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 him 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.
Before I can delay him, the maid is grovelling on the floor and a man is coming quietly toward me. His face is in shadow, I can only see his outline. He is smaller than I’d imagined, not kingly at all and half a yard shorter than my father. Forgetting all my formal training I stare at him open-mouthed before remembering to curtsey. I crouch on the floor, short of breath, my heart hammering. His feet appear before me; black, square-toed shoes, his hose slightly wrinkled at the ankle.
I feel his hand on my shoulder and he bids me rise. I obey slowly and moisten my lips, fumbling for something to say. “Your Grace …” I croak at last.
He laughs at my confusion but not unkindly. “You were not expecting me?”
“No, Your Grace, or I should have gone to more trouble.”
“No need, no need. I would see you as you really are.”
We shouldn’t be alone, not before we a
re wed. I make a sudden movement. “I should summon my mother …”
He puts up a finger to stop me and his eyes close slowly; every movement he makes is slow and considered, like a snake before it lunges.
“I sent her to her bed. I wanted to meet you alone, away from the eyes of the world.”
“I see.”
He is standing close. I can hear his breath whistling through his nose, and when I raise my eyes I see his skin is glistening, the pores open, as if he is overwarm, although it is chilly in the chamber. He is afraid and as wary of me as I am of him. My confidence rises a little and I lift my chin while he makes his inspection.
“They said you were beautiful.”
“I am sorry to disappoint.”
He laughs again, recognising the irony in my tone.
“Oh no, not disappointed.” He lifts a strand of my hair that has slipped from the confines of my cap, and rubs it between finger and thumb as if he is a draper testing the nap of a velvet gown. I feel like an ox on market day. “You are very fair.”
“Thank you.”
He turns to the table and fills two cups with wine, offers me one which I accept, although I do not drink from it.
“Do you welcome our marriage, Elizabeth?”
Richard’s face flickers in my mind and for a long moment I look down at the red, glutinous liquid in my cup. There is only one answer I can make. The only way to keep my family safe, my mother, my sisters, my uncles, my cousins, my brothers … is to agree.
“Oh yes,” I hear myself reply. “I have longed for our union for years … ever since Richard of Gloucester stole my brother’s throne.”
Detesting myself for a base liar I gulp from the cup, suppressing a cough, tears springing to my eyes.
“Ah yes; your brothers,” he is saying. “Where are they, do you know?”
I shake my head and look into the dying embers of the fire. He comes to stand behind me. I can feel his breath on my neck.
“If we are to marry,I must revoke the act that made you illegitimate. I cannot wed you while you are labelled bastard. If I revoke the act that made you so then I legitimise your brothers too and in turn, make them my rivals … and dangerous. You must see that cannot happen.”
My throat is blocked with grief. I nod my head. “I understand,” I croak.
“Are they still living? You must tell me if they are. And if you know their whereabouts you must tell me that, too. It is your duty … as my wife and subject.”
Our eyes are level; his are grey, like steel, and mine are awash with tears. I let my chin tremble as I lie to him and betray Richard one last time.
“I fear they are dead,” I sob. “My poor, poor brothers, they were defenceless in the face of Gloucester’s greed. They never stood a chance.”
I drag a kerchief from my sleeve and sob into it, feeling him take a step closer.
“There, there,” he says, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “You must not weep; we have had our vengeance on him already.”
He draws me closer and I go stiffly into his arms. His chest offers little comfort. It is not vast and soft like my father’s, nor hard and muscled like Richard’s. It is narrow and bony and beneath it I can feel the pattering of his heart.
He is as afraid as I am.
Chapter Five
Boy
Brussels – December 1483
It feels strange to be on firm ground after the swelling and rolling of the ship’s deck. The boy stumbles and almost falls into a stack of barrels. Brampton laughs, tosses a pack onto his shoulder and moves into the crush of people. “Bring the luggage, boy,” he says.
The boy watches him disappear into the crowd. He is tempted to ignore the order and hesitates. Men pass to and fro, coming between him and his guide until all he can see of Brampton is the top of his cap.
Brampton is a rogue and a fool but he is all the boy knows. He snatches up the bags and staggers after him, the hard edges of the pack digging into his thighs. He calls out to him, people turn and look, and Brampton, who is deep in conversation with a shabby-looking fellow, scowls and growls at him to be silent.
It takes a while to barter for two down at heel nags. The horses stand heads down in the shade of a spindly tree, their ribs like hoops, their hooves split, and the droppings behind them too wet to be healthy. The boy waits, tired and thirsty, overwhelmed by the voyage and the strange clamouring harbour town. It is very different to travel as the servant of an adventurer than as a royal prince. There are no comforts, no easement. At first he was full of questions but now exhaustion is making him accept whatever comes – he snatches at memories of his mother, his sisters and the love they once offered, but their faces slide away before he can grasp them.
When Brampton tosses the saddlebags over the neck of the largest horse the boy is surprised the beast doesn’t stumble. As he waits to be helped to mount he wonders if the poor creatures will last till sunset. Brampton doesn’t even look his way; he swings himself easily into the saddle.
“Aren’t you going to help me up?” the boy demands. Brampton turns and looks at him, one eyebrow disappearing beneath his curly hair.
“Nope,” he replies and kicks his horse into a shambling trot.
The boy drags his reluctant mount to a tumbledown wall and heaves himself aboard, his legs flailing. Before he is properly settled the horse begins to move off, forcing the boy to scramble to keep his seat. “Hey wait,” he calls. “Wait, I say.” But Brampton’s back is disappearing into the trees.
The boy has ridden since he could walk; fine blooded specimens with coats brushed to a sheen; their hooves oiled, their manes and tails pulled and laundered. He has never known the trials of an ill-fitting saddle, an ill-mannered, over-bred, broken-down, grass-bellied mare. By the time they’ve travelled five miles he is exhausted, his fingers are blistered from hauling at the reins, and his buttocks are sore from a tear on the saddle.
Brampton seems unconcerned although he too is used to finer steeds. He sits loose in the saddle, his cap pushed back and his legs jutting forward as if taking his ease in a brothel.
“How far is it?” The boy flaps his legs, urging his horse to Brampton’s side, and the man turns.
“I don’t know. Far enough. Now, get behind, remember who you are supposed to be. I am tired of reminding you.”
The boy falls back but every so often Brampton glances over his shoulder and smiles at the lad’s discomfort. The next few years will be hard. Brampton has told him he is a good boy, better than his brother and should make a better man than his father, but he has been spoiled. His softness needs sharpening. Brampton is determined to rough him up a bit and turn him into a soldier – more like the Plantagenet prince he was born to be. The boy shies inwardly from the prospect.
At night they lodge in shambling inns, eat rough bread and sup rustic soup, and Brampton insists theyrise early before the other travellers are on the road. As they leave the town behind Brampton trades in their broken mounts for horses of better blood. The journey becomes more comfortable, and once they reach less travelled roads, Brampton relaxes.
Now there are fewer folk to see, the boy can ride beside him. He has learned not to speak too much but he listens, unwittingly absorbing lessons from Brampton’s tales of war and leadership. The man has lived a colourful life, travelling the world, seeking his fortune. And he has left it all behind to give his service to a dispossessed boy.
The boy has discovered it is fruitless to quiz the man about what has happened to his brother, yet he is desperate to know the plan. He doesn’t know where they are going or what is going to happen. “When are we going to go back to England?” he asks one day, but his companion makes no answer. He squints into the horizon, along the endlessly winding road.
“Wait and see,” he grumbles.
‘Wait and see’ is the only reply the boy ever hears.
*
Evening is almost upon them, the shadows are long, the birds quietening, the bats beginning to flit in the d
arkening sky. Without warning, Brampton turns his horse from the road and leads the boy down a long grass track.
“Where are we going?” the boy whispers. He keeps his voice low, sensing the need for stealth, although he knows not why.
“Wait and see,” Brampton growls.
The track is overgrown and seldom travelled. They follow its dwindling path until they reach a dwelling; a house and a cluster of farm buildings. There is no one about. Weeds grow in clumps around the water trough where they let the horses take refreshment. Brampton slides from the saddle and, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, looks around.
Silence. Even the owls are quiet. Brampton jerks his head at the boy who dismounts and obediently leads the horses into the barn, out of sight. There is hay in the manger. He removes the saddles, rubs a fist over the sweaty patch beneath, and then creeps from the barn to find Brampton.
The door to the house is ajar. Warily, the boy steps over the threshold and looks around the dim, empty room. Brampton has thrown open the shutter and is reading a note by the fading light of the back window.
The few sticks of furniture are swathed in sheets, and when Brampton pulls them aside the boy is surprised to see good quality stuff. There is a strong oak table with good serviceable stools and, before the vast fireplace, a settle with cushions. This is no poor man’s home.
“What is this place?” the boy asks. “Who lives here?”
“Wait and see.”
Brampton opens the pantry door and emerges with a fresh loaf, a roasted fowl, a flagon of wine and some apples. It is the best they’ve eaten for weeks and the boy falls upon the food as if he has never known better.
“Is it your mother’s house?”
“My mother’s house? Why would you think that? Do I sound Burgundian bred?” Brampton chews, wipes a trickle of grease from his stubbled chin. The boy shrugs and pokes another chunk of bread into his mouth.
Brampton is Portuguese. He still bears the accent of his homeland and his looks are dark and swarthy, and he wears an earring like a pirate. The boy remembers him from court, laughing with his uncle, drinking with his father and earning the approving royal tag as the king’s ‘loyal friend.’
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 3