Read Online A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Arnopp
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yellow teeth.
“Think about it. In preserving his own son’s claim he reversed that act, the Titulus-something-or-other, that declared you bastard. To marry your sister he had to legitimise her. Yes?”
“Yes.” The boy nods, watching Brampton’s gyrating jaw as he obliterates the grape. The man reaches forward for the wine again.
“Well, in doing that, he made you legitimate too. As long as you were legally a bastard, the crown was rightfully Tudor’s. Now, since you are not misbegotten, you are once more your father’s heir. Tudor’s only right to the throne is through your sister, Elizabeth, but you, boy, are heir before her.” Brampton drains his cup and bangs it on the board. “And legally the rightful king of England.”
The boy blinks but doesn’t speak. His mind is awash with many things. He is beginning to feel he belongs here, sometimes he thinks he’d prefer to stay put, devote his life to study. There is a girl in the kitchen who smiles whenever she passes; a pretty girl with big grey eyes. He likes it here although memories of home often intrude on his present peace; a distant image of a loving family, a bevy of sisters, all doting and giggling over him.
England; it is like another lifetime, one of privilege until his father died and he and his mother and sisters were plunged into danger, taking refuge in sanctuary. He prefers not to remember the period of uncertainty while he and Edward were housed in the royal apartments at the Tower, awaiting the glorious coronation that never happened; the sudden reversal of fortune.
Uncle Richard came to them in the Tower, his face white and anxious as he tried to explain why Edward could never be king. The boy blinks away tears at the memory of Edward’s sharp and sudden anger, his refusal to obey, his denial of food, his rejection of comfort or sleep. The boy flinches physically from the unbidden memory of that last night and his elder brother’s rejection of Brampton’s attempt to save them. He can never forget the smothering blanket, the fear; the foolhardy escape beneath London Bridge in the custody of the man who brought him halfway across Europe into the protection of his aunt.
Brampton spits on the floor, pulling the boy from his reverie. “Of course, Tudor has no idea you are alive. He is living a fool’s paradise and so is your sister, but we will let them continue until the time is right.”
“We will not hurt Elizabeth, or her child?”
Sometimes the boy is unsure if he wants that day to come. The thought of raising an army fills him with dread. When he tries to picture himself leading a large troop into enemy territory, his imagination baulks. Why would men follow him? He is just a boy. He likes it here; he wants to pluck up the courage to speak to the girl with the grey eyes, to find out her name.
“Perhaps it is too late, Brampton. Perhaps we should leave well alone. I was not born to be king, Edward was. I am happy enough here with my books. I have thought perhaps I might enter the church.”
Brampton roars like a lion and punches the wooden table. “I have spent three years of my life defending you, keeping you safe, giving up my own ambitions for the day we will fight for yours. Don’t tell me of your reluctance to leave the cushioned existence you are enjoying here. Whether you like it or not, the day will come and you will welcome it, boy, come hell or high water!”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
Placentia Palace, Greenwich ― March 1486
Henry is a complex man, warm and cool in turns; one moment an ardent lover, the next little more than a gaoler. In early March, just as the worst of my sickness is passing, he embarks upon a progress north. Constant rumours of unrest, small pockets of demonstration against his rule, force his hand. I do not even suggest I travel with him, although as a young girl I accompanied my parents on many such journeys. There was nothing I liked better than hearing the people in full song as they
“Think about it. In preserving his own son’s claim he reversed that act, the Titulus-something-or-other, that declared you bastard. To marry your sister he had to legitimise her. Yes?”
“Yes.” The boy nods, watching Brampton’s gyrating jaw as he obliterates the grape. The man reaches forward for the wine again.
“Well, in doing that, he made you legitimate too. As long as you were legally a bastard, the crown was rightfully Tudor’s. Now, since you are not misbegotten, you are once more your father’s heir. Tudor’s only right to the throne is through your sister, Elizabeth, but you, boy, are heir before her.” Brampton drains his cup and bangs it on the board. “And legally the rightful king of England.”
The boy blinks but doesn’t speak. His mind is awash with many things. He is beginning to feel he belongs here, sometimes he thinks he’d prefer to stay put, devote his life to study. There is a girl in the kitchen who smiles whenever she passes; a pretty girl with big grey eyes. He likes it here although memories of home often intrude on his present peace; a distant image of a loving family, a bevy of sisters, all doting and giggling over him.
England; it is like another lifetime, one of privilege until his father died and he and his mother and sisters were plunged into danger, taking refuge in sanctuary. He prefers not to remember the period of uncertainty while he and Edward were housed in the royal apartments at the Tower, awaiting the glorious coronation that never happened; the sudden reversal of fortune.
Uncle Richard came to them in the Tower, his face white and anxious as he tried to explain why Edward could never be king. The boy blinks away tears at the memory of Edward’s sharp and sudden anger, his refusal to obey, his denial of food, his rejection of comfort or sleep. The boy flinches physically from the unbidden memory of that last night and his elder brother’s rejection of Brampton’s attempt to save them. He can never forget the smothering blanket, the fear; the foolhardy escape beneath London Bridge in the custody of the man who brought him halfway across Europe into the protection of his aunt.
Brampton spits on the floor, pulling the boy from his reverie. “Of course, Tudor has no idea you are alive. He is living a fool’s paradise and so is your sister, but we will let them continue until the time is right.”
“We will not hurt Elizabeth, or her child?”
Sometimes the boy is unsure if he wants that day to come. The thought of raising an army fills him with dread. When he tries to picture himself leading a large troop into enemy territory, his imagination baulks. Why would men follow him? He is just a boy. He likes it here; he wants to pluck up the courage to speak to the girl with the grey eyes, to find out her name.
“Perhaps it is too late, Brampton. Perhaps we should leave well alone. I was not born to be king, Edward was. I am happy enough here with my books. I have thought perhaps I might enter the church.”
Brampton roars like a lion and punches the wooden table. “I have spent three years of my life defending you, keeping you safe, giving up my own ambitions for the day we will fight for yours. Don’t tell me of your reluctance to leave the cushioned existence you are enjoying here. Whether you like it or not, the day will come and you will welcome it, boy, come hell or high water!”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
Placentia Palace, Greenwich ― March 1486
Henry is a complex man, warm and cool in turns; one moment an ardent lover, the next little more than a gaoler. In early March, just as the worst of my sickness is passing, he embarks upon a progress north. Constant rumours of unrest, small pockets of demonstration against his rule, force his hand. I do not even suggest I travel with him, although as a young girl I accompanied my parents on many such journeys. There was nothing I liked better than hearing the people in full song as they
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