A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck (12 page)

Somewhere at sea – February 1490

The deck heaves with the swell of the sea, the sun gilding the tips of the surging waves, spume sputtering like an old man’s vomit across the deck. The boy clings to the handrail and looks out across the ocean and cannot help but be invigorated by the freshness of the air, and the freedom of the great canopy of sky.

Until this moment, he had not realised the suffocating confinement of his aunt’s court; the clinging embraces of Nelken. He is free now; for a few short months his future set aside. Today he is a sailor, just another member of Brampton’s household. He can forget Nelken, forget war, and forget England.

With a gusty sigh, he runs his fingers through his blond hair and feels it thick with salt. His chin is unshaven, for the first time a proper man’s beard is blurring his Plantagenet features. He scratches it, relishing the newfound sense of masculinity. For now at least, he is done with foppish court ways.

Turning from the rail, he struts steady-footed across the deck to the cabin where Brampton is studying a map. Brampton looks up when the boy enters, stabs the parchment with a grimy finger. “By my reckoning we should be here.”

The boy leans over his shoulder and follows the line of his finger.

“What is it like in Lisbon?” He pulls out a stool and, stealing Brampton’s cup, takes a swig of his wine.

“You’ll like it. It’s a trading port, a gateway to the world where the whores are dark and dangerous.”

The boy flushes, not ready yet for thoughts of women. It was not easy leaving Nelken behind. His aunt, having learned of his indiscretion, promised to look after her, but he knows her care will stretch only as far as ensuring she does not starve. Sick or not, she will have to work until the birth is imminent and her child, if it lives, will be farmed out, to be raised by strangers.

He’s spared the child little thought, but now, in the gloom of Brampton’s cabin, he glimpses a brief bright image of a small boy, wearing the face of his father. He passes a hand across his eyes, erasing the vision, and turns his attention back to the map.

“What do they trade?”

“Everything; spices, wool, slaves. Men gather there from the farthest reaches of the world. They tell some strange tales; things you won’t believe.”

“Maybe they aren’t true? Have you thought of that?”

“Ha!” Brampton takes back his cup. “You, my son, are a cynic. Wait and see. I love Lisbon; it is exotic and wild. You won’t want to leave.”

*

After the exhilarating voyage, Lisbon harbour is a seething mass of noise and stench. The dock is bristling with masts, the quayside piled high with cargo. Men, their backs bent beneath barrels and sacks, scuttle past like strange exotic crabs. The boy tries to keep pace with Brampton as he weaves his path through the crowd with accustomed ease. Women with painted faces make lewd comments from the sidewalk about the boy’s bright hair and athletic build. He snatches his eyes away, reluctant to be drawn by their obvious charms. He thinks of Nelken, tries but fails to remember the shape of her face or the exact shade of her hair. All he can recall are her wandering fingers and the lascivious rasp of her tongue on his skin.

An older woman with threads of grey showing in her black hair calls to Brampton, who stops, pushes back his cap and bows to her as if she were a lady. “The queen of my heart,” he says, slavering over her hand, his eyes inches from her exposed bosom. “I shall call upon you later.” He jerks his head in the boy’s direction. “And find a playmate for my companion, too.”

She glides toward Richard, her eyes travelling greedily up and down his body. “Oh, they’ll be fighting over you, my lord,” she says before opening her mouth in raucous laughter and revealing a set of stained, crooked teeth. He pulls himself away and runs after Brampton who is already starting up the hill toward the cathedral. “Christ,” he says. “Who was that?”

“Pilar; she’s a fine woman,” Brampton replies. “She has been well-used but her lack of youth is compensated by her skill, if you get my meaning. She is still a good-looking woman … in the dark.” He places one finger alongside his nose. Richard knows exactly what he means but finds his stomach turns at the thought of bedding an ageing whore. He is done with women and believes he will stay chaste until he is ready to take a wife. So far, his dealings with them have brought nothing but trouble.

“Where are we going?” The boy fights off the clinging hands of another whore and hitches his pack higher on his shoulder.

“I am taking you to my house.”

The boy pauses for a moment in surprise, but Brampton is rapidly disappearing into the crowd so he quickly hurries after.

“Your mother’s house?”

Brampton throws back his head, almost losing his cap.

“My mother? My mother died long ago, boy. No, I am giving you the honour of presenting you to my wife!” He makes a mocking bow and ushers Richard down a quieter street and, as they near the end of it, passes through an archway and into a courtyard. There are women, decently dressed, working quietly in the winter sun. One of them gasps and dashes into the house, while the others smile and bob deferentially to Brampton.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop.” He urges the women to keep on with their work but they continue to cast curious glances at the bright-haired stranger. The boy smiles and lifts a hesitant hand in greeting before following Brampton inside. The hall is dim, an open door revealing a comfortable parlour within. The boy sees a high-backed chair, a lute, and a pile of books, half-finished needlework on a settle.

“Papa!” A young woman comes gliding quickly down the stairs and, regardless of Brampton’s sea-stained clothes, she casts herself into his embrace. The boy watches as his friend wraps his arms about her, lifts her from her feet, and spins her in a circle that makes her skirts fly out, revealing fine ankles.

In the meantime the hall fills with other youngsters, all of a similar colouring but of various ages and gender. They clamour about Brampton, pushing and shoving for his attention. He stoops to pick up the smallest girl, settles her on his hip.

“João and Jorge, how you’ve grown.” He tussles the hair of two young boys before beckoning another girl close to leave a kiss on the side of her brow. As he looks on in astonishment Richard counts six children in all, ranging from about seventeen to six. At last Brampton pauses in greeting his family, disentangles himself a little and remembers his manners.

“Ah, let me introduce you to my friend. This is Richard, or Peterkin, call him what you will. He doesn’t seem to mind.”

The boy flushes and gallantly returns the greetings of his mentor’s children.

“Come, Papa, come into the salão. Mama will be so pleased you are home. Maria, send to the kitchen for refreshments.”

They all move into the parlour, apart from a girl whom Richard assumes to be Maria. Brampton drops his pack and the smallest boy begins to rummage through it, looking for presents. A cacophony of questions follow, exclamations of delight that fade after a few moments when the door opens and a woman enters.

Brampton breaks away from his children and moves swiftly toward her. For a heartbeat they stand looking at each other before he steps forward and takes her hands, kisses both cheeks.

“It is good to see you,” he says, more gently than Richard has ever heard him speak before. “How are you?”

“I am better now but …” She sees Richard listening. “I will tell you of it later. You must introduce your friend.”

She is looking at Richard, her lips slightly parted in query, as if she recognises him from somewhere. Brampton turns on his heel and with a hand to the boy’s back draws him into the conversation.

“This is the boy I told you of. He has been with me for a while now, his name is Richard but he answers to Peterkin … or for much of the time to ‘boy’.”

She laughs delightedly as Richard bows over her hand and places his lips on her knuckles. “I am glad to meet you, Madam,” he says before standing tall again, his head higher than anyone else in the room. She tilts her face, her hand still in his, and curtseys low, keeping her eyes on him all the while.

“I would have known you anywhere. The likeness is remarkable.”

“Madam?”

“Your father, King Edward; you are made in his very image. I have never seen the like; it is as if he is in the room with us.”

Emotion floods in, making his throat swell, and his eyes smart. “You knew my father? Properly? As a man, not a king?”

“Oh yes. He and Eduardo were very wild together at one time, when they were young.”

At first the boy is unsure who Eduardo is, but then remembers it is Brampton’s name, or the name he took when he converted to Christianity. The boy smiles and leans forward confidingly.

“You must have stories you can share, Madam. I shall look forward to it.”

Her laugh is like a host of tinkling bells, reminding him of home. He examines her more closely as reluctantly he releases her hand. She must be of an age with his mother. Would she too bear the signs of her years about her eyes and mouth? If she took off her cap, would her silvery blonde hair now be tarnished with grey? It makes him sad to think of it and Brampton’s wife sees it in the droop of his shoulders.

“I knew your mother, too. She has retired to the abbey at Bermondsey where she can be near the … the queen.”

“Ah yes, the queen.”

At her instruction, the boy sinks into a chair and smiles his thanks when Maria enters and offers him a tray. He sips rich red wine and selects a wafer from a platter. “How is Elizabeth, do you know?”

“The news is she has borne a daughter, whom they’ve named Margaret for the king’s mother.” She accepts a cup but shakes her head when she is offered the plate. He pretends he hasn’t noticed her casual use of the title ‘king’ for the man who stole his brother’s throne.

“Have you been back?”

Madam Brampton makes a face.

“No. England is not the same now. I cannot live there under Tudor who has slaughtered, or imprisoned, or placed all my friends in penury.”

“How can Bess? If people like you and Brampton cannot tolerate it, how can she? I am her brother, and because of her husband, Edward was killed! How can she live with that?”

The children are looking on wide-eyed at the exchange but she answers as best she can.

“I doubt she has been given much choice. She was there, after Bosworth, in Tudor’s hands. If he desired marriage there was no champion to save her from it. I suspect Elizabeth is wise and is making the best of things. Women are more resilient than you might think.”

Brampton’s children have fallen on the platter of pastries, their happy cries negating the emotion in Richard’s heart. As his shoulders sag further, Brampton steps forward and pulls a stool to sit between his wife and the boy.

“It won’t be for much longer, boy. Soon you will be ready to take your rightful place. We will treat your sister honourably, but the throne is yours and there are plenty who will back us.”

“And what about her children? Am I to murder my nephew and my niece to take back what is mine? Or do I condemn them to an existence such as mine has been?”

Brampton sits back, looks at the ceiling where smoke from the hearth is creeping like a thief along the rafters.

“That decision, boy, can be made when we get to it. First we have other fish to fry. We need an army and must seek the support of Tudor’s enemies.”

After supper, Brampton signals to the boy that they are leaving. “We’ll not be long.” He kisses his wife and tells his children to go to bed peaceably when they are told.

“Where are we going?” the boy asks as he shrugs into his jerkin.

“You’ll see.”

Earlier, the boy had enjoyed the luxury of a bath. He’d lain back in the warm soapy water while a servant scraped the beard from his chin. Now his skin feels delicate and soft in the chill night air. Brampton sets up a steady pace, forcing the boy to jog alongside him, and soon he realises they are retracing the path they took that morning.

Close to the dock, Pilar steps quietly from the shadows. “You’ve come then, you old rogue,” she laughs. “I’ve passed up a pretty penny to be with you this night.” Grabbing Brampton by the tunic, she bears him away.

The boy looks on in disbelief. It makes no sense. Brampton’s wife is good and clean and loving. How can he neglect her for a bawd like Pilar? He is still standing there, his fists clenched in angry confusion, when he feels a light touch on his arm. He looks down into a pair of large brown eyes.

“No,” he says, shrugging her off and fighting to fix Nelken’s face on his inner eye. He cannot see her and the prostitute is persistent. She tugs gently at his hand, her eyes gleaming in the darkness until he finds he has followed her to a small dwelling beside the inn. She pushes him down on to a couch, loosens her bodice, and his hands move unbidden to discover small tight breasts. Pleasure floods through him and he closes his eyes, gives himself up to the sin of the moment.

*

“How can you do that?” Much later, he scurries after Brampton back toward the house. “You have a wife who loves you, children that look up to you. Have you no honour?”