The Winter Queen (23 page)

The apartment was quiet and dark, yet she remembered well where everything was. The chairs and tables, the fine carpets—the bed. She felt her way to the window, pushing back the heavy curtains to let in the glow of the moon, the sparkle of the fireworks. They illuminated the space that had become such a haven against the world to her.

Dear; how cold! She rubbed at her arms in their embroidered sleeves, wishing for a cloak. But soon enough Anton's arms would be around her, and she could forget the cold, and everything else, for a time.

As she stood there, staring out at the night, she heard the door open behind her. Footsteps hurried across the floor, heavy and muffled by the carpet, and strong arms did indeed slide around her, drawing her back against a hard, velvet-covered chest.

For an instant, she remembered Richard staring at her, and she stiffened, half-fearful he might have followed her. But then she smelled Anton's scent—clean soap winter greenery—and felt his familiar caress at her waist, and she knew she was safe.

She relaxed against him, resting her head back on his shoulder as they watched the fireworks.

He softly kissed her cheek. ‘Happy New Year,
alskling,
' he whispered.

Rosamund smiled. ‘And Happy New Year to
you,
Master Gustavson. What is your wish for the next year?'

‘Is this an English custom, then? Making a wish for the New Year?'

‘Of course. Oh—but I forgot. You mustn't tell it, or it might not come true.'

She spun around in his arms, going up on tiptoe as their lips met in the first kiss of the new year. She tried to put all she wished for in that kiss, all she felt for him and hoped for in the future. That fear was left entirely behind.

He seemed to feel it, too. He groaned against her mouth, his tongue touching the tip of hers, tasting her as if she was the finest, sweetest of wines. His hands combed through her hair, discarding the pins and pearl combs as it tumbled over her shoulders.

‘Hjarta,'
he muttered, burying his face in her hair, kissing the side of her neck and the curve of her shoulder as he eased away her bodice.

Rosamund's eyes drifted closed, her head falling back as she lost herself in the delicious sensations of his caress, his kiss, the feel of his lips on her bare skin. But she wanted more, wanted to feel him too. To be closer, ever closer.

She fumbled eagerly for the fastenings of his doublet, but suddenly his hands grasped hers tightly, holding her away.

Rosamund stared up at him, bewildered. His jaw was tight, his eyes hooded, hidden from her. ‘What—what?' she stammered. ‘What is amiss?'

‘I'm sorry,' he said hoarsely. ‘I'm sorry,
alskling,
I should never have met you here tonight. Never let things go so far.'

Rosamund shook her head in puzzlement. Anton still held her hands, they still stood close together, but she felt him slipping away from her. It was as if a cold wind rushed between them, pushing them further and further apart.

‘Things have gone—so far before,' she whispered.

He kissed her hand, his hair falling over his brow as he bent over her fingers. How handsome he was, she thought numbly. Like a dark Norse god. Other ladies thought so, too; they all sought him out, flirted with him. Yet she had been foolish enough to join their ranks, to think he cared for her, only her.

Had she been wrong? Had she entirely misread what was between them?

Rosamund stepped back, drawing away her hands. She could not think when he touched her. Her mind raced, going over every kiss, every glance and word. Nay; she had not been mistaken, surely? No man was such a fine actor.

Why, then, did he turn from her now?

‘I know we have gone thus far before,' he said roughly, raking his hair back with his fingers. It fell into even greater disarray, and Rosamund longed to smooth it back, to feel the warm satin of his hair under her touch.

She tucked her hands into her skirts, forcing them to stay still.

‘I was wrong, very wrong, to behave thus,' he continued. ‘I put you in danger, and that was inexcusable. I'm sorry, Rosamund.'

‘Nay, we both wanted this!' Rosamund cried. She took a stumbling step towards him, but he backed away. He was so distant from her. ‘We could not help ourselves, no matter the danger.'

‘Nonetheless, it was a mistake. It must end here.'

‘End?' She felt an icy finger creep down her spine, making her feel suddenly numb, removed from the scene, as if she watched a scene in a mummer's play. If only it was not so terribly real, the end of her hopes.

‘I have work to do here in England, work I have been too long distracted from,' he said implacably. ‘And you have your own duties. I would not bring you trouble with the Queen, Rosamund.'

‘I care not for work and duties! Not beside what we have, Anton, what we could have.' That numbness faded, and Rosamund felt instead the hot prickle of tears. Sad, angry, confused tears that she impatiently dashed away.

She had thought—nay, known!—he felt the same. But now he watched her with such cold distance in his dark eyes. He would not turn away from her, from what they had between them, out of sudden duty. Unless…

‘You prefer someone else,' she whispered. ‘Lady Essex? One of the other maids?' Someone prettier, more flirtatious. More careless with their emotions.

Anton frowned, looking away from her, but he did not deny it. ‘I am sorry,' he said again. ‘Sorry for all the trouble I have caused you.'

Trouble? Oh, that was not the half of all he had caused her! She had given herself, body and heart, to him and now he turned from her. What was wrong with her?

Rosamund spun around, dashing out of the chamber before those dreadful tears could fall. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing them, of seeing the terrible pain he caused her with his strange words.

‘This will be the last time I cry,' she vowed as she hurried down the dark, abandoned corridor. Men were not worth it in the least.

Anton listened to Rosamund's footsteps fade until
there was only silence, only the faint scent of her perfume still in the air. Then he doubled over, falling to the floor at the pain in his stomach.

At the agony of hurting his sweet Rosamund.

It had had to be done, even as he let himself steal one more kiss, one more caress, had let himself feel her in his arms again. Things had gone too far between them already. He could not let them fall into the dangerous whirlpool and be lost for ever. They had this one opportunity to draw away from the precipice, to turn back to their lives of duty, and he had taken it.

He had done what was right, at last. Why, then, was it such agony?

Anton straightened to his feet, tugging his doublet into place, smoothing back his hair. He had to be himself again, as he'd been before he'd met Rosamund and let himself be tempted by her sweetness and goodness, her angelic beauty. It should not be so difficult to do.

Yet it felt terribly as if some vital part of him was torn away and bleeding.

New Year's Day, January 1

‘Y
ou were out very late last night, Rosamund,' Anne Percy said, brushing out Rosamund's hair as they prepared for the Queen's masquerade ball.

‘Was I indeed?' Rosamund answered, feeling that heat creeping up in her cheeks again. Everyone had seemed soundly asleep when she'd tiptoed in before dawn, so hurt and confused she could only curl up in her bed and pray for the pain to leave her. But she should have known Anne would miss nothing.

‘Did anyone else notice?' she whispered.

‘Nay,' Anne said, reaching for the bowl of hairpins on the bedside table. ‘I told them you were on an errand for the Queen. They were so full of wine they would not have noticed if the roof collapsed on them, anyway.'

‘Thank you, Anne. You are a fine friend,' Rosamund said, sitting very still as Anne fastened her hair up tightly. Anne
was
a good friend, a comfort, even if she did not know it. ‘If I can ever help you and Lord Langley to a secret meeting…'

Anne snorted. ‘I doubt that shall ever happen! I may one day hold you to your promise of assistance, Rosamund, even if I must be with someone else. But are you sure naught is amiss? You seem distracted today.'

Rosamund had certainly seen the way Anne looked at Langley, and the way he looked at her. The air between them fairly crackled. But she said nothing; she was done with romance. It caused such numb hurt; Anne was well out of it. ‘Nay, I am just tired.'

‘And no wonder, we have been so busy with holiday festivities! Tell me something, though,' Anne said. ‘When you returned, did you see anyone lurking about in the corridor?'

‘Nay, I saw nothing,' Rosamund said, glad of the distraction of a change in topic. ‘It was quite dark, though. Why?'

Anne shrugged, pushing in the last pin. ‘When I came up here with Catherine and the Marys after the dancing, I thought we were followed. I just had that sense of being watched.'

‘Oh, yes, I know that feeling,' Rosamund said, with a shiver of dangerous intimation.

‘But when I looked there was no one. Only shadows.'

‘Who would be lurking about so near the Queen's own chambers?' Rosamund said, still feeling that disquiet. She did remember well that sense of being watched, observed, even in the midst of a crowd. There had been that strange Lord of Misrule. ‘The guards would be sure to send them off.'

‘If they saw them. I think the guards had too much spiced wine too. Ah, well, it was likely naught. Now, which wig do you like? The red or the black?'

‘It doesn't signify,' Rosamund said. Gowns and wigs were far from her mind. ‘You choose.'

‘You wear the red, then, and I will take the black. I shall be a sorceress of the night!' Anne said, combing out the wigs as she watched Rosamund sort through her jewels until she found her emerald-drop earrings. ‘Those are very pretty.'

‘Do you not think them too old-fashioned?' Rosamund said, looping one through her ear lobe. Their familiarity gave her some comfort, even as she was sad thinking of home and all she had lost. ‘They were my grandmother's.'

‘Nay, they will do well for an autumn spirit, I think.' They crowded together near the precious looking-glass, pushing Mary Howard out of the way so they could fit on their wigs, borrowed from the Queen's players for the masquerade. Rosamund laughed as Anne jostled her, trying to enter into the festive spirit of the night. She would not be the ghost at the banquet.

Once they were dressed, Anne in black-and-silver satin and Rosamund in deep-green velvet bound at the waist with a gold-and-emerald kirtle, they took out their jewelled masks and tied them over their faces. It felt excellent to hide behind it, Rosamund thought, as if she could be someone else for a while, and hide even from herself.

‘Do we look suitably mysterious?' Anne said, twirling around.

‘Surely no one will know us?' Rosamund declared.

‘Oh, I think at least one person will know you!' Anne teased, laughing as she twined pearls around her throat. ‘But, come, we will be late, and even masked the Queen will surely notice.'

They dashed down the privy stairs, joining the flow of people moving towards the Great Hall. It seemed a glittering, shining river of bright silks, sparkling jewels,
masked visages. There were cats and stags, pale Venetians, parti-coloured jesters, solemn black veils and cloaks. No one knew each other, or at least pretended not to know, which led to much flirtatious laughter and guessing games.

Perhaps the Queen had been right to keep to the old tradition of the New Year's masquerade, Rosamund thought, despite Lord Burghley's misgivings. All the trepidations and uncertainties of the last few days seemed melted away in giddy excitement—except for her.

They all spilled into the Great Hall, which was also transformed for the night. Vast swaths of red-and-black satin draped from the gilded ceiling down the walls, like an exotic pavilion. The tables, benches and dais were removed, and the multi-tiered buffets were laden with delicacies, pyramids of sweets, platters of roast meats and even bowls of rare candied-fruits. The servants who offered wine were also masked, adding to the dark air of mystery and possibility.

‘Look at that man there,' Anne said, taking two goblets of wine and handing one to Rosamund. ‘The one who looks like a peacock. Do you suppose that to be Lord Leicester?'

Rosamund sipped at her wine below the edge of her mask. It was stronger than usual, richly spiced, deep enough to help her forget. ‘Perhaps. He does seem fond of blue. I would think that man there more likely, though.' She gestured towards a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair, dressed like a knight of a hundred years ago. He whispered intently to a veiled lady.

‘Quite so. But who does he speak with? The Queen incognito, do you think?' But it was not the Queen, as they soon found when the doors to the Great Hall opened again and a hush fell over the noisy crowd.

A golden chariot appeared, drawn by six tall footmen clad in white satin. And riding the chariot was the goddess Diana, a golden half-moon crowning her long, red hair. She wore a gown as green as the forest, a white fur-cloak over her shoulders and a gold bow in her hand. A quiver of arrows hung over her shoulder.

She wore a white-and-gold mask, but it could be no one but Queen Elizabeth. As the chariot came to a halt, a man dressed as a huntsman in green-and-brown wool stepped forward to offer his hand. She took it, stepping down as hidden musicians struck up a pavane. The huntsman led Diana to the dance, everyone else following.

‘If that is not Leicester, then he must be perishing of jealousy!' Anne whispered.

Rosamund shook her head. ‘But if the woodsman is Leicester, then who is the knight? And the veiled lady?'

‘Just one of tonight's many mysteries, my friend,' Anne said as one of the Venetians claimed her hand for the dance.

Rosamund had not seen the one man she once wanted to dance with. She went instead to one of the heavy-laden buffets, inspecting the marzipan flowers and the gold-leafed cakes.

As she nibbled at a bit of candied fruit, a man enveloped in a black cloak embroidered with stars, his face hidden by a spangled, black mask, came to stand beside her. He was silent for a long moment, completely covered in that enveloping disguise, yet she could feel the heat of his intense regard. It made her most uneasy. But as she tried to edge away she found her path blocked by a knot of revellers.

‘You do not dance, fair lady?' he asked, his voice hoarse and muffled.

‘Nay,' Rosamund answered firmly, trying to shake
away shivers of sudden fear. She had had enough of dancing with strange masked men. ‘Not tonight.'

‘Such a great loss. But then, surely there are other, finer pleasures to be had on such a night as this? Perhaps you would care to see the moon in the garden…'

Rosamund finally saw a gap in the crowd and broke through it, just as the importunate man reached for her hand. His laughter followed her.

The dance floor was even more crowded now, the couples twirling and leaping in a wild Italian
passamiente
. Despite the cold night outside, the room was hot, close packed, filled with smoke from the vast fireplace and the torches, and the heavy scent of expensive perfumes and fine fabrics packed in lavender. All the voices and the music blended in one loud, shrill madrigal set off by the drumbeat of dancing feet.

Rosamund suddenly could not breathe. Her chest felt tight in her closely laced bodice, and the red-and-black hangings seemed to be closing inward. Surely they would fall, enveloping them all in their suffocating folds.

Her stomach felt queasy with the wine and sweets, the heat. The sadness amidst the revelry was too overwhelming. She wanted to leave, to curl up somewhere and be alone. But as she turned away her path was blocked.

‘Lady Rosamund?' the man said.

Rosamund was startled; for an instant she saw the man wore a black cloak, and she stiffened. But then she noticed that this man's cloak was plain, not embroidered with stars, and that it could be none but Lord Burghley. His only nod to a disguise was a small black mask and a knot of ribbons on his walking stick. Over his arm he held the Queen's fine white fur-cloak.

Rosamund smiled at him. ‘La, my lord, but you are
not meant to recognise me! Is that not the point of a masquerade?'

He smiled back. ‘You must forgive me, then. Your disguise is most complete, and indeed I should never have known you. I am no good at masquerades at all. But Her Grace described your attire to me when she sent me to find you.'

‘She knows my costume?'

‘Oh, Lady Rosamund, but she knows everything!'

Not quite
everything
, she hoped. ‘That she does, thanks to you. Does she need me for an errand?'

‘She asks if you will be so kind as to fetch some documents to her. They are most urgent, and I fear she failed to sign them earlier as she meant to. They are in her bedchamber, on the table by the window. She said you would know where to find them.'

‘Of course, Lord Burghley, I shall go at once,' Rosamund answered, glad of the distraction, the chance to leave the ball.

‘She also sent this,' he said, holding out the fur cloak. ‘She feared the corridors would be chilled after the heat of the dance.'

‘That is most kind of Her Grace,' Rosamund said, letting him slide the soft fur over her shoulders. ‘I will return directly.'

‘Thank you, Lady Rosamund. She waits in the small library just through that door.'

As Burghley left her, she glanced around for Anne, finding her arguing with Lord Langley, who was clad in huntsman's garb. She hurried over to her, tugging on her black-velvet sleeve.

‘Anne,' she whispered. ‘I must run on a quick errand for the Queen.'

‘Of course,' Anne said. ‘Shall I come with you?'

Rosamund glanced at Lord Langley. ‘Nay, you seem—occupied. I won't be gone long, the papers I'm to fetch are in Her Grace's bedchamber.'

She hurried out of the hall, drawing the Queen's cloak close around her. The corridors were indeed chilly, with no fires and only a few torches to light the way. They were silent, too, echoing with solitude after the great cacophony of the hall. Outside the windows, the frosty wind rushed by, sounding like ghostly whispers and moans.

Rosamund shivered, rushing even faster up the privy stairs and through the Privy and Presence Chambers. Those spaces, usually so crowded with attention-seekers, were empty except for shifting shadows. She found she wanted only to be gone from there.

In the bedchamber, candles were already lit, anticipating the Queen's return. The bedclothes were folded back, and a fire had been lit in the grate.

Rosamund eased back the fur hood, searching quickly through the documents on the table by the window. The only papers not locked away in the chests were piled up, waiting for the Queen's signature and seal.

‘These must be them,' she muttered, catching them up. As she folded them, she could not help noticing Lord Darnley's name. A travel pass, for him to proceed to Edinburgh? But why would Queen Elizabeth suddenly give in to Lady Lennox's petitions, giving up pressing Lord Leicester's suit on Queen Mary?

Rosamund glanced up, meeting the painted dark eyes of Anne Boleyn. The Queen's mother seemed to laugh knowingly.
For love, of course
, she seemed to say.
She could no more part with him than you could your Anton
.

Yet sometimes life held other plans for people. The Queen, and her mother, knew that well. And Rosamund knew it now, too.

She hastily stuffed the folded papers into her sleeve, raising the hood as she dashed out of the silent chamber. She had suddenly had quite enough of ghosts. She wanted, needed, to see Anton again.

As she turned the corner out of the Presence Chamber, an arm suddenly curled out of the darkness, wrapping around her waist and jerking her off her feet. A gloved hand clapped hard over her mouth.