The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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      ‘Skate, is it?’ Nils answered. ‘I have never heard it called that.’

      Anton shook his head, twirling his skates over his shoulder as he strolled towards the palace. ‘You should turn your attention to the feast tonight,’ he called back. ‘Her Grace deplores lateness.’

      ‘So you have decided to be the Queen’s amusement, then?’ Nils said as he and Johan hurried to catch up.

      Anton laughed. ‘I haven’t Lord Leicester’s fortitude in such matters, I fear. I could not amuse her for long. Nor could I ever have Melville’s and Maitland’s devotion. To serve two queens, Scots and English, would be exhausting indeed. But we were sent here to perform a diplomatic task, van. If by making merry in Her Grace’s Great Hall we may accomplish that, we must do it.’

      He grinned at them, relishing the looks of bafflement on their faces. So much the better if he could always keep everyone guessing as to his true meaning, his true motives. ‘Even if it is a great sacrifice indeed to drink the Queen’s wine and talk with her pretty ladies.’

      He turned from them, running up a flight of stone stairs towards the gallery. Usually crowded with the curious, the bored, and those hurrying on very important errands, at this hour the vast space was near empty. Everyone was tucked away in their own corners, carefully choosing their garments for the evening ahead.

      Plotting their next move in the never-ending game of Court life.

      He needed to do the same. He had heard that his cousin had recently arrived at Whitehall to plot the next countermove in the game of Briony Manor. Anton had not yet met with his opponent, but Briony was a ripe plum, indeed. Neither of them was prepared to let it go without a fight, no matter what their grandfather’s will commanded.

      But Anton could be a fierce opponent, too. Briony meant much more than a mere house, a mere parcel of land. He was ready to do battle for it—even if the battle was on a tiltyard of charm, flirtation and deception.

      He turned towards the apartments given to the Swedish delegation, hidden amid the vast warrens of Whitehall’s corridors. As he did, his attention was caught by a soft flurry of laughter. It was quiet, muffled, but bright as a golden ribbon, woven through the grey day and heavy thoughts.

      ‘Shh!’ he heard a lady whisper. ‘It’s this way, but we have to hurry.’

      ‘Oh, Anne! I’m not sure…’

      Curious, Anton peered around the corner to see two female figures clad in the silver and white of maids of honour tiptoe along a narrow, windowless passage. One was Anne Percy, a pretty, pert brunette who had caught Johan’s devoted attention.

      And the lady with her was his winter-fairy; her silvery-blonde hair shimmered in the shadows. For an instant he could hardly believe it. He had almost come to think her a dream, a woodland creature of snow and ice who did not really exist.

      Yet there she was, giggling as she crept through the palace. She glanced back over her shoulder as Anton slid back into the concealment of the shadows, and he saw that it unmistakably was her. She had that fairy’s pale, heart-shaped face with bright-blue eyes that fairly glowed.

      For an instant, her shoulders stiffened and she went very still. Anton feared she’d spotted him, but then Anne Percy tugged on her arm and the two of them vanished around a corner.

      He stared at the spot where she had been for a long moment. The air there seemed to shimmer, as if a star had danced down for only an instant then had shot away. Who was she?

      His fanciful thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of Johan and Nils catching up with him at last.

      ‘What are you staring at?’ Nils asked.

      Anton shook his head hard, trying to clear it of fairy dreams, of useless distractions. ‘I thought I heard something,’ he said.

      ‘’Twas probably one of your admirers lying in wait for you,’ Johan laughed.

      Anton smiled ruefully. If only that was so. But he was certain, from the way she had run away from him by the pond, that would never be. And that was a fortunate thing indeed. There was no room in his life for enchanting winter-fairies and their spells.

      He found himself loath to ruin her happy sparkle with his dark, icy touch and uncertain future.

      Chapter Four

      The Queen’s feast was not held in her Great Hall, which was being cleaned and readied for the start of the Christmas festivities, but in a smaller chamber near her own apartments. Yet it felt no less grand. Shimmering tapestries, scenes of summer hunts and picnics, warmed the dark-panelled walls, and a fire blazed away in the grate. Its red-orange glow cast heat and flickering light over the low, gilt-laced ceiling and over the fine plates and goblets that lined the white damask-draped tables.

      Two lutenists played a lively tune as Rosamund took her place on one of the cushioned benches below the Queen’s, and liveried servants carried in the heavily laden platters and poured out ale and spiced wine.

      Rosamund thought she must still be tired from the journey, from trying to absorb these new surroundings, for the scene seemed to be one vast, colourful whirl, like looking at the world through a shard of stained glass where everything was distorted. Laughter was loud; the clink of knives on silver was like thunder. The scent of wine, roasted meats, wood smoke and flowery perfumes was sharper.

      She sat with the other maids in a group rather than scattered among the guests, all of them like a flock of winter wrens in their white-and-silver gowns. That was a relief to her, not having to converse yet with the sharp-eyed courtiers. Instead, she merely sipped at her wine and listened to Anne quarrel with Mary Howard.

      Queen Elizabeth sat above the crowd on her dais, with the Austrian ambassador, Adam von Zwetkovich, to one side and the head of the Swedish delegation to the other. Luckily, he was not the dark, skating man of the handsome smile, but a shorter, stockier blond man, who spent most of his time glaring at the Austrians. On his other side was the Scottish Sir James Melville.

      But, if the dark Swede was not there, where was he? Rosamund sat with her back to the other table set in the U-formation, and she had to strongly resist the urge to glance behind her.

      ‘Rosamund, you must try some of this,’ Anne said, sliding a bit of spiced pork pie onto Rosamund’s plate. ‘It is quite delicious, and you have had nothing to eat since you arrived.’

      ‘’Tis not at all fashionable to be so slight,’ Mary Howard sniffed, derisively eyeing Rosamund’s narrow shoulders in her silver-satin sleeves. ‘Perhaps they care not for fashion in the country, but here, Lady Rosamund, you will find it of utmost importance.’

      ‘It is better than not being able to fit into one’s bodice,’ Anne retorted. ‘Or mayhap such over-tight lacing is meant to catch Lord Fulkes’s eye?’

      ‘Even though he is betrothed to Lady Ponsonby,’ said Catherine Knyvett, another of the maids.

      Mary Howard tossed her head. ‘I care not a fig for Lord Fulkes, or his betrothed. I merely wished to give Lady Rosamund some friendly advice as she is so newly arrived at Court.’

      ‘I hardly think she needs your advice,’ Anne said. ‘Most of the men in this room cannot keep their eyes off her already.’

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