The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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СКАЧАТЬ laughed, watching Queen Elizabeth as she talked with her chief advisor, Lord Burghley. Burghley was not terribly old, yet his face was lined with care, his hair and beard streaked with grey. Serving the English Queen could be a frustrating business, as they had learned to their own peril. She kept them cooling their heels at Court, dancing attendance on her as she vacillated at King Eric’s proposal. Anton was certain she had no intention of marrying the king, or possibly anyone at all, but they could not depart until they had an official answer. Meanwhile, they danced and dined, and warily circled the Austrians and the Scots.

      As for Anton’s own matter, she gave no answer at all.

      Maddening indeed. Battle was simple; the answer was won by the sword. Court politics were more slippery, more changeable, and far more time-consuming. But he was a patient man, a determined one. He could wait—for now.

      At least there was Rosamund Ramsay to make the long days more palatable.

      ‘I would not worry, Johan,’ Anton said, tossing back the last of the wine. ‘This wager is strictly for Her Grace’s holiday amusement.’

      ‘What is it, then? Are you to play the Christmas fool, the Lord of Misrule?’

      Anton laughed. ‘Something like it. I am to learn to dance.’

      Chapter Five

      Christmas Eve, December 24

      ‘Holly and ivy, box and bay, put in the house for Christmas Day! Fa la la la…’

      Rosamund smiled at hearing the notes of the familiar song, the tune always sung as the house was bedecked for Christmas. The Queen’s gentlewomen of the Privy and Presence chambers, along with the maids of honour, had been assigned to festoon the Great Hall and the corridors for that night’s feast. Tables were set up along the privy gallery, covered with holly, ivy, mistletoe, evergreen boughs, ribbons and spangles. Under the watchful eye of Mistress Eglionby, Mistress of the Maids, they were to turn them into bits of holiday artistry.

      Rosamund sat there with Anne Percy, twisting together loops of ivy as they watched Mary Howard and Mary Radcliffe lay out long swags to measure them. The Marys sang as they worked, sometimes pausing to leap about with ribbons like two morris dancers.

      Rosamund laughed at their antics. For the first time in many days, she forgot her homesickness and uncertainty. She only thought of how much she loved this time of year, these twelve days when the gloom of winter was left behind, buried in music, wine and satin bows. She might be far from home, but the Queen kept a lively holiday. She should enjoy it as much as possible.

      Rosamund reached for two bent hoops and tied them into a sphere for a kissing bough. She chose the darkest, greenest loops of holly and ivy from the table, twining them around and tying them with the red ribbons.

      ‘Are you making a kissing bough, Rosamund?’ Anne said teasingly. She tied together her own greenery into wreaths for the fireplace mantels.

      Rosamund smiled. ‘My maid Jane says if you stand beneath it and close your eyes you will have a vision of your future husband.’

      ‘And if he comes up and kisses you whilst you stand there with your eyes closed, so much the better!’ Anne said.

      ‘That would help settle the question, I think.’

      ‘But you need not resort to such tricks, I’m sure,’ Anne whispered. ‘What of your sweetheart at home?’

      Rosamund frowned as she stared down at her half-finished bough; last Christmas, Richard had indeed kissed her under one very like it. That was when she had begun to think he cared for her, and she for him. But that seemed so long ago now, as if it had happened to someone else. ‘He is not my sweetheart.’

      ‘But you do wish him to be?’

      Rosamund remembered Richard’s kiss that Christmas Eve. ‘That can’t be.’

      ‘Do your parents disapprove so much, then?’

      Rosamund nodded, reaching for the green, red and white Tudor roses made of paper to add to her bough. ‘They say his family is not our equal, even though their estate neighbours ours.’

      ‘Is that their only objection?’

      ‘Nay. They also say I would not be content with him. That his nature would not suit mine.’ Rosamund felt a pang as she remembered those words of her father. She had cried and pleaded, sure her parents would give way as they always did. Her father had seemed sad as he’d refused her, but implacable. ‘When you find the one you can truly love,’ he said, ‘you will know what your mother and I mean.’

      ‘But you love him?’ Anne asked softly.

      Rosamund shrugged.

      Anne sighed sadly. ‘Our families should not have such say over our own hearts.’

      ‘Is your family so very strict?’ Rosamund asked.

      ‘Nay. My parents died when I was a small child.’

      ‘Oh, Anne!’ Rosamund cried. Her own parents might be maddening, but before the business with Richard they had been affectionate with her, their only child, and she with them. ‘I am so sorry.’

      ‘I scarcely remember them,’ Anne said, tying off her length of ribbon. ‘I grew up with my grandmother, who is so deaf she hardly ever knew what I was up to. It wasn’t so bad, and then my aunt came along and found me this position here at Court. They want me to marry, but only their own choice. Much like your own parents, I dare say!’

      ‘Who is their choice?’

      Anne shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. Someone old and crabbed and toothless, I’m sure. Some crony of my aunt’s husband. Perhaps he will at least be rich.’

      ‘Oh, Anne, no!’

      ‘It does not signify. We should concentrate on yourromance. There must be a way we can smuggle a message to him. Oh, here, put mistletoe in your bough! It is the most important element, otherwise the magic won’t work.’

      Rosamund laughed, taking the thick bunch of glossy mistletoe from Anne and threading it through the centre of the bough. Surely there was some kind of magic floating about in the winter air. She felt lighter already with Christmas here.

      Yet, strangely, it was not Richard’s blond visage she saw as she gazed at the mistletoe but a pair of dark eyes. A lean, powerful body sheathed in close-fitting velvet and leather flying across the glistening ice.

      ‘Holly and ivy, box and bay,’ she whispered, ‘put in the house for Christmas Day.’

      There was a sudden commotion at the end of the gallery, a burst of activity as a group of men rushed inside, bringing in the cold of the day. Among them was the handsome young man who had winked at Anne the day before—and been soundly ignored.

      And there was also Anton Gustavson, his skates slung over his shoulder, black waves of hair escaping from his fine velvet cap. They were full of loud laughter, noisy joviality.

      The ladies all giggled, blushing prettily at the sight of them.

      As СКАЧАТЬ