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

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 hi m 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 are 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