A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp

wound you. Those who bear you no love seek to undermine our union. They are trying to break us, my lord, before we are forged. They have their own agenda, sir. Only a fool would listen to them.”
    As soon as he releases it, I rub my bicep. I will be bruised in the morning. He moves away, stares into the dying embers, his hair falling across his face so I cannot see his eyes. I swallow phlegm; cough lightly to clear my throat and gather all my courage. “Come, my lord,” I suggest with great daring. “Will you not take some wine?”
    He turns slowly to face me, takes a few steps into the light of the single candle and regards me for a long uncomfortable moment.
    “Do you swear it is all lies?”
    I fasten my gaze on his and look him directly in the eye. “I do, my lord …” He makes to turn away again and I speak quickly to detain him. “And I can prove my words are true.”
    I watch the question form on his lips, knowing that the moment he gives voice to it, I am lost.
    “How?”
    His eyes are on my mouth as I make my reply. “When I give myself to you, my lord, you will know if I am a maid … or not, as the case may be.”
    For a long while he does not speak. We stand in our nightclothes, eye to eye in the rapidly cooling chamber as the last few minutes of my maidenhead tick by.
    Then he reaches out and begins to loosen my robe.

Chapter Seven
Boy
     

Farmstead near Dijon ― December 1483
     
    She is tall, very tall, and the skin is pulled tight across the bones on her face. She leaves her retinue outside and enters the room alone. The boy stays in the shadow while Brampton goes forward to greet her with showy grace. “My Lady,” he bows low over her hand and offers her a chair but she stands, unsmiling, while her agate eyes dart about the chamber, seeking something … someone.
    At Brampton’s summons the boy steps into the light and her breathing, which was audible before, halts. She throws up her hands. He sees long white fingers, pure unspotted palms; she holds them aloft as if she is greeting a small god. The boy gathers his courage and approaches her to make an elegant knee as if he were back in his father’s court.
    “Edward,” she breathes, when he is upright again. Her black-swathed arm reaches out from a voluminous cloak to touch his shoulder. “Edward,” she says again.
    The boy clears his throat. “I am Richard; Richard of Shrewsbury: Duke of York and Norfolk. Prince of England.” He glances at Brampton to see if he did right to confess to his own name but his companion is looking straight ahead, his eyes fastened on the fascination of the Duchess. Her gaze has not left the boy’s face. She reaches for him as if she is transfixed.
    “York and Norfolk,” she murmurs slowly and breathily as her eyes devour him. “Oh, yes, I can see who you are. You are the living image of your father. Brampton, bring me some wine.”
    The boy, taking no small delight in the ease with which Brampton is reduced in status to a servant, allows himself to be manoeuvred into the light so she can look at him. She takes the proffered cup absently and sips delicately, watching her nephew over the rim while she speaks.
    “Do you know why you’re here?”
    A frown darts across his brow and the bright head lowers. “M-my father … my Uncle Rich― my brother, Edward … he – he …”
    Taking pity on his charge Brampton steps forward. “The lad has quitted himself well, Your Grace. He is a brave fellow. He knows of the unrest in England; he knows he is here to be kept from harm’s way.”
    “From harm’s way.” Lady Margaret has a habit of slowly repeating the last line of any spoken sentence. She swoops forward suddenly, taking the boy by surprise. Her face on a level with his, her dark eyes consume his features. “You are a true son of York. It is a lot to live up to. You must learn. You must do more than learn, you must excel … at everything .”
    Doubt creeps across the boy’s face. He has never