A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Read Online Free Page A
Author: Judith Arnopp
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
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
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