The Winter Queen (9 page)

The Queen laughed. ‘The realm of chaos, I would vow! Very well, my Lord of Misrule—let your reign begin. But pay heed that it will only last until Twelfth Night.'

The Lord of Misrule bowed, and his tumbling minions dashed amongst the tables to claim partners for the dance. Anne, the Marys, Catherine Knyvett, even Mistress Eglionby, were all borne away into a wild, disorganised galliard.

Rosamund watched, astonished, as the Lord of Misrule himself came to her side, holding out his gloved hand to her. She stared up into that eerily masked face, searching for some clue to his identity, yet there was none at all. Even his eyes were shadowed, set deep behind that painted visage.

‘Will you dance with me, my lady?' he asked, shaking those bells.

Rosamund slowly nodded, taking his gloved hand and letting him lead her to the centre of the dance. The steps were familiar, but the patterns disorganised, constantly shifting and reforming. The dancers lurched into each other and reeled away, laughing.

The Lord of Misrule twirled Rosamund around in an ever-growing circle, faster and faster, until the whole
room spun in a wild blur. His hands held tightly to hers, in a grip that was almost painful, but she was pressed in on all sides by the other dancers and could not escape.

Her breath felt tight in her lungs, constricted by her tight bodice, and her heart pounded until she could scarcely hear the music. The brilliant lights of the banquet dimmed and she suddenly felt like a wild bird beating her wings against confining bars.

At last she was able to free her hands from her unseen partner and break away from the close patterns of the dance. Once out of the hot press of the crowd, she wasn't sure where to go. She just needed to breathe again.

She lifted the heavy hem of her skirt, dashing across the room past the knots of courtiers who did not dance. They were too busy with their own wine-soaked laughter to pay her any heed; even the Queen was occupied with watching the dance. Rosamund ducked behind one of the tapestries, wedging herself into the small, safe space between the heavy cloth and the wood-panelled wall.

She leaned back against the solid support of that wall, closing her eyes. The music and laughter was muffled, as if heard from under water, distorted by the thud of her heartbeat in her ears. Everything had changed so fast, the evening going from merry holidaymaking to surreal strangeness in only a moment. Who
was
that man? He was indeed a Lord of Misrule.

She pressed her hand to her white silk bodice that was stiff with silver embroidery, willing her heart to slow, her breath to flow easily.

Suddenly, there was a rush of warm air, the scent of smoke, pine boughs and clean soap, as the tapestry was brushed aside. Rosamund gasped as she opened her
eyes, afraid that the masked man had followed her into her sanctuary. She even went up on her toes in her velvet shoes, prepared to flee.

But it was not the Lord of Misrule who slid behind the tapestry with her. It was Anton. She had only a glimpse of his tall, lean figure, the dark-star gleam of his eyes, before the cloth dropped behind him. They were enclosed in their own little shadowed world.

Rosamund found she was not frightened, though. She felt no urge to run from him. Instead, she could at last breathe easily.

She was no longer alone.

‘Rosamund?' he said quietly. ‘Are you unwell?'

‘I…' She swayed closer to him, drawn by the clean scent of him, by his warm, silent strength. ‘I could not breathe out there.'

‘I, too, mislike crowds,' he said. ‘But we are safe here.'

His arms came around her, drawing her close, and she
did
feel safe. She rested her forehead against his velvet-covered chest, closing her eyes as she listened to his strong, steady heartbeat. It echoed her own heart, binding them together there in the dark.

She slid her arms around his waist, feeling the supple strength of him bonding to her. The chaotic dance outside vanished, and she had only this one moment in the eye of the storm.

She felt him kiss the top of her head, and she tilted her face up to his. His lips lightly touched her brow, her temple, the edge of her cheekbone, leaving tiny droplets of flame wherever he touched. Her breath caught again, and she shivered with the sudden force of her weakness, her desire for more of those kisses, more of
him
.

At last his lips touched hers with glancing, alluring
kisses—once, twice. And again, a slightly deeper caress, a taste that made her moan for more. That small sound against his lips made him groan, and he dragged her even closer until their bodies were pressed tight together. Every curve and angle fit perfectly, as if they were meant to be just so.

She strained up on tiptoe, her lips parting beneath his. His tongue, light and skilled, touched the tip of hers before deepening the kiss, binding her to him even closer.

Rosamund twined her arms around his neck, her fingers driving into the softness of his hair, holding him to her as if she feared he would escape her. But he made no move to leave her. Their kiss turned desperate, heated, blurry, full of a primitive need she did not even know was in her. Her whole body felt heavy and hot, narrowed to the one perfect moment of their kiss.

He pressed her back to the wall, lifting her up until her layers of skirts fell away and she wrapped her stockinged legs around his hips. He rocked into the curve of her body, his velvet breeches abrading her bare thighs above her garters. The friction was delicious, and she moaned against his open mouth, wanting more of that feeling, that wondrous oblivion.

His lips trailed wetly from hers, along her jaw and the arch of her throat as she leaned her head back on the wall, leaving herself open to him. His tongue swirled lightly in the hollow of her throat, just where her pulse pounded, before he nudged aside her sheer-silk partlet to kiss the slope of her breasts.

‘Oh!' she gasped. She rocked her hips into his, clasping his hair even tighter as his teeth nipped at her sensitive skin and his tongue soothed the tiny sting. His erection was heavy, taut as iron against her through layers of velvet and leather.

She opened her eyes, staring up at the kissing bough as it swayed above her head. It had worked its enchantment on her indeed, weaving a sensual spell that made her sure she would do anything, anything at all, to feel more of this. Of him.

She closed her eyes again, bending her head to kiss his tumbled hair. He rested his forehead against the wall beside her, his breath ragged in her ear. Slowly, slowly, she slid her feet back to the floor, feeling the earth solid beneath her again. She heard the music outside their haven, louder, more discordant than ever, the pounding thunder of dancing feet.

She tried to ease away from Anton. She was so close to him she could not think at all, could not stop all her senses from reeling crazily. But his hands tightened on her waist, holding her against him as their breath slowed.

‘Nay,' he gasped, his accent heavy. ‘Don't move. Not yet.'

Rosamund nodded, leaning against his shoulder. His entire body was rigid, perfectly still, as if he struggled to find his control.

‘'Twas the kissing bough,' she whispered.

He laughed tightly. ‘Perhaps your Puritans are right in trying to ban them from the halls, then.'

It felt as if their wild kiss had released something inside Rosamund, some bold imp she had not even realised was a part of her. ‘But where would be the merriness in that?'

‘You are a most enticing winter-fairy, Lady Rosamund Ramsay,' he said, kissing her cheek quickly. ‘But will the bough erase all memory of this madness tomorrow?'

Rosamund did not know. She half-hoped so; this had been a true moment of madness, one that made her
understand the poet's sonnets after all. Passion was an unstoppable force, one that clouded all sense. But it would be a great pity to lose the sensation of his caress.

‘We must all to church in the morning with the Queen,' she answered. ‘And reflect on our mistakes.'

‘I fear I would need more time than one Christmas morning for
that
,' he said wryly.

‘Are your mistakes so many, then?'

‘Oh, my winter fairy, they are myriad.'

And she had just added them, and to her own. She edged away from him, suddenly cold and very tired as she smoothed her gown and hair and straightened her partlet. What would tomorrow bring? She had no idea. It was as if Misrule had indeed taken control of the world, a world she had once thought so comfortable and ordered.

‘I must go back to my duties before I'm missed,' she said.

He nodded, the movement a small flurry in the darkness. He swept aside the edge of the tapestry, and Rosamund eased past him back into the light and noise of the hall. The Lord of Misrule and his acrobats had vanished, but the dancing still went on. Queen Elizabeth sat at her dais, talking with a lady who stood just beside her.

Rosamund blinked in the sudden change from shadow to light. She could see only that the lady who talked with the Queen was tall and reed-thin, clad in purple velvet and black silk that went with her black hair drawn back tight from her pale, oval face. She was almost like a raven among bright-plumed peacocks.

Then Rosamund was startled to recognise her. She was Celia Sutton, the widow of Richard's elder brother. She had seldom been seen in the neighbourhood since
the death of her husband, though she and Rosamund had once been friends of a sort. Yet here she suddenly was at Court, still clad in mourning for a husband who had died in the spring, leaving Richard heir to the estate. Whatever did she do here now?

‘Celia!' Rosamund murmured aloud.

‘Ah, Master Gustavson,' Queen Elizabeth called, gesturing to Anton. ‘There you are. Your cousin, Mistress Sutton, has arrived at our Court just in time for Christmas. I am sure she is most eager to greet you.'

Rosamund's gaze flew to Anton. Celia was his cousin—the same one who disputed his English inheritance?

His jaw was tight, his eyes utterly opaque as he looked at the Queen and at Celia. She watched him too, her lips drawn close.

‘My cousin Anton,' she said slowly. ‘So, we meet at last.' Her gaze slid past Anton to Rosamund, and she finally smiled. ‘Rosamund! You
are
here. We could scarcely credit that your parents would part with you.'

‘Only to serve the Queen,' Rosamund said. ‘How do you fare, Celia?'

‘Well enough, now that I have come to petition for justice—' Celia answered.

‘We will not talk of such solemn matters as petitions, not at Christmas,' Queen Elizabeth interrupted with a wave of her feathered fan. ‘We will speak of this later, privily, Master Gustavson and Mistress Sutton. In the meantime, I hope the two of you might find time to converse in a civil manner. There is such resemblance between you. Family should not quarrel so, as I well know.'

Anton bowed. ‘As Your Grace commands,' he said affably. Yet Rosamund heard tension laced within his
polite words. What was his connection with Celia? What were his feelings as he stood there before all the Court?

‘Very good,' the Queen said. ‘Come! It is time we retired for the evening, I think.'

As she stepped from the dais on Lord Burghley's arm, Rosamund and the other maids falling into their place behind her, the doors to the hall flew open once again. But it was not the Lord of Misrule, it was Lord Leicester who stood there, his dark, curling hair mussed, his green-satin doublet torn and streaked with dust and his eyes full of flashing anger.

‘My Lord Leicester,' the Queen said. ‘How quickly you transform yourself!'

He gave her a low bow, his shoulders still held stiff, his fist opening and closing, as if he longed for a sword. ‘Indeed I do not, Your Grace. I have worn this garb all evening, though not by my will.'

A small frown creased the Queen's white brow. ‘What do you mean? Were you not the Lord of Misrule here, not an hour ago?'

‘I was to be, by Your Grace's order,' Leicester answered. ‘But some churl locked me in the stables, as I made sure all was in readiness for the hunt tomorrow. I have only just escaped. When I do discover the villain…'

The Queen's hand tightened on her fan, a flush spreading over her cheeks. ‘Then who was in our hall?'

‘Come, Your Grace!' Burghley suddenly urged, gesturing for the Queen's guard to surround her in a tight phalanx and escorting her quickly from the hall. ‘We must get you securely to your chamber immediately, where you can be safe.'

Leicester snatched up a sword from one of the tables,
brandishing it in the air. ‘We will find this varlet, Your Grace, I vow to you!'

‘Robin, no!' the Queen gasped, reaching out her hand to him as she was swept from the room. Rosamund hurried after them with the other ladies, suddenly cold with fear as she remembered the strange Lord of Misrule, that painfully tight clasp of his hands on hers.

Even the Queen seemed uncharacteristically flustered, glancing back at Leicester as she was pushed through the door, the room in disarray and confusion behind her.

Whatever would happen next? The whole Court seemed to have gone utterly mad.