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

his head at the boy who dismounts and obediently leads the horses into the barn, out of sight. There is hay in the manger. He removes the saddles, rubs a fist over the sweaty patch beneath, and then creeps from the barn to find Brampton.
    The door to the house is ajar. Warily, the boy steps over the threshold and looks around the dim, empty room. Brampton has thrown open the shutter and is reading a note by the fading light of the back window.
    The few sticks of furniture are swathed in sheets, and when Brampton pulls them aside the boy is surprised to see good quality stuff. There is a strong oak table with good serviceable stools and, before the vast fireplace, a settle with cushions. This is no poor man’s home.
    “What is this place?” the boy asks. “Who lives here?”
    “Wait and see.”
    Brampton opens the pantry door and emerges with a fresh loaf, a roasted fowl, a flagon of wine and some apples. It is the best they’ve eaten for weeks and the boy falls upon the food as if he has never known better.
    “Is it your mother’s house?”
    “My mother’s house? Why would you think that? Do I sound Burgundian bred?” Brampton chews, wipes a trickle of grease from his stubbled chin. The boy shrugs and pokes another chunk of bread into his mouth.
    Brampton is Portuguese. He still bears the accent of his homeland and his looks are dark and swarthy, and he wears an earring like a pirate. The boy remembers him from court, laughing with his uncle, drinking with his father and earning the approving royal tag as the king’s ‘loyal friend.’
    Deep down the boy knows Brampton is a good man, his devotion to his father continuing long after his death. That is why he is here with him now; Brampton must have promised either his father or Uncle Richard to protect him, no matter what. But, in the past, he has heard other whispers about Brampton.
    His brother Edward, God rest him, liked to frighten the boy with dark tales of murder and intrigue. “Brampton killed a man in Portugal,” he whispered once, “and fled to England to escape the noose. Father thinks he can trust him, but can he really? Who is to say he will not kill us all in our beds one dark night?”
    The boy knows they were just stories made up to trick him into revealing his terror. There was nothing Edward liked more than to drive his brother out of his wits with stories of evil spirits and murder but … you never know.
    “Whose house is it then?”
    “Your aunt’s.”
    The boy stops eating and looks at Brampton askance. “My aunt’s house?” He looks doubtfully around the room, at the plain furniture, the lack of decoration. “My aunt is the Duchess of Burgundy; you can’t expect me to believe she lives here.”
    Brampton tears another strip of flesh from the fowl and chews it, licking grease from his fingers and speaking with his mouth full.
    “I didn’t say she lives here, you little fool. She owns everything around here; everything and everyone. Her instructions were to bring you here and, if it is indeed the right place, we are to await her here.”
    The boy puts down his bread.
    “She is coming here? Will she take me back to her court?”
    Brampton sighs and leans across the table, grips the boy’s arm. His face is serious, his eyes dark. For a moment the boy thinks he is sad, regretting that they must part. But then he speaks.
    “Listen, boy, you must forget who you are. I keep telling you. It is important. Prince Richard is no more. You will be given another name, another life, and you must just be grateful that you live. Your life in England is gone …” He snaps his fingers. “Forget it. Your brother is dead; your country has a new king. Your uncle could have ordered you killed; it would have been wiser for him to do so. But he has granted you your life, sent you here to his sister, your aunt, where you will be safe, but in return you must forgo all claim on the English crown. Do you understand?”
    The boy nods, just once, but his