The Winter Queen (24 page)

Rosamund twisted about, panic rising up inside her like an engulfing wave. She tasted the metallic tang of it in her mouth, thick and suffocating.

She twisted again, screaming silently, but it was as if she was bound in iron chains.

‘Well, this is a lucky chance,' her captor whispered hoarsely. A black, hazy cloud obscured her vision, even her thoughts, and she could see nothing. ‘Most obliging of the lady to come to us. I hope we did not interrupt an important assignation?'

‘And no guards or anything,' another man said gloatingly. ‘It must be Providence, aiding us in our cause.'

Rosamund managed to part her lips, biting down hard on her captor's palm so hard she tore away a piece of leather glove. She tasted the tang of blood.

‘Z'wounds!'
the man growled. ‘She is a wild vixen.'

‘I'd expect no less. Here, hold her down so we can bind her. There's no time to waste.'

The two men bore her down to the floor, Rosamund kicking and flailing. The heavy cloak and her velvet gown weighed her down, wrapping around her limbs, but she managed to kick one of the villains squarely on the chest as he tried to tie her feet.

‘That is enough of that,' he cried, and she saw a fist descending towards her head.

Then there was a sharp, terrible pain—and nothing at all but darkness.

 

Anton glanced around the bacchanal of Queen Elizabeth's masquerade without much interest. The bright swirl of rich costumes and wine-soaked laughter could hold no appeal for him right now. Since he'd parted with Rosamund last night, it was as if the world had turned to shades of grey and drab brown. All colour and light was gone.

He had vowed to focus only on his work now, had told himself that in staying away from her he was keeping her safe. Letting her go on with her life. But whenever he glimpsed her from a distance it was as if the sun emerged again, if only for a fleeting moment.

Had he been wrong, then? Doubt was not a sensation he was familiar with, and yet it plagued him now. In trying to do the right thing, had he irrevocably wounded them both?

He studied each passing face, each lady's smile, but he saw no one who looked like Rosamund. The ball had started long ago; surely she should be there? After all that had happened…

Across the room, he saw Langley and a black-wigged lady in dark velvet. Most likely, Anne Percy, who was Rosamund's friend. Surely Anne would know where she was? He made his way through the crowd towards them, needing to know she was at least somewhere safe.

‘Have you seen Lady Rosamund?' Anton asked Anne Percy.

‘Aye, the Queen sent her on an errand,' Anne
answered, giving him a searching, suspicious glance. ‘I have not seen her since, though she should have returned long ere since.'

Anton frowned, a tiny, cold prickle of unease forming in his mind. It seemed ridiculous, of course—Rosamund could be in any number of places, perfectly safe. Yet he could not quite shake away the feeling that all was not right, a sense that had once served him well on the battlefield.

‘Is something amiss, Master Gustavson?' Anne asked. ‘Shall Lord Langley and I help you to look for her?'

‘Yes, I thank you, Mistress Percy,' Anton said. ‘You know better where she might have gone on this errand.'

Anne nodded, leading him out of the Great Hall, dodging around drunken revellers who would draw them back into the dance. They traversed the long, shadowy corridors which grew quieter, emptier, the further they went. The only sound was the click of their shoes, the howl of the wind outside the windows.

Anton scowled as he noticed the lack of guards, even as they entered the Queen's own chambers. Had they been given the hour's respite, perhaps a ration of ale to celebrate the New Year? Or had something more sinister sent them away?

The darkened rooms certainly felt strangely ominous, as if ghosts hovered above them, harbingers of some wicked deed. Even Anne and Lord Langley, who usually were never quiet when they were together, were silent.

‘The papers Rosamund was sent to fetch were in the bedchamber,' Anne whispered, pushing back her mask. ‘In here.'

Even the Queen's own chamber was empty, a few flickering candles and a low-burning fire in the grate il
luminating the dark, carved furniture and the soft cushions where the ladies usually sat. There were no papers on the table by the window.

‘She must have gone back to the hall already,' Anne said. ‘But how did we miss her?'

Anton was quite sure they had not missed seeing Rosamund there. The battle instinct was suddenly very strong in him, that taut, ominous feeling that came before the clash of war when the enemy's armies gathered on the horizon. Something was surely amiss with Rosamund.

Anne seemed to feel it, too. She leaned her palms on the table, shaking her head as Lord Langley laid his hand on her arm. ‘I did think someone was lurking outside our apartment last night,' she murmured. ‘I thought it was just one of Mary Howard's suitors—she does have such terrible judgement in men. But what if it was not?'

Lord Langley took her hand in his. ‘There is always someone lurking about here, Anne. I'm sure it was not a villain lying in wait for Lady Rosamund.'

She slammed her free hand down, the crash echoing in the silence. ‘But if it was? She is pretty and rich, and too trusting—valuable commodities here at Court. And that country suitor of hers…'

Anton glanced at her sharply. ‘Master Sutton?'

‘Aye, the very one. He certainly did not seem happy to have lost his prize.'

‘Was she frightened of him?' Anton asked.

‘She said he was not what she once thought,' Anne said. ‘And I did not like the look of him.'

Did not like the look of him
. Anton did not like the sound of that. He carefully studied the room, searching for any sign that things were not as they should be, that there had been a disturbance in the jewelled façade of the palace.

He found it in the corridor just outside the bedchamber—a glint of green fire in the darkness. He knelt down, reaching out for it, pushing back his mask to examine it more closely.

It was an earring, an emerald drop set in gold filigree.

‘That's Rosamund's!' Anne gasped. ‘She said they were her grandmother's. She wore them with her costume, a green gown and wig of red.'

Anton closed his fist around the earring, searching the floor for more clues. Crumpled up by the wall was a roughly torn scrap of glove leather, stiff with dried blood. Not Rosamund's—she had not worn gloves—but blood was never a good sign.

‘I think she has been seized,' he said, his mind hardening, clarifying on one point—finding Rosamund as quickly as possible. And killing whoever had dared hurt her.

He showed the crumpled bit of leather to Lord Langley and Anne, who cried out.

‘The stables,' Lord Langley said, holding onto her hand. ‘They will have to get her away from the palace.'

‘Should we tell the Queen?' Anne asked. ‘Or Lord Burghley, or Leicester?'

‘Not just yet,' Anton answered. ‘If it is Rosamund's disappointed suitor, or some villain seeking ransom, we do not want to startle them into doing something rash. I will find them.'

Lord Langley nodded grimly. ‘We will help you. I have men of my own household. They will be discreet in their search until we must tell Her Grace.'

‘Thank you, Langley,' Anton said. ‘Mistress Percy, if you will search the Great Hall again, and look wherever you know of hiding spots within the palace. But do not go alone!'

Anne nodded, her face pale, before she dashed out of the corridor. Anton and Lord Langley headed for the stables.

It had been quiet there all evening, the servants told them, with everyone at the Queen's revels. But one of the grooms had prepared a sleigh and horses earlier in the evening.

It was for Master Macintosh of the Scottish delegation.

‘He wanted to be quiet about it, my lords,' the groom said. ‘I thought he had a meeting with a lady.'

‘And did he bring a lady with him when he departed?' Anton asked.

‘Aye, that he did. He carried her. She was all bundled up in a white fur-cloak. And there were two other men, though one left in a different direction.'

‘And Master Macintosh? Which way did he go?' Anton said.

‘Towards Greenwich, I think, along the river. They were in a hurry. Eloping, were they?'

A lady in a white fur, carried off towards Greenwich. The cold, crystalline fury in Anton hardened into steel.

He turned on his heel, striding back towards the palace. He needed his skates—and his sword.

Snow Day, January 2

R
osamund slowly came awake, feeling as if she struggled up from some black underground cave towards a distant, tiny spot of light. Her limbs ached; they did not want to drag her one more step, and yet she struggled onward. She knew only that it was vital she reach that light, that she not sink back into darkness.

She forced her gritty eyes to open, her head aching as if it would split open. At first, she thought she was indeed in a cave, bound around by stone walls. She could see nothing, feel nothing, but a painful jolting beneath her.

Then she realised it was a cloak wrapped around her, the hood over her head. A soft fur hood, shutting out the world. And then she remembered.

She had been snatched as she'd left the Queen's chamber, grabbed by a man who had muffled her with his gloved hand. Who had knocked her unconscious when she'd kicked him. But where was she now? What did he want of her?

The hard surface beneath her jolted again, sending a wave of pain through her aching body. A cold, metallic-tasting panic rose up in her throat.

Nay, she told herself, pushing that panic back down before she could scream out with it. She would not give in to whoever had done this, would not let them hurt her. Not when she had so much to fight for. Not when she had to get back to Anton.

Slowly, her headache ebbed away a bit and she could hear the hum of voices above her, the clatter of horses' hooves moving swiftly. So, she was in some kind of conveyance being carried further and further from the palace with each second.

She eased back the hood a bit, carefully, slowly, so her captors would think her still unconscious. Fortunately, they had failed to tie her as they'd threatened.

‘…a bloody great fool!' one man growled, his voice thick with a Scots burr. ‘That's what comes of paying an Englishman to do something. They muck it up every time.'

‘How was I to know this was not the Queen?' another man said, muffled by the piercing howl of the wind. ‘She had red hair and a green gown, she's wearing the Queen's cloak. And she was coming out of the Queen's own bedchamber!'

‘And how often do you see Queen Elizabeth wandering about alone? She may be a usurper of thrones, but the woman is not stupid.'

‘Perhaps she had an assignation with that rogue, Leicester.'

‘Who she would betroth to Queen Mary?' the Scotsman said. ‘Aye, she's a lusty whore. But, still—not stupid. Unlike you. This woman, whoever she is, is too short to be the Queen.'

Rosamund frowned. She was
not
short. Just delicate!
But the Scotsman was right; the other man was a foolish knave indeed not to be sure of his quarry. It was an audacious scheme, seeking to kidnap Queen Elizabeth, and would require sharp, deft timing, as well as steely nerves.

What would they do with her now, since they had realised their terrible failure?

She felt the press of a sheet of parchment against her skin, the travel visa for Lord Darnley, tucked into her sleeve what seemed like days ago. Were they in the pay of Darnley and his mother, then? Or someone else entirely?

Her head pounded as she tried to make sense of it, as she thought of Melville, Lady Lennox and Celia Sutton. Of the Queen's scheme to marry Queen Mary to Lord Leicester. Of the poppet hanging from the tree—
thus to all usurpers
.

And she thought of Anton, of how she had to return to him. To set things right, to find out why he said what he did, and how they could go forward.

‘What do we do with his girl, then?' the other man said. He sounded strangely distant, as if masked. ‘She bit me!'

‘And you deserve no less,' the Scotsman said wryly. ‘These English females usually lack the spirit of our Scottish lasses, though. I wonder who she is. I suppose we should discover that before we decide how to correct your foolish error.'

Before Rosamund could brace herself, her hood was thrown back and her mask roughly untied and pulled away. Her wig was also hastily removed, and her own hair tumbled free of its pins.

‘Well, well,' the Scotsman murmured. ‘Lady Rosamund Ramsay.'

It was Master Macintosh, Rosamund realised in
shock, wrapped in the black, star-dotted cloak. She remembered those prickles of mistrust she had felt when he'd talked to her at the frost fair, and wished she had heeded their warnings.

She scrambled to sit up, sliding as far away from him as she could. She found she lay in the bottom of a sleigh, gliding swiftly along the frozen river. Macintosh knelt beside her and the other man held the reins, urging the horses to even greater speeds as the ice flew past in a sparkling silver blur. He glanced at her, and even though his face was half-wrapped in a knitted scarf she could see it was Richard. Richard—the man she had once thought she could care for!

Even through her shock, it made a sort of sense: his disappearance from home for months with no word; his sudden reappearance at Court; the hard desperation in his eyes whenever they met. The tension between him and Celia, who had her own dealings with the Scots. But why,
why
, would he involve himself in some treasonous conspiracy?

But, whatever his plot, it seemed clear he had not intended her to be a part of it. His eyes widened with surprise.

‘Rosamund!' he cried. ‘What are you doing here?'

White-hot anger burned away the cold shock, and Rosamund actually shouted, ‘What am I doing here? I was foully kidnapped by
you
, of course. What would your parents say if they knew of this shame? You are a villain!'

Macintosh laughed, reaching out to grab Rosamund's wrist and pull her roughly towards him. ‘Your Scots blood is showing, Lady Ramsay! She certainly reminded you of what is important, Richard—what your parents would say.'

‘And I would bleed myself dry of every drop of Scots
blood, if this is what it means,' Rosamund said, snatching back her hand. ‘Treason, threats—not to mention imbecility.'

Macintosh scowled, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. Her head felt like it would explode under the onslaught, but she twisted hard under his grasp, wrenching herself away.

‘'Twas English imbecility brought us to this,' he said. ‘Your ardent suitor here was the one who mistakenly grabbed you. You weren't meant to be involved at all.'

‘Then I am glad his stupidity led him to take me and not the Queen,' she declared. ‘She is safe from your evil intent.'

‘We never intended evil towards her, Lady Rosamund,' Macintosh said. Somehow she could not quite believe him, with his bruising clasp digging into her shoulder. ‘We merely sought to help her to a meeting with her cousin. Queen Mary is most eager to see her, and yet your Queen Elizabeth keeps delaying. Surely if she saw my Queen's regal and dignified nature, her great charm and beauty, she would give up the notion of marrying her to that stable boy, Leicester.'

‘So you were going to carry her in secret all the way to Edinburgh?' Rosamund asked incredulously. It seemed there was plenty of imbecility all around.

‘'Tis true, it is a long voyage,' Macintosh said. ‘And accidents do happen when one travels. These are perilous times.'

Then he did intend to kill Queen Elizabeth. And probably now her, as well, for getting in his way. Furious, Rosamund lunged towards him, arcing her fingernails toward his smirking face.

Macintosh ducked away, even as her nails left an angry red scratch down his cheek.

‘Bloody hell!' he shouted. As he dragged her against him, his body fell into Richard, causing him to jerk hard on the reins. Confused the horses cried out and veered off their course towards the river bank. They crashed through the drifts of ice-crusted snow, coming to a halt wedged at an angle.

The cries of the horses, Macintosh's furious shouts and Rosamund's own screams tore the peace of the winter night. She elbowed him as hard as she could in the chest, and he slapped her across the face. Her head snapped back on her neck, her ears ringing.

Suddenly, burly arms seized her around the waist, dragging her from the listing sleigh. Richard held onto her even as she fought to be free, pulling her through the snow up the river bank.

Macintosh, still cursing, knelt by the river, pressing a handful of snow to his scratched cheek. ‘Tie up the English witch, and don't let her out of your sight,' he growled. ‘She'll pay for this foolishness.'

‘Richard, what are you about?' Rosamund said as he plunked her down beneath a tree. Her thick cloak kept away some of the cold, but the wind still bit at her bruised skin. It was a terrible cold, dark night here in these unknown woods, and she couldn't shake away the nightmare quality of it all.

‘They offered me money,' he muttered, leaning his palms on his knees as if he struggled to catch his breath. ‘A great deal of money, and land to come. With so much, your parents could surely no longer disrespect me. They would be sorry for what they said.'

‘They did
not disrespect
you! They merely thought we were a poor match, and it is obvious they were correct.' More than correct. They had seen things in Richard she could not then, but now saw so clearly.
He was not Anton, he was nothing like a man she could love.

‘This was for
you
, Rosamund!'

She shook her head, sad beyond anything. ‘Treason cannot be for me. Only for yourself, your own greed.'

‘It was not greed! If seeing the rightful queen put on the throne could help us to be together…'

‘I would not be with you for all the gold in Europe. I am loyal to Queen Elizabeth. And I love someone else. Someone who is honourable, kind, strong—a thousand times the man you are.' Rosamund slumped back against the tree, feeling heartily foolish that she had ever been deluded by Richard.

‘So, you are like your parents now,' he said, straightening to glare down at her. Even through the milky moonlight she could see, feel, the force of his anger. The fury that she would dare reject him. It frightened her, and she pressed herself hard against the tree, gathering her legs under her.

‘You think yourself above me, after all I've done for you, risked for you,' he said. ‘You will not be so haughty when I am done with you!'

He grabbed for her, but Rosamund was ready. She leaped to her feet, ignoring her cramped muscles; her painfully cold feet in their thin shoes. She shed her cloak and ran as fast as she could through the snow, her path lit only by the moon shining on the ice. She lifted her skirts, dodging around the black, bare hulks of the winter trees.

Her breath ached in her lungs, her stomach lurching with fear. Her heart pounded in her ears, so she could barely hear Richard stumbling behind her. She did not know where to go, only that she had to get away.

She leaped over a rotten fallen log, and Richard tripped on it, landing hard on the snow.

‘Witch!' he shouted.

Rosamund, panicked, suddenly remembered how she would climb trees as a child, how she could go higher and higher—until her mother had found out and put a stop to it.

She saw a tree just ahead with a low, thick branch and launched herself at it. Tucking her skirts into her gold kirtle, she jumped onto the branch, reaching up, straining until she could clasp the next branch up. Her palms slid on the rough, frosty wood, her soft skin scraping. She ignored the pain, pulling herself up.

Up and up she went, not daring to look down, to listen to Richard's shouted threats. At last she reached a vee in the trunk and wrapped her arms tightly around the tree as the wind tore at her hair, battered at her numb skin. She remembered golden moments with Anton, moments where they had kissed and made love, and she knew they were meant to be together.

She held onto the thought of him tightly now.

Help me
, she thought, closing her eyes as she held on for her life.
Find me!

 

Anton glided swiftly along the river, the dark countryside to either side of him flying along in a shadowed blur as he found his rhythm. The rhythm that always came as he skated, made of motion and speed, the knifelike sound of blades against ice. The cold meant nothing, nor did the darkness.

He had to find Rosamund, and soon. That was all that mattered. He loved her. He saw that so clearly now. He loved her, and nothing mattered beside that. Not his estate, not her parents, not the Queen, only their feelings
for each other. He had to tell her that, to tell her how sorry he was for ever sending her away.

He followed the grooved tracks left in the ice by the runners of a sleigh. The vehicle had been heavy enough to leave a pathway, but it was already freezing over.

The thought of Rosamund out there in the cold night, shivering, frightened, alone, made him angrier than he had ever been. A flaming fury burned away all else, or surely would if he'd let it. But he knew that such fury, out of control, boundless, would not serve him well now. He needed sharp, cold focus. The anger would come later, when Rosamund was safe.