A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (3 page)

Before I can delay him, the maid is grovelling on the floor and a man is coming quietly toward me. His face is in shadow, I can only see his outline. He is smaller than I’d imagined, not kingly at all and half a yard shorter than my father. Forgetting all my formal training I stare at him open-mouthed before remembering to curtsey. I crouch on the floor, short of breath, my heart hammering. His feet appear before me; black, square-toed shoes, his hose slightly wrinkled at the ankle.

I feel his hand on my shoulder and he bids me rise. I obey slowly and moisten my lips, fumbling for something to say. “Your Grace …” I croak at last.

He laughs at my confusion but not unkindly. “You were not expecting me?”

“No, Your Grace, or I should have gone to more trouble.”

“No need, no need. I would see you as you really are.”

We shouldn’t be alone, not before we are wed. I make a sudden movement. “I should summon my mother …”

He puts up a finger to stop me and his eyes close slowly; every movement he makes is slow and considered, like a snake before it lunges.

“I sent her to her bed. I wanted to meet you alone, away from the eyes of the world.”

“I see.”

He is standing close. I can hear his breath whistling through his nose, and when I raise my eyes I see his skin is glistening, the pores open, as if he is overwarm, although it is chilly in the chamber. He is afraid and as wary of me as I am of him. My confidence rises a little and I lift my chin while he makes his inspection.

“They said you were beautiful.”

“I am sorry to disappoint.”

He laughs again, recognising the irony in my tone.

“Oh no, not disappointed.” He lifts a strand of my hair that has slipped from the confines of my cap, and rubs it between finger and thumb as if he is a draper testing the nap of a velvet gown. I feel like an ox on market day. “You are very fair.”

“Thank you.”

He turns to the table and fills two cups with wine, offers me one which I accept, although I do not drink from it.

“Do you welcome our marriage, Elizabeth?”

Richard’s face flickers in my mind and for a long moment I look down at the red, glutinous liquid in my cup. There is only one answer I can make. The only way to keep my family safe, my mother, my sisters, my uncles, my cousins, my brothers … is to agree.

“Oh yes,” I hear myself reply. “I have longed for our union for years … ever since Richard of Gloucester stole my brother’s throne.”

Detesting myself for a base liar I gulp from the cup, suppressing a cough, tears springing to my eyes.

“Ah yes; your brothers,” he is saying. “Where are they, do you know?”

I shake my head and look into the dying embers of the fire. He comes to stand behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck.

“If we are to marry,I must revoke the act that made you illegitimate. I cannot wed you while you are labelle
d
bastard. If I revoke the act that made you so then I legitimise your brothers too and in turn, make them my rivals … and dangerous. You must see that cannot happen.”

My throat is blocked with grief. I nod my head. “I understand,” I croak.

“Are they still living? You must tell me if they are. And if you know their whereabouts you must tell me that, too. It is your duty … as my wife and subject.”

Our eyes are level; his are grey, like steel, and mine are awash with tears. I let my chin tremble as I lie to him and betray Richard one last time.

“I fear they are dead,” I sob. “My poor, poor brothers, they were defenceless in the face of Gloucester’s greed. They never stood a chance.”

I drag a kerchief from my sleeve and sob into it, feeling him take a step closer.

“There, there,” he says, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “You must not weep; we have had our vengeance on him already.”

He draws me closer and I go stiffly into his arms. His chest offers little comfort. It is not vast and soft like my father’s, nor hard and muscled like Richard’s. It is narrow and bony and beneath it I can feel the pattering of his heart.

He is as afraid as I am.

It feels strange to be on firm ground after the swelling and rolling of the ship’s deck. The boy stumbles and almost falls into a stack of barrels. Brampton laughs, tosses a pack onto his shoulder and moves into the crush of people. “Bring the luggage, boy,” he says.

The boy watches him disappear into the crowd. He is tempted to ignore the order and hesitates. Men pass to and fro, coming between him and his guide until all he can see of Brampton is the top of his cap.

Brampton is a rogue and a fool but he is all the boy knows. He snatches up the bags and staggers after him, the hard edges of the pack digging into his thighs. He calls out to him, people turn and look, and Brampton, who is deep in conversation with a shabby-looking fellow, scowls and growls at him to be silent.

It takes a while to barter for two down at heel nags. The horses stand heads down in the shade of a spindly tree, their ribs like hoops, their hooves split, and the droppings behind them too wet to be healthy. The boy waits, tired and thirsty, overwhelmed by the voyage and the strange clamouring harbour town. It is very different to travel as the servant of an adventurer than as a royal prince. There are no comforts, no easement. At first he was full of questions but now exhaustion is making him accept whatever comes – he snatches at memories of his mother, his sisters and the love they once offered, but their faces slide away before he can grasp them.

When Brampton tosses the saddlebags over the neck of the largest horse the boy is surprised the beast doesn’t stumble. As he waits to be helped to mount he wonders if the poor creatures will last till sunset. Brampton doesn’t even look his way; he swings himself easily into the saddle.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” the boy demands. Brampton turns and looks at him, one eyebrow disappearing beneath his curly hair.

“Nope,” he replies and kicks his horse into a shambling trot.

The boy drags his reluctant mount to a tumbledown wall and heaves himself aboard, his legs flailing. Before he is properly settled the horse begins to move off, forcing the boy to scramble to keep his seat. “Hey wait,” he calls. “Wait, I say.” But Brampton’s back is disappearing into the trees.

The boy has ridden since he could walk; fine blooded specimens with coats brushed to a sheen; their hooves oiled, their manes and tails pulled and laundered. He has never known the trials of an ill-fitting saddle, an ill-mannered, over-bred, broken-down, grass-bellied mare. By the time they’ve travelled five miles he is exhausted, his fingers are blistered from hauling at the reins, and his buttocks are sore from a tear on the saddle.

Brampton seems unconcerned although he too is used to finer steeds. He sits loose in the saddle, his cap pushed back and his legs jutting forward as if taking his ease in a brothel.

“How far is it?” The boy flaps his legs, urging his horse to Brampton’s side, and the man turns.

“I don’t know. Far enough. Now, get behind, remember who you are supposed to be. I am tired of reminding you.”

The boy falls back but every so often Brampton glances over his shoulder and smiles at the lad’s discomfort. The next few years will be hard. Brampton has told him he is a good boy, better than his brother and should make a better man than his father, but he has been spoiled. His softness needs sharpening. Brampton is determined to rough him up a bit and turn him into a soldier – more like the Plantagenet prince he was born to be. The boy shies inwardly from the prospect.

At night they lodge in shambling inns, eat rough bread and sup rustic soup, and Brampton insists theyrise early before the other travellers are on the road. As they leave the town behind Brampton trades in their broken mounts for horses of better blood. The journey becomes more comfortable, and once they reach less travelled roads
,
Brampton relaxes.

Now there are fewer folk to see, the boy can ride beside him. He has learned not to speak too much but he listens, unwittingly absorbing lessons from Brampton’s tales of war and leadership. The man has lived a colourful life, travelling the world, seeking his fortune. And he has left it all behind to give his service to a dispossessed boy.

The boy has discovered it is fruitless to quiz the man about what has happened to his brother, yet he is desperate to know the plan. He doesn’t know where they are going or what is going to happen. “When are we going to go back to England?” he asks one day, but his companion makes no answer. He squints into the horizon, along the endlessly winding road.

“Wait and see,” he grumbles.

‘Wait and see’ is the only reply the boy ever hears.

*

Evening is almost upon them, the shadows are long, the birds quietening, the bats beginning to flit in the darkening sky. Without warning, Brampton turns his horse from the road and leads the boy down a long grass track.

“Where are we going?” the boy whispers. He keeps his voice low, sensing the need for stealth, although he knows not why.

“Wait and see,” Brampton growls.

The track is overgrown and seldom travelled. They follow its dwindling path until they reach a dwelling; a house and a cluster of farm buildings. There is no one about. Weeds grow in clumps around the water trough where they let the horses take refreshment. Brampton slides from the saddle and, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, looks around.

Silence. Even the owls are quiet. Brampton jerks his head at the boy who dismounts and obediently leads the horses into the barn, out of sight. There is hay in the manger. He removes the saddles, rubs a fist over the sweaty patch beneath, and then creeps from the barn to find Brampton.

The door to the house is ajar. Warily, the boy steps over the threshold and looks around the dim, empty room. Brampton has thrown open the shutter and is reading a note by the fading light of the back window.

The few sticks of furniture are swathed in sheets, and when Brampton pulls them aside the boy is surprised to see good quality stuff. There is a strong oak table with good serviceable stools and, before the vast fireplace, a settle with cushions. This is no poor man’s home.

“What is this place?” the boy asks. “Who lives here?”

“Wait and see.”

Brampton opens the pantry door and emerges with a fresh loaf, a roasted fowl, a flagon of wine and some apples. It is the best they’ve eaten for weeks and the boy falls upon the food as if he has never known better.

“Is it your mother’s house?”

“My mother’s house? Why would you think that? Do I sound Burgundian bred?” Brampton chews, wipes a trickle of grease from his stubbled chin. The boy shrugs and pokes another chunk of bread into his mouth.

Brampton is Portuguese. He still bears the accent of his homeland and his looks are dark and swarthy, and he wears an earring like a pirate. The boy remembers him from court, laughing with his uncle, drinking with his father and earning the approving royal tag as the king’s ‘loyal friend.’

Deep down the boy knows Brampton is a good man, his devotion to his father continuing long after his death. That is why he is here with him now; Brampton must have promised either his father or Uncle Richard to protect him, no matter what. But, in the past, he has heard other whispers about Brampton.

His brother Edward, God rest him, liked to frighten the boy with dark tales of murder and intrigue. “Brampton killed a man in Portugal,” he whispered once, “and fled to England to escape the noose. Father thinks he can trust him, but can he really? Who is to say he will not kill us all in our beds one dark night?”

The boy knows they were just stories made up to trick him into revealing his terror. There was nothing Edward liked more than to drive his brother out of his wits with stories of evil spirits and murder but … you never know.

“Whose house is it then?”

“Your aunt’s.”

The boy stops eating and looks at Brampton askance. “My aunt’s house?” He looks doubtfully around the room, at the plain furniture, the lack of decoration. “My aunt is the Duchess of Burgundy; you can’t expect me to believe she lives here.”

Brampton tears another strip of flesh from the fowl and chews it, licking grease from his fingers and speaking with his mouth full.

“I didn’t say she lives here, you little fool. She owns everything around here; everything and everyone. Her instructions were to bring you here and, if it is indeed the right place, we are to await her here.”

The boy puts down his bread.

“She is coming here? Will she take me back to her court?”

Brampton sighs and leans across the table, grips the boy’s arm. His face is serious, his eyes dark. For a moment the boy thinks he is sad, regretting that they must part. But then he speaks.

“Listen, boy, you must forget who you are. I keep telling you. It is important. Prince Richard is no more. You will be given another name, another life, and you must just be grateful that you live. Your life in England is gone …” He snaps his fingers. “Forget it. Your brother is dead; your country has a new king. Your uncle could have ordered you killed; it would have been wiser for him to do so. But he has granted you your life, sent you here to his sister, your aunt, where you will be safe, but in return you must forgo all claim on the English crown. Do you understand?”

The boy nods, just once, but his eyes are full of questions. He swallows, licks his lips.

“What about my mother? Will I see her?”

Brampton ruffles the boy’s hair.

“She will write when she can but it is doubtful you will see her. Be grateful that you live.”

The boy is silent for a long time. He tears the soft white bread to pieces, crumbles it onto his plate before asking quietly, “What happened to Edward? Is he really dead? Or is that just another trick?”

Brampton’s sigh is deep and long. “I wish I could say it were, boy. There was a rebellion. London, the whole of England was in chaos. Your cousin, the traitor Buckingham, tried to take King Richard’s place and have you and your brother killed, but Richard got wind of it and ordered me to get you both to safety. I failed with Edward, but you’re here. That is the main thing.”

The boy cuffs his nose. A tear trickles from one eye; he keeps his head low, sniffs, and hopes that Brampton won’t think him a girl. Brampton stands up and tosses the boy a kerchief. It is stained with grime from the road.

“You’ve done well, boy. We’ve come all this way and you’ve not shed a tear till now. I am proud of you.”

His hand falls heavy on the boy’s shoulder and while he dries his eyes Brampton moves to the door, his ears alert for the sound of approaching horses.