Read Online A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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Nine
Boy
Overijsse ― 1486
A nightingale sings in the tree outside the window. The boy, familiar now with the smell of ink and parchment, puts down his pen and goes to lay his head on the sill. He closes his eyes, drinks in the sound of the birdsong and waits for Brampton to arrive.
For two years now the boy has been here in monastic quietude learning the delights of philosophical discourse. At first he was homesick, always looking forward to Brampton’s next visit or rare invitations to his aunt’s court — always incognito, of course.
As good as her word, Margaret has kept the boy supplied with serviceable clothes, good food on his table, and his chambers replete with books.
“It is important,” she tells him in her letters, “that you learn to be the prince you were born to be.”
He learns fast. There is little else for him to do. Sometimes he even forgets he is an exile, assuming the identity of another until the time comes for him to be Richard of York again. He knows Latin and Greek, philosophy and history and, when Brampton comes, he practices his skill with the sword and in the tiltyard.
It has been many months since Brampton last visited, and the boy is impatient for the sound of his horse in the distance. Brampton brings news from home, word from his mother, sometimes a note written in cypher expressing her love and loyalty. At last, when the afternoon sun is heading west, a swirl of dust appears on the road. He hears a clatter and a cry at the gate and his old friend rides wearily into the courtyard.
Last year when he came, Brampton brought tearful news of his Uncle Richard’s inglorious death on the battlefield against the usurping Tudor. The boy wept to hear how the last Plantagenet king was betrayed by his own countrymen. A new regime now ruled in his place.
The boy spat in the dust when he learned of his sister’s marriage to that invading king. He remembers his eldest sister with fondness; the rainy afternoons when she read stories of Arthur and his round table. It is hard to reconcile that memory with the woman who is now his enemy, Tudor’s queen.
The boy hurries down the steps and they embrace before Brampton ruffles his hair in the same infuriating way he used to. The boy ducks away from him and scowls playfully.
“How are you, boy?” Brampton throws off his gauntlets and summons a passing monk for wine.
“Well enough, what news from home?”
“The Tudor is over the moon now your sister is soon to be lighter of a son. I’ve heard they plan to name him Arthur.” Brampton laughs derisively.
“Arthur, like in the tales?” The boy looks pleased, forgetting momentarily that the newborn will be a rival, son of his deadliest enemy. “Is Elizabeth well?”
Brampton shrugs, surprised to notice a downy shadow on the boy’s upper lip. Mentally he counts backwards, working out his age as he makes his answer.
“I don’t know, but if she is anything like her mother the child will be brought forth safely, and I doubt Tudor will waste any time before getting another on her. A king can never have too many sons. Look at your father; he had a nursery full of brats, two strapping boys and yet … his royal line will die out with you. Unless you do something about it.”
“Get married again, you mean. My first wife is dead.”
Hot from the saddle Brampton eases off his jerkin, untucks his shirt and pours some water into a bowl, rubs a cloth around the back of his head.
“I meant make some preparation to take back your throne – you can’t do that with a wife in tow.”
“Oh. I am not ready.” The boy’s eyes are fearful but Brampton pretends not to see it and hopes he will outgrow his cowardice. Brampton, his wet hair standing up on end, plucks a grape and pops it into his mouth.
“Of course, you know what Tudor has done?”
The boy shakes his head, just once, his eyes fastened on the man’s face. He watches as Brampton tosses a couple more grapes between his big
Boy
Overijsse ― 1486
A nightingale sings in the tree outside the window. The boy, familiar now with the smell of ink and parchment, puts down his pen and goes to lay his head on the sill. He closes his eyes, drinks in the sound of the birdsong and waits for Brampton to arrive.
For two years now the boy has been here in monastic quietude learning the delights of philosophical discourse. At first he was homesick, always looking forward to Brampton’s next visit or rare invitations to his aunt’s court — always incognito, of course.
As good as her word, Margaret has kept the boy supplied with serviceable clothes, good food on his table, and his chambers replete with books.
“It is important,” she tells him in her letters, “that you learn to be the prince you were born to be.”
He learns fast. There is little else for him to do. Sometimes he even forgets he is an exile, assuming the identity of another until the time comes for him to be Richard of York again. He knows Latin and Greek, philosophy and history and, when Brampton comes, he practices his skill with the sword and in the tiltyard.
It has been many months since Brampton last visited, and the boy is impatient for the sound of his horse in the distance. Brampton brings news from home, word from his mother, sometimes a note written in cypher expressing her love and loyalty. At last, when the afternoon sun is heading west, a swirl of dust appears on the road. He hears a clatter and a cry at the gate and his old friend rides wearily into the courtyard.
Last year when he came, Brampton brought tearful news of his Uncle Richard’s inglorious death on the battlefield against the usurping Tudor. The boy wept to hear how the last Plantagenet king was betrayed by his own countrymen. A new regime now ruled in his place.
The boy spat in the dust when he learned of his sister’s marriage to that invading king. He remembers his eldest sister with fondness; the rainy afternoons when she read stories of Arthur and his round table. It is hard to reconcile that memory with the woman who is now his enemy, Tudor’s queen.
The boy hurries down the steps and they embrace before Brampton ruffles his hair in the same infuriating way he used to. The boy ducks away from him and scowls playfully.
“How are you, boy?” Brampton throws off his gauntlets and summons a passing monk for wine.
“Well enough, what news from home?”
“The Tudor is over the moon now your sister is soon to be lighter of a son. I’ve heard they plan to name him Arthur.” Brampton laughs derisively.
“Arthur, like in the tales?” The boy looks pleased, forgetting momentarily that the newborn will be a rival, son of his deadliest enemy. “Is Elizabeth well?”
Brampton shrugs, surprised to notice a downy shadow on the boy’s upper lip. Mentally he counts backwards, working out his age as he makes his answer.
“I don’t know, but if she is anything like her mother the child will be brought forth safely, and I doubt Tudor will waste any time before getting another on her. A king can never have too many sons. Look at your father; he had a nursery full of brats, two strapping boys and yet … his royal line will die out with you. Unless you do something about it.”
“Get married again, you mean. My first wife is dead.”
Hot from the saddle Brampton eases off his jerkin, untucks his shirt and pours some water into a bowl, rubs a cloth around the back of his head.
“I meant make some preparation to take back your throne – you can’t do that with a wife in tow.”
“Oh. I am not ready.” The boy’s eyes are fearful but Brampton pretends not to see it and hopes he will outgrow his cowardice. Brampton, his wet hair standing up on end, plucks a grape and pops it into his mouth.
“Of course, you know what Tudor has done?”
The boy shakes his head, just once, his eyes fastened on the man’s face. He watches as Brampton tosses a couple more grapes between his big
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