The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe
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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?’
‘Or another of your endless parade of admirers,’ Nils said as Mary Howard and two of her friends strolled past, giggling. Mary glanced at Anton, then looked quickly away, blushing.
‘They are all enamoured after your great bouts of showing off on the ice,’ Nils said, sounding disgruntled indeed.
‘And now that the Thames is near frozen over he will have even more such opportunities,’ Johan added.
‘You can be sure all the ladies will find excuses to be in the Queen’s Riverside Gallery just to watch,’ Nils said. ‘To blow kisses and toss flowers from the windows.’
Anton laughed, turning away from their teasing. He relished those stolen moments on the ice, speeding along with no thought except of the cold, the movement, the rare, wondrous rush of freedom. Could he help it if others too wanted to share in that freedom, in that feeling of flying above the cold, hard earth and all its complex cares?
‘They merely want to learn how to skate,’ he said.
‘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.