A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (2 page)

And then, one night, I had a dream. A disgraceful, passionate, impossible dream that meant I would never be able to look upon Richard in the same light again.

There was no indication that he felt the same, but I could not stop thinking of him. My eyes followed him about the hall. I absorbed his every word, reading meaning where there was none. And each time I lay down to sleep, his image would rise before me.

This man in my dreams was most unlike my Uncle Richard. The man, the king of my imaginings, was wild and ruthless with desire for me. His mouth pressed close to my ear whispered of forbidden things, my skin burned beneath his imagined touch.

It was an ungoverned passion, a longing that was impossible to conceal, and soon people began to notice. I gave myself away in a million different ways. Soon, the gossips began to whisper in the shadows and, like a dirty stain, the tale spread across the country.

They spoke of a lecherous king giving court to his niece under the nose of his ailing wife. Had Richard truly planned to wed me I’d have fallen at his feet, but none of it was true. He never once indicated that he felt anything for me but the love of an uncle for a niece. He loved Anne deeply and treated me as he always had, with gentle deference and amusement. It was only my treacherous heart that betrayed him and provided the court gossips with fuel for their filthy fires.

Poor Aunt Anne, she didn’t know what to believe and she died miserably, eaten up with disease and jealousy for an incestuous act that had never taken place outside my own imaginings. But, once ignited, gossip becomes rampant and people went as far as to accuse the king of poisoning her for want of marrying me.

Richard, who at first shrugged the rumour off, grew angry. He brooded at table, his conversation became clipped as if he was afraid that any word he spoke would be taken and twisted out of truth. And to make things worse, he barely looked at me.

I almost died of shame when Richard was forced to speak out and deny me before the world. He could have demanded that I refute it too, but he spared me that dishonour. I know now that I should have confirmed I’d never known the touch of his hand or had the honour of his kiss. I should never have pretended I had. I can only blame the folly of youth, the unfulfilled desires of a lovelorn maid.

In those days I was full of love for him, but now that love has turned to terror, terror that he will die on the battlefield today and I will have no choice but to wed the man who rides against him.

*

“Where do you think our brothers are?” Cecily asks for the hundredth time. “Are they still living? Do they know about the battle? Who will they root for; Uncle Richard or Henry?”

“How do I know? Either way it will mean little difference to them, if they still survive.”

She shrinks away from my sudden anger, and impatiently I turn from her and stand on tiptoe to see from the tower window across the vastness of the Yorkshire countryside. There is a sick feeling in my stomach to know that miles away men are pitting their strength against each other, wounding and slaying their own countrymen for the sake of power. England is the prize and I will become the property of the victor. For years there has been war; war and bloodshed. For longer than I can recall the men of my family have ridden out to kill and maim their neighbours. There was a time when I thought it was over.

Cecily is slumped on the edge of her bed. I hold out my hand and pull her to her feet. “Come,” I say. “I will comb your hair. Once we are up and about we will feel better. There is no point wallowing in grief. When life sends you conflict it is better to face it in full armour than to hide like a toad beneath a rock.”

Despondently, she sits before the looking glass while I tease the tangles from her hair. The household is stirring. A hearth girl comes in to stoke the fires and footsteps are scurrying up and down the winding stair. Cockerels wake and begin to call in the morning, dogs are barking in the bailey, and soon the matins bell will ring calling us all to prayer.

*

I am following the train of Cecily’s gown up the twisting stair. Her step is heavy; she is wishing we were back at court not packed away to the country for safety.

Sheriff Hutton castle holds the royal nursery where the King has the children under his care held in safety. Cecily and I, seeing ourselves as women grown, are insulted to be treated as infants. As well as my sisters and I, our cousins Margaret and Edward of Warwick are also ‘kept safe.’ Their father, George of Clarence, was murdered when we were children
,
some say on my father’s order.

When we first came I feared she would resent us, but when we met Margaret’s smile was warm and I realised that she too has grown up to understand the ruthlessness of kings.

We gather in the solar where her brother Warwick shows me his kittens, piling them in my lap and pointing to his favourite and telling me all their names. While they clamber with stiff tails and mewing mouths about my skirts, Margaret looks on with a slightly anxious frown. He grins up at me, his face alight with innocent pleasure. He has no concept of our position, no idea of the raging battle that will determine all our futures.

Margaret and I exchange glances and I see her eyes are full of tears. She fears for him as I fear for my own brothers.

“We’ve not lost yet, Margaret,” I murmur and our eyes meet over Warwick’s head. “Even if Tudor wins the battle, he may not win the war. York can fight another day.”

It has always been so. A great see-saw of power with the crown as the fulcrum. Sometimes it seems there will never be peace in England. As for us, the children of York, every one of us is vulnerable and easy prey for power hungry kings.

The boy looks up at the vast sky, the wheeling gulls, and the angry, scudding clouds. His soul is filled with the sounds of the sea; the strain of the rigging, the slapping of the sail, the crashing of the great waves against the hull.

I should have been born a sailor
, he thinks as he clings to the ship’s rail, his legs splayed to effortlessly ride the surging deck. The wind is laced with tiny shards of glass that sting his face, turning his cheeks scarlet, but he doesn’t mind the cold.

A few feet away a lad not much older than himself is scrubbing the deck, the soles of his feet are black, his clothes tattered and bleached by salt and sun. The boy moves forward, pushes back his cap and tucks his thumbs into his waistband.

“Is that hard work?” the boy asks. “Can I try?”

The cabin boy looks up warily, shakes his head but makes no reply. He keeps his eyes cast down and quickly returns to his task.

“What is your name?” the boy asks but before the cabin boy can answer, a hand falls hard upon his shoulder. Brampton turns the boy to face him, stooping so as to hiss into his ear.

“Didn’t I tell you not to talk to anyone? Keep your mouth closed, your accent marks you out. You are supposed to be my servant yet here you are strutting about like a lord. Get below and do as you are told.”

The boy jerks his arm free.

“He is only a lad. I am bored with being below deck. There is no air, nothing to do. I want to stay here and feel the air on my face. No one on board cares who I am.”

Brampton screws up his face.

“Any man on earth will carry tales for the right price. We don’t want the crew spinning yarns about a bright-haired lad taking ship from Bristol port; a lad with a lordly accent and hands like an untried girl.”

Grabbing the boy’s collar, Brampton bears him off. Once in the cabin he throws off his hat and collapses onto the bed. “You are my servant now, you’d best get used to it.”

The boy, narrowing his eyes, slides down the wall and brings his knees to his chin. He flexes his fingers and examines his palm.

“I don’t have hands like a girl.”

Brampton emits a bellow of laughter and thumps his straw-filled pillow into some semblance of comfort.

“You certainly don’t look like any sailor’s lad I ever met. Keep away from them. You stick out like a pearl in a bowl of pig swill. Land can’t be far away. If you don’t do as I say I’ll make you walk every step of the way to your aunt’s court; maybe that will humble you.”

“My aunt?” The boy is alert now, his mind quickly assessing. “In Burgundy? Is that where we are going?”

“Sshh.” Brampton springs from the bed and clamps his hand over the boy’s mouth. His face is so close that when he speaks the boy flinches from the fumes of his garlic-laced supper. “I have said too much. Forget I spoke.”

He releases the boy, who turns away, folding his arms and heaving a sigh. He feels they’ve been travelling for months, yet it is only a matter of weeks. A few days at a country manor where he befriended a servant girl with pretty red hair; a week on the road, darting from one sorry tavern to the next. He is tired of it, tired of Brampton, tired of travel. He wants his sister; he misses her songs and stories of knights and chivalry.

“I hate being your servant,” he spits but he keeps his voice lowered, knowing Brampton is his only friend. He owes his life to the man.

Brampton from his bunk glares back at the boy. “Maybe I should have let Buckingham have you then. Maybe I’d be living the high life, dallying with loose ladies at court instead of here in this shit pit with an ungrateful cur.”

“You can’t speak to me like that.” The boy’s face is scarlet, his eyes ablaze with resentment. Brampton laughs and turns his back on the boy.

“Sure I can. You are no one, nothing … until I say you are.”

I am bored, we all are. The babies are fractious, the infants beginning to quarrel; even Cecily and Margaret had a falling out earlier over a game of knucklebones. Only Warwick seems content, tormenting his kittens with too much love.

Allowing my sewing to fall to my lap, I stretch my arms and heave a hefty sigh. “This day is endless.”

Margaret looks up from her book. “Word will come soon enough.”

“Let us hope it is good news when it arrives.” The tone of Cecily’s reply leaves us in no doubt that she fears it won’t be. We subside into silence again and brood until a sudden scream from my little sister makes us leap from our seats.

“Bridget, let go!” She is clasping a handful of Catherine’s hair and has forced her sister to her knees, her mouth wide and her screams piercing. The nursemaid rushes forward.

“Oh, I am sorry, Madam. They are so naughty today.”

I wince as she spanks Bridget’s hand and Bridget immediately opens her mouth to add her cries to Catherine’s.

It is as if the children sense our tension. In other circumstances such domesticities would be a welcome interlude, something to laugh about later, something to add to a letter to make Mother smile. But today I am so distracted I offer them comfort with more impatience than empathy. I just want them to be quiet, to sit and be silent so that I can fret in peace.

When the children are calm, I summon the nursemaid from her corner. “I think they need to rest; they are fractious because they are tired.”

Amid wet kisses and sticky waves goodbye the children are ushered out, leaving Margaret, Cecily and I alone. I move to the window and look out across the battlement to the road beyond, where a puff of dust on the horizon betrays the approach of a small band of horsemen.

“Someone is coming.”

The girls hurry to the window, jostling for a view.

“Who is it? Can you see? What badge do they wear?”

As yet, they are too far off to determine. We watch as the horses grow larger and the shapes of the men slowly detach from the dun coats of their mounts. With a sick thumping heart I screw up my eyes to identify them, but their badges are obscured and they carry no flag. Cecily’s shoulder is pressed against mine as she strains to see.

“Tudor would come with an army. He’d not come with a small retinue like that.”

I turn away, smooth my skirts and try to arrange my thoughts.

“Tudor would not come at all. He would send a messenger, as would my uncle.”

I clench my fists, pray silently and rapidly that Richard is safe. If York should fail, my life, all our lives, will change beyond recognition. Soon, although it seems like hours, there are sounds of arrival in the bailey. A trumpet sounds and a door slams far below and someone shouts for a groom. A dog runs out barking frantically, setting off the others. I watch and wait, my heart a sickening throb in my throat. Blood pulses in my ears, and I know Cecily and Margaret are just as afraid as I. I can hear their high rapid breathing as we stand in the centre of the room, side by side, with our clasped hands hidden in our skirts.

Footsteps on the stair outside are followed by a curt command, and the door is thrown wide. “Sir John Willoughby,” my page announces. “And Sir John Halewell.”

Two men enter, draw off their helms and make a hasty bow.

Lancastrians.

York has lost.

My heart turns sickeningly.

I loosen the girls’ hands and move forward to stand behind my chair. I lift my chin, bite my lip and remind myself who I am, the house I represent.

It isn’t the end
, I tell myself.
It isn’t the end. Richard will rally and fight again. It isn’t the end
.

Unsmilingly, I hold out my hand while they bow their perspiring heads. They are ripe with the stench of horse and sweat, the megrims of the ride.

“Well, my lords?” I say at last. “What is the outcome?”

Willoughby throws his gauntlets onto the table with a satisfied flourish. “Richard of Gloucester is dead and Tudor is victorious.”

The world swims but I clutch the back of my chair tighter, my nails digging into the carved wood.

“Dead?” I hear myself say. “York is vanquished?”

“Most certainly. Like a fool, Gloucester took one last insane risk and tried to fight his way through to the king. Luckily for us, Stanley, changing his allegiance at the last, moved in and his army beat the usurper down. I watched myself as Lord Stanley plucked up the fallen crown and placed it on the rightful king’s head.”

As he delivers this good news he beams around the room, nods familiarly at my sister and cousin as if they are tavern wenches and not of royal blood.

I am confused. His rightful king and mine are two different men. The news that Richard has fallen refuses to take root in my mind. I had thought that even if the battle was lost, we would fight another day. The see-saw of York and Lancaster has ever swung up and down, and up again, but now, now … who is left to fight on?

With my brothers in hiding or dead, who does that leave? My cousin, John Lincoln? My little cousin, Edward of Warwick? Neither are strong enough and neither have experience at rallying men. Richard
cannot
be dead.

While my mind pushes away the fact of Richard’s defeat and whirls with possibilities for York to regain power, Willoughby’s voice continues. I drag myself back to the dreadful present.

“We are sent to bring you and your sister”—he nods in a perfunctory manner in Cecily’s direction—“to London, and the boy, Warwick, too.”

A sudden movement, a boyish yelp of protest, and Warwick emerges from beneath the table. He has been there unnoticed all along and heard every word. For once I am glad he lacks the wit to fully understand. He struggles to his feet, still clutching his favourite kitten.

“I don’t want to go to London; I like it here.”

With a cry, Margaret swoops toward him, guides him as far as she can from the men who have come to detain us.

“We must do as the king says,” she says gently, for the benefit of Willoughby. “The king in his wisdom knows what is right and best for us.”

I realise then that she is trying to guide me, subtly beseeching me not to argue with them.
We must not grieve for Richard, we must do all we can to pacify this new king. ALL we can.

I know she is right. There is little point in protesting. We must ride to London on the orders of this Tudor king and face whatever fate awaits us. Whether I find myself a prisoner in his Tower, or bedded as his wife, I have no choice.

*

In August the roads are dusty, the plants in the hedgerow are setting seed, and the farmers getting ready to slaughter their stock. The winter will be hard, the wind will howl and the snow will fall. Many will suffer, many will perish, but as we are hurried past their humble, ill-thatched dwellings I find myself longing to be ordinary. Better to be an out at knee rustic at the mercy of nature than a richly clad princess at the mercy of her enemy.

I pin my hopes on Mother, who will be waiting to greet me. She and Henry Tudor’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, have known each other for years, sometimes friends, sometimes foes, but Mother is Queen Dowager. She will speak for me and see I am treated fair.

Although it is many hours until dusk, I call to Sir Willoughby and beg that we may stop awhile. “We are tired,” I tell him. “We are unused to travelling so fast. You must think of the boy …”

“The king bid us make haste. There is much unrest in the land and he wants to get you to safety as fast as he can.”

I pull my mount to a complete stop and look down my nose at him. “We were safe at Sheriff Hutton, the people of the north would never harm
us
; perhaps you should have left us there.”

He reaches out and takes hold of the reins. “I do as my king instructs. You must save your remonstrations for him.”

And so we ride on through the heat of the afternoon, my fingers on the reins are slick with sweat, my thighs aching, and my skin thick with the dust of the road. When we stop for the night at a priory I fall into bed, and for the first time since we heard of Henry Tudor’s landing in Wales, I sink into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

The next morning, after Mass and a swift breakfast, I climb groaning back into the saddle. Warwick is whimpering. His kitten has fallen sick after being taken from its mother too soon, and it hangs over his arm like a ginger fur cuff. Margaret clucks at him in sympathy and he wipes away a tear.

“Cheer up, Edward,” I say, trying to boost him. “We can get you another kitten.”

As I kick my horse into position in the column, his tears start up again. “I don’t want another kitten, I want this one.”

And I can sympathise. I don’t want this life. I want my old one.

As we draw closer to London, we are joined by a great cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen who treat me with great deference. We become a procession, a royal entourage to demonstrate how well the Tudor king treats the women of his vanquished foe.

Warwick is held behind and we are told there will be no triumphant entry into the city for him. He will be borne separately to the Tower; although he is a boy, and a backward one at that, he is too great a rival for Tudor’s peace of mind. When they are separated Margaret cries out in protest, but she is taken firmly in hand.

“Be quiet, my lady,” Willoughby hisses. “You will see your brother later; he will come to no harm.”

I reach out, take hold of her bridle.

“Hush, Margaret, do as they say or it may be worse for Edward. I am sure Tudor will not harm a boy. If I am able I will do all I can to protect him.”

And with all my heart I hope that is true.

*

We are reunited with my mother, lodged at the home of Henry Tudor’s mother in Coldharbour to await the pleasure of the king. For days, I dress in my best and wait for him to come. In the end I grow tired of waiting, tired of being cooped up indoors. Outside the summer is slipping into autumn and I crave fresh air, to stretch my legs in the garden and say farewell to the swiftly ebbing sun.

Mother is resolute. “It is all going to plan,” she says. “I have always thought Henry would make a good match for you.”

“He has not come near me; how can you think it is going to plan? And since when did a Tudor become a fitting match for a daughter of York?”

“Hush, hush, my dear. You know your father suggested it once, to bind the houses of York and Lancaster and put a stop to the endless war.”

She pushes me into a chair and begins to play with my hair, pulling it away from my face and tying it into a thick braid. She leans forward and speaks rapidly and quietly into my ear. “He will come. He needs you. He cannot hope to hold England without you. Many Yorkists who fought for him at Bosworth did so only because of his promise to join with you.”

“Then why hasn’t he come?”

She curls the end of the braid around her finger and smiles, maddeningly calm.

“He is punishing you for being who you are. You are his superior in all things; that is something he hates and so he is flexing his muscles, trying to make you suffer. When he comes, you must be indifferent. Not cold, not overjoyed, just cool and perhaps a little reluctant. That way he will want you more. He will want to master you and he cannot do that until he has made you his wife.”

Her words, or perhaps it is her hands that continue to move in my hair, make me shudder. “Now, now,” she whispers, “it won’t be that bad. He is just a man with a shiny crown. If you want to have any influenceover hi
m
you must make him worship you.”

“How? How can I do that?” I turn to her and she grips my wrists.

“Be humble and reverent. He has been raised in obscurity and will be a stranger to adulation which all men thrive upon. Give him a taste of it and in turn, he will worship you. That is always the best way to control a man, be he king or commoner.”

I have a sudden memory of her looking at my father with all the love in the world in her eyes. For the first time I question it.

“But … you didn’t do that with Father, did you? That wasn’t a feigned affection?”

“Oh no.” Her eyes mist over, and a dreamy look spreads across her face. She is still beautiful, despite the suffering. “That wasn’t feigned,” she says, as her fingers absentmindedly resume their work. “I would have loved your father were he king or swineherd.”

*

It is late and I am about to call my women to help me to bed. The fire has slumped in the grate and an autumn chill is creeping into the chamber. I put down my book and draw my shawl about my shoulders. Just as I am about to rise there is a sound at the door and a terrified maid stumbles over the threshold, almost falls as she bobs a hasty curtsey. “Sorry to disturb you, my lady but … the king is here.”

I am on my feet, fumbling for my shawl which has fallen to the floor, snatching up my cap and pulling it on to cover my hair. Realising I am wearing only one slipper, I kick off the other and hope he will not notice I am barefoot.