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

written script that makes light of my concerns. I can almost hear the derision in his tone.
    “ There is no need to worry. The good people of York lined the streets in welcome , ” Henry boasts , “ and cried my name with one accord. You have no need to worry . ”
    I glance up at the messenger boy and recognise him from my father’s court. I give him the benefit of my best smile.
    “All is well with the king … that is good news,” I say, but as I am about to return to the letter, I notice he avoids my eye. His expression denies the comfort of Henry’s words; my heart misses a beat.
    “What?” I demand, leaping too quickly to my feet so that the room tilts a little. “What is it? You must tell me what you know.”
    As tiny bright lights dance in the periphery of my vision the fellow reluctantly stammers a story of an attempted kidnap at York, and the king escaping by the skin of his teeth when Lovell and the Staffords try to lay siege to the city.
    Every drop of blood seems to drain from my head, the room tips. I stagger, grope for the chair behind me and lower myself awkwardly into it.
    “The king is safe, Your Grace,” the boy assures me. He is on his knees, terrified at his breach of trust, fearful of the king’s ire when he discovers it. I blink at him, try to force his swimming features into some semblance of order.
    “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “Thank you for your honesty. The king will never know that I am aware of what has happened.”
    The boy grovels at my feet, kissing the hem of my skirt, babbling gratitude while my maid of honour frantically dabs my forehead with a damp sponge.
    “Go.” I push her hand away, wave the messenger from my presence, suddenly irritated. “I want to be alone.”
    The girl doesn’t leave. She fusses around me, loosening my bodice, fanning my face as she frantically seeks to draw me from the brink of oblivion.
    “The king will come home now,” I murmur, half to myself, but I am mistaken, he does not come home. Stubbornly he continues his progress, making light of the brush with disaster. He writes from time to time with news of pageants and shows of adulation from the people, but never once does he mention the attempt on his life. From Bristol he writes to me of the poverty there and his promise to build ships, to make the English fleet the best in Europe.
    I do not let the Lady Margaret know that I have discovered the truth, and she does not confide in me again. I guess that Henry has instructed her not to. It is through other means that I hear of the warrant put out for Lovell’s arrest and his flight into hiding. I remember Francis Lovell; he was my uncle’s loyal friend. I know his wife, Anna, a gentle home-loving woman. She must be fretting for her husband but there is nothing I can do to save him. Not now he has made an enemy of the king.
    My informants also say, although I find it difficult to believe, that Henry has ordered the Stafford brothers dragged from sanctuary at Culham Abbey. Their trial, I am sure, will involve an equal lack of mercy. My dreams are haunted by the screams of dying Yorkists.
    The following weeks are fraught with discomfort. The child swells in my womb, my head aches, and I am constantly on my knees praying for the safety of my husband. I seek refuge in my mother’s chamber and lieacross her bed with my head in her lap . I am finding more and more lately that I want to retreat into childhood, when the sanctuary offered by her lap was secondary only to that afforded by my father. In the face of my fear, Mother remains serene as if she knew no harm would come of the rebellion.
    “There is never any peace for those in power,” Mother says as she massages my temples. “Your father would have said it was nothing but a fart in the wind, Elizabeth. There is no need to fret.”
    Her musical voice lulls me into a half sleep, the familiar scent of her bed, the light touch of her fingers making me believe the past few years have been