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

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 darkening 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