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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.
