A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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ourselves at home. There are men coming and going at all hours, messengers galloping away in the dead of night. I wonder if Henry sleeps at all.
He certainly has no time for me. I am barely settled into my apartments when it is time for him to ride off again at the head of an army. He has the courtesy to come and say farewell. He kisses me goodbye and bids me care for our prince. When he turns away, I leave his mother to dominate the leave-taking as she always does, and climb a winding stairway to the top tower.
I look down at the mustering men at arms. A few short months ago I believed the wars were over but now, thanks to my cousin’s dissatisfaction, there is to be another battle. More men must die. Knights and their followers have ridden from all parts of the realm at Henry’s command. I pray they are more loyal than those who followed Richard.
My stomach churns at the thought of what war means but I try to steel myself, push away fruitless tears and pray for my husband’s victory. It is better to lose another cousin than to sacrifice my son’s throne to the cause of York. I hope, if he is aware of it, my father will understand.
I know my mother won’t.
I lean as far as I dare over the parapet and see below me, among the tall glittering knights, Henry seemingly small and vulnerable. From this angle his body appears squat and distorted, like a silver-clad dwarf. He kisses his mother and, as he pulls away I see her reach for him again but he is gone, calling to his uncle who runs, mail clanking, to join his king.
Jasper has supported Henry throughout his life. He is the only man he can wholly trust. They mount up. Henry places a hand on his sword hilt as if to reassure himself it is there.As he does so a sudden breeze snatches at my veil , almost tearing it from my head, and I give a cry of surprise. Henry glances up, white-faced, alert for an assassin. I raise my hand and blow a kiss into the wind and he smiles, suddenly and unexpectedly, and blows one back to me. My heart flips in my chest and a kind of peace descends upon me. I smile despite my fears and lean further over the parapet so as to keep them in my sight for as long as possible. As the king rides out to face his foe he doesn’t turn around, but I know instinctively he will come back.
Chapter Thirteen
Boy
Malines, Brussels – July 1487
“Richard!”
The boy, having grown used to the name ‘Peterkin,’ flinches at the use of his old name. The Duchess rises from her gilded chair and embraces him unexpectedly. He flounders in her embrace for a moment, and over her shoulder sees Brampton smothering a laugh. As soon as he is free to do so, he executes the special bow he has been practicing for this meeting while she smiles indulgently.
His aunt launches into a criticism of the recent events in England, and the boy cranes his neck about the vast hall. It is a long time since he has enjoyed such luxury, if indeed he ever has. Every interior surface, the doorways, the ceiling, tables and chairs are encrusted with gold, or something as much like gold as to make no difference. The hangings are the finest he has ever seen. Beside him, Brampton is unaffected by the splendour. He coughs and nudges the boy, indicating that he should speak.
Peterkin bows again and clears his throat.
“It is good to be here at last, Your Grace.”
“Dear Richard,” she says again, lifting his chin with her forefinger to examine his face. “So handsome; so very much like your father.”
She claps her hands and a serving wench enters with a tray of wine and three cups. She places it on a table by the window. The Duchess ushers them toward it and with a wave of her hand bids them admire the vast formal gardens outside. With a jerk of his head Brampton sends the girl away and begins to pour the wine. He bows as he offers the Duchess the first cup.
“I take it you were behind the fiasco at Stoke, Your Grace?” Although there is no one near, he speaks
He certainly has no time for me. I am barely settled into my apartments when it is time for him to ride off again at the head of an army. He has the courtesy to come and say farewell. He kisses me goodbye and bids me care for our prince. When he turns away, I leave his mother to dominate the leave-taking as she always does, and climb a winding stairway to the top tower.
I look down at the mustering men at arms. A few short months ago I believed the wars were over but now, thanks to my cousin’s dissatisfaction, there is to be another battle. More men must die. Knights and their followers have ridden from all parts of the realm at Henry’s command. I pray they are more loyal than those who followed Richard.
My stomach churns at the thought of what war means but I try to steel myself, push away fruitless tears and pray for my husband’s victory. It is better to lose another cousin than to sacrifice my son’s throne to the cause of York. I hope, if he is aware of it, my father will understand.
I know my mother won’t.
I lean as far as I dare over the parapet and see below me, among the tall glittering knights, Henry seemingly small and vulnerable. From this angle his body appears squat and distorted, like a silver-clad dwarf. He kisses his mother and, as he pulls away I see her reach for him again but he is gone, calling to his uncle who runs, mail clanking, to join his king.
Jasper has supported Henry throughout his life. He is the only man he can wholly trust. They mount up. Henry places a hand on his sword hilt as if to reassure himself it is there.As he does so a sudden breeze snatches at my veil , almost tearing it from my head, and I give a cry of surprise. Henry glances up, white-faced, alert for an assassin. I raise my hand and blow a kiss into the wind and he smiles, suddenly and unexpectedly, and blows one back to me. My heart flips in my chest and a kind of peace descends upon me. I smile despite my fears and lean further over the parapet so as to keep them in my sight for as long as possible. As the king rides out to face his foe he doesn’t turn around, but I know instinctively he will come back.
Chapter Thirteen
Boy
Malines, Brussels – July 1487
“Richard!”
The boy, having grown used to the name ‘Peterkin,’ flinches at the use of his old name. The Duchess rises from her gilded chair and embraces him unexpectedly. He flounders in her embrace for a moment, and over her shoulder sees Brampton smothering a laugh. As soon as he is free to do so, he executes the special bow he has been practicing for this meeting while she smiles indulgently.
His aunt launches into a criticism of the recent events in England, and the boy cranes his neck about the vast hall. It is a long time since he has enjoyed such luxury, if indeed he ever has. Every interior surface, the doorways, the ceiling, tables and chairs are encrusted with gold, or something as much like gold as to make no difference. The hangings are the finest he has ever seen. Beside him, Brampton is unaffected by the splendour. He coughs and nudges the boy, indicating that he should speak.
Peterkin bows again and clears his throat.
“It is good to be here at last, Your Grace.”
“Dear Richard,” she says again, lifting his chin with her forefinger to examine his face. “So handsome; so very much like your father.”
She claps her hands and a serving wench enters with a tray of wine and three cups. She places it on a table by the window. The Duchess ushers them toward it and with a wave of her hand bids them admire the vast formal gardens outside. With a jerk of his head Brampton sends the girl away and begins to pour the wine. He bows as he offers the Duchess the first cup.
“I take it you were behind the fiasco at Stoke, Your Grace?” Although there is no one near, he speaks
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