Читать книгу The Winter Queen - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 10

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.’