Praise for Amanda McCabe

High Seas Stowaway

“Amanda McCabe has gifted us twice over—nothing is better than hearing about friends from other stories. High Seas Stowaway is a fast-paced, exciting novel. Amanda McCabe has done it again—a wonderful tale!”

—Cataromance

A Sinful Alliance

“Scandal, seduction, spies, counter spies, murder, love and loyalty are skillfully woven into the tapestry of the Tudor court. Richly detailed and brimming with historical events and personages, McCabe’s tale weaves together history and passion perfectly.”

—RT Book Reviews

A Notorious Woman

“Danger, deception and desire are the key ingredients in A Notorious Woman, and Amanda McCabe skillfully brews all these potent elements into a lushly sensual, exquisitely written love story.”

—Chicago Tribune

He was on the tall side, and whipcord lean.

His hair was black as a raven’s wing, falling around his face and over the high collar of his doublet in unruly waves. He impatiently pushed them back, revealing high, sharply carved cheekbones and dark, sparkling eyes.

Eyes that widened as they spied her standing there, staring at him like some addled peasant girl. He handed the lady his empty goblet and moved toward Rosamund, graceful and intent as a cat. She longed to run, to spin around and flee back into the woods, yet her feet seemed nailed into place. She could not dash off, could not even look away from him.

“Well, well,” he said, a smile touching the corner of his sensual lips. “Who do we have here?”

The Winter Queen

Harlequin® Historical

MILLS & BOON

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THE WINTER QUEEN
AMANDA MCCABE

Available from Harlequin®Historical and AMANDA MCCABE

*A Notorious Woman #861

*A Sinful Alliance #893

*High Seas Stowaway #930

The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor #943

“Charlotte and the Wicked Lord”

The Winter Queen #970

Other works include

Harlequin Historical Undone eBook

*Shipwrecked and Seduced

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Chapter One

December, 1564

…it is our deepest hope that, once at Court, you will see the great folly of your actions and rejoice at your happy escape from this poor match. The Queen has done our family a great honour by accepting you as one of her maids of honour. You have a chance to redeem yourself and our family name through service to Her Grace. To discover what will truly make you happy. Do not fail her, or us.

Lady Rosamund Ramsay crumpled her father’s letter in her gloved hand, slumping back against the cushions of the swaying litter. If only she could crush his words out of her memory so easily! Crush the memory of all that had happened since those sweet, warm days of summer. Was it all just months ago? It felt like years, vast years, where she had aged far beyond her nineteen years to become an old, old woman, unsure of herself and her desires.

Rosamund shivered as she tossed the crumpled letter into her embroidered bag, curling her booted feet tighter around the warmer that had long gone cold. The coals weren’t even smoldering embers now. It made her think of Richard, and their professed feelings for each other. The kisses they had stolen in the shade of green, flowering hedges. He hadn’t even tried to see her when her parents had separated them.

And now she was being sent away from Ramsay Castle, pushed out of her home and sent away to serve the Queen. No doubt her parents were sure she would be handily distracted there, in the midst of a noisy, crowded Court, like a fussing babe handed a glittering bauble. They thought that, with Queen Elizabeth’s patronage and all the fine, new gowns they had sent with her, Rosamund would find another match. A better one, more suited to the Ramsay name and fortune. They seemed to think surely one handsome face was as good as another in a young lady’s eye.

But little did they know her. They thought her a shy little mouse. But she could be a lion when she knew what she wanted. If only she knew what that was…

Rosamund parted the curtains of the litter, peering out at the passing landscape. Her parents’ desperation to send her away was so great that they had launched her out into the world as soon as the Queen’s letter had arrived, in the very midst of winter. The world beyond the narrow, frost-rutted roadway was one of bare, skeleton-like trees stretching bony branches towards a steel-gray sky. Thankfully, it was not snowing now, but drifts of white lay along the roadside in lumpy banks.

A sharp wind whistled through the bare trees, bitterly chilling. Rosamund’s escorts—armed guards on horseback, and her maid Jane in the baggage cart—huddled silently in their cloaks. She had not heard a single word since they had stopped at an inn last night, and likely all would be silent until they at last made it to London.

London. It seemed an impossible goal. The palace at Whitehall, with its warm fireplaces, was surely just a dream, as the cozy inn had been. The only reality was this jolting, jarring road, the mud, the never-ending cold that bit through her fur-lined cloak and woollen gown as if they were tissue.

Rosamund felt the hollow sadness of loneliness as she stared out at the bleak day. She had lost her parents and home, lost Richard and the love she had thought they shared. She had no one, and was faced with making a new life for herself in a place she knew so little of. A place where she could not fail, for fear she would never be allowed home again.

She drew in a deep breath of the frosty air, feeling its bracing cold stiffen her shoulders and bear her up. She was a Ramsay, and Ramsays did not fail! They had survived the vicissitudes of five Tudor monarchs thus far, and had escaped unscathed from them all, with a title and fine estate to show for it. Surely she, Rosamund, could make her way through the Queen’s Court without getting herself into more trouble?

Perhaps Richard would soon come to her rescue, prove his love to her. They just needed a plan to persuade her parents he was a worthy match.

Rosamund leaned slightly out of the litter, peering back at the cart rumbling along behind her. Jane sat perched among the trunks and cases, and she looked distinctly grey and queasy. It had been hours since they had left the inn, and Rosamund herself felt stiff and sore, even tucked up among the fur robes and cushions. Feeling suddenly wretched and selfish, she gestured to the captain of the guard that they should stop for a moment.

Jane hurried over to help her alight. ‘Oh, my lady!’ she gasped, fussing with Rosamund’s white-wool cloak and gloves. ‘You look frozen through. This is not a fit time for humans to be out and about, and no doubt about it!’

‘It is quite all right, Jane,’ Rosamund said soothingly. ‘We will soon be in London, and surely no one can keep a warmer household or finer table than the Queen? Just think of it—roaring fires. Roasted meats, wine and sweets. Clean bedclothes and thick curtains.’

Jane sighed. ‘If we only live to see it all, my lady. Winter is a terrible thing indeed. I don’t remember ever seeing a colder one.’

Rosamund left the maid straightening the litter’s cushions and headed into the thick growth of trees at the side of the road. She told Jane she needed to use the necessary, but in truth she really needed a moment alone, a moment of quiet, to stand on solid ground and be away from the constant sway of the hated litter.

She almost regretted venturing away from the road, as her boots sank into the slushy snow-drifts and slid across frozen puddles. The trees were bare and grey, but so closely grown she soon could not see her party at all. The branches seemed to close around her like the magical thicket of a fairy tale, a new and strange world where she was alone in truth. And there were no valiant knights to ride to her rescue.

Rosamund eased back her hood, shaking her silvery-blonde hair free of its knitted caul. It fell in a heavy mantle over her shoulders, blown by the cold wind. She turned her face up to the sky, to the swirling grey clouds. Soon enough, the crowds and clamour of London would shut out this blessed silence. She would surely not even be able to hear her own thoughts there, let alone the shriek of the wind, the rattle of the naked branches.

The laughter.

The laughter? Rosamund frowned, listening intently. Had she stepped into a story indeed, a tale of fairies and forest sprites? Aye, there it was again, the unmistakable sound of laughter and voices. Human voices too, not fairies or the whine of the winter wind. Still feeling under an enchanted spell, she followed the trail of that merry, enticing sound.

She emerged from the woods into a clearing, suddenly facing a scene from another world, another life. There was a frozen pond, a rough circle of shimmering, silver ice. On its banks crackled a bonfire, snapping red-gold flames that sent plumes of fragrant smoke into the sky and reached enticing tendrils of heat toward Rosamund’s chilled cheeks.

There were people, four of them, gathered around the fire—two men and two ladies, clad in rich velvets and furs. They laughed and chattered in the glow of the fire, sipping goblets of wine and roasting skewers of meat in the flames. And out in the very centre of that frozen pond was another man, gliding in lazy, looping circles.

Rosamund stared in utter astonishment as he twirled in a graceful, powerful arc, his lean body, sheathed only in a black, velvet doublet and leather breeches, spinning faster and faster. He was a dark blur on that shining ice, swifter than any human eye could follow. As she watched, mesmerised, his spin slowed until he stood perfectly still, a winter god on the ice.

The day too grew still; the cold, blowing wind and scudding clouds held suspended around that one man.

‘Anton!’ one of the ladies called, clapping her gloved hands. ‘That was astounding.’

The man on the ice gave an elaborate bow before launching himself into a backward spin, a lazy meander towards the shore.

‘Aye, Anton is astounding,’ the other man, the one by the fire, said. His voice was heavy with some Slavic accent. ‘An astounding peacock who must show off his gaudy feathers for the ladies.’

The skater—Anton?—laughed as he reached the snowy banks. He sat down on a fallen log to unstrap his skates, an inky-dark lock of hair falling over his brow.

‘I believe I detect a note of envy, Johan,’ he said, his deep voice edged with the lilting music of that same strange, northern accent. He was not even out of breath after his great feats on the ice.

Johan snorted derisively. ‘Envy of your monkeyish antics on skates? I should say not!’

‘Oh, I am quite sure Anton is adroit at far more than skating,’ one of the ladies cooed. She filled a goblet with wine and took it over to Anton, her fine velvet skirts swaying. She was tall and strikingly lovely, with dark-red hair against the white of the snow. ‘Is that not so?’

‘In Stockholm a gentleman never contradicts a lady, Lady Essex,’ he said, rising from the log to take her proffered goblet, smiling at her over its gilded rim.

‘What else do they do in Stockholm?’ she asked, a flirtatious note in her voice.

Anton laughed, his head tipped back to drink deeply of the wine. As he turned towards her, Rosamund had a clear view of him and she had to admit he was handsome indeed. Not quite a peacock—he was too plainly dressed for that, and he wore no jewels but a single pearl-drop in one ear. And not the same as Richard, who had a blond, ruddy, muscular Englishness. But undeniably, exotically, handsome.

He was on the tall side, and whipcord lean, no doubt from all that spinning on the ice. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, falling around his face and over the high collar of his doublet in unruly waves. He impatiently pushed it back, revealing high, sharply carved cheekbones and dark, sparkling eyes.

Eyes that widened as they spied her standing there, staring at him like some addled peasant girl. He handed the lady his empty goblet and moved towards Rosamund, graceful and intent as a cat. Rosamund longed to run, to spin around and flee back into the woods, yet her feet seemed nailed into place. She could not dash off, could not even look away from him.

‘Well, well,’ he said, a smile touching the corner of his sensual lips. ‘Who do we have here?’

Rosamund, feeling utterly flustered and foolish, was finally able to turn around and flee, Anton’s startled laughter chasing her all the way back to the safety of her litter.

Chapter Two

‘Very nearly there now, Lady Rosamund,’ the captain of the guard said. ‘Aldgate is just ahead.’

Rosamund slowly roused herself from the stupor she had fallen in to, a hazy, dream-like state formed of the cold, the tiredness—and thoughts of the mysterious Anton, that other-worldly man of dark beauty and inhuman grace spinning on the ice. Had she really seen him? Or had he been a vision?

Whatever it was, she had behaved like an utter ninny, running away like a frightened little rabbit—and for what? For fear? Aye, perhaps fear of falling into some sort of enchanted winter spell. She had made a mistake with Richard—she would not do that again.

‘You are a very silly girl indeed,’ she muttered. ‘Queen Elizabeth will surely send you home as quick as can be.’

She parted the litter curtains, peering out into the grey day. While she’d dreamed and fretted, they had left the countryside behind entirely and entered a whole new world, the crowded, bustling, noisy world of London. As her little entourage passed through the gate, they joined a vast river-flow of humanity, thick knots of people hurrying on their business. Carts, coaches, horses, mules and humans on foot rushed over the frosty cobblestones, their shouts, cries and clatters all a tangled cacophony to her ears.

Rosamund had not been to London since she was a child. Her parents preferred the country, and on the few occasions when her father had to be at Court he came alone. She was educated in the ways of Queen Elizabeth’s cosmopolitan Court, of course, in fashion, dancing, conversation and music. But like her parents she preferred the quiet of the country, the long days to read and think.

But after the solitary lanes and groves, with only the bird songs for company, this was astounding. Rosamund stared in utter fascination.

Their progress was slow through the narrow streets, the faint grey light turned even dimmer by the tall, close-packed, half-timbered buildings. Peaked rooflines nearly touched high above the streets, while at walkway-level shop windows were open and counters spread with fine wares: ribbons and gloves, gold and silver jewellery, beautiful leather-bound books that enticed her more than anything; their colour and shine flashed through the gloom and then were gone as she moved ever forward.

And the smell! Rosamund pressed the fur-lined edge of her cloak to her nose, her eyes watering as she tried to take a deep breath. The cold air helped; the latrine ditch along the middle of the street was almost frozen over, a noxious stew of frost, ice and waste. But there was still a miasma of rotting vegetables, horse manure and waste buckets dumped from the upper windows, overlaid with the sweetness of roasted meats and sugared nuts, cider and chimney smoke.

The previous year had been a bad plague-year, but it seemed not to have affected the London population at all to judge by the great crowds. Everyone was pushing and shoving their way past, hurrying on their business, slipping on the cobbles and the churned-up, frozen mud. They seemed too busy, or too cold, to harass the poor souls locked in the stocks.

A few ragged beggars pressed towards Rosamund’s litter, but her guards shoved them back.

‘Stand away, varlet!’ her captain growled. ‘This is one of the Queen’s own ladies.’

The Queen’s own lady—gawking like a milkmaid. Rosamund slumped back against her cushions, suddenly reminded of why she was here—not to stare at people and shops, but to take up duties at Court. Whitehall grew closer with every breath.

She took a small looking-glass from her embroidered travel-bag. The sight that met her gaze caused nothing but dismay. Her hair, the fine, silver-blonde strands that never wanted to be tidy, struggled from her caul. She had hastily shoved up the strands after her excursion in the woods, and it showed.

Her cheeks were bright pink with cold, her blue eyes purple-rimmed with too many restless nights. She looked like a wild forest-spirit, not a fine lady!

‘My parents’ hopes that I will find a spectacular match at Court are certainly in vain,’ she muttered, tidying her hair the best she could. She put on her feathered, velvet cap over the caul and smoothed her gloves over her wrists.

Having made herself as tidy as possible, she peeked outside again. They had left the thickest of the city crowds behind and reached the palace of Whitehall at last.

Most of the vast complex was hidden from view, tucked away behind walls and long, plain-fronted galleries. But Rosamund knew what lay beyond from her reading and her father’s tales—large banquet-halls, palatial chambers, beautiful gardens of mazes, fountains and manicured flower-beds. All full of lushly dressed, staring, gossiping courtiers.

She drew in a deep breath, her stomach fluttering. She closed her eyes, trying to think of Richard, of anything but what awaited her behind those walls.

‘My lady?’ her guard said. ‘We have arrived.’

She opened her eyes to find him waiting just outside the finally still litter, Jane just behind him. She nodded and held out her hand to let him assist her to alight.

For a moment, the ground seemed to rock beneath her boots; the flagstones were unsteady. The wind here was a bit colder at the foot of a staircase that led from the narrow lane in St James’s Park up to the beginning of the long Privy Gallery. There were no crowds pressed close to warm the air, no close-packed buildings. Just the expanse of brick and stone, that looming staircase.

The stench too was much less, the smell of smoke and frost hanging behind her in the park. That had to be counted a blessing.

‘Oh, my lady!’ Jane fussed, brushing at Rosamund’s cloak. ‘You’re all creased.’

‘It does not signify, Jane,’ Rosamund answered. ‘We have been on a very long journey. No one expects us to be ready for a grand banquet.’ She hoped. She really had no idea what to expect now that they were here. Ever since she’d glimpsed that man Anton spinning on the ice, she felt she had fallen into some new, strange life, one she did not understand at all.

She heard the hollow click of footsteps along flagstone, measured and unhurried, and she glanced up to find a lady coming down the stairs. It could not be a servant; her dark-green wool gown, set off by a small yellow frill at the neck and yellow silk peeking out from the slashed sleeves, was too fine. Grey-streaked brown hair was smoothed up under a green cap, and her pale, creased face was wary and watchful, that of someone long at Court.

As she herself should be, Rosamund thought—wary and watchful. She might be just a country mouse, but she knew very well there were many pitfalls waiting at Court.

‘Lady Rosamund Ramsay?’ the woman said. ‘I am Blanche Parry, Her Grace’s second gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber. Welcome to Whitehall.’

Rosamund noticed then the polished cache of keys at Mistress Parry’s waist. She had heard tell 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 Boleyn, which hung just to the right of the bed.

Queen Elizabeth glanced up, her quill growing still in her hand. ‘This must be Lady Rosamund,’ she said, her voice soft and deep, unmistakably authoritative. ‘We have been expecting you.’

‘Your Grace,’ Rosamund said, curtsying deeply. Much to her relief, both her words and her salute were smooth and even, despite her suddenly dry throat. ‘My parents send their most reverent greetings. We are all most honoured to serve you.’

Elizabeth nodded, rising slowly from her desk. She wore a gown and loose robe of crimson and gold, the fur-trimmed neck gathered close and pinned against the cold day with a pearl brooch She came to hold out her beringed hand, and Rosamund saw that her long, white fingers bore ink stains.

Rosamund quickly kissed the offered hand, and was drawn to her feet. Much to her shock, Elizabeth held onto her arm, drawing her close. She smelled of clean lavender soap, of the flowery pomander at her waist and sugary suckets; Rosamund was suddenly even more deeply aware of her own travel-stained state.

‘We are very glad you have come to our Court, Lady Rosamund,’ the Queen said, studying her closely. ‘We have recently, sadly, lost some of our ladies, and the Christmas season is upon us. We hope you have come eager to help us celebrate.’

Celebrating had been the last thing on Rosamund’s mind of late. But now, faced with the Queen’s steady gaze, she surely would have agreed to anything.

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘I always enjoy the Christmas festivities at Ramsay Castle.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ the Queen said. ‘My dear Kat Ashley is not in good health, and she seems to live more and more in old memories of late. I want to remind her of the joyful holidays of her youth.’

‘I hope to be of some service, Your Grace.’

‘I am sure you shall.’ The Queen finally released Rosamund’s arm, returning to her desk. ‘Tell me, Lady Rosamund, do you wish to marry? You are very pretty indeed, and young. Have you come to my Court to seek a handsome husband?’

Rosamund heard a quick, sharp intake of breath from one of the ladies, and the room suddenly seemed to go suddenly still and tense. She thought of Richard, of his handsome blue eyes, his futile promises. ‘Nay, Your Grace,’ she answered truthfully. ‘I have not come here to seek a husband.’

‘I am most gladdened to hear it,’ Queen Elizabeth said, folding her graceful hands atop her papers. ‘The married state has its uses, but I do not like to lose my ladies to its clutches. I must have their utmost loyalty and honesty, or there will be consequences—as my wilful cousin Katherine learned.’

Rosamund swallowed hard, remembering the gossip about Katherine Grey, which had even reached Ramsay Castle—married in secret to Lord Hertford, sent to the Tower to bear his child. Rosamund certainly did not want to end up like her!

‘I wish only to serve Your Grace,’ Rosamund said.

‘And so you shall, starting this evening,’ the Queen said. ‘We are having a feast in honour of the Swedish delegation, and you shall be in our train.’

A feast? Already? Rosamund curtsied again. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

Elizabeth at last released Rosamund from the force of her dark gaze, turning back to her writing. ‘Then you must rest until then. Mistress Percy, one of the other maids of honour, will show you to your quarters.’

A lady broke away from the group by the fireplace, a small, pretty, pert-looking brunette in white silk and a black-velvet sleeveless robe.

Rosamund curtsied one last time to the Queen and said, ‘Thank you, Your Grace, for your great kindness.’

Elizabeth waved her away, and she followed the other girl back into the Presence Chamber.

‘I am Anne Percy,’ she said, linking arms with Rosamund as if they had known each other for months rather than minutes.

Rosamund had no sisters, nor even any close female friends; Ramsay Castle was too isolated for such things. She wasn’t sure what to make of Mistress Percy’s easygoing manner or her open smile, but it was nice to feel she was not quite alone at Court.

‘And I am Rosamund Ramsay,’ she answered, not certain what else to say.

Anne laughed, steering Rosamund around a group of young men who hovered near the doorway. One of them smiled and winked at Anne, but she pointedly turned her head away from him.

‘I know,’ Anne said as they emerged from the Queen’s apartments into the corridor again. ‘We have been talking of nothing but you for days!’

‘Talking of me?’ Rosamund said in astonishment. ‘But I have never been to Court before. And, even if I had, I would look terribly dull next to all the exciting things that happen here.’

Anne gave an unladylike snort. ‘Exciting? Oh, Lady Rosamund, surely you jest? Our days are long indeed, and always much of a sameness. We have been talking of you because we have not seen a new face among the ladies in months and months. We have been counting on you to bring us fresh tales of gossip!’

‘Gossip?’ Rosamund said, laughing. She thought of the long, sweet days at Ramsay Castle, hours whiled away in sewing, reading, playing the lute—devising foolish ways to meet Richard. ‘I fear I have very little of that. No matter what you say, I would vow life in the country is far duller than here at Court. At least you do see people every day, even if they are always the same people.’

‘True enough. At my brother’s estate, I sometimes had to talk to the sheep just to hear my own voice!’ Anne giggled, an infectiously merry sound that made Rosamund want to giggle too.

‘Since I know so little of Court doings, you must tell me all I need to know,’ Rosamund said. ‘Maybe then the tales will seem fresh again.’

‘Ah, now that I can do,’ Anne said. ‘A maid of honour’s duties are few enough, as you will find. We walk with the Queen in the gardens, we go with her to church and stand in her train as she greets foreign envoys. We sew and read with her—and try to duck when she is in a fearsome mood and throws a shoe at us.’

‘Nay?’ Rosamund gasped.

Anne nodded solemnly. ‘Ask Mary Howard where she got that dent in her forehead—and she is even the daughter of the Queen’s great-uncle! But that is only on very bad days. Most of the time she just ignores us.’

‘Then if our duties are so few what do we do with our time?’

‘We watch, of course. And learn.’ Anne paused in the curve of a bow window along the gallery. Below them was an elegant expanse of garden; neat, gravel walkways wound between square beds outlined in low box-hedges. The fountains were still, frozen over in the winter weather, the flowers and greenery slumbering under a light mantel of silvery frost and snow.

But there was no lack of colour and life. Yet more people flowed along the walkways, twining like a colorful snake in pairs and groups, their velvets and furs taking the place of the flowers.

Rosamund recognised Leicester’s peacock-blue doublet, his black hair shining in the grey light. He stood among a cluster of other men, all more sombrely clad than he, and even from that distance Rosamund could still sense the anger etched on his handsome, swarthy face.

‘We have no fewer than three important delegations with us for this Christmas season,’ Anne said. ‘And they all loathe each other. It provides us with much amusement, watching them vie for Her Grace’s attention.’ She lowered her voice to a confiding whisper. ‘They will probably try to persuade you to plead their cause to the Queen.’

‘Do you mean bribes?’ Rosamund whispered back.

‘Oh, aye.’ Anne held out her wrist to display a fine pearl bracelet. ‘But be very careful which faction you choose to have your dealings with, Lady Rosamund.’

‘And what are my choices?’

‘Well, over there you see the Austrians.’ Anne gestured towards one end of the garden, where a cluster of men clad in plain black and gray hovered like a murder of crows. ‘They are here to present the case for their candidate for the Queen’s hand—Archduke Charles. Truly, they are like the new Spanish, since King Philip has given up at last and married his French princess. No one takes them seriously, except themselves. And they are very serious indeed.’

‘How very dreary,’ Rosamund said. ‘Who else?’

‘Over there we have the Scots,’ Anne said, turning to another group. They did not wear primitive plaids, as Rosamund would have half-hoped, but very fashionable silks in tones of jewel-bright purple, green and gold. But then, they did serve a very fashionable queen indeed. Perhaps Queen Mary made them wear French styles.

‘That is their leader, Sir James Melville, and his assistant, Secretary Maitland. And Maitland’s cousin, Master Macintosh,’ Anne continued. ‘They are the tall ones there, with the red hair. They certainly seem more lighthearted than the Austrians. They dance and play cards every night, and Her Grace seems fond of them. But I would not be too open and honest around them.’

‘Why is that? Why are they here? Surely they can have no marriages to propose?’

‘On the contrary. The Queen of Scots is most concerned with her own marriage prospects.’

Rosamund stared down at the Scotsmen in the garden. ‘She seeks an English match? After being married to the King of France?’

‘Perhaps. But not the one Queen Elizabeth would have her make.’

‘What do you mean?’

Anne leaned closer, her voice such a soft whisper Rosamund could hardly make it out. ‘Queen Elizabeth desires Queen Mary to take Robert Dudley as her consort. They say that is why she made him an earl last autumn.’

‘Nay!’ Rosamund gasped. ‘But I thought the Queen herself…?’

Anne nodded. ‘So do we all. It is passing strange. I’m sure Melville thinks so as well, which is why he bides his time here rather than hurrying back to Queen Mary to press such an offer.’

‘So, that is why the Earl stalks about like a thundercloud?’

‘Indeed.’

‘But then who is the third delegation? How do they fit into these schemes?’

Anne laughed delightedly; every hint of the seriousness she’d showed when discussing the Austrians and the Scots vanished. ‘Now, they are a very different matter, the Swedes.’

‘The Swedes?’

‘They are here to present again the suit of their own master, King Eric,’ Anne said. ‘It seems he is in great need of a powerful wife’s assistance, with war looming with both Denmark and Russia, and possibly France, and his own brother scheming against him.’

‘He doesn’t sound like a very attractive marital prospect,’ Rosamund said doubtfully.

‘Oh, not at all! That is why he was already rejected a few years ago. I’m sure Her Grace has no intention of accepting him—or not much.’

‘Then why does she keep his delegation here?’

‘Why, see for yourself!’ Anne pointed as a new group entered the garden through one of the stone archways. They were a handsome gathering indeed, tall and golden, well-muscled in their fine doublets and fur-lined short cloaks, laughing and as powerful as Norse gods entering Valhalla.

And, right in their midst, was the most handsome and intriguing of all—the mysterious Anton, he of the amazing feats on the ice.

He carried his skates slung over his shoulder, shining silver against the black velvet and leather of his doublet. A flat, black velvet cap covered his inky-dark hair, but his radiant smile gleamed in the grey day.

The striking red-haired lady from the pond held onto his arm, staring up at him with a rapt expression on her sharp-featured face, as if her very breath depended on his next word.

Rosamund feared she knew very well how that woman felt. Her own breath was tight in her throat, and her face felt warm despite the chill of the window glass.

Think of Richard, she urged herself, closing her eyes tightly. Yet even as she tried to remember Richard’s summer kisses, the way his arms had felt around her as he pulled her close, all she could see was a man spinning across the winter ice.

‘That is why the Queen keeps them here,’ Anne said. ‘They have proved a great ornament to the Court—almost worth the trouble.’

Rosamund opened her eyes. Anton was still there, whispering in the lady’s ear as she covered her mouth with her gloved hand, no doubt hiding a peal of flirtatious laughter.

‘Trouble?’ she murmured. Oh, aye; she could see where he would be a great deal of trouble, especially to a Court full of bored ladies.

‘The Swedes and the Austrians detest each other,’ Anne said cheerfully. ‘The Queen has had to strictly forbid duels. And I am sure the Scots are involved somehow, though I have not yet devised how.’

‘Oh.’ Rosamund nodded, rather confused. She certainly did have a great deal to learn about Court life! Translating Greek manuscripts was simple compared to the complexities of alliances.

‘That dark one there—Anton Gustavson, his name is,’ Anne said, gesturing to the handsome Anton. ‘He is only half-Swedish, they say. His mother was English. He has come to England not only on behalf of King Eric but on his own errand. His grandfather has left him an estate in Suffolk, a most profitable manor, and he wants to claim it. But he is in dispute with a cousin over the property.’

Rosamund watched as Anton laughed with the lady, the two of them strolling the walkways as if they hadn’t a care in the world. ‘I can scarce imagine a man like that in dispute with anyone. Surely he could charm the very birds of the trees into his hand?’

Anne gave her a sharp glance. ‘You have met Master Gustavson, then?’

Rosamund shook her head. ‘That is merely what I observe from watching him now.’

‘Oh, you must be wary of such observations! Here at Court, appearances are always deceiving. One never shows one’s true nature; it is the only way to survive.’

‘Indeed? And must I be wary of you, too, Mistress Percy?’

‘Of course,’ Anne said happily. ‘My family, you see, is an old and wealthy one, but also stubbornly Catholic. I am here only on sufferance, because my aunt is friends with the Queen. But I will tell you this, Lady Rosamund—I am always an honest source of delicious gossip for my friends.’

Rosamund laughed. ‘Tell me this, then, Mistress Honesty—who is that lady with Master Gustavson? Does he seek an English wife to go along with that new estate?’

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?’

‘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.

Chapter Four

The Queen’s 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 again. She certainly hoped that life at Court would never make her behave like that.

As the last of the sweets was cleared away, the Queen rose to her feet, her hands lifted as her jewelled rings flashed in the firelight. The loud conversation fell into silence.

‘My dear friends,’ she said. ‘I thank you for joining me this eve to honour these guests to our Court. This has only been a small taste of the Christmas revels that await us in the days to come. But the evening is yet new, and I hope Master Vernerson will honour us with a dance.’

Nils Vernerson bowed in agreement, and everyone rose from their places to wait along the walls as servants pushed back the tables, benches and chairs and more musicians filed in to join the lutenists. Anton stood across the room, the attentive lady still at his elbow, but Rosamund turned away.

‘I do hope you know the newest dances from Italy, Lady Rosamund,’ said Mary Howard, all wide-eyed concern. ‘A graceful turn on the dance floor is so very important to the Queen.’

‘It is kind of you to worry about me, Mistress Howard,’ Rosamund answered sweetly. ‘But I did have a dancing master at my home, as well as lessons in the lute and the virginals. And a tutor for Latin, Spanish, Italian and French.’

Mary Howard’s lips thinned. ‘It is unfortunate your studies did not include Swedish. It is all the rage at Court this season.’

‘As if she knows anything beyond “ja” and “nej”,’ Anne whispered to Rosamund. ‘Mostly ja—in case she gets the chance to use it with Master Gustavson! It is very sad he has not even looked at her.’

Rosamund started to laugh, but quickly stifled her giggles and stood up straighter as she saw the Queen sweeping towards them on the arm of the Scottish Secretary Maitland.

‘Mistress Percy,’ the Queen said. ‘Secretary Maitland has asked if you will be his partner in this galliard.’

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Anne said, curtsying.

‘And Lady Rosamund,’ Queen Elizabeth said, turning her bright, dark gaze onto Rosamund. ‘I hope you have come to my Court prepared to dance as well?’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Rosamund answered, echoing Anne with a curtsy. ‘I very much enjoy dancing.’

‘Then I hope you will be Master Macintosh’s partner. He has already proven to be quite light on his feet.’

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of red hair and a close-trimmed red beard bowed to her and held out his arm.

Rosamund let him lead her into the forming dance-set, feeling confident for the first time since setting foot in Whitehall. Her dance lessons in preparation for coming to Court had been the one bright spot amid the quarrels with her parents, the tears over leaving Richard. For those moments of spinning, leaping and turning, she had been lost in the music and the movement, leaving herself entirely behind.

Her instructor had told her she had a natural gift for the dance—unlike conversation with people she did not know well! That often left her sadly tongue-tied. But dancing seldom required talk, witty or otherwise.

The dance, though, had not yet begun, and could not until the Queen took her place to head the figures. Her Grace was still strolling around the room, matching up couples who seemed reluctant to dance. Rosamund stood facing Master Macintosh, carefully smoothing her sleeves and trying to smile.

‘Lady Rosamund Ramsay,’ he said affably, as if he sensed her shyness. But there was something in his eyes she did not quite care for. ‘Ramsay is a Scottish name too, I think?’

‘Perhaps it was, many years ago,’ Rosamund answered. ‘My great-grandfather had an estate along the borders.’ From which he had liked to conduct raids against his Scots neighbours, for which the Queen’s grandfather had rewarded him with a more felicitous estate in the south and an earldom. But that did not seem a good thing to mention in polite converse with a Scotsman!

‘Practically my countrywoman, then,’ he said.

‘I fear I have never seen Scotland. This is as far as I have ever been from home.’

‘Ah, so you are new to Court. I was sure I would remember such a pretty face if we had met before.’

Rosamund laughed. ‘You are very kind, Master Macintosh.’

‘Nay, I only speak the truth. It’s a Scots failing—we have little talent for courtly double-speak. You are quite the prettiest lady in this room, Lady Rosamund, and I must speak honestly.’

Rosamund laughed again, eyeing his fine saffron-and-black garments and the jewelled thistle pinned at the high collar of his doublet. The thistle, of course, signified his service to the Queen of Scots—a lady most gifted in ‘courtly double-speak’, from what Rosamund heard tell. ‘You certainly would not be a disgrace to any court, Master Macintosh. Not even one as fine I hear as Queen Mary keeps at Edinburgh.’

He laughed too. ‘Ah, now, Lady Rosamund, I see you learn flattery already. Queen Mary does indeed keep a merry Court, and we’re all proud to serve her interests here.’

Interests such as matrimony? Rosamund noticed that Robert Dudley stood in the shadows with his friends, a dark, sombre figure despite his bright-scarlet doublet. He did not join the dance, though Rosamund had heard before that he was always Queen Elizabeth’s favourite partner. He certainly did not look the eager prospective bridegroom, to either queen.

‘Is she as beautiful as they say, your Queen Mary?’ she asked.

Master Macintosh’s gaze narrowed. ‘Aye, she’s bonny as they come.’

Rosamund glanced at Queen Elizabeth, who fairly glowed with an inner fire and energy, with a bright laughter as she swept towards the dance floor with Master Vernerson. ‘As beautiful as Queen Elizabeth?’

‘Ah, now, you will have to judge that for yourself, Lady Rosamund. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

‘Will I have that chance? Is Queen Mary coming here on a state visit soon?’

‘She has long been eager to meet her cousin Queen Elizabeth, but I know of no such plans at present. Perhaps Lord Leicester will let you study Queen Mary’s portrait, which hangs in his apartments. Then you must tell me which you find fairer.’

Rosamund had no time to answer, for the musicians started up a lively galliard, and the Queen launched off the hopping patterns of the dance. Rosamund had no idea what she could have said anyway. She had no desire to be in the midst of complex doings of queens and their courtiers. She liked her quiet country-life.

Even being at Court for a mere few hours was making the world look strange, as if the old, comfortable, familiar patterns were cracking and peeling away slowly, bit by bit. She could see glimpses of new colours, new shapes, but they were not yet clear.

She took Macintosh’s hand and turned around him in a quick, skipping step, spinning lightly before they circled the next couple. In her conversation with him, she had forgotten to look for Anton Gustavson, to see where he was in the chamber. But as she hopped about for the next figure of the dance she was suddenly face to face with him.

He did not dance, just stood alongside the dance floor, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched their merriment. A small, unreadable smile touched his lips, and his eyes were dark as onyx in the flickering half-light.

Rosamund found she longed to run up to him, to demand to know what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked out over their gathering. When he looked at her.

As if he guessed something of her thoughts, he gave her a low, courtly bow.

She spun away, back into the centre of the dance, as they all spun faster and faster. That sense she had of shifting, of breaking, only increased as the chamber melted into a blur around her, a whirl of colour and light. When she at last slowed, swaying dizzily in the final steps of the pattern, Anton had vanished.

As the music ended Rosamund curtsied to Master Macintosh’s bow. ‘Are you quite certain you have never been to Court before, Lady Rosamund?’ he asked laughingly, taking her hand to lead her back to the other maids.

‘Oh yes,’ Rosamund answered. ‘I am certain I would remember such a long journey!’

‘You dance as if you had been here a decade,’ he said. His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Better even than your queen, my lady, though you must never tell I said so!’

With one more bow, he departed, leaving Rosamund standing with Anne Percy.

‘Did you enjoy your dance with the Scotsman, Rosamund?’ Anne asked.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Rosamund said.

‘That is good. I wouldn’t be too friendly with him, though.’

‘Why is that, Anne?’

‘They say he has been meeting often of late with Lady Lennox, Margaret Stewart.’

‘The Queen’s cousin?’

‘Aye, the very one.’ Anne gestured with her fan towards a stout, pale-faced lady clad in heavy black satin. She stood near the fireplace, watching the merry proceedings with a rather sour look on her face. ‘She cares not for the Queen’s scheme to marry Leicester to Queen Mary, and it is said that some of the Scots party agree with her.’

Rosamund eyed the dour woman suspiciously. ‘Whose marital cause would they advance instead?’

‘Why, that of Lady Lennox’s own son, Lord Darnley, of course. I don’t see his Lordship here tonight. He must be off chasing the maidservants—or the manservants—as his mood strikes him,’ Anne said.

‘I vow I will never remember who is who here,’ Rosamund muttered. ‘Or who is against who!’

Anne laughed. ‘Oh, you will remember soon enough! They will all make sure you do.’

They could say no more, for Queen Elizabeth was hurrying towards them, the Austrians and Swedes with her. They looked like nothing so much as an eager flotilla drifting in the wake of a magnificent flagship.

Rosamund and Anne curtsied, and as Rosamund rose to her feet she found Anton Gustavson watching her again. He no longer smiled, and yet she had the distinct sense he was still strangely amused.

By her? she wondered. By the whole glittering scene? Or by some secret jest none could share?

How she wished he was a book, a text of Latin or Greek she could translate, if she only worked diligently enough. Books always revealed their mysteries, given time. But she feared the depths of Anton Gustavson would be too much for her to plumb.

Then again, perhaps she was too hasty, she thought, studying his lean, handsome body sheathed in the fine velvet. She had not even yet spoken to him.

‘You are a good dancer, Lady Rosamund,’ the Queen said. ‘I see your lessons were not in vain. It was Master Geoffrey who went to Ramsay Castle, was it not?’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Rosamund answered, tearing her gaze from Anton to the Queen. Elizabeth’s stare was so steady, so bright, that Rosamund was quite sure she could read every tiny, hidden secret. ‘I enjoy dancing very much, though I fear I have much to learn.’

‘You are too modest, Lady Rosamund. Surely you have not so much to learn as some at Court.’ The Queen turned suddenly to Anton. ‘Master Gustavson here claims he cannot dance at all.’

‘Not at all, Your Grace?’ Rosamund remembered how he had looked on the ice, all fluid grace and power. ‘I cannot believe that to be so.’

‘Exactly, Lady Rosamund. It is quite unthinkable for anyone not to dance at my Court, especially with the most festive of seasons upon us.’

Anton bowed. ‘I fear I have never had the opportunity to learn, Your Grace. And I am a dismally clumsy oaf.’

Now, Rosamund knew that to be a falsehood! No one could possibly even have stood upright on the ice balanced on two thin, little blades, let alone spin about, if they’d been a ‘clumsy oaf’.

‘No one is entirely unable to learn to dance,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘Perhaps they have not as much natural enjoyment of the exercise as I have, or as it seems Lady Rosamund has. But everyone can learn the steps and move in the correct direction in time to the music’

Anton bowed. ‘I fear I may prove the sad exception, Your Grace.’

The Queen’s gaze narrowed, and she tapped one slender, white finger on her chin. ‘Would you care to make a wager, Master Gustavson?’

He raised one dark brow, boldly meeting the Queen’s challenging stare. ‘What terms did Your Grace have in mind?’

‘Only this—I wager that anyone can dance, even a Swede, given the proper teacher. To prove it, you must try and a dance a volta for us on Twelfth Night. That will give you time for a goodly number of lessons, I think.’

‘But I fear I know of no teachers, Your Grace,’ Anton said, that musical northern accent of his thick with laughter. Why, Rosamund realised, he is actually enjoying this! He was enjoying the wager with the Queen, the challenge of it.

Rosamund envied that boldness.

‘There you are wrong, Master Gustavson.’ Queen Elizabeth spun round to Rosamund. ‘Lady Rosamund here has shown herself to be a most able dancer, and she has a patient and calm demeanour, which is quite rare here at Court. So, my lady, I give you your first task at my Court—teach Master Gustavson to dance.’

Rosamund went cold with sudden surprise. Teach him to dance, when in truth she barely knew the steps herself? She was quite certain she would not be able to focus on pavanes and complicated voltas when she had to stand close to Anton Gustavson, feel his hands at her waist, see his smile up-close. She was quite confused just looking at him—how would she ever speak? Her task for the Queen would surely end in disaster.

‘Your Grace,’ she finally dared to say, ‘I am sure there are far more skilled dancers who could—’

‘Nonsense,’ the Queen interrupted. ‘You will do the job admirably, Lady Rosamund. You shall have your first lesson after church on Christmas morning. The Waterside Gallery will be quiet then, I think. What say you, Master Gustavson?’

‘I say, Your Grace, that I wish to please you in all things,’ he answered with a bow.

‘And you are also never one to back away from a challenge, eh?’ the Queen said, her dark eyes sparkling with some mischief known only to her.

‘Your Grace is indeed wise,’ Anton answered.

‘Then the terms are these—if I win, and you can indeed dance, you must pay me six shillings as well as a boon to be decided later to Lady Rosamund.’

‘And if I win, Your Grace?’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘I am sure we will find a suitable prize for you among our coffers, Master Gustavson. Now come, Ambassador von Zwetkovich, I crave another dance.’

The Queen swept away once again, and Anne followed her to dance with Johan Ulfson. She tossed back a glance at Rosamund that promised a plethora of questions later.

Rosamund turned to Anton in the sudden quiet of their little corner. It felt as if they were enclosed in their own cloud, an instant of murky, blurry silence that shut out the bustle of the rest of the room.

‘I believe, Master Gustavson, that you are a sham,’ Rosamund hissed.

‘My lady!’ He pressed one hand to his heart, his eyes wide with feigned hurt, but Rosamund was sure she heard laughter lurking in his voice. ‘You do wound me. What have I done to cause such accusations?’

‘I saw you skating on that pond. You are no clumsy oaf.’

‘Skating and dancing are two different things.’

‘Not so very different, I should think. They both require balance, grace and coordination.’

‘Are you a skater yourself?’

‘Nay. It is not so cold here as in your homeland, except this winter. I seldom have the chance of a frozen pond or river.’

‘Then you cannot know if they are the same, ja?’ A servant passed by with a tray of wine goblets, and Anton claimed two. He handed one to Rosamund, his long fingers sliding warmly against hers as he slowly withdrew them.

Rosamund shivered at the friction of skin against skin, feeling foolish at her girlish reaction. It was not as if she had never touched a man before. She and Richard had touched behind the hedgerows last summer. But somehow even the brush of Anton Gustavson’s hand made her utterly flustered.

‘I am sure they are not dissimilar. If you can skate, you can dance,’ she said, taking a sip of wine to cover her confusion.

‘And vice versa? Very well, then, Lady Rosamund, I propose a wager of my own.’

Rosamund studied him suspiciously over the silver rim of her goblet. ‘What sort of wager, Master Gustavson?’

‘They say your Thames is near frozen through,’ he answered. ‘For every dancing lesson you give me, I shall give you a skating lesson. Then we will see if they are the same or no.’

Rosamund remembered with a pang the way he had flown over the ice. What would it be like to feel so very free, to drift like that, above all earthly bonds? She was quite tempted. But…‘I could never do what you did. I would fall right over!’

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that rubbed against her like fine silk-velvet. She longed to hear it again, to revel in that happy sound over and over. ‘You need not go into a spin, Lady Rosamund, merely stay upright and move forward.’

That alone sounded difficult enough. ‘On two thin little blades attached to my shoes.’

‘I vow it is not as hard as it sounds.’

‘And neither is dancing.’

‘Then shall we prove it to ourselves? Just a small, harmless wager, my lady.’

Rosamund frowned. She thought he surely did not have a ‘harmless’ bone in his handsome body! ‘I don’t have any money of my own yet.’

‘Nay, you have something far more precious.’

‘And what is that?’

‘A lock of your hair.’

‘My hair?’ Her hand flew up to touch her hair which was carefully looped and pinned under a narrow silver headdress and sheer veil. Her maid Jane had shoved in extra pins to hold the fine, slick strands tight, but Rosamund could feel them already slipping. ‘Whatever for?’

Anton watched intently as her fingers moved along one loose strand. ‘I think it must be made of moonbeams. It makes me think of nights in my homeland, of the way silver moonlight sparkles on the snow.’

‘Why, Master Gustavson,’ Rosamund breathed. ‘I think you have missed your calling. You are no diplomat or skater, you are a poet.’

He laughed and that flash of seriousness dissipated like winter fog. ‘No more than I am a dancer, I fear, my lady. ’Tis a great pity, for it seems both poetry and dancing are highly prized here in London.’

‘Are they not in Stockholm?’

He shook his head. ‘Warfare is prized in Stockholm, and not much else of late.’

‘It is a pity, then. For I fear poetry would be more likely to win the Queen’s hand for your king.’

‘I think you are correct, Lady Rosamund. But I must still do my duty here.’

‘Ah, yes. We all must do our duty,’ Rosamund said ruefully, remembering her parents’ words.

Anton smiled at her. ‘But life is not all duty, my lady. We must have some merriment as well.’

‘True. Especially now at Christmas.’

‘Then we have a wager?’

Rosamund laughed. Perhaps it was the wine, the music, the fatigue from her journey and the late hour, but she suddenly felt deliciously reckless. ‘Very well. If you cannot dance and I cannot skate, I will give you a lock of my hair.’

‘And if it is the opposite? What prize do you claim for yourself?’

He leaned close to her, so close she could see the etched-glass lines of his face, the faint shadow of beard along his jaw. She could smell the summery lime of his cologne, the clean, warm winter-frost scent of him. A kiss, she almost blurted out, staring at the faint smile on his lips.

What would he kiss like? Quick, eager—almost overly eager, like Richard? Or slow, lazy, exploring every angle, every sensation? What would he taste like?

She gulped and took a step back, her gaze falling to his hand curled lightly around the goblet. On his smallest finger was a ring, a small ruby set in intricate gold filigree. ‘That is a pretty bauble,’ she said hoarsely, gesturing to the ring. ‘Would you wager it?’

He held his hand up, staring at the ring as if he had forgotten it was there. ‘If you wish it.’

Rosamund nodded. ‘Then done. I will meet you in the Waterside Gallery on Christmas morning for a dance lesson.’

‘And as soon as the Thames is frozen through we will go skating.’

‘Until then, Master Gustavson.’ Rosamund quickly curtsied, and hurried away to join the other maids where they had gathered near the door. It was nearly the Queen’s hour to retire, and they had to accompany her.

Only once she was entirely across the room from Anton did she draw in a deep breath. She felt as if she had suddenly been dropped back to earth after spinning about in the sky, all unmoored and uncertain. Her head whirled.

‘What were you and Master Gustavson talking of for so long?’ Anne whispered.

‘Dancing, of course,’ Rosamund answered.

‘If I had him to myself like that,’ Anne said, ‘I am certain I could think of better things than dancing to talk of! Do you think you will be able to win the Queen’s wager?’

Rosamund shrugged, still feeling quite dazed. She feared she was quite unable to think at all any more.

Svordom! What had led him to promise her his mother’s ring?

Anton curled his hand into a fist around the heavy goblet, the embossed silver pressing into the calluses along his palm as he watched her walk away. It seemed as if all the light in the chamber collected onto her, a silvery glow that carried her above the noisy fray.

He knew all too well what had made him agree to a ridiculous wager that didn’t even make sense, to offer her that ring. It was her, Rosamund Ramsay, alone. That look in her large blue eyes.

She had not been at Court long enough to learn to conceal her feelings entirely. She had tried, but every once in a while they had flashed through those expressive eyes—glimpses of fear, nervousness, excitement, bravery, laughter—uncertainty.

He had lived so long among people who had worn masks all their lives. The concealment became a part of them, so that even they had no idea what they truly were, what they truly felt. Even he had his own masks, a supply of them for every occasion. They were better than any armour.

Yet when he looked at Rosamund Ramsay he felt the heavy weight of that concealment pressing down on him. He could not be free of it, but he could enjoy her freedom until she, too, learned to don masks. It would not be long, not here, and he felt unaccountably melan choly at the thought of those eyes, that lovely smile, turning brittle and false.

Aye, he would enjoy her company while he could. His own task drew near, and he could not falter now. He unwound his fist, staring down at the ruby. It glowed blood-red in the torchlight, reminding him of his promises and dreams.

‘Making wagers with the Queen?’ Johan said, coming up to Anton to interrupt his dark thoughts. ‘Is that wise, from all we have heard of her?’

Anton laughed, watching Queen Elizabeth as she talked with her chief advisor, Lord Burghley. Burghley was not terribly old, yet his face was lined with care, his hair and beard streaked with grey. Serving the English Queen could be a frustrating business, as they had learned to their own peril. She kept them cooling their heels at Court, dancing attendance on her as she vacillated at King Eric’s proposal. Anton was certain she had no intention of marrying the king, or possibly anyone at all, but they could not depart until they had an official answer. Meanwhile, they danced and dined, and warily circled the Austrians and the Scots.

As for Anton’s own matter, she gave no answer at all.

Maddening indeed. Battle was simple; the answer was won by the sword. Court politics were more slippery, more changeable, and far more time-consuming. But he was a patient man, a determined one. He could wait—for now.

At least there was Rosamund Ramsay to make the long days more palatable.

‘I would not worry, Johan,’ Anton said, tossing back the last of the wine. ‘This wager is strictly for Her Grace’s holiday amusement.’

‘What is it, then? Are you to play the Christmas fool, the Lord of Misrule?’

Anton laughed. ‘Something like it. I am to learn to dance.’

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