The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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      Eyes that widened as they spied her standing there, staring at him like some addled peasant girl. He handed the lady his empty goblet and moved towards Rosamund, graceful and intent as a cat. Rosamund longed to run, to spin around and flee back into the woods, yet her feet seemed nailed into place. She could not dash off, could not even look away from him.

      ‘Well, well,’ he said, a smile touching the corner of his sensual lips. ‘Who do we have here?’

      Rosamund, feeling utterly flustered and foolish, was finally able to turn around and flee, Anton’s startled laughter chasing her all the way back to the safety of her litter.

      Chapter Two

      ‘Very nearly there now, Lady Rosamund,’ the captain of the guard said. ‘Aldgate is just ahead.’

      Rosamund slowly roused herself from the stupor she had fallen in to, a hazy, dream-like state formed of the cold, the tiredness—and thoughts of the mysterious Anton, that other-worldly man of dark beauty and inhuman grace spinning on the ice. Had she really seen him? Or had he been a vision?

      Whatever it was, she had behaved like an utter ninny, running away like a frightened little rabbit—and for what? For fear? Aye, perhaps fear of falling into some sort of enchanted winter spell. She had made a mistake with Richard—she would not do that again.

      ‘You are a very silly girl indeed,’ she muttered. ‘Queen Elizabeth will surely send you home as quick as can be.’

      She parted the litter curtains, peering out into the grey day. While she’d dreamed and fretted, they had left the countryside behind entirely and entered a whole new world, the crowded, bustling, noisy world of London. As her little entourage passed through the gate, they joined a vast river-flow of humanity, thick knots of people hurrying on their business. Carts, coaches, horses, mules and humans on foot rushed over the frosty cobblestones, their shouts, cries and clatters all a tangled cacophony to her ears.

      Rosamund had not been to London since she was a child. Her parents preferred the country, and on the few occasions when her father had to be at Court he came alone. She was educated in the ways of Queen Elizabeth’s cosmopolitan Court, of course, in fashion, dancing, conversation and music. But like her parents she preferred the quiet of the country, the long days to read and think.

      But after the solitary lanes and groves, with only the bird songs for company, this was astounding. Rosamund stared in utter fascination.

      Their progress was slow through the narrow streets, the faint grey light turned even dimmer by the tall, close-packed, half-timbered buildings. Peaked rooflines nearly touched high above the streets, while at walkway-level shop windows were open and counters spread with fine wares: ribbons and gloves, gold and silver jewellery, beautiful leather-bound books that enticed her more than anything; their colour and shine flashed through the gloom and then were gone as she moved ever forward.

      And the smell! Rosamund pressed the fur-lined edge of her cloak to her nose, her eyes watering as she tried to take a deep breath. The cold air helped; the latrine ditch along the middle of the street was almost frozen over, a noxious stew of frost, ice and waste. But there was still a miasma of rotting vegetables, horse manure and waste buckets dumped from the upper windows, overlaid with the sweetness of roasted meats and sugared nuts, cider and chimney smoke.

      The previous year had been a bad plague-year, but it seemed not to have affected the London population at all to judge by the great crowds. Everyone was pushing and shoving their way past, hurrying on their business, slipping on the cobbles and the churned-up, frozen mud. They seemed too busy, or too cold, to harass the poor souls locked in the stocks.

      A few ragged beggars pressed towards Rosamund’s litter, but her guards shoved them back.

      ‘Stand away, varlet!’ her captain growled. ‘This is one of the Queen’s own ladies.’

      The Queen’s own lady—gawking like a milkmaid. Rosamund slumped back against her cushions, suddenly reminded of why she was here—not to stare at people and shops, but to take up duties at Court. Whitehall grew closer with every breath.

      She took a small looking-glass from her embroidered travel-bag. The sight that met her gaze caused nothing but dismay. Her hair, the fine, silver-blonde strands that never wanted to be tidy, struggled from her caul. She had hastily shoved up the strands after her excursion in the woods, and it showed.

      Her cheeks were bright pink with cold, her blue eyes purple-rimmed with too many restless nights. She looked like a wild forest-spirit, not a fine lady!

      ‘My parents’ hopes that I will find a spectacular match at Court are certainly in vain,’ she muttered, tidying her hair the best she could. She put on her feathered, velvet cap over the caul and smoothed her gloves over her wrists.

      Having made herself as tidy as possible, she peeked outside again. They had left the thickest of the city crowds behind and reached the palace of Whitehall at last.

      Most of the vast complex was hidden from view, tucked away behind walls and long, plain-fronted galleries. But Rosamund knew what lay beyond from her reading and her father’s tales—large banquet-halls, palatial chambers, beautiful gardens of mazes, fountains and manicured flower-beds. All full of lushly dressed, staring, gossiping courtiers.

      She drew in a deep breath, her stomach fluttering. She closed her eyes, trying to think of Richard, of anything but what awaited her behind those walls.

      ‘My lady?’ her guard said. ‘We have arrived.’

      She opened her eyes to find him waiting just outside the finally still litter, Jane just behind him. She nodded and held out her hand to let him assist her to alight.

      For a moment, the ground seemed to rock beneath her boots; the flagstones were unsteady. The wind here was a bit colder at the foot of a staircase that led from the narrow lane in St James’s Park up to the beginning of the long Privy Gallery. There were no crowds pressed close to warm the air, no close-packed buildings. Just the expanse of brick and stone, that looming staircase.

      The stench too was much less, the smell of smoke and frost hanging behind her in the park. That had to be counted a blessing.

      ‘Oh, my lady!’ Jane fussed, brushing at Rosamund’s cloak. ‘You’re all creased.’

      ‘It does not signify, Jane,’ Rosamund answered. ‘We have been on a very long journey. No one expects us to be ready for a grand banquet.’ She hoped. She really had no idea what to expect now that they were here. Ever since she’d glimpsed that man Anton spinning on the ice, she felt she had fallen into some new, strange life, one she did not understand at all.

      She heard the hollow click of footsteps along flagstone, measured and unhurried, and she glanced up to find a lady coming down the stairs. It could not be a servant; her dark-green wool gown, set off by a small yellow frill at the neck and yellow silk peeking out from the slashed sleeves, was too fine. Grey-streaked brown hair was smoothed up under a green cap, and her pale, creased face was wary and watchful, that of someone long at Court.

      As she herself should be, Rosamund thought—wary and watchful. She might be just a country mouse, but she knew very well there were many pitfalls waiting at Court.

      ‘Lady Rosamund Ramsay?’ the woman said. ‘I am Blanche Parry, Her Grace’s second gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber. Welcome to Whitehall.’

      Rosamund СКАЧАТЬ