Читать книгу The Winter Queen - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 11

Christmas Eve, December 24

‘Holly and ivy, box and bay, put in the house for Christmas Day! Fa la la la…’

Rosamund smiled at hearing the notes of the familiar song, the tune always sung as the house was bedecked for Christmas. The Queen’s gentlewomen of the Privy and Presence chambers, along with the maids of honour, had been assigned to festoon the Great Hall and the corridors for that night’s feast. Tables were set up along the privy gallery, covered with holly, ivy, mistletoe, evergreen boughs, ribbons and spangles. Under the watchful eye of Mistress Eglionby, Mistress of the Maids, they were to turn them into bits of holiday artistry.

Rosamund sat there with Anne Percy, twisting together loops of ivy as they watched Mary Howard and Mary Radcliffe lay out long swags to measure them. The Marys sang as they worked, sometimes pausing to leap about with ribbons like two morris dancers.

Rosamund laughed at their antics. For the first time in many days, she forgot her homesickness and uncertainty. She only thought of how much she loved this time of year, these twelve days when the gloom of winter was left behind, buried in music, wine and satin bows. She might be far from home, but the Queen kept a lively holiday. She should enjoy it as much as possible.

Rosamund reached for two bent hoops and tied them into a sphere for a kissing bough. She chose the darkest, greenest loops of holly and ivy from the table, twining them around and tying them with the red ribbons.

‘Are you making a kissing bough, Rosamund?’ Anne said teasingly. She tied together her own greenery into wreaths for the fireplace mantels.

Rosamund smiled. ‘My maid Jane says if you stand beneath it and close your eyes you will have a vision of your future husband.’

‘And if he comes up and kisses you whilst you stand there with your eyes closed, so much the better!’ Anne said.

‘That would help settle the question, I think.’

‘But you need not resort to such tricks, I’m sure,’ Anne whispered. ‘What of your sweetheart at home?’

Rosamund frowned as she stared down at her half-finished bough; last Christmas, Richard had indeed kissed her under one very like it. That was when she had begun to think he cared for her, and she for him. But that seemed so long ago now, as if it had happened to someone else. ‘He is not my sweetheart.’

‘But you do wish him to be?’

Rosamund remembered Richard’s kiss that Christmas Eve. ‘That can’t be.’

‘Do your parents disapprove so much, then?’

Rosamund nodded, reaching for the green, red and white Tudor roses made of paper to add to her bough. ‘They say his family is not our equal, even though their estate neighbours ours.’

‘Is that their only objection?’

‘Nay. They also say I would not be content with him. That his nature would not suit mine.’ Rosamund felt a pang as she remembered those words of her father. She had cried and pleaded, sure her parents would give way as they always did. Her father had seemed sad as he’d refused her, but implacable. ‘When you find the one you can truly love,’ he said, ‘you will know what your mother and I mean.’

‘But you love him?’ Anne asked softly.

Rosamund shrugged.

Anne sighed sadly. ‘Our families should not have such say over our own hearts.’

‘Is your family so very strict?’ Rosamund asked.

‘Nay. My parents died when I was a small child.’

‘Oh, Anne!’ Rosamund cried. Her own parents might be maddening, but before the business with Richard they had been affectionate with her, their only child, and she with them. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘I scarcely remember them,’ Anne said, tying off her length of ribbon. ‘I grew up with my grandmother, who is so deaf she hardly ever knew what I was up to. It wasn’t so bad, and then my aunt came along and found me this position here at Court. They want me to marry, but only their own choice. Much like your own parents, I dare say!’

‘Who is their choice?’

Anne shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. Someone old and crabbed and toothless, I’m sure. Some crony of my aunt’s husband. Perhaps he will at least be rich.’

‘Oh, Anne, no!’

‘It does not signify. We should concentrate on yourromance. There must be a way we can smuggle a message to him. Oh, here, put mistletoe in your bough! It is the most important element, otherwise the magic won’t work.’

Rosamund laughed, taking the thick bunch of glossy mistletoe from Anne and threading it through the centre of the bough. Surely there was some kind of magic floating about in the winter air. She felt lighter already with Christmas here.

Yet, strangely, it was not Richard’s blond visage she saw as she gazed at the mistletoe but a pair of dark eyes. A lean, powerful body sheathed in close-fitting velvet and leather flying across the glistening ice.

‘Holly and ivy, box and bay,’ she whispered, ‘put in the house for Christmas Day.’

There was a sudden commotion at the end of the gallery, a burst of activity as a group of men rushed inside, bringing in the cold of the day. Among them was the handsome young man who had winked at Anne the day before—and been soundly ignored.

And there was also Anton Gustavson, his skates slung over his shoulder, black waves of hair escaping from his fine velvet cap. They were full of loud laughter, noisy joviality.

The ladies all giggled, blushing prettily at the sight of them.

As Rosamund feared she did too. She felt her cheeks go warm, despite the sudden rush of cold wind. She ducked her head over her work, but there in the pearly mistletoe berries she still saw Anton’s brown eyes, his teasing smile.

‘Mistress Anne!’ one of the men said. Rosamund peeked up to find it was the winker. He was even more good-looking up close, with long, waving golden-brown hair and emerald-green eyes. He smiled at Anne flirtatiously, but Rosamund thought she saw a strange tension at the edges of his mouth, a quickly veiled flash in his eyes. Perhaps she was not the only one harbouring secret romances. ‘What do you do there?’

Anne would not look at him; instead she stared down at her hands as they fussed with the ribbons. ‘Some of us must work, Lord Langley, and not go frolicking off ice-skating all day.’

‘Oh aye, it looks arduous work indeed,’ Lord Langley answered, merrily undeterred. He sat down at the end of the table, fiddling with a bit of ivy. On his index finger flashed a gold signet-ring embossed with the phoenix crest of the Knighton family.

Rosamund gasped. Anne’s admirer was the Earl of Langley. And not old and crabbed at all.

She glanced at Anton, quite against her will; she didn’t want to look at him, to remember their wager and her own foolish thoughts of kissing boughs and ice-skating. But she still felt compelled to look, to see what he was doing.

He stood by one of the windows, lounging casually against its carved frame as he watched his other companions laughing with the Marys. An amused half-smile curved his lips.

Rosamund’s clasp tightened on her bough, and she had a sudden vision of standing with him beneath the green sphere, of gazing up at him, at those lips, longing to know what they would feel like on hers. She imagined touching his shoulders, heated, powerful muscles under fine velvet, sliding her hands down his chest as his lips lowered to hers…

And then his smile widened, as if he knew her very thoughts. Rosamund caught her breath and stared back down at the table, her cheeks flaming even hotter.

‘We were not merely skating, Mistress Anne,’ Anton said. ‘We were sent by the Queen to search for the finest Yule log to be found.’

‘And did you discover one?’ Anne asked tartly, snatching the ivy from Lord Langley’s hand.

He laughed, undeterred as he reached for a ribbon instead. ‘Not as yet, but we are going out again this afternoon. Nothing but the very best will do for the Queen’s Christmas—or that of her ladies.’

‘You had best hurry, then, as Christmas Day is tomorrow.’

‘Never fear, Mistress Anne,’ Lord Langley said. ‘I always succeed when I am determined on something.’

‘Always?’ said Anne. ‘Oh, my lord, I do fear there is a first time for everything—even disappointment.’

Lord Langley’s green eyes narrowed, but Anton laughed, strolling closer to the table. He leaned over Rosamund’s shoulder, reaching out to pick up a sprig of holly.

Rosamund swallowed hard as his sleeve brushed the side of her neck, soft and alluring, warm and vital, yet snow-chilled at the same time.

‘Ah, Lord Langley,’ Anton said. ‘I fear working with this holly has made the ladies just as prickly today. Perhaps we should retire before we get scratched.’

Lord Langley laughed too. ‘Have they such thin skins in Sweden, Master Gustavson? We here have heavier armour against the ladies’ barbs.’

‘Is there armour heavy enough for such?’ Anton asked.

Rosamund took the holly from his hand, careful not to let her fingers brush his. The ruby ring gleamed, reminding her of their wager. ‘They say if the holly leaves are rounded the lady shall rule the house for the year. If barbed, the lord.’

‘And which is this?’ Anton took back the holly, running his thumb over the glossy green leaf. ‘What does it signify if half the leaf is smooth, half barbed?’

‘The impossible.’ Lord Langley laughed. ‘For each house can have only one ruler.’

‘And in the Queen’s house every leaf is smooth,’ Anne said. ‘Now, make yourselves of use and help us hang the greenery in the Great Hall.’

Anton tucked the holly into the loops of Rosamund’s upswept hair, the edge of his hand brushing her cheek. ‘There, Lady Rosamund,’ he whispered. ‘Now you are ready for the holiday.’

Rosamund gently touched the sprig, but did not draw it away. It rested there in her hair, a reminder. ‘Best you beware my prickles, then, Master Gustavson. They may not be as obvious as this leaf, but they are there.’

‘I am warned. But I am not a man to be frightened off by nettles, Lady Rosamund—not even thickets of them.’ He laid his skates on the table, taking up a long swag of ivy and ribbon as he held out his hand to her. ‘Will you show me where your decorations are to go? I should hate to ruin your decking of the halls.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Rosamund nodded and took his hand, letting him help her rise. In her other hand she took up her kissing bough, and they followed the others from the gallery as a song rose up.

‘So now is come our joyful feast, let every man be jolly!’ they sang as they processed to the Great Hall, bearing their new decorations. ‘Each room with ivy leaves is dressed, and every post with holly.’

Rosamund couldn’t help being carried along by the song, by the happy anticipation of the season. She smiled up at Anton, surprised to find that he too sang along.

‘Though some churls at our mirth repine, round your foreheads garlands twine, drown sorrow in a cup of wine and let us all be merry!’

‘You know our English songs, Master Gustavson?’ she asked as they came to the vast stone fireplace. He let go of her hand to fetch a stool, and Rosamund suddenly felt strangely bereft, cold, without him.

She flexed her fingers, watching as he set the stool beneath the mantel. No fire blazed in the grate today, and they could stand close.

‘My mother was English,’ he said, climbing up on the stool. Rosamund handed him the end of the swag, which he attached to the elaborately carved wood. ‘She taught everyone in our house her favourite old songs.’

‘What else do you do at Christmas in Sweden?’ she asked curiously. She followed along as he fastened the swag to the mantel, tying off the bows.

‘Much the same as you do here, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Feasting, pageants and plays, gifting. And we have St Lucy’s Day.’

‘St Lucy’s Day?’

‘Aye, ’tis a very old tradition in Sweden, as St Lucy is one of our protectors. Every December we honour her with a procession led by a lady who portrays Lucy herself, who led Roman refugees into the catacombs with candles and then supplied them with food, until she was martyred for her efforts. The lady elected wears a white gown with red ribbons and a crown of candles on her head, and she distributes sweets and delicacies as everyone sings songs to St Lucy.’

Rosamund laughed, fascinated. ‘It sounds delightful. We have no saints here now, though.’

‘None in Sweden, either, except Lucy. And you would certainly be one of the ladies chosen to be St Lucy, Lady Rosamund.’

‘Would I? I am sure my parents would say I am the least saint-like of females!’

Anton chuckled. ‘You do seem rather stubborn, Lady Rosamund.’

‘Oh, thank you very much!’ Rosamund teased. ‘Is another Swedish custom insulting ladies at Christmas time?’

‘Not at all. Stubbornness is a trait that serves all of us well at a royal court.’

‘True enough. I may not have been here long, but I do see that.’

‘But you would surely be St Lucy because of your beauty. Lucy is always a lady with fair hair, blue eyes and the ability to convey sweetness and generosity. Those two attributes are surely not negated even by copious doses of stubbornness.’

Rosamund could feel that cursed blush creeping up again, making her face and throat hot in a way no one else’s compliments could. He thought her beautiful? ‘Perhaps, then, that is one tradition we could borrow from Sweden.’