The Winter Queen by Amanda Mccabe

face might be one of them. Anne had told her the Queen had fits of pique at least once or twice a day, but they soon passed and she calmly turned to her business. The trick was to stay out of her way, as one would shelter from a rainstorm until the thunderclouds drifted away. So Rosamund stood half-hidden behind the looped-up bed curtains, clutching at a stack of prayer books as she watched the scene.
    She doubted she could ever be as sanguine as Lord Burghley. No doubt he had witnessed such storms many times before and knew ways to persuade the Queen to do things for her own good. Today he tried to urge her to curtail the elaborate Christmas festivities in order to see to her safety. To stay guarded in her privy rooms until the mysterious Lord of Misrule was captured and questioned.
    It would surely not be long, not with a furious Lord Leicester and his men tearing the palace apart. But the Queen would hear none of it.
    â€˜Your Grace,’ Burghley said. ‘None could ever accuse you of being a shivering coward. But it would not be wise to go among crowds when there is some plot at work.’
    â€˜Plot!’ Elizabeth snorted. ‘It was hardly a plot , just some holiday mischief against Leicester, who could certainly stand to be taken down a peg or two, anyway.’
    â€˜I cannot disagree with Your Grace about that,’ Burghley said wryly. ‘Yet we cannot know if it was solely a prank against Robert Dudley, or if deeper forces are at work. The fact that some villain was able to infiltrate your feast is most alarming. With the Spanish, the French and the Queen of Scots all in communication…’
    â€˜Do not speak to me of the Queen of Scots!’ Elizabeth shouted. A maidservant who had cautiously begun to pin up her red hair hastily backed away. ‘I am sick of the sound of her name. First Lady Lennox constantly beseeching me to let her useless son go to Edinburgh, and now you. Can I not enjoy my Christmas at least without her intervening?’
    â€˜I fear we cannot stop her from “intervening”,’ Burghley said. ‘She is a constant threat, Your Grace, just over the border as she is and with France at her back. Her ambition has long been well-known.’
    â€˜If she would do as I say and marry Lord Leicester, her ambition would be curtailed,’ the Queen muttered, reaching for a scent bottle. The smell of violets filled the chamber as she dabbed at it distractedly.
    â€˜Do you really think she will do that?’ Burghley said.
    Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Not with Leicester distracted by some silly prank.’
    â€˜And what if it is not some silly prank, Your Grace?’
    The Queen sighed. ‘Very well. Add more guards to the chapel and the corridors. But that is all I agree to!’
    â€˜It would be best for you to stay here in your apartments.’
    â€˜Nay!’ Elizabeth shook her head fiercely, dislodging the pins that had just been eased into her hair. ‘It is Christmas Day, probably dear Mistress Ashley’s last, and I want her to enjoy it without worry. Time enough for doom and gloom later.’
    â€˜Very well, Your Grace.’ Burghly bowed and departed, leaving the ladies to hover indecisively.
    Until the Queen again pounded on her table, tumbling the jewels back to the floor. ‘Why are you all standing about so slack-jawed? We must to church! And those sleeves will not do, fetch the gold ones.’
    At last she was dressed in her fine green-and-gold garments, her hair bound up in a gold-net caul and jewelled band, her fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders. She held out her beringed hand for her prayer book, which Rosamund hastened to give her.
    â€˜Thank you, Lady Rosamund,’ the Queen said. ‘Will you walk with me to the chapel?’
    â€˜Of course, Your Grace,’ Rosamund said, surprised. Her allotted place was at the end of the procession with the other maids. But she could hardly protest with the