The Winter Queen (3 page)

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 known each other for months rather than minutes.

Rosamund had no sisters, nor even any close female friends; Ramsay Castle was too isolated for such things. She wasn't sure what to make of Mistress Percy's easygoing manner or her open smile, but it
was
nice to feel she was not quite alone at Court.

‘And I am Rosamund Ramsay,' she answered, not certain what else to say.

Anne laughed, steering Rosamund around a group of young men who hovered near the doorway. One of them smiled and winked at Anne, but she pointedly turned her head away from him.

‘I know,' Anne said as they emerged from the Queen's apartments into the corridor again. ‘We have been talking of nothing but you for days!'

‘Talking of
me
?' Rosamund said in astonishment. ‘But I have never been to Court before. And, even if I had, I would look terribly dull next to all the exciting things that happen here.'

Anne gave an unladylike snort. ‘Exciting? Oh, Lady Rosamund, surely you jest? Our days are long indeed, and always much of a sameness. We have been talking of you because we have not seen a new face among the
ladies in months and months. We have been counting on you to bring us fresh tales of gossip!'

‘Gossip?' Rosamund said, laughing. She thought of the long, sweet days at Ramsay Castle, hours whiled away in sewing, reading, playing the lute—devising foolish ways to meet Richard. ‘I fear I have very little of that. No matter what you say, I would vow life in the country is far duller than here at Court. At least you do see people every day, even if they are always the same people.'

‘True enough. At my brother's estate, I sometimes had to talk to the sheep just to hear my own voice!' Anne giggled, an infectiously merry sound that made Rosamund want to giggle too.

‘Since I know so little of Court doings,
you
must tell me all
I
need to know,' Rosamund said. ‘Maybe then the tales will seem fresh again.'

‘Ah, now that I can do,' Anne said. ‘A maid of honour's duties are few enough, as you will find. We walk with the Queen in the gardens, we go with her to church and stand in her train as she greets foreign envoys. We sew and read with her—and try to duck when she is in a fearsome mood and throws a shoe at us.'

‘Nay?' Rosamund gasped.

Anne nodded solemnly. ‘Ask Mary Howard where she got that dent in her forehead—and
she
is even the daughter of the Queen's great-uncle! But that is only on very bad days. Most of the time she just ignores us.'

‘Then if our duties are so few what do we do with our time?'

‘We watch, of course. And learn.' Anne paused in the curve of a bow window along the gallery. Below them was an elegant expanse of garden; neat, gravel walkways wound between square beds outlined in low
box-hedges. The fountains were still, frozen over in the winter weather, the flowers and greenery slumbering under a light mantel of silvery frost and snow.

But there was no lack of colour and life. Yet more people flowed along the walkways, twining like a colorful snake in pairs and groups, their velvets and furs taking the place of the flowers.

Rosamund recognised Leicester's peacock-blue doublet, his black hair shining in the grey light. He stood among a cluster of other men, all more sombrely clad than he, and even from that distance Rosamund could still sense the anger etched on his handsome, swarthy face.

‘We have no fewer than three important delegations with us for this Christmas season,' Anne said. ‘And they all loathe each other. It provides us with much amusement, watching them vie for Her Grace's attention.' She lowered her voice to a confiding whisper. ‘They will probably try to persuade you to plead their cause to the Queen.'

‘Do you mean
bribes
?' Rosamund whispered back.

‘Oh, aye.' Anne held out her wrist to display a fine pearl bracelet. ‘But be very careful which faction you choose to have your dealings with, Lady Rosamund.'

‘And what are my choices?'

‘Well, over there you see the Austrians.' Anne gestured towards one end of the garden, where a cluster of men clad in plain black and gray hovered like a murder of crows. ‘They are here to present the case for their candidate for the Queen's hand—Archduke Charles. Truly, they are like the new Spanish, since King Philip has given up at last and married his French princess. No one takes them seriously, except themselves. And
they
are very serious indeed.'

‘How very dreary,' Rosamund said. ‘Who else?'

‘Over there we have the Scots,' Anne said, turning to another group. They did not wear primitive plaids, as Rosamund would have half-hoped, but very fashionable silks in tones of jewel-bright purple, green and gold. But then, they did serve a very fashionable queen indeed. Perhaps Queen Mary made them wear French styles.

‘That is their leader, Sir James Melville, and his assistant, Secretary Maitland. And Maitland's cousin, Master Macintosh,' Anne continued. ‘They are the tall ones there, with the red hair. They certainly seem more lighthearted than the Austrians. They dance and play cards every night, and Her Grace seems fond of them. But I would not be too open and honest around them.'

‘Why is that? Why are they here? Surely they can have no marriages to propose?'

‘On the contrary. The Queen of Scots is
most
concerned with her own marriage prospects.'

Rosamund stared down at the Scotsmen in the garden. ‘She seeks an English match? After being married to the King of France?'

‘Perhaps. But not the one Queen Elizabeth would have her make.'

‘What do you mean?'

Anne leaned closer, her voice such a soft whisper Rosamund could hardly make it out. ‘Queen Elizabeth desires Queen Mary to take Robert Dudley as her consort. They say that is why she made him an earl last autumn.'

‘Nay!' Rosamund gasped. ‘But I thought the Queen herself…?'

Anne nodded. ‘So do we all. It is passing strange. I'm sure Melville thinks so as well, which is why he bides his time here rather than hurrying back to Queen Mary to press such an offer.'

‘So, that is why the Earl stalks about like a thundercloud?'

‘Indeed.'

‘But then who is the third delegation? How do they fit into these schemes?'

Anne laughed delightedly; every hint of the seriousness she'd showed when discussing the Austrians and the Scots vanished. ‘Now, they are a very different matter, the Swedes.'

‘The Swedes?'

‘They are here to present again the suit of their own master, King Eric,' Anne said. ‘It seems he is in great need of a powerful wife's assistance, with war looming with both Denmark and Russia, and possibly France, and his own brother scheming against him.'

‘He doesn't sound like a very attractive marital prospect,' Rosamund said doubtfully.

‘Oh, not at all! That is why he was already rejected a few years ago. I'm sure Her Grace has no intention of accepting him—or not much.'

‘Then why does she keep his delegation here?'

‘Why, see for yourself!' Anne pointed as a new group entered the garden through one of the stone archways. They were a handsome gathering indeed, tall and golden, well-muscled in their fine doublets and fur-lined short cloaks, laughing and as powerful as Norse gods entering Valhalla.

And, right in their midst, was the most handsome and intriguing of all—the mysterious Anton, he of the amazing feats on the ice.

He carried his skates slung over his shoulder, shining silver against the black velvet and leather of his doublet. A flat, black velvet cap covered his inky-dark hair, but his radiant smile gleamed in the grey day.

The striking red-haired lady from the pond held onto his arm, staring up at him with a rapt expression on her sharp-featured face, as if her very breath depended on his next word.

Rosamund feared she knew very well how that woman felt. Her own breath was tight in her throat, and her face felt warm despite the chill of the window glass.

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.