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

Remember who you are.” My sister’s wails cease instantly as Mother glides toward my bed. “Sit up, Elizabeth, let me look at you.”
    I struggle, still sobbing, onto my pillow and feebly kick off the covers, suddenly hot whereas a moment earlier I’d been cold. “She’s going to hurl again,” cries Cecily, pointing from her corner as I lunge once more for the pot.
    Mother, unperturbed by my extremities, feels my forehead the moment I am upright again. “When did you last eat?”
    “Don’t even speak to me of food.” I lie back, shudder and roll my head away from her hand.
    Mother straightens up and with a jerk of her head clears the chamber of women. When we are alone she sits beside me, and to my surprise reaches out two hands and tests the weight of my breasts.
    “Ow!” I pull away, scowling at her breach of conduct. She leans forward, hisses through her teeth.
    “You are pregnant.” Her face is white, her words clipped and quiet as she thinks out loud. “How could you do this? We must be rid of it. If ever the king were to discover …”
    It is too much to take in all at once. A thousand thoughts flash through my mind. Triumph; joy; quickly followed by fear.
    “Pregnant? Already? How is that possible?”
    “You tell me.” She keeps her voice low, controlling her anger as she glances furtively to and from the door, afraid someone will overhear. “How could you have done this to us, Elizabeth? Who have you lain with?”
    I look at her, my sickness ebbing a little, my former misery replaced with a sudden euphoria and an irresistible urge to giggle. Mother doesn’t know. She hasn’t guessed. She thinks I’ve been sporting with one of the servants like my father used to. I am tempted to prolong her agony, exacerbate her dread, but I am too tender hearted … too delighted to keep the knowledge to myself. I reach for her hand and give her a smile that is ridiculously wide.
    “Oh, Mother, do you really not know me at all? I lay with the king. It is his child.”
    “The king?” Her lips part. Her face opens further and I watch as relief swamps her and she begins to mentally calculate when we can expect the confinement. “Why did you not tell me? Oh, Bess. I thought for a moment … the wedding must be soon. Does he know? Have you told him?”
    I shake my head.
    “He is not a great one for talking, not in the few stolen moments we have enjoyed together.”
    “Then you must tell him at once. Come, get up, and dress your best.”
    She claps her hands and my women appear as if from nowhere, the chamber descending into chaos as she orders a bath to be filled and my finest gown to be brushed. Soon I am sponged and oiled and brushed and clad all in dark green velvet and ready to offer up my news to the king.
    *
    When I am finally given permission to enter, I find the king with his mother. They are seated at a table, papers strewn across the surface. They both look up, the resemblance between them striking. I sink into a deep curtsey.
    “Elizabeth.” Henry rises and comes toward me, takes my hand and leads me toward the table. His brow is furrowed, his face full of questions.
    “I must speak with you, my lord,” I whisper. His fingers are warmer than his expression but I sense he is not best pleased at the interruption. His mother seems even less so.
    “Lady Elizabeth, how gracious of you to join us.” Her tone tells me she is anything but delighted, but I smile and incline my head courteously.
    “There is an important matter I must discuss with the king.”
    “Oh Elizabeth, I hope you are not still pestering him to free your cousin Warwick. Really, the child is better off in the Tower, safer …”
    “No. It isn’t about my cousin. It is another private matter.”
    I emphasise the word ‘private’ and refuse to back down while she looks vaguely in my direction, her gaze not meeting mine. One hand moves across the bundle of papers she has been perusing.
    “I hear my son’s council; there is