The Winter Queen by Amanda Mccabe Page A

Queen. She stayed by Elizabeth’s side as they left thebedchamber and made their slow way through the Presence and Privy Chambers and along the gallery, where other courtiers joined the retinue.
    â€˜You danced with our unknown Lord of Misrule last night, did you not?’ the Queen asked quietly, smiling and nodding at the crowds who made their obeisances to her.
    â€˜Yes, Your Grace,’ Rosamund answered. She had been woken far too early that morning by Burghley to be questioned about it, too. She had no more to add, and was afraid of what might happen if they thought she did know more.
    â€˜You have no idea who he was?’
    â€˜None, Your Grace,’ she said, giving the same answer she’d given Burghley—the only answer she had. ‘He was masked, and I have not been at Court long enough to recognise anyone by their mannerisms.’
    â€˜It was probably not a courtier anyway,’ the Queen said with a sigh. ‘If you see anything else, anything at all, you will tell me immediately.’
    â€˜Of course, Your Grace.’
    â€˜In the meantime, I believe you know our newest arrival at Court, Mistress Celia Sutton?’
    â€˜Her family lives very near mine at Ramsay Castle, Your Grace. I do know her a little.’
    â€˜She has brought us a petition, one of dozens to be considered this holiday. Perhaps you will speak with her about it and tell me your thoughts.’
    â€˜Certainly, if Your Grace wishes it,’ Rosamund said slowly. She had no idea what sort of petition Celia could be bringing to the Queen, or what she, Rosamund, could think of it. But if she helped the Queen then perhaps in turn the Queen could help her—and Richard.
    If that was what she still wanted…
    Rosamund remembered well the night before, kissing Anton Gustavson behind the tapestry. Nay, not just kissing, wrapping her bare legs around his hips, feeling his mouth on her breast, the hot, heady plunge down into desperate desire. A wild recklessness that was unlike her but could not be denied. She had wanted Anton, wanted him madly, beyond all reason.
    She wanted him still.
    She had been awake all night, pretending to sleep as she’d listened to the whispers of the other maids. In reality, she thought of nothing but him, of his kiss, the way his hands had felt as they’d slid against her naked skin. Of all the things she wished he would do to her—naughty, wicked, delicious things she had never dared think of before. That she had never wished of Richard. And that was what really worried her. She had come here to serve the Queen, to prove herself to her family again, not get them into even more trouble.
    Nay, she had to be very, very careful.
    Her cheeks felt hot again as they turned onto yet another corridor, and she cursed her pale skin as she clutched at her prayer book until its leather edges bit into her hand. She was a most disloyal lover. Surely it was very wrong of her to think such things of the dark, dashing Swede, a man she had just met, when she had vowed to defy her parents for Richard?
    Perhaps it was the romantic intrigues of Court invading her thoughts and emotions, turning her from herself, from her plans for the future. Aye, that was it. She needed to talk to Celia, to hear news of home.
    Rosamund filed into the chapel, taking her seat on the bench behind the Queen’s high-backed chair with the other maids. Even in the chapel—a long, vast space of soaring, ribbed ceilings, and marble columns drapedwith royal standards—there were gossiping whispers, but they were hushed. A breath of wind blew along the aisles between the cushioned benches.
    Rosamund folded her hands atop the prayer book in her lap, staring up at the window high above the altar to the east of the chapel. But the reds and blues of the Crucifixion and Resurrection scenes were muted in the grey day and gave little scope for contemplation or distraction.
    Plus the nape of her neck prickled, as