A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp Page A
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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enjoyed the schoolroom; Edward was better at learning. The boy prefers to practice with his wooden sword, or ride with the hounds. “I will do my best,” he says at last. Brampton looks down at him and ruffles his hair approvingly, winks and flashes his wide smile.
Margaret has turned away. She is counting coins from her purse and piling them on the table. “There will be more, of course, Brampton, in time, but this will be enough for you to reach your destination.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The boy looks from one face to the other; trying to determine the meaning of a grown up conversation in which he has no place although every word, every decision concerns him.
“But, but aren’t I coming with you, Your Grace?”
Margaret smiles and squats before him, their faces on a level. Hers is huge and white, lined with worry and grief. The boy’s is round and pale, a streak of dirt across his nose, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Not today, child. You must be kept out of sight. There are enemies who would have you killed; enemies of York who would destroy us both. You will go with Brampton and live as part of his household, and learn, my son, learn, learn, learn until you can fit not another morsel of knowledge into your skull. I am hoping to send you to join the son of a friend of mine who is studying in Overijsse, you will like it there, it is a good place. But nothing is decided yet. But, whatever happens, by the time you have learned all there is to learn, you will be a man and ready to take your place in the world.”
The boy looks doubtful. “Just me … and Brampton?”
Margaret smiles, her eyes almost disappearing, the crinkles on her cheeks like the rays of the sun. “Brampton is a good man. My brothers, both Edward and Richard, trusted him with their lives, and that is good enough for me. He will look after you and I will send word to you when I can, and visit from time to time. Be a good boy and write to me should there be anything you need. Good fortune, small one.”
She lays a hand either side of his head and places her lips on his brow. He feels the warmth of her breath, the pressure of her fingers on his cheek. Suddenly he remembers his mother, the softness of her lap, and wants to cast himself into her arms. But Brampton’s hand is heavy on his shoulder and he knows he must behave as a man. “Come, lad,” Brampton says. “We can rest here tonight before we travel north.”
Chapter Eight
Elizabeth
January 1486
Lady Margaret, the king’s mother, swears that Henry tells her everything but I can tell he has not told her our secret. That first night Henry took me with a kind of reverent terror, but in the nights that follow his terror turns to rapture. During the day his hot persistent lovemaking regresses once more to chilly wariness, but I am confident that now he’s had a taste of it, he will visit me again.
I am right, his visits become predictable. Each night I ensure I lie alone, and whenever he can he comes scratching at my chamber door as soon as the house is settled.
The first time I wake at dawn in the grip of nausea, my ladies fear I’ve been stricken with the new contagion that is sweeping in a tide over England. The disease, the sweating sickness, strikes suddenly and usually takes its victim before a day has passed. There is no known cure and the doomsayers swear it is God’s vengeance on Henry for the theft of another man’s crown.
I hurl the contents of my stomach into a pot, look up in a frenzy of weeping and cry for my mother.
“Hush.” Margaret scoops back my hair, trying to salvage it from the ribbons of vomit. “Your mother is coming, Elizabeth. All will be well. Hush.”
Cecily, ever useless in a crisis, weeps in the corner, her knees drawn up beneath her chin. “We are all going to die,” she wails, plucking at her nightgown in a frenzy of terror. As my body succumbs to a further attack of retching, I wonder if she is right.
“Be quiet, Cecily.
Margaret has turned away. She is counting coins from her purse and piling them on the table. “There will be more, of course, Brampton, in time, but this will be enough for you to reach your destination.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The boy looks from one face to the other; trying to determine the meaning of a grown up conversation in which he has no place although every word, every decision concerns him.
“But, but aren’t I coming with you, Your Grace?”
Margaret smiles and squats before him, their faces on a level. Hers is huge and white, lined with worry and grief. The boy’s is round and pale, a streak of dirt across his nose, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Not today, child. You must be kept out of sight. There are enemies who would have you killed; enemies of York who would destroy us both. You will go with Brampton and live as part of his household, and learn, my son, learn, learn, learn until you can fit not another morsel of knowledge into your skull. I am hoping to send you to join the son of a friend of mine who is studying in Overijsse, you will like it there, it is a good place. But nothing is decided yet. But, whatever happens, by the time you have learned all there is to learn, you will be a man and ready to take your place in the world.”
The boy looks doubtful. “Just me … and Brampton?”
Margaret smiles, her eyes almost disappearing, the crinkles on her cheeks like the rays of the sun. “Brampton is a good man. My brothers, both Edward and Richard, trusted him with their lives, and that is good enough for me. He will look after you and I will send word to you when I can, and visit from time to time. Be a good boy and write to me should there be anything you need. Good fortune, small one.”
She lays a hand either side of his head and places her lips on his brow. He feels the warmth of her breath, the pressure of her fingers on his cheek. Suddenly he remembers his mother, the softness of her lap, and wants to cast himself into her arms. But Brampton’s hand is heavy on his shoulder and he knows he must behave as a man. “Come, lad,” Brampton says. “We can rest here tonight before we travel north.”
Chapter Eight
Elizabeth
January 1486
Lady Margaret, the king’s mother, swears that Henry tells her everything but I can tell he has not told her our secret. That first night Henry took me with a kind of reverent terror, but in the nights that follow his terror turns to rapture. During the day his hot persistent lovemaking regresses once more to chilly wariness, but I am confident that now he’s had a taste of it, he will visit me again.
I am right, his visits become predictable. Each night I ensure I lie alone, and whenever he can he comes scratching at my chamber door as soon as the house is settled.
The first time I wake at dawn in the grip of nausea, my ladies fear I’ve been stricken with the new contagion that is sweeping in a tide over England. The disease, the sweating sickness, strikes suddenly and usually takes its victim before a day has passed. There is no known cure and the doomsayers swear it is God’s vengeance on Henry for the theft of another man’s crown.
I hurl the contents of my stomach into a pot, look up in a frenzy of weeping and cry for my mother.
“Hush.” Margaret scoops back my hair, trying to salvage it from the ribbons of vomit. “Your mother is coming, Elizabeth. All will be well. Hush.”
Cecily, ever useless in a crisis, weeps in the corner, her knees drawn up beneath her chin. “We are all going to die,” she wails, plucking at her nightgown in a frenzy of terror. As my body succumbs to a further attack of retching, I wonder if she is right.
“Be quiet, Cecily.
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