The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe

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      Anne peered out of the window again. ‘If he does, he has made a great mistake with that one. That is Lettice Devereaux, Countess of Essex—the Queen’s cousin. Her husband the earl is away fighting the wild Irish, but it does not stop her making merry at Court.’ She tugged at Rosamund’s arm, drawing her away from the window and its enticing view. ‘Come, let me show you our chamber. I will have much more gossip to share before the feast tonight.’

      The feast in honour of those same quarrelling delegations, Rosamund remembered as she followed Anne along the corridor. It certainly should be a most interesting evening.

      Perhaps if she wrote to Richard about it he would write to her in return? If he ever received the letter, that was. He was a country gentleman, not much interested in labyrinthine Court affairs, but he did enjoy a fine jest. It was one of the things she had liked about him. That was if she still wanted to hear from him, which she was not at all sure of.

      Anne led Rosamund back to one of the quieter, narrower halls. It was dark here, as there were no windows, and the torches in their sconces were not yet lit. The painted cloths that hung along the walls swayed as they passed. Rosamund thought surely the intrigues of Court were already affecting her, for she imagined all the schemes that could be whispered of in such a spot.

      ‘That is the Privy Council Chamber,’ Anne whispered, indicating a half-open door. The room was empty, but Rosamund glimpsed a long table lined with straight-backed chairs. ‘We maids never go in there.’

      ‘Don’t you ever wonder what happens there?’ Rosamund whispered in return. ‘What is said?’

      ‘Of course! But Her Grace does not ask our opinion on matters of state. Though she does ask us for news of Court doings, which is much the same thing.’

      She tugged on Rosamund’s arm again, leading her into what could only be the chamber of the maids of honour. A long, narrow, rectangular space, it was lined with three beds on each side. They were certainly not as large and grand as the Queen’s own sleeping space. The beds were made of dark, uncarved wood, but they were spread with warm, green velvet-and-wool quilts and hung with heavy, gold-embroidered green curtains. A large clothes chest and a washstand stood by each bed, and the rest of the room was filled with dressing tables and looking glasses.

      It was a peaceful enough space now, but Rosamund could imagine the cacophony when six ladies were in residence.

      Her maid Jane was at one of the beds on the far end, unpacking Rosamund’s trunks; she clucked and fussed over the creased garments. The satins, velvets, brocades and furs her parents had provided were all piled up in a gleaming heap.

      ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Anne exclaimed. ‘You are in the bed beside mine. We can whisper at night. It has been so quiet since Eleanor Mortimer left.’

      ‘What happened to her?’ Rosamund asked, picking up a sable muff that had fallen from the pile of finery.

      ‘The usual thing, I fear. She became pregnant and had to leave Court in disgrace. She is quite fortunate she didn’t end up in the Tower, like poor Katherine Grey!’ Anne perched on the edge of her own bed, swinging her feet in their satin shoes. ‘Did you mean it when you told the Queen you were not here to find a husband?’

      ‘Of a certes,’ Rosamund said, thinking again of Richard. Of the letters from him she had never received. One man to worry about at a time was enough.

      ‘That is very good. You must keep saying that—and meaning it. Marriage without the Queen’s permission brings such great trouble. Oh, Rosamund! You should wear that petticoat tonight, it is vastly pretty…’

      Chapter Three

      ‘She wants you, Anton,’ Johan Ulfson said. He was laughing, yet his tone was tinged with unmistakable envy.

      Anton watched Lady Essex stroll slowly away along the garden pathway, her dark-red hair a beacon in the winter day. She peeked back over her shoulder, then swept off with her friends, their laughter drifting back on the cold wind.

      He had to laugh, too. The young countess was alluring indeed, with her sparkling eyes, teasing smiles and her claims of vast loneliness with her husband away in Ireland. He could even enjoy the flirtation, the distraction from the hard tasks he carried here at the English Queen’s Court. But he saw it—and Lettice Deveraux—for what they were.

      And now he could hardly see the countess’s red hair and lush figure. A vision of silver and ivory, of wide blue eyes, kept overtaking his thoughts. Who was she, that beautiful winter-fairy? Why had she run away so fast, vanishing into the mist and snow before he could talk to her?

      How could he ever find her again?

      ‘You are blind when it comes to a pretty face,’ he told Johan, but he could just as well be talking of himself. ‘The countess has other game in her sights. I am merely a pawn for her.’

      He inclined his head towards Lord Leicester, who stood across the garden amid a cluster of his supporters. Everyone at this Court seemed entirely unable to move singly; they had to rove about in packs, like the white wolves of Sweden.

      Lady Essex might have her sights firmly on him, but Leicester had his on a far greater prize. It would be amusing to see which of them prevailed.

      If Anton would be here to see the end-game at all. He might be settling into his own English estate, the birthright that should have been his mother’s. Or he might be back in Stockholm, walking the perilous tightrope at the court of an increasingly erratic king and his rebellious, ambitious brother. Either way, he had to fulfill his mission now or face unpleasant consequences.

      Lady Essex was a distraction, aye, but one he could easily manage. When she was away, he thought not of her. That winter-fairy, though…

      Perhaps it was a good thing he did not know who she was, or where to find her. He sensed that she would be one distraction not so easily put away.

      ‘Pawn or no, Anton, you should take what she offers,’ Johan said. ‘Our days are dull enough here without such amusements as we can find.’

      ‘Ja,’ Nils Vernerson added, his own stare sweeping over the occupants of the frost-fringed gardens. ‘The Queen will never accept King Eric. She merely plays with us for her amusement.’

      ‘Is it better to be the plaything of a queen?’ Anton said, laughing. ‘Or a countess? If our fate this Christmas is only to provide entertainment for the ladies.’

      ‘I can think of worse fates,’ Johan muttered. ‘Such as being sent to fight the Russians.’

      ‘Better to fight wars of words with Queen Elizabeth,’ said Nils, ‘than battle Tsar Ivan and his barbaric hoards on the frozen steppes. I hope we are never recalled to Stockholm.’

      ‘Better we do our duty to Sweden here, among the bored and lonely ladies of the Queen’s train,’ Anton said. ‘They should help make our Christmas merry indeed.’

      ‘If you ever solve your puzzle,’ Johan said.

      ‘And which puzzle is that?’ said Anton. ‘We live with so many of late.’

      ‘You certainly do. But you have not yet said—do you prefer to serve the needs of the countess, or the Queen?’

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