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

locking my prison door.
    “You are very beautiful; I think I told you that before.”
    I nod soundlessly as his fingers continue to move in my hair, down the side of my skull to run lightly along the curve of my jaw, beneath my throat, to my neck. “I hadn’t expected beauty.” He traces a nail along the surface of my skin and a trail of Judas bumps appear. “They all told me you were beautiful, but people say that of princes, don’t they?” He laughs suddenly, the levity out of place in the deathly serious silence of the chamber. “Some people even say it of me.”
    There is little mirth in his humour. I sense fear and tension, a latent power. He circles me, his eyes absorbing every detail, making me wish I had selected my better bed gown and asked that my hair be brushed to a greater sheen. Suddenly it is imperative that I please him, for if he should find any fault with me, I will not just be letting myself down but the whole of my house, too.
    He is standing so close I can see the rise and fall of his chest. He places a hooked finger beneath my chin, lifts my eyes to his. “When I saw you first, I suspected some trick. How can it have been this easy?” His breath flutters in my face. I catch a lingering hint of garlic and wine that reminds me of my father. I lower my eyes. He turns away and I breathe a little more easily, and he begins to pace back and forth, back and forth.
    “All my life I’ve been fighting for this. The crown. England … you. I’d seen the crown a few times on other men’s heads. Even though I’d not set foot here for fifteen years or more I could remember the lush green fields of home, but you, Elizabeth … you were the surprise. A bonus I’d not expected, and my heart took a leap of gratitude at my very first sight of you.”
    I follow him with my eye as he continues to pace. He stops at the hearth, lifts his arms and lets them fall again. “There had to be a catch, didn’t there?”
    I shake my head once, unsure where this is leading, but he does not look at me. He continues to speak, heedless of my response.
    “Of course, it didn’t take me long to learn what that catch was. Almost right away those who have no love for me took pleasure in telling me of your …”
    I am alert now and curious. “My what?”
    He spins on his heel and comes close, pushing his face near; he narrows his eyes and enunciates clearly so as to catch my slightest reaction.
    “Your impurity.” He spits the words so violently that I pull away from him, a gasp of outrage springing from my lips.
    “That is a lie,” I shout as the blood surges beneath my skin. My anger swells. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palm. “Who has said such things of me?”
    He laughs, bitterly not merrily. “Everyone. It is common knowledge. Did you think to hide it? Every lowly knave in the palace whispers of how you gave yourself to your uncle; how you flaunted your tawdry nature beneath the nose of Gloucester’s dying queen.”
    Cecily and I had wondered how Henry would be in anger. It affects men in different ways; my father used to bellow and cuff his servants; my uncle Richard became tight-lipped and anxious; Henry, it seems, becomes spiteful.
    He grips my upper arm with strong, outraged fingers. “You were to have been my prize,” he sneers. “Yet what do I find? A baggage! A rotten, hackneyed gutter-wench! A royal whore!”
    “My Lord!”
    Summoning what dignity I can, I look down with disdain at his wiry hand digging into the fleshy part of my arm. He relaxes his grip a little. I can smell the wine on him, the sweat of fear and disappointment. His breath comes heavy and hoarse. Trembling with fury, I swallow my revulsion; remember my father’s advice to hide my feelings away, play the game for all it’s worth and to keep the stakes high.
    “Those are lies, my lord.”
    He maintains his grip on my arm. I speak more calmly, my words clipped and controlled, close into his ear. “Lies and slander to