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

king.”
    I move to her side, bringing a bowl of nuts.
    “I thought you were getting on well.”
    “Oh, we pretend, but it will never be more than that. Too many injuries have been done; too many and too great to ever be fully forgiven. I’m sure she knows something … I am always waiting for her to blurt something out …”
    “Have you heard anything, Mother?” I duck my head closer to hers. “Of the boys, I mean?”
    For a long moment she looks at me. “Nothing, Elizabeth; nothing at all.”
    I wait for her to expand but, studiously ignoring me, she picks at a fingernail, nibbling it smooth with her teeth. I know she receives letters. I have seen messengers come and go, unmarked and discreet. She is in touch with people all over Europe and I have always suspected she knows more than she reveals about the fortunes of my brothers.
    What is she hiding? What does she know?
    Cecily begins to crack nuts, a pile of shells growing in her lap. The flames of the hearth cast shadows on our faces and, as she hands the kernels out in turn, first to Mother, then to me, we eat in companionable silence. It is a peaceful scene, one could even mistake it for contentment, but each of us is aware of the other’s restless thoughts. We will never be free from worry; our smooth expressions merely mask a torrent of unanswered questions and unsolved problems.
    From the other chamber I hear the muffled voices of my women and know that I should call them to join us where the fire is warmest. But we women of York cherish these moments when we are alone and unwatched. We huddle like a coven about the fire. Each can trust the other; each would stand shoulder to shoulder against a foe; and yet, as we sit in silence, I become aware of something.
    Some new change is taking place. It is as if my association with Henry Tudor has undermined me a little, inched me from their sphere and thrown me off centre. I am on the cusp of being apart from them; no longer entirely York but not yet Lancaster either. I am neither white nor red. I am merging; blurred.
     
    *
    It is quite late and I am almost ready to go to bed. I sent my ladies away some time ago, even Cecily and Margaret, who has been fidgety with a toothache. I am seldom alone these days and enjoy a rare moment of reflection. The chamber is full of shadows, the fire that burned brightly all day has slumped now and the shutters are closed against the chilly night.
    I put aside my needlework and as I do so I notice a tiny tear in the lace of my sleeve. I poke the tip of one finger through so it shows pink beneath the hole and make a mental note to have it repaired tomorrow. I rise from the chair and pick up my book; I am just reaching for the candle when a small sound at the door alerts me. I look up, expecting Cecily or Margaret. My book falls open on the table, and my mouth goes very dry.
    “Your Grace.” I sink to my knees and wait while he slowly approaches. I feel his hands upon my head but he does not bid me rise. I can see only the royal feet and notice he is wearing slippers, a loose gown. His ankles are bony, hairy and bruised from the stirrup. While I crouch at his knee, his fingers move in my uncovered hair, testing the softness and sending a swathe of goose pimples scurrying across my shoulders.
    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,