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

carry the heir in my womb, my allegiance is shifting. I am neither one thing nor the other.
    The song comes to an end, Elizabeth resumes her seat, and the minstrel puts down his lute and takes some refreshment. Mother is dozing at the hearth. She spends much of her day with me now, for we are both missing Cecily. My sister has lately been taken into the Lady Margaret’s household, and a fine new wedding has been arranged with John Welles. She is pleased to be getting herself a viscount, but he is an unambitious fellow and, since he is so loyal to Henry, I rather suspect that the king is bundling Cecily out of harm’s way. His mother keeps my sister close, as if they fear her Yorkist blood makes her prey for the disaffected faction at court. I know my sister better; her interests do not stray beyond the latest fashion in hoods and sleeves. There is not a political bone in her body. She is not the one they should watch.
    I lay a hand on Margaret’s sleeve and ask her to pass the bowl of honeyed nuts for which I have a craving. She dabs away a tear and leans forward for the dish, passes it back to me. I offer her one and she absentmindedly takes a handful. We chew contentedly, our attention half on the conversation and half on private matters.
    A scuffle at the door and the king’s mother is announced. She sweeps into the room and immediately every one straightens up, the atmosphere shifts and thickens. At the sight of her my heart sinks, but then I see Cecily is with her and it lifts again. Mother stirs at the disruption, surreptitiously wiping a trickle of drool from her chin. “Lady Margaret,” she says thickly. “Cecily.”
    They greet me first, as is etiquette, and then Cecily hurries to Mother’s side and begins to enthusiastically describe her wedding dress. Lady Margaret lowers herself into a chair, her back straight as she fans herself rapidly, although the chamber is not over warm. She looks distracted, two parallel lines stand sentinel on the bridge of her beaky nose.
    “Are you well, Lady Margaret?” I venture, and she turns toward me with a quick movement, like a bird of prey when its hood is suddenly removed.
    “Perfectly. I have had word from the king.”
    I put down my sewing and cock my head enquiringly, determined not to show how annoyed I am that he writes to his mother yet neglects to send word to me.
    “And how is he?”
    “He is well enough but we fear trouble may be brewing.”
    It is just as I feared. I lean forward in my chair.
    “Trouble?”
    “Stafford and his brother have escaped sanctuary at Colchester and are inciting rebellion. Richard of Gloucester’s former lap dog, Lovell, is stirring trouble too.”
    My heart sets up a dull thump that fills my ears, making me nauseous. I swallow a lump from my throat.
    “Where is Henry? Is he safe?”
    I cannot help but remember another king who believed he had the support of his courtiers. Of all Henry’s followers the only one whose loyalty is unshakeable is his Uncle Jasper.
    “Henry was at Lincoln when news came. He kept holy week there and now plans to ride on into Yorkshire and put the rebels down.”
    “Oh, pray God he is successful.”
    I get up and walk to the window and back to the hearth. My mother’s face is pensive, her eyes fixed on the dying flames, but she doesn’t speak. It is my mother-in-law who answers.
    “Of course he will be. God is on our side. He proved that at Bosworth.”
    As soon as I am able, I excuse myself and sit down to write my husband a letter.
    “I would have word of your well-being, in your own hand, my husband. I fear for your safety. I pray you send me a letter by return. I shall not rest until I hear from you.”
    Within the week a messenger arrives with his reply. When it is brought to me I am attended by just one maid of honour, a girl of twelve who is soothing my aching head with an infusion of camomile. Her hands fall away as I sit up and reach for the letter; my eyes quickly scan the neatly