The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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СКАЧАТЬ that Blanche Parry was truly the first gentlewoman, as Kat Ashley—the official holder of the title—grew old and ill. Mistress Ashley and the Parrys had been with the Queen since she’d been a child; they knew all that went on at Court. It would certainly never do to get into their ill graces.

      Rosamund curtsied, hoping her tired legs would not give out. ‘How do you do, Mistress Parry? I am most honoured to be here.’

      A wry little smile touched Blanche Parry’s pale lips. ‘And so you should be—though I fear you may think otherwise very soon. We will keep you very busy indeed, Lady Rosamund, with the Christmas festivities upon us. The Queen has ordered that there be every trimming for the holiday this year.’

      ‘I very much enjoy Christmas, Mistress Parry,’ Rosamund said. ‘I look forward to serving Her Grace.’

      ‘Very good. I have orders to take you to her right now.’

      ‘Now?’ Rosamund squeaked. She was to meet the Queen now, in all her travel-rumpled state? She glanced at Jane, who seemed just as dismayed. She had been planning for weeks which gown, which sleeves, which headdress Rosamund should wear to be presented to Queen Elizabeth.

      Mistress Parry raised her eyebrows. ‘As I said, Lady Rosamund, this is a very busy season of the year. Her Grace is most anxious that you should begin your duties right away.’

      ‘Of—of course, Mistress Parry. Whatever Her Grace wishes.’

      Mistress Parry nodded, and turned to climb the stairs again. ‘If you will follow me, then? Your servants will be seen to.’

      Rosamund gave Jane a reassuring nod before she hurried off after Mistress Parry. The gallery at this end was spare and silent, dark hangings on the walls muffling noise from both inside and out. A few people hurried past, but they were obviously intent on their own errands and paid her no mind.

      They crossed over the road through the crenellated towers of the Holbein Gate, and were then in the palace proper. New, wide windows looked down onto the snow-dusted tiltyard. A shining blue-and-gold ceiling arched overhead, glowing warmly through the grey day, and a rich-woven carpet warmed the floor underfoot, muffling their steps.

      Rosamund wasn’t sure what she longed to look at first. The courtiers—clusters of people clad in bright satins and jewel-like velvets—stood near the window, talking in low, soft voices. Their words and laughter were like fine music, echoing off the panelled walls. They stared curiously at Rosamund as she passed, and she longed to stare in return.

      But there were also myriad treasures on display. There were the usual tapestries and paintings, portraits of the Queen and her family, as well as glowing Dutch still-lifes of flowers and fruits. But there were also strange curiosities collected by so many monarchs over the years and displayed in cabinets. A wind-up clock of an Ethiop riding a rhinoceros; busts of Caesar and Attila the Hun; crystals and cameos. A needlework map of England, worked by one of the Queen’s many stepmothers. A painting of the family of Henry VIII, set in this very same gallery.

      But Rosamund had no time to examine any of it. Mistress Parry led her onward, down another corridor. This one was lined with closed doors, quiet and dark after the sparkle of the gallery.

      ‘Some of the Queen’s ladies sleep here,’ Mistress Parry said. ‘The dormitory of the maids of honour is just down there.’

      Rosamund glanced towards where her own lodgings would be, just before she was led onto yet another corridor. She had no idea how she would ever find her way about without getting endlessly lost! This space too was full of life and noise, more finely clad courtiers, guards in the Queen’s red-and-gold livery, servants carrying packages and trays.

      ‘And these are the Queen’s own apartments,’ Mistress Parry said, nodding to various people as they passed. ‘If Her Grace sends you to someone with a message during the day, you will probably find them here in the Privy Chamber.’

      Rosamund swept her gaze over the crowd, the chattering hoard who played cards at tables along the tapestry-lined walls, or just chatted, seemingly careless and idle. But their glances were bright and sharp, missing nothing.

      ‘How will I know who is who?’ she murmured.

      Mistress Parry laughed. ‘Oh, believe me, Lady Rosamund—you will learn who is who soon enough.’

      A man emerged from the next chamber, tall, lean and dark, clad in a brilliant peacock-blue satin doublet. He glanced at no one from his burning-black eyes, yet everyone quickly cleared a path for him as he stalked away.

      ‘And that is the first one you must know,’ Mistress Parry said. ‘The Earl of Leicester, as he has been since the autumn.’

      ‘Really?’ Rosamund glanced over her shoulder, but the dark figure had already vanished. So, that was the infamous Robert Dudley! The most powerful man at Court. ‘He did not seem very content.’

      Mistress Parry sadly shook her head. ‘He is a fine gentleman indeed, Lady Rosamund, but there is much to trouble him of late.’

      ‘Truly?’ Rosamund said. She would have thought he would be over the strange death of his wife by now. But then, there were always ‘troubles’ on the horizon for those as lofty and ambitious as Robert Dudley. ‘Such as…?’

      ‘You will hear soon enough, I am sure,’ Mistress Parry said sternly. ‘Come along.’

      Rosamund followed her from the crowded Privy Chamber, through a smaller room filled with fine musical instruments and then into a chamber obviously meant for dining. Fine carved tables and cushioned x-backed chairs were pushed to the dark linen-fold panelled walls along with plate-laden buffets. Rosamund glimpsed an enticing book-filled room, but she was led away from there through the sacred and silent Presence Chamber, into the Queen’s own bedchamber.

      And her cold nerves, forgotten in the curiosities of treasures and Lord Leicester, returned in an icy rush. She clutched tightly to the edge of her fur-lined cloak, praying she would not faint or be sick.

      The bedchamber was not large, and it was rather dim, as there was only one window, with heavy red-velvet draperies drawn back from the mullioned glass. A fire blazed in the stone grate, crackling warmly and casting a red-orange glow over the space.

      The bed dominated the chamber. It was a carved edifice of different woods set in complex inlaid patterns sat up on a dais, piled high with velvet-and-satin quilts and bolsters. The black velvet and cloth-of-gold hangings were looped back and bound with thick gold cords. A dressing table set near the window sparkled with fine Venetian glass bottles and pots, a locked lacquered-cabinet behind it.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ