She twined her gloved fingers into his hair, holding him to her, half-fearing he would try to escape her. But he made no move to leave her; his kiss deepened even more, his lips slanting across hers.
Through the haze of her need, she felt one of his hands slide to her bodice, freeing the top button of her riding doublet, then the next and the next. As the cold wind bit through her thin chemise to touch her bare skin, Rosamund felt a shock shiver all through her. It was not frightening or surprising, though. It was just thrilling.
Their kiss seemed to fit, as if they had always been thus, had known each other’s mouths and bodies for years and years. He knew just where to press, to feather lightly, to touch just where it would make her world spin.
She moaned against his lips. He drew back at the sound, as if he thought she protested, but Rosamund pulled him back to her, back into their kiss. She didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want to lose that glorious moment, the way he made her feel. The wondrous, hot forgetfulness.
His fingers fell away from her bodice, but she seized them, carrying them back to finish what they had begun. It was as if her small gesture freed something in him too. He groaned, his kiss deepening; their tongues entwined as his arms tightened around her and he tumbled them both back down to the ground.
Her thighs fell apart and his body cradled between them, hard against her heavy skirts. He leaned his hands on either side of her, their kiss rough and wild, born of the desire that had been simmering like embers from the very first moment they’d met. It burst into flame now, threatening to completely consume her.
Her hands slid down to his backside, taut in his tight leather riding-breeches, and pressed him even closer, wrapping her thighs around his hips as her skirts billowed around them.
‘Alskling,’ he muttered, his voice tight, as if he was in pain. His mouth moved from hers, kissing her jaw and the curve of her neck as she tilted her head back against the soft ground. He impatiently spread the fabric of her riding doublet, revealing her breasts, which were barely concealed in her thin chemise, pressed high over the edge of her light stays.
The cold wind rushed over her, but not for long. His hot kiss fell on the slope of her breast, making her gasp as his body covered hers.
‘Anton,’ she whispered, revelling in the delicious sensation of his caress. When Richard had tried such a thing with her, it had frightened her. Now, with Anton, she wanted more and more…
A scream suddenly rent the air. For a shocked instant, Rosamund feared it was her scream, that the wild excitement was breaking free. But Anton rolled off her, his body tense and alert as he peered through the trees.
Rosamund slowly sat up, drawing the gaping edges of her doublet together, hardly daring to breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears, an erratic pattern veering from sexual desire to sudden fear in only a second.
Another cry rang out, and then a clamour of loud, confused voices. The baying of the hounds carried over it all, a discordant madrigal.
Anton leaped lightly to his feet, reaching out to help her stand. Her boot caught on her skirt hem as she lurched to her feet, and he caught her against him, holding her protectively close. His body was taut as he listened as if, like some graceful, powerful forest creature, he could sense danger tightening all around.
Rosamund curled her hands in the open vee of his shirt, holding on as she too listened. She tried to decipher where the cacophony came from, but it seemed both very distant and impossibly close.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘Shh,’ he murmured. He hastily buttoned her doublet and then smoothed his own clothes before taking her hand, leading her back to the horses. ‘Stay very close to me,’ he said as he lifted her into the saddle. ‘I have to get you to the palace, behind sturdy walls.’
Rosamund nodded, enveloped in a haze of confusion. Everything felt unreal, as if she was caught in a bad dream where all was disjointed, out of place. The woods, so peaceful and private only a moment ago, were dark and menacing.
And the man she had kissed so ardently, so overcome with need for him that she’d forgotten all else, was now a cold-eyed stranger. Suddenly she recalled all too well how very little she really knew of him. She had once liked Richard too—how could she trust what she thought of a man, what she felt? Yet still those feelings were there. The attraction, the trust. The danger.
He swung up onto his own mount, flicking the reins into motion. ‘Remember,’ he said to her, looking at her through those black eyes that saw all and gave nothing away, ‘Stay close to me, Rosamund. I promise I will keep you safe.’
Her throat felt dry, aching, but she merely nodded. She urged her horse onto the path behind his, listening to the distant hubbub. The wind whispered through her loose hair, tangling it around her shoulders, and she remembered her lost hat and caul, the hairpins scattered as she and Anton had tumbled to the ground. But it did not seem very timely to mention it.
They emerged from the shelter of the trees to find the rest of the party gathered a short distance away at the edge of the woods. It first appeared that it was merely the capture, the end of the day’s hunt, but then Rosamund noticed the pale fear on the ladies’ faces, the fury on the men’s. The horses pranced restively in a close pack, as if they sensed the confusion.
Anton reached out to grasp her mare’s bridle, holding her close as they moved cautiously closer, coming to a halt just beyond the tangled edge of the crowd.
For a moment, Rosamund could see nothing; the knot of people and horses was too dense. But then it parted, and she saw the Queen and Lord Leicester, their horses drawn up beneath one of the bare winter trees. Leicester held his dagger unsheathed, bellowing something in furious tones, but Queen Elizabeth just stared straight ahead, white-faced.
Rosamund followed her stare—and gasped. Hanging from one of the lower branches was a poppet, with bright-red hair and a fine, white silk gown, streaked with what looked like blood. It was topped with a gold paper-crown, and pinned to the bodice was a sign proclaiming, ‘thus to all usurpers’.
Leicester suddenly rose up in his stirrups, slashing out with his dagger to cut the horrible thing down. It tumbled to the frosty ground, landing in a white and red jumble. The hounds crept nearer to it, baying, but even they would not touch the thing. Surely it reeked too much of evil, of traitorous intentions.
A contingent of more guards came galloping over the crest of the hill. As they surrounded the Queen, Anne Percy edged her horse closer to Rosamund’s.
‘Rosamund!’ she cried. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you will be ill.’
Rosamund shook her head, sweeping her hair back off her shoulder. ‘I just fell behind,’ she said. ‘I fear my riding skills are poor. And then at last I caught up, only to find—this.’ She shivered, staring at the crumpled doll.
Anne nodded grimly. ‘The Queen has many enemies, indeed. It is easy to forget that on a fine day like this, but there is always danger for princes. Always black thoughts lurking behind smiles.’
And danger for those near to the princes, too? Rosamund looked back to find Anton again with his Swedish cohorts, who were listening as they whispered together intently. But he watched her closely, as if he could see her thoughts and feelings. Her suspicions.
Rosamund shivered again; the day was unbearably cold. Anne was right. It was all too easy to forget the realities of the world on a day like this. The fresh air, the wild ride—Anton and his touch, his kiss. It made her forget everything and want only him. Only those precious moments when he lifted her above the world.
But that was all an illusion. This was the world, with danger, secrets and hidden agendas all around.
Lord Langley drew near to them, his handsome face also solemn, watchful. Even Anne did not pull away from him today, but leaned infinitesimally towards him, as if she knew not what she did.
‘Who has done this?’ she asked him quietly.
‘No one yet knows,’ he answered tightly. ‘Greenwich has only a small staff now,
and they will be questioned, but it is doubtful they saw anything. The Queen will stay here until her safe transport back to Whitehall can be arranged.’
‘It has been a strange Christmas,’ Anne said.
‘Strange indeed,’ Lord Langley said, with a humourless little smile. He pushed the tangled length of his golden-brown hair back from his brow, reminding Rosamund of her own dishevelment—and how she had got that way.
Her enchanted-forest interlude with Anton seemed impossibly distant now.
‘Come, ladies, let me see you to the palace,’ Lord Langley said. ‘A fire is being laid in one of the chambers for you.’
‘You seem quite knowledgeable about our sudden change of arrangements,’ Anne said, falling into step beside him as they turned towards the palace. The Queen, surrounded by her guards, had already disappeared through its doors.
‘Ah, Anne,’ he answered sadly. ‘To know all is my constant task.’
The events of the hunt did not seem to greatly affect the maids, Rosamund thought as she lay in her bed at Whitehall late that night. Catherine Knyvett and the Marys were practising their dancing along the aisle between the two rows of beds, galloping and leaping in their chemises as they laughed and shouted.
Rosamund held her book tightly, sliding down against the pillows. How could they possibly dance after all that had happened? Her own mind was still spinning, filled with whirling images of Anton, shouts and screams, hanging dolls. And then the long afternoon in a half-bare chamber at Greenwich until they could be taken back to Whitehall by sleigh along the frozen river.
Queen Elizabeth had been silent as they’d waited, calm and serene. Rosamund could not even fathom her thoughts, her plans. The machinery was turning in the dark background of the Court to find the culprits.
Supper, too, had been quiet on their return to Whitehall, a quick repast in the Queen’s privy apartments, but Elizabeth had vowed that the rest of Christmas would go on with no alterations. Feasts, dancing, plays—and foolish wagers—would go on.
‘Rosamund?’ Anne said softly. ‘Are you asleep, or just hiding over there?’
Rosamund tugged down the bedclothes she had piled around herself, to find Anne watching her from her own bed. ‘I’m reading,’ she said.
‘A great talent you have, then, for reading upside down.’
‘What?’ Rosamund stared down at her book, only to find that Boethius was indeed the wrong way round. ‘Oh, bother. ’Tis true I haven’t read a word since I opened it.’
‘Better than listening to their shrieking,’ Anne said, inclining her head towards the wild dancers.
‘How can they be so carefree after what happened?’
‘I suppose that is their way of forgetting. Such things occur all too often at Court. My uncle says it is all the foreigners who gather here.’
‘The foreigners?’
‘Aye. The foreign monarchs must send their delegations, even though many of them secretly think Mary of Scots is the true Queen of England. I suppose it is just surprising we don’t see more such incidents.’
Rosamund frowned, thinking of Master Macintosh, the glowering Austrians. Of Anton, and all she knew of him—and did not know. ‘Perhaps.’
‘But if we thought too much of such things we would be frightened all the time,’ Anne said. ‘Better to get on with our business and forget it. However we can.’
Rosamund sighed. ‘I’m sure you are right, Anne. But, still, must they forget by dancing so very badly?’
Anne laughed. ‘Speaking of dancing,’ she whispered, ‘How do your lessons progress with the beauteous Master Gustavson?’
‘Well enough,’ Rosamund said cautiously. ‘He has a great deal of natural grace, though perhaps some difficulty remembering the correct progression of the steps.’
‘Which will require many more lessons, of course.’
Rosamund had to giggle. ‘Mayhap.’
‘Oh, Rosamund. Tell me—where were you really when you disappeared from the hunt? For I find it hard to believe you are any kind of poor horsewoman.’
Rosamund feared she could hide nothing from Anne. She surely had a long way to go before she became a true Court lady, jaded with plotting.
She slid down lower in the bed, whispering back, ‘I was talking with Master Gustavson.’
‘Talking?’
‘Yes!’ And a bit more—but secret-keeping had to start somewhere.
‘Hmm. No wonder you were so flushed. And no wonder you have a little mark just there below your neck.’
Rosamund glanced down, drawing away the wide neckline of her chemise. ‘Blast!’ she muttered, yanking that neckline higher.
‘Not that I blame you one bit. He is a luscious-looking gentleman indeed, all the ladies here are mad for him. But what of your old sweetheart? Do you no longer care for him?’
Rosamund was not sure she had ever cared for Richard, not really. There had only been her girlish dreams, which she had pinned onto him. ‘Oh, Anne. I simply don’t know. I thought I did once. But I haven’t for a long time. Am I a faithless harlot, to be so easily distracted?’
Anne laughed. ‘If you are a faithless harlot for a bit of flirting, Rosamund, then so are we all. It’s easy to be distracted here at Court, especially if our lovers do not keep faith with us. But what think you, really, of Master Gustavson? Is he just a distraction for you?’
If he was, then he was a truly potent one. Rosamund could not think of anyone else when he was around. All the glimpses he gave her of his inner self, of a yearning for a home and place that matched her own, only increased his attraction. What did it mean?
Before she could answer, the door to their chamber burst open. Elderly Lord Pomfrey appeared there, clad in a nightcap tied over his unruly grey hair—and nothing else. His shrivelled, purplish member flapped about as he strode angrily down the aisle.
Rosamund sat straight up, staring in utter startlement as the dancing maids shrieked and dove into their beds.
‘You cursed chits have kept me awake for the last time, I vow!’ Lord Pomfrey thundered. ‘You shout and frisk about all the night long, and it will end here! No more of your riots, I say. No more!’
As he continued his ranting and shouting—stopped only when a most indignant Mistress Eglionby appeared—Rosamund fell back onto her pillows, laughing helplessly. Anne was entirely right—one never knew what would happen at Court.
Chapter Eight
St John the Evangelist’s Day, December 27
The cold air snapped at Rosamund’s cheeks, whipping her cloak around her as she wondered if this was such a very good idea. The palace was warm, with plenty of fireplaces to huddle next to, and letters waiting to be written, mending to be done. Surely if she was sensible at all she would be back there?
But at the palace she would have to listen to the Marys gossiping and sniping. And there would be no Anton to look at.
She tucked her hands deeper into her fur muff, watching him as he built a fire with Master Ulfson and Lord Langley. He was a sight to see indeed, his close-fitting dark-brown doublet stretched taut over his lean shoulders as he stacked the wood. He had taken off his cap, and his hair gleamed like a raven’s wing. He laughed at some jest of Lord Langley’s, his smile as bright as any summer sun. It warmed Rosamund right down to the tips of her toes.
She was very glad indeed that she had ventured out today. Any danger, any doubt, seemed so far away.
That decides it, Rosamund thought cheerfully. I am a faithless hussy!
She had to face the fact that whatever had happened with Richard did mean what she’d once thought. That—horrors!—perhaps her parents had been right, that she would know the right person for her, the right situation, when she found it.
But her parents were not here now, and she was starting to enjoy the sensation of being a flirtatious Court lady, at least for a short time. At least for today, with Anton.
She went and sat next to Anne and Catherine Knyvett, where they perched on a fallen log covered by an
old blanket. At their feet was a hamper, filled with purloined delicacies from the Queen’s kitchen, which Anne was sorting through.
‘Oh, marzipan!’ she said. ‘And cold beefpies, manchet bread. Even wine. Very well done, Catherine.’
Catherine laughed nervously. ‘I did feel so terrible filching them. But no one seemed to notice, so I suppose all is well.’
‘They are all too busy preparing for tomorrow night’s feast to even notice one or two little things missing,’ Anne said. ‘And, even if they did, the Queen is too busy consulting with her Privy Council to listen to their complaints. Here, Rosamund, have something to drink. Wine will soon warm us.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosamund said, taking the pottery goblet from Anne. As she sipped at the rich, ruby-red liquid, she went back to studying Anton. The men had finished building the bonfire by the frozen pond, and it crackled and snapped merrily as they watched in smug self-satisfaction.
‘Humph,’ Anne scoffed. ‘They act as if they were the first men to discover fire.’
Rosamund laughed. ‘Better than letting us shiver here.’
‘Quite right, Lady Rosamund,’ Lord Langley said, turning to them with a grin. His gaze lingered on Anne, who did not look at him. ‘What would you do without our fire-making skills?’
A reluctant little smile touched Anne’s lips. ‘Perhaps that is the only useful skill you possess, Lord Langley.’
‘Touché, Mistress Percy,’ Anton said. ‘A palpable hit from the lady, Lord Langley. It seems we must work much harder to impress your fine English females.’
He sat down beside Rosamund on the log, unlooping his leather skate-straps from over his shoulder. Rosamund did not move away but stayed where she was, pressed to his side, feeling his body next to hers. They seemed wrapped in their own warm cocoon in the cold air, bound by invisible cords of memory and heady desire.
She remembered their kisses in the Greenwich woods, remembered falling heedlessly to the ground, their bodies entwined. She could hardly breathe.
The Winter Queen Page 11