A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (5 page)

I shudder and, at his bidding, begin to rise, my eye travelling up his loose night robe, the heavily embroidered yoke, a few stray chest hairs beneath. The ends of his sleek dark hair curl in a frame about his jaw.

His lips are unsmiling, two parallel lines run either side of his mouth; lines that will grow deeper as he ages. My eye is drawn to them. He will tuck his troubles beneath those lines; use them his whole life to conceal his fears with half a smile until the folds of skin become so deep they could be set in stone.

Our eyes meet like strangers, yet I know why he has come. I know I cannot withdraw. I am trapped in a silken cage of his devising. He reaches out and touches me again, locking my prison door.

“You are very beautiful; I think I told you that before.”

I nod soundlessly as his fingers continue to move in my hair, down the side of my skull to run lightly along the curve of my jaw, beneath my throat, to my neck. “I hadn’t expected beauty.” He traces a nail along the surface of my skin and a trail of Judas bumps appear. “They all told me you were beautiful, but people say that of princes, don’t they?” He laughs suddenly, the levity out of place in the deathly serious silence of the chamber. “Some people even say it of me.”

There is little mirth in his humour. I sense fear and tension, a latent power. He circles me, his eyes absorbing every detail, making me wish I had selected my better bed gown and asked that my hair be brushed to a greater sheen. Suddenly it is imperative that I please him, for if he should find any fault with me, I will not just be letting myself down but the whole of my house, too.

He is standing so close I can see the rise and fall of his chest. He places a hooked finger beneath my chin, lifts my eyes to his. “When I saw you first, I suspected some trick. How can it have been this easy?” His breath flutters in my face. I catch a lingering hint of garlic and wine that reminds me of my father. I lower my eyes. He turns away and I breathe a little more easily, and he begins to pace back and forth, back and forth.

“All my life I’ve been fighting for this. The crown. England … you. I’d seen the crown a few times on other men’s heads. Even though I’d not set foot here for fifteen years or more I could remember the lush green fields of home, but you, Elizabeth … you were the surprise. A bonus I’d not expected, and my heart took a leap of gratitude at my very first sight of you.”

I follow him with my eye as he continues to pace. He stops at the hearth, lifts his arms and lets them fall again. “There had to be a catch, didn’t there?”

I shake my head once, unsure where this is leading, but he does not look at me. He continues to speak, heedless of my response.

“Of course, it didn’t take me long to learn what that catch was. Almost right away those who have no love for me took pleasure in telling me of your …”

I am alert now and curious. “My what?”

He spins on his heel and comes close, pushing his face near; he narrows his eyes and enunciates clearly so as to catch my slightest reaction.

“Your impurity.” He spits the words so violently that I pull away from him, a gasp of outrage springing from my lips.

“That is a lie,” I shout as the blood surges beneath my skin. My anger swells. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palm. “Who has said such things of me?”

He laughs, bitterly not merrily. “Everyone. It is common knowledge. Did you think to hide it? Every lowly knave in the palace whispers of how you gave yourself to your uncle; how you flaunted your tawdry nature beneath the nose of Gloucester’s dying queen.”

Cecily and I had wondered how Henry would be in anger. It affects men in different ways; my father used to bellow and cuff his servants; my uncle Richard became tight-lipped and anxious; Henry, it seems, becomes spiteful.

He grips my upper arm with strong, outraged fingers. “You were to have been my prize,” he sneers. “Yet what do I find? A baggage! A rotten, hackneyed gutter-wench! A royal whore!”

“My Lord!”

Summoning what dignity I can, I look down with disdain at his wiry hand digging into the fleshy part of my arm. He relaxes his grip a little. I can smell the wine on him, the sweat of fear and disappointment. His breath comes heavy and hoarse. Trembling with fury, I swallow my revulsion; remember my father’s advice to hide my feelings away, play the game for all it’s worth and to keep the stakes high.

“Those are lies, my lord.”

He maintains his grip on my arm. I speak more calmly, my words clipped and controlled, close into his ear. “Lies and slander to wound you. Those who bear you no love seek to undermine our union. They are trying to break us, my lord, before we are forged. They have their own agenda, sir. Only a fool would listen to them.”

As soon as he releases it, I rub my bicep. I will be bruised in the morning. He moves away, stares into the dying embers, his hair falling across his face so I cannot see his eyes. I swallow phlegm; cough lightly to clear my throat and gather all my courage. “Come, my lord,” I suggest with great daring. “Will you not take some wine?”

He turns slowly to face me, takes a few steps into the light of the single candle and regards me for a long uncomfortable moment.

“Do you swear it is all lies?”

I fasten my gaze on his and look him directly in the eye. “I do, my lord …” He makes to turn away again and I speak quickly to detain him. “And I can prove my words are true.”

I watch the question form on his lips, knowing that the moment he gives voice to it, I am lost.

“How?”

His eyes are on my mouth as I make my reply. “When I give myself to you, my lord, you will know if I am a maid … or not, as the case may be.”

For a long while he does not speak. We stand in our nightclothes, eye to eye in the rapidly cooling chamber as the last few minutes of my maidenhead tick by.

Then he reaches out and begins to loosen my robe.

She is tall, very tall, and the skin is pulled tight across the bones on her face. She leaves her retinue outside and enters the room alone. The boy stays in the shadow while Brampton goes forward to greet her with showy grace. “My Lady,” he bows low over her hand and offers her a chair but she stands, unsmiling, while her agate eyes dart about the chamber, seeking something … someone.

At Brampton’s summons the boy steps into the light and her breathing, which was audible before, halts. She throws up her hands. He sees long white fingers, pure unspotted palms; she holds them aloft as if she is greeting a small god. The boy gathers his courage and approaches her to make an elegant knee as if he were back in his father’s court.

“Edward,” she breathes, when he is upright again. Her black-swathed arm reaches out from a voluminous cloak to touch his shoulder. “Edward,” she says again.

The boy clears his throat. “I am Richard; Richard of Shrewsbury: Duke of York and Norfolk. Prince of England.” He glances at Brampton to see if he did right to confess to his own name but his companion is looking straight ahead, his eyes fastened on the fascination of the Duchess. Her gaze has not left the boy’s face. She reaches for him as if she is transfixed.

“York and Norfolk,” she murmurs slowly and breathily as her eyes devour him. “Oh, yes, I can see who you are. You are the living image of your father. Brampton, bring me some wine.”

The boy, taking no small delight in the ease with which Brampton is reduced in status to a servant, allows himself to be manoeuvred into the light so she can look at him. She takes the proffered cup absently and sips delicately, watching her nephew over the rim while she speaks.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

A frown darts across his brow and the bright head lowers. “M-my father … my Uncle Rich― my brother, Edward … he – he …”

Taking pity on his charge Brampton steps forward. “The lad has quitted himself well, Your Grace. He is a brave fellow. He knows of the unrest in England; he knows he is here to be kept from harm’s way.”

“From harm’s way.” Lady Margaret has a habit of slowly repeating the last line of any spoken sentence. She swoops forward suddenly, taking the boy by surprise. Her face on a level with his, her dark eyes consume his features. “You are a true son of York. It is a lot to live up to. You must learn. You must do more than learn, you must excel … at
everything
.”

Doubt creeps across the boy’s face. He has never enjoyed the schoolroom; Edward was better at learning. The boy prefers to practice with his wooden sword, or ride with the hounds. “I will do my best,” he says at last. Brampton looks down at him and ruffles his hair approvingly, winks and flashes his wide smile.

Margaret has turned away. She is counting coins from her purse and piling them on the table. “There will be more, of course, Brampton, in time, but this will be enough for you to reach your destination.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The boy looks from one face to the other; trying to determine the meaning of a grown up conversation in which he has no place although every word, every decision concerns him.

“But, but aren’t I coming with you, Your Grace?”

Margaret smiles and squats before him, their faces on a level. Hers is huge and white, lined with worry and grief. The boy’s is round and pale, a streak of dirt across his nose, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Not today, child. You must be kept out of sight. There are enemies who would have you killed; enemies of York who would destroy us both. You will go with Brampton and live as part of his household, and learn, my son, learn, learn, learn until you can fit not another morsel of knowledge into your skull. I am hoping to send you to join the son of a friend of mine who is studying in Overijsse, you will like it there, it is a good place. But nothing is decided yet. But, whatever happens, by the time you have learned all there is to learn, you will be a man and ready to take your place in the world.”

The boy looks doubtful. “Just me … and Brampton?”

Margaret smiles, her eyes almost disappearing, the crinkles on her cheeks like the rays of the sun. “Brampton is a good man. My brothers, both Edward and Richard, trusted him with their lives, and that is good enough for me. He will look after you and I will send word to you when I can, and visit from time to time. Be a good boy and write to me should there be anything you need. Good fortune, small one.”

She lays a hand either side of his head and places her lips on his brow. He feels the warmth of her breath, the pressure of her fingers on his cheek. Suddenly he remembers his mother, the softness of her lap, and wants to cast himself into her arms. But Brampton’s hand is heavy on his shoulder and he knows he must behave as a man. “Come, lad,” Brampton says. “We can rest here tonight before we travel north.”

Lady Margaret, the king’s mother, swears that Henry tells her everything but I can tell he has not told her our secret. That first night Henry took me with a kind of reverent terror, but in the nights that follow his terror turns to rapture. During the day his hot persistent lovemaking regresses once more to chilly wariness, but I am confident that now he’s had a taste of it, he will visit me again.

I am right, his visits become predictable. Each night I ensure I lie alone, and whenever he can he comes scratching at my chamber door as soon as the house is settled.

The first time I wake at dawn in the grip of nausea, my ladies fear I’ve been stricken with the new contagion that is sweeping in a tide over England. The disease, the sweating sickness, strikes suddenly and usually takes its victim before a day has passed. There is no known cure and the doomsayers swear it is God’s vengeance on Henry for the theft of another man’s crown.

I hurl the contents of my stomach into a pot, look up in a frenzy of weeping and cry for my mother.

“Hush.” Margaret scoops back my hair, trying to salvage it from the ribbons of vomit. “Your mother is coming, Elizabeth. All will be well. Hush.”

Cecily, ever useless in a crisis, weeps in the corner, her knees drawn up beneath her chin. “We are all going to die,” she wails, plucking at her nightgown in a frenzy of terror. As my body succumbs to a further attack of retching, I wonder if she is right.

“Be quiet, Cecily. 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 nothing you can say to him that he will not relay to me later.”

I allow myself a little giggle, feel Henry stiffen beside me.

“I hope there are some things that will remain just between ourselves … when we are married.” I manage to catch his eye and silently impress upon him that he should extricate us from her company. He hesitates, his teeth showing momentarily on his lip. He clears his throat.

“Perhaps we might permit the Lady Elizabeth just a few moments alone, Mother.”

Her lips tighten, the lines about them gathering into what my father would have termed a ‘pig’s arse.’

“Very well.” She stands and with a perfunctory curtsey to her son, glides past us, her head high, her servants scurrying in her wake. Before I can speak, Henry drops my hand.

“You’d do well, Elizabeth, not to make an enemy of my mother. She is a good and virtuous woman; one you should emulate.”

He has his back to me, fidgeting with the papers on the table. I jerk my head high.

“I have some news I thought you would prefer to hear for yourself first, considering how things have been between us.”

He stops fussing with the letters and turns slowly to face me, a dark red flush beneath his skin.

“And your news is?”

I step toward him, brazenly grasp his hands and bring them close to my face, rubbing them against my cheek, allowing my joy to show.

“I am with child.”

He becomes very still, the expression in his eye remaining unchanged. He takes a deep breath before he speaks. “That was quick. How very … convenient.”

I drop his hands, let him see my hurt. “Henry!”

He moves away, pours a cup of wine and drinks without offering a cup to me. I suddenly realise that in all the weeks I’ve known him I have yet to see him happy. I have never once heard him laugh aloud for pure joy; a sound I heard my father make every day of his life. This news should make him the most jubilant man alive, yet here he is, still full of doubt, riddled with suspicion.

“I had thought you’d be overjoyed, Henry. I could be carrying your son, your prince, your heir.”

He looks at the floor. “Or someone else’s.”

My breath breaks on a sob.

“Oh, you are cruel. You know I was a maid when you lay with me first. You know this is your child; a prince to link the houses of York and Lancaster and put an end to the wars. You know that! Why must you be so … so suspicious of everything, everyone?”

He shrugs. I turn away but his next words give me pause.

“I’d say it was my upbringing. Raised first by my enemies, your father’s liegemen, the Herberts, at Raglan. Then my teenage years overseas, exiled, on the run, never knowing who was a friend and who a paid assassin. Your people made me the man I am, Elizabeth. Your precious father; I cannot change that. I cannot be joyful.”

He speaks the word ‘joyful’ as if it is a flaw, a defect. I narrow my eyes, spit through my teeth.

“Then you have my pity, sir. I bring you the best news a man can have; tidings of the son your house craves, and still you see demons. For Heaven’s sake, why not look upon it as God’s blessing on our union? It is what the people want. They are crying out for you to make me your wife and now you should do so before I am shamed before the world.”

There is a long drawn silence. He turns and perches on the edge of the table, puts his cup beside him on a sheaf of papers. His eyes are sad.

“Oh, I will make you my wife, Elizabeth. I will not deny you that, but it will be a dark day in hell before I trust you.”

With one hand he gives what I have asked for, and takes from me with the other.

“How am I to rule alongside a man who can show me no trust?”

“You will not rule beside me. I will make you my wife; I might even be persuaded to let them crown you if I have to, but you will never rule. York shall have no more influence over the future of England than the colour of our son’s first shoes.”