A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck by Judith Arnopp Page B
Authors: Judith Arnopp
Ads: Link
backing?”
The Duchess plucks a grape from a piled up bowl and pops it into her mouth. It bulges in her cheek for a moment before she dispatches it to her belly.
“It is all in hand, my dear,” she says. “Now, I have had a chamber prepared for you close to mine. Nelken,” she summons the maid, “take my nephew to his chamber and make him comfortable. There are matters I would discuss with you, Brampton. I will see you at supper, Richard.”
Thus dismissed, the boy obediently puts down his half empty wine cup and follows the girl from the hall. She leads him along great wide corridors and up vast staircases that could take five men abreast going up, and another five coming down. At the turn in the stair she pauses, one hand on the bannister, and looks over her shoulder at him while she waits for him to catch up. He looks about him with his mouth open, overawed at the grandeur of the palace. As they progress side by side to the upper floor, a host of disapproving framed Belgian royalty watch them go, their painted eyes seeming to follow, an arrogant knowing quirk upon their brush-stroked lips.
She throws open the chamber door and the boy enters. The room is vast; the bed in the centre is itself the size of a small ship. There are windows on three sides looking across formal gardens to the wooded hillside beyond. Everything is splendid; dark carved wood, plush rich coverlets, thick bright hangings, and enough candles to illuminate a cathedral. It is far grander than he’d been used to in England and certainly grander than the humble monastery he’d recently left.
He turns from the window and looks on the bed, the promise of downy softness making him yawn. It is a bed made for sharing.
“Are you going to rest now, Your … Sir?”
She is unsure how to address him. After all, who is he? A king? A prince? Or a bastard his aunt has picked up on the streets? At the sound of her voice he turns in surprise. He had not realised the girl still lingered. He gives a half laugh and tosses his cap onto a nearby chair.
“Yes,” he says as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “Would you help me with my boots?”
She is pretty, plump and pink and probably fragrant. She kneels at his feet, her skirts swelling around her and begins to untie his laces, glancing up at him from time to time as she works. Her head is covered by her cap but at the nape of her neck a few strands of red hair have escaped. He imagines it flowing, cinnamon red and fragrant, about her shoulders. She looks up again and, from his advantaged position, he can see the swell of her young breasts above her bodice, a pulse in the base of her throat. The shape of her chin, the youthful curve of her cheek reminds him of Marin and loneliness floods him.
“What is your name?” he asks gently and the girl blushes, her face turning as pink as the rapidly setting sun.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth
Sheen Palace – August 1487
“Mother? What is happening?” I turn a circle in the centre of the chamber where my mother’s belongings are in disarray. Her clothing and books are piled into coffers as if she is preparing for a journey.
She turns to me, her face grey with sorrow.
“The king is sending me from court. It seems I am no longer welcome here.”
I move closer, my head whirling as if I am entering a nightmare.
“Not welcome? Why now? I don’t understand.”
I watch in disbelief as she picks up a shift, examines it for stains and discards it on the floor.
“Then you are a simpleton. Your husband has been slowly ousting my influence upon you. First, in February, he commandeered my holdings and gave me a pitiful pension of four hundred marks a year. Now he is sending me into seclusion at Bermondsey.” She sniffs and pulls off her hood, shakes out her hair. I see threads of silver that were never noticeable before.
“Bermondsey?”
The abbey lies across the river, opposite the Tower. There is not another abbey in England more suited to
The Duchess plucks a grape from a piled up bowl and pops it into her mouth. It bulges in her cheek for a moment before she dispatches it to her belly.
“It is all in hand, my dear,” she says. “Now, I have had a chamber prepared for you close to mine. Nelken,” she summons the maid, “take my nephew to his chamber and make him comfortable. There are matters I would discuss with you, Brampton. I will see you at supper, Richard.”
Thus dismissed, the boy obediently puts down his half empty wine cup and follows the girl from the hall. She leads him along great wide corridors and up vast staircases that could take five men abreast going up, and another five coming down. At the turn in the stair she pauses, one hand on the bannister, and looks over her shoulder at him while she waits for him to catch up. He looks about him with his mouth open, overawed at the grandeur of the palace. As they progress side by side to the upper floor, a host of disapproving framed Belgian royalty watch them go, their painted eyes seeming to follow, an arrogant knowing quirk upon their brush-stroked lips.
She throws open the chamber door and the boy enters. The room is vast; the bed in the centre is itself the size of a small ship. There are windows on three sides looking across formal gardens to the wooded hillside beyond. Everything is splendid; dark carved wood, plush rich coverlets, thick bright hangings, and enough candles to illuminate a cathedral. It is far grander than he’d been used to in England and certainly grander than the humble monastery he’d recently left.
He turns from the window and looks on the bed, the promise of downy softness making him yawn. It is a bed made for sharing.
“Are you going to rest now, Your … Sir?”
She is unsure how to address him. After all, who is he? A king? A prince? Or a bastard his aunt has picked up on the streets? At the sound of her voice he turns in surprise. He had not realised the girl still lingered. He gives a half laugh and tosses his cap onto a nearby chair.
“Yes,” he says as he sits on the edge of the mattress. “Would you help me with my boots?”
She is pretty, plump and pink and probably fragrant. She kneels at his feet, her skirts swelling around her and begins to untie his laces, glancing up at him from time to time as she works. Her head is covered by her cap but at the nape of her neck a few strands of red hair have escaped. He imagines it flowing, cinnamon red and fragrant, about her shoulders. She looks up again and, from his advantaged position, he can see the swell of her young breasts above her bodice, a pulse in the base of her throat. The shape of her chin, the youthful curve of her cheek reminds him of Marin and loneliness floods him.
“What is your name?” he asks gently and the girl blushes, her face turning as pink as the rapidly setting sun.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth
Sheen Palace – August 1487
“Mother? What is happening?” I turn a circle in the centre of the chamber where my mother’s belongings are in disarray. Her clothing and books are piled into coffers as if she is preparing for a journey.
She turns to me, her face grey with sorrow.
“The king is sending me from court. It seems I am no longer welcome here.”
I move closer, my head whirling as if I am entering a nightmare.
“Not welcome? Why now? I don’t understand.”
I watch in disbelief as she picks up a shift, examines it for stains and discards it on the floor.
“Then you are a simpleton. Your husband has been slowly ousting my influence upon you. First, in February, he commandeered my holdings and gave me a pitiful pension of four hundred marks a year. Now he is sending me into seclusion at Bermondsey.” She sniffs and pulls off her hood, shakes out her hair. I see threads of silver that were never noticeable before.
“Bermondsey?”
The abbey lies across the river, opposite the Tower. There is not another abbey in England more suited to
Similar Books
