The Winter Queen. Amanda McCabe
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feast was not held in her Great Hall, which was being cleaned and readied for the start of the Christmas festivities, but in a smaller chamber near her own apartments. Yet it felt no less grand. Shimmering tapestries, scenes of summer hunts and picnics, warmed the dark-panelled walls, and a fire blazed away in the grate. Its red-orange glow cast heat and flickering light over the low, gilt-laced ceiling and over the fine plates and goblets that lined the white damask-draped tables.
Two lutenists played a lively tune as Rosamund took her place on one of the cushioned benches below the Queen’s, and liveried servants carried in the heavily laden platters and poured out ale and spiced wine.
Rosamund thought she must still be tired from the journey, from trying to absorb these new surroundings, for the scene seemed to be one vast, colourful whirl, like looking at the world through a shard of stained glass where everything was distorted. Laughter was loud; the clink of knives on silver was like thunder. The scent of wine, roasted meats, wood smoke and flowery perfumes was sharper.
She sat with the other maids in a group rather than scattered among the guests, all of them like a flock of winter wrens in their white-and-silver gowns. That was a relief to her, not having to converse yet with the sharp-eyed courtiers. Instead, she merely sipped at her wine and listened to Anne quarrel with Mary Howard.
Queen Elizabeth sat above the crowd on her dais, with the Austrian ambassador, Adam von Zwetkovich, to one side and the head of the Swedish delegation to the other. Luckily, he was not the dark, skating man of the handsome smile, but a shorter, stockier blond man, who spent most of his time glaring at the Austrians. On his other side was the Scottish Sir James Melville.
But, if the dark Swede was not there, where was he? Rosamund sat with her back to the other table set in the U-formation, and she had to strongly resist the urge to glance behind her.
‘Rosamund, you must try some of this,’ Anne said, sliding a bit of spiced pork pie onto Rosamund’s plate. ‘It is quite delicious, and you have had nothing to eat since you arrived.’
‘’Tis not at all fashionable to be so slight,’ Mary Howard sniffed, derisively eyeing Rosamund’s narrow shoulders in her silver-satin sleeves. ‘Perhaps they care not for fashion in the country, but here, Lady Rosamund, you will find it of utmost importance.’
‘It is better than not being able to fit into one’s bodice,’ Anne retorted. ‘Or mayhap such over-tight lacing is meant to catch Lord Fulkes’s eye?’
‘Even though he is betrothed to Lady Ponsonby,’ said Catherine Knyvett, another of the maids.
Mary Howard tossed her head. ‘I care not a fig for Lord Fulkes, or his betrothed. I merely wished to give Lady Rosamund some friendly advice as she is so newly arrived at Court.’
‘I hardly think she needs your advice,’ Anne said. ‘Most of the men in this room cannot keep their eyes off her already.’
‘Anne, that is not true,’ Rosamund murmured. She suddenly wished she could run and hide under her bedclothes, away from all the quarrels.
‘Rosamund, you are too modest,’ Anne said. ‘Look over there, you will see.’
Anne tugged on Rosamund’s arm, forcing her to turn to face the rest of the chamber. She did not see what Anne meant; everyone appeared to be watching the Queen, gauging her mood, matching their laughter to hers. She was the star they all revolved around, and she looked it tonight in a shining gown of gold brocade and black velvet, her pale-red hair bound with a gold corona headdress.
But one person did not watch the Queen. Instead he stared at her, Rosamund, with steady, dark intensity: Anton Gustavson. Aye, it was truly him.
He had been really beautiful in the cold, clear light of day, laughing as he’d flown so swiftly over the perilous ice, other-worldly in that aura of effortless happiness.
Here in the Queen’s fine palace, lit by firelight and torches, he was no less handsome. His hair, so dark it was nearly black, was brushed back from his brow in a glossy cap and shone like a raven’s wing. The flames flickered in shadows and light over the sharp, chiselled angles of his face, the high cheekbones and strong jaw.
But he no longer laughed. He was solemn as he watched her, the corners of his sensual lips turned down ever so slightly. He wore a doublet of dark-purple velvet inset with black satin that only emphasised that solemnity.
Rosamund’s bodice suddenly felt as tight as Mary Howard’s, pressing in on her until she could hardly take a breath. Something disquieting fluttered in her stomach. Her cheeks burned, as if she sat too close to the fire, yet she shivered.
What was wrong with her? What did he think when he looked at her so very seriously? Perhaps he remembered how ridiculous she had been, running away from him by the pond.
She forced herself to lift her chin, meeting his gaze steadily. Slowly those lips lifted in a smile, revealing a quick flash of surprisingly white teeth. It transformed the starkly elegant planes of his face, making him seem more the man of sunlight and ice.
Yet his dark-brown eyes, shielded by thick lashes longer than a man had a right to, were still unfathomable.
Rosamund found herself smiling back. She could no more keep herself from doing it than she could keep herself from breathing, his smile was so infectious. But she was also confused, flustered, and she turned away.
Servants cleared away the remains of the meat pies and the stewed vegetables and laid out fish and beef dishes in sweetened sauces, pouring out more wine. Rosamund nibbled at a bit of fricasséed rabbit, wondering if Anton Gustavson still watched her. Wondering what he thought of her, what was hidden behind those midnight eyes.
‘Oh, why do I even care?’ she muttered, ripping up a bit of fine white manchet-bread.
‘What is it you care about, Rosamund?’ Anne asked. ‘Did one of the gentlemen catch your eye?’
Rosamund shook her head. She could hardly tell Anne how handsome and intriguing she found Anton Gustavson. Anne was already an amusing companion, and she surely could offer some sage advice on the doings at Court, but Rosamund feared she would not refrain from teasing.
‘I will tell you a secret, Anne,’ she whispered. ‘If you swear to keep it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Anne breathed, wide-eyed. ‘I am excellent at secret-keeping.’
‘I have no interest in Court gentlemen,’ Rosamund said, ‘Because there is a gentleman at home I like.’ Perhaps that would make Anne let her alone!
‘A gentleman at home?’ Anne squeaked.
‘Shh!’ Rosamund hissed. They could say no more as servants delivered yet more dishes.
‘You must tell me more later,’ Anne said.
Rosamund nodded. She didn’t really want to talk about Richard, but surely better that than Master Gustavson. She poked her eating knife at a roasted pigeon in mint sauce. ‘How is so much eaten every night?’
‘Oh, this is naught!’ Mary Howard said. ‘Wait until the Christmas Eve banquet, Lady Rosamund. There will be dozens and dozens of dishes. And plum cake!’
‘We never can eat all of it,’ Anne said. ‘Not even Mary!’
Mary ignored her. ‘The dishes that are not used are given to the poor.’
As the talk among the maids turned to Court gossip—such as who stole unbroken meats from tables which they were not entitled to—sweet wafers stamped with falcons and Tudor roses were brought to the tables. The wine flowed on, making the chatter brighter and louder, and the laughter freer. Even Rosamund felt herself growing easier.
She almost forgot to wonder if Anton Gustavson still watched her. Almost. She peeked back at him once, only to find he was talking quietly with a lady in tawny-and-gold silk. The woman watched him very closely, her lips parted, as if his every word was vital to her.
Unaccountably disappointed, Rosamund swung back to face forward