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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.’
