The Winter Queen (11 page)

Nay, she had to be very, very careful.

Her cheeks felt hot again as they turned onto yet another corridor, and she cursed her pale skin as she clutched at her prayer book until its leather edges bit into her hand. She was a most disloyal lover. Surely it was very wrong of her to think such things of the dark, dashing Swede, a man she had just met, when she had vowed to defy her parents for Richard?

Perhaps it was the romantic intrigues of Court invading her thoughts and emotions, turning her from herself, from her plans for the future. Aye, that was it. She needed to talk to Celia, to hear news of home.

Rosamund filed into the chapel, taking her seat on the bench behind the Queen's high-backed chair with the other maids. Even in the chapel—a long, vast space of soaring, ribbed ceilings, and marble columns draped
with royal standards—there were gossiping whispers, but they were hushed. A breath of wind blew along the aisles between the cushioned benches.

Rosamund folded her hands atop the prayer book in her lap, staring up at the window high above the altar to the east of the chapel. But the reds and blues of the Crucifixion and Resurrection scenes were muted in the grey day and gave little scope for contemplation or distraction.

Plus the nape of her neck prickled, as if someone watched her most intently. She rubbed at the tingling spot, peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder.

Anton grinned at her from his place in one of the galleries. Rosamund instinctively wanted to laugh in return, but she pressed her lips tightly, returning her stare to her hands.

She had been so busy with her own feelings about their kiss, about what it meant, but now she wondered what
he
thought. What he felt. Was he, too, moved by what had happened between them? Or was it a mere diversion to him, one of many? She remembered all the ladies who followed him about, and feared she was becoming one of them.

Just another reason to stay away from him. If she could.

She peeked at him again, to find that he still watched her. One of his dark brows arched, as if in question. But she had no answers, either for him or herself.

She faced forward again as Master Buckenridge, one of the Queen's chaplains, climbed into the pulpit. ‘On this blessed day of the Nativity,' he began, ‘we must always reflect on the Lord's many gifts to us for the year ahead…'

 

‘What then doth make the element so bright? The heavens are come down upon earth to live!'

The Yule log was borne into the Great Hall, carried on the shoulders of a dozen strong men. Anton and Lord Langley had indeed found a grand one, Rosamund thought, applauding with the rest of the company. As long and thick as a ceiling beam, the great, oak log was adorned with greenery and garlands tied up with ribbons. It would be lowered into the great fireplace, where it would burn until the end of the holiday on Twelfth Night.

And, as it burst into light, who knew what would happen?

Rosamund smiled as she watched the log being paraded around the hall, its streamers waving merrily. She remembered Christmases at Ramsay Castle; her father and his men had gone out to proudly carry back the largest, thickest Yule log from their own forest. Her mother had laughingly protested that it was too big even to come through the door. And the entire household would sing as the embers from last year's Christmas had set it alight.

Suddenly, she was engulfed by a cold wave of homesickness, of sadness that she was not there with her family to share their holiday. She felt terribly alone in the very midst of the noisy crowd, adrift.

Rosamund eased away from the others as they pressed towards the log until she could slip out of the doors and into the comparatively quiet corridor. There was no one there to see her as she hurried towards the Waterside Gallery. No one to see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

She furiously scrubbed at those tears, brushing them away as she dashed up a narrow staircase. She was a fool to cry, to miss something she'd never really had in the first place. Once, she had imagined her parents had truly cared for her and her happiness. She had envied
their long marriage, their contented home, and had imagined she could have the same. It would never have been with Richard, though; she saw that now.

‘It is only the holiday,' she muttered to herself as she tiptoed into the gallery. ‘Everyone turns melancholy and sentimental at Christmas.'

She stopped by one of the high windows, leaning on the narrow sill as she peered outside. No one was in the gallery today; they were all in the Great Hall to watch the Yule log being brought in, and she had the echoing space to herself.

The gallery was narrow but very long, running along the Thames to afford a view of the life of the river, the boats and barges that constantly passed by. But now the great river was frozen over, a silver-blue expanse that sparkled under the weak sunlight. Only a small rivulet of slushy water ran along the centre.

Soon it would be frozen, through, solid enough to walk or ride on. Assuredly solid enough to skate on.

Rosamund wondered what it felt like, gliding along as if on glass, twirling through the cold air, her hand anchored in Anton's as he pulled her along. She knew his body now, the lean, flexible strength of it. He knew the ice; could he keep her safe on it too? Teach her his secrets?

‘Rosamund?' she heard him say, as if her visions made him real. ‘Is something amiss?'

She glanced over her shoulder to see him standing at the end of the gallery. He wore black as usual, fine velvet with an almost blue sheen set off with pewter-grey satin trim that made his dark hair gleam.

‘Nay,' she said. ‘It was just too warm in the hall. I needed some fresh air.'

‘Very wise,' he said, walking slowly towards her. His movements had a powerful, cat-like grace, reminding
her of her ice dreams. ‘We should save our breath for dancing.'

Rosamund laughed. ‘And you will need it. The volta is most challenging.'

He smiled at her, leaning against the window sill at her side. ‘Do you think I am not equal to it?'

She took a deep, unsteady breath, remembering the strength of his hands as he'd grasped her waist, lifting her against him as she'd wound her legs around his hips. ‘I think you have a fair chance of succeeding.'

‘Only fair? You have not a high estimation of my skills, then.'

On the contrary
, Rosamund thought wryly. His ‘skills' were of a high calibre indeed. ‘I am sure you will be able to dance by Twelfth Night. But when can we skate on the Thames?'

He peered out of the window, his dark eyes narrowed as he gauged the view of the river. ‘Not long now, I think. But I should hate to try it too soon and run into danger. Not when you have not tried skating before.'

It is too soon
; Rosamund remembered her father saying this about Richard.
You do not know him well enough to know your own mind. He is not the one for you
. She sensed, deep down, that Anton was not as Richard was, was not shallow. He was like the river under the ice, all hidden currents that promised escape and wondrous beauty such as she had never known. That was what made him so very dangerous.

‘You look sad, Rosamund,' Anton said, turning his intent gaze onto her. ‘You
are
unwell.'

She shook her head. ‘I am not ill. I was just thinking of my family, my home. Christmas is a very merry time there.'

‘And this is your first holiday away from them?'

‘Nay. Sometimes, when I was a very small child, really before I can remember, my parents would come to Court. My father served the Queen's father and her brother. But in the last few years we have always been together. My father takes special pride in his Yule log, and my mother would always have me help her make wreaths and garlands to put all over the house. And, on Christmas night, all the neighbours come to a feast in our hall, and it is…'

Rosamund paused, the homesickness upon her again. ‘But I will not be there tonight.'

Anton leaned closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers. Rosamund blinked up at him, startled to read understanding in his eyes. Sympathy. ‘It is a difficult thing, to feel far from home. From where one belongs.'

‘Aye,' she said. ‘But your home is much farther than mine, I fear. You must think I am ridiculous, to be so sad when I am here at Court, surrounded by my own countrymen and all this festivity.'

‘I do not miss Sweden,' he answered. ‘But if I had a family like yours I would long for them, too.'

‘A family like mine?'

‘'Tis obvious that you love them, Rosamund, as they must love you. I've often wondered what it would feel like to have a home such as that. A place to truly belong, not just possess. A place where there are well-loved traditions, shared hopes, comfortable days.' He smiled at her. ‘And feasts for the neighbours.'

‘I…' Rosamund stared at him in astonishment. He described so exactly her own secret hopes, the dreams she had come to feel were impossible in an uncertain world such as theirs. ‘That sounds wondrous indeed. Yet I fear it is an impossible dream.'

‘Is it truly? And here I thought your England was a land of dreams. Of families like yours.'

‘But what of your own family?'

His lips tightened. ‘My family is dead, I fear. Yet my mother, she left me tales of her homeland here. Of, as you say, impossible dreams.'

Rosamund watched him, suddenly deeply curious. What was his family like—his home, his past? Where did he truly come from? What other dreams did he hold? She so wanted to know more of him, to know everything. To see what else they shared. ‘What tales did she tell you, Anton?'

But the moment of quiet, intense intimacy was gone, vanished like a rare snowflake drifting towards earth. He gave her a careless smile.

‘Far too many to tell now,' he said. ‘Don't we have a great deal of work to do if I am to dance a volta on Twelfth Night?'

Rosamund sensed he would share no more glimpses of his soul now, and she should guard hers better. ‘Quite right. Come, we will begin our lessons, then.'

‘Just as you say, my lady,' he said, giving her an elaborate bow as he offered his hand with a flourish. ‘I am yours to command.'

Rosamund laughed. She doubted he was anyone's to command at all, despite the fact that he was here on an errand for his king. But she would play along for the hour. She took his hand, leading him to the centre of the gallery.

As his fingers closed over hers, she had to remind herself that they were here to dance. To win—or, rather, lose—a wager, not to hide behind tapestries and kisses. To fall deep, deep into that blissful forgetfulness of passion. To leave behind the Court, the Queen, all she
owed her family, all the careful balancing that life at Whitehall was. She wanted him, and that could not be. Not here, not now.

‘Now,' she said sternly, as much to herself as him. ‘We begin with a basic galliard. Imagine the music like this—one,
two
, one,
two
, three. Right, left, right, left, and jump, landing with one leg ahead of the other. Like so.'

She demonstrated, and he followed her smoothly, landing in a vigorous leap.

‘Very good,' Rosamund said, laughing. ‘Are you certain you do not know how to dance?'

‘Nay. You are merely a fine teacher, Lady Rosamund.'

‘We shall see, for now we come to the difficult part. We take two bars of music now to move into the volta position.' Rosamund drew in a deep breath, trying to brace herself for the next steps.

Her parents considered the volta a scandalous Italian sort of dance, and had only allowed her to learn it when Master Geoffrey had insisted it was essential at Court, the Queen's favourite dance. But Master Geoffrey was an older, mincing, exacting man who tended to have loud, ridiculous tantrums when frustrated by her slowness. She had a feeling that dancing the volta with Anton would be a rather different experience.

‘Now, let go of my hand and face me, like so,' she said, trying to be stern and tutor-like.

‘And what do I do now?' he said, smiling down at her as they stood close.

Rosamund swallowed hard. ‘You—you place one hand on my waist, like this.' She took his right hand in hers, laying his fingers just where her stiff, satin bodice curved in. ‘And your other hand goes on my back, above my…'

‘Your—what?'

‘
Here
.' She put his hand above her bottom, her whole
body feeling taut and brittle, as if she might snap as soon as he moved his body against hers.

His smile flickered as if he, too, felt that crackling tension. ‘And what do you do?'

Stand and stare like a simpleton, mayhap?
Rosamund could hardly remember. ‘I put my hand here, on your shoulder. Now, you face me thus, and I face to the side. We turn with a forward step, both with the same foot at the same time. One, two…'

But Anton got ahead of her, stepping forward before she did. His leg tangled in her skirts and she tilted off-balance, falling towards the floor.