimly. ‘The Queen has many enemies, indeed. It is easy to forget that on a fine day like this, but there is always danger for princes. Always black thoughts lurking behind smiles.'

And danger for those near to the princes, too? Rosamund looked back to find Anton again with his
Swedish cohorts, who were listening as they whispered together intently. But he watched her closely, as if he could see her thoughts and feelings. Her suspicions.

Rosamund shivered again; the day was unbearably cold. Anne was right. It was all too easy to forget the realities of the world on a day like this. The fresh air, the wild ride—Anton and his touch, his kiss. It made her forget
everything
and want only him. Only those precious moments when he lifted her above the world.

But that was all an illusion. This was the world, with danger, secrets and hidden agendas all around.

Lord Langley drew near to them, his handsome face also solemn, watchful. Even Anne did not pull away from him today, but leaned infinitesimally towards him, as if she knew not what she did.

‘Who has done this?' she asked him quietly.

‘No one yet knows,' he answered tightly. ‘Greenwich has only a small staff now, and they will be questioned, but it is doubtful they saw anything. The Queen will stay here until her safe transport back to Whitehall can be arranged.'

‘It has been a strange Christmas,' Anne said.

‘Strange indeed,' Lord Langley said, with a humourless little smile. He pushed the tangled length of his golden-brown hair back from his brow, reminding Rosamund of her own dishevelment—and how she had got that way.

Her enchanted-forest interlude with Anton seemed impossibly distant now.

‘Come, ladies, let me see you to the palace,' Lord Langley said. ‘A fire is being laid in one of the chambers for you.'

‘You seem quite knowledgeable about our sudden
change of arrangements,' Anne said, falling into step beside him as they turned towards the palace. The Queen, surrounded by her guards, had already disappeared through its doors.

‘Ah, Anne,' he answered sadly. ‘To know all is my constant task.'

 

The events of the hunt did not seem to greatly affect the maids, Rosamund thought as she lay in her bed at Whitehall late that night. Catherine Knyvett and the Marys were practising their dancing along the aisle between the two rows of beds, galloping and leaping in their chemises as they laughed and shouted.

Rosamund held her book tightly, sliding down against the pillows. How could they possibly dance after all that had happened? Her own mind was still spinning, filled with whirling images of Anton, shouts and screams, hanging dolls. And then the long afternoon in a half-bare chamber at Greenwich until they could be taken back to Whitehall by sleigh along the frozen river.

Queen Elizabeth had been silent as they'd waited, calm and serene. Rosamund could not even fathom her thoughts, her plans. The machinery was turning in the dark background of the Court to find the culprits.

Supper, too, had been quiet on their return to Whitehall, a quick repast in the Queen's privy apartments, but Elizabeth had vowed that the rest of Christmas would go on with no alterations. Feasts, dancing, plays—and foolish wagers—would go on.

‘Rosamund?' Anne said softly. ‘Are you asleep, or just hiding over there?'

Rosamund tugged down the bedclothes she had piled
around herself, to find Anne watching her from her own bed. ‘I'm reading,' she said.

‘A great talent you have, then, for reading upside down.'

‘What?' Rosamund stared down at her book, only to find that Boethius was indeed the wrong way round. ‘Oh, bother. 'Tis true I haven't read a word since I opened it.'

‘Better than listening to their shrieking,' Anne said, inclining her head towards the wild dancers.

‘How can they be so carefree after what happened?'

‘I suppose that is their way of forgetting. Such things occur all too often at Court. My uncle says it is all the foreigners who gather here.'

‘The foreigners?'

‘Aye. The foreign monarchs must send their delegations, even though many of them secretly think Mary of Scots is the
true
Queen of England. I suppose it is just surprising we don't see more such incidents.'