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

quietly, takes a gulp of wine and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
    “It is of no matter. It was an experiment, to test the water. It proved to us that there are many in England who resent Tudor’s rule and who will rise in numbers should the right candidate appear.”
    Brampton puts down his cup. “Not many chose to ride against Tudor on this occasion, Your Grace, but many died. How can that be of no matter?”
    She fixes him with a sharp stare.
    “They knew what they were doing. Both Lovell and Lincoln knew the boy they used as bait was nothing but a dupe. Had they won, we would have replaced him with Richard here, once it was safe to do so.”
    She nods toward her nephew. It is strange to be called by his given name again; the boy has grown used to ‘Peterkin’ or ‘boy’. In the early days he saw the rustic name as an insult, but now it has become a term of endearment, a familiarity he has come to enjoy. He has few enough friends and now that he has left Overijsse, he misses Marin as much as he once missed Edward and his sisters. He wonders what she would make of all this. What is she doing now? Weeping probably, wishing for his return.
    The boy drags his attention away from Marin’s charms and back to the conversation; his aunt is speaking, a flush of agitation spreading on her cheek.
    “Next time, mark me, things won’t go as well for Henry Tudor. Perhaps this time we were a little impatient but we will learn from that. Had Tudor not held Lincoln’s father in such close custody, I have no doubt more men would have ridden out beneath our banner. Next time we will know better.”
    “Tudor is no easy conquest. He is wily and wise; his life in exile has made him so.”
    “Tudor is not made of the material of kings; he is an upstart and a usurper. He will be no match for us.”
    The boy wonders how such a weak and feeble king managed to overthrow King Richard, who was one of the finest generals in England. But he says nothing. He can see the Duchess is growing riled. He looks from her to Brampton, listening intently, and for the first time begins to realise that men have actually died for the cause that was lost before it began.
    “What of the boy, Simnel, I think they are calling him? What has Tudor done with him?”
    Margaret’s laughter tinkles like a thousand tiny bells as she seeks to soothe him. “Tudor is a fool. He has set the boy to work in his kitchen; he is too soft to punish him properly, luckily for the child.”
    Richard is relieved to hear it. It would be hard to hear an innocent lad had died on his behalf; a lad who, so they said, was little brighter than the real Warwick he pretended to be.
    “Warwick will never be a contestant for any man’s throne. Tudor had him taken from the Tower and paraded through the streets to prove our boy, Simnel, was a pretender. My informers tell me your cousin can barely tell one end of his horse from the other.”
    She throws back her head again. The boy watches her; the gaping mouth showing broken teeth, a thick coated tongue that wobbles in her throat as she laughs. The Duchess’s finery goes only so deep, he thinks, and not for the first time wonders if his quest is worth it.
    The boy Warwick, whom she mocks, is her nephew too, and Richard realises he himself only finds her favour because he is strong enough to promise victory. Because of his resemblance to his father, the men of York will flock to his banner, but what are the chances of success? His main supporters are made up of one reprobate Portuguese and a dowager Duchess bent on revenge. The others who promise him backing are as yet faceless, too fearful of the Tudor king to join with him openly. The boy sips his wine, feels the thick red Burgundy soothe his throat.
    “We need more support,” he says, putting forward his first proposal and moving a step closer to the adult world of intrigue. “France is no friend to England and neither is Scotland. Can we not approach them for