“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?”
He is still tucking in his shirt, shrugging back into his jerkin. When Brampton turns suddenly, the boy draws back in alarm and falls on his arse. The man looms above him, spitting in anger.
“You are full of shit, boy! Didn’t you just indulge in the same sin?”
“I don’t have a wife and besides, I am not talking about sin, I am talking about love. Why, with a family and a wife like you have, would you sport with whores? You dishonour her; you do not deserve a good woman like her!”
Brampton’s lips tighten, his jaw clenches. With furious eyes he drags the boy to his feet and pushes him back against a wall, clenches the front of his shirt so there is but an inch between their faces.
“It is none of your business, boy, but since you persist; without risk to her life my wife can give me no more children. I almost lost her with the last one so, in ‘honouring’ her with my body, I’d be condemning her to death. Do you understand me now? Do you?”
He wrenches himself away and begins to walk backwards up the hill. As he does so he wags a furious finger. “Don’t ever think to judge me, boy. Ever, do you hear?”
Then he turns on his heel and runs uphill toward home.
Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth
Sheen ― May 1490
“She is lusty.” Henry comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. I cover it with my own. After a long episode of squawking, Margaret is now sleeping. I stand up carefully so as not to wake her and, signalling silently to the nurse, we tiptoe from the room.
It was Henry’s wish to name Margaret for his mother, but I content myself that it is after my cousin too, whom I miss more than I’d imagined. Baby Margaret is very demanding and much more difficult than her brother was, but she is delightful. She is fat and rosy, and smells of honey and camomile. When no one is around, I like to hold her close and inhale that sweet baby smell, feel her fat little legs kick strongly against my lap, her clammy hands on my face. She will be a girl to be reckoned with, I am sure of that.
“There is no need for you to spend so much time in the nursery, you know; we have servants for that,” Henry says as we pass along the corridor and down the narrow stair.
“I know, but I like to be there. I am glad she can stay with us. I have missed so much of Arthur’s infancy. It is hard for me to have him grow up so far from us. Having Margaret close compensates for that.”
The guards at the entrance to Henry’s privy apartments straighten up at our approach and the doors are thrown open. His hand is on my back as we pass into the antechamber, his fingers creep down my spine, sending a delightful shiver through my body as he ushers me into his private rooms. It is a long time since we’ve shared the intimacy of his chamber before bedtime. I anticipate a lingering supper, too much wine and hopefully, we will make ourselves a son tonight.
“Henry, there you are. I’ve been waiting to discuss the plans for the great Church of St Mary’s.”
My heart sinks. The king’s mother is seated by the window, the fading light falling on the building plans she has scattered across the table.
Henry squeezes my fingers in silent apology and moves to greet her.
“Oh, good evening, Elizabeth,” she says belatedly. I murmur a greeting but do not join them. Instead I stand before the hearth, hold out my hands to the flames.
Spring is late in coming this year; a chill lingers in the air and around the castle the fields gleam with standing puddles that have been there since February. The sun has forgotten us this season and the rain is incessant; the people murmur of bad omens and God’s displeasure. The outbreak of measles that attacked us all just after Margaret’s birth is slow to be extinguished and everyone suffers, regardless of status.
I had hoped for a quiet evening. I was slow to recover after giving birth this time, and lately the entertainments and constant envoys from Spain are wearisome. As the strength returns to my body in full measure, I find I am more inclined to welcome my husband’s advances — when he makes them. I am eager to give him another son. We have our heir. I have a fat, fractious princess to amuse me, but Henry needs a second son at his side; a little Duke of York. But, if I am never alone with him, the chances of getting one are slim.
Henry and his mother are bent over the plans, a flickering candle revealing the similarity of their long, bony faces, their identical hooded eyes.
They are engrossed in their conversation. I could send for my needlework or my lute to amuse myself while they are busy, or I could return to my apartments and let Henry seek me out there later if he is of a mind. I do not consider joining them. I learned long ago that, although his mother accepts me now as his wife, I will never be accepted as their intimate.
Apart from their hushed voices, the chamber is peaceful. The logs spit and settle in the hearth, the rain patters against the dark windows and, every so often, one of Henry’s hounds twitches in his sleep and growls deep in his throat, probably dreaming of chasing deer. I pick at a loose fingernail, sit down, stand up again and circumnavigate the room. Henry looks up and smiles a tight smile that does not quite meet his eyes. “I’ll be with
you soon, Elizabeth,” he says.
“Oh, no, my lord. Do not trouble. I am quite content.”
Why do I do that? Why am I not more honest? My mother would have left my father in no doubt that she required his immediate attention. I’ve seen him dismiss a party of foreign statesmen for the pleasure of my mother’s bed. I sigh again, remembering that my husband is a very different man to my lusty father. But at least Henry is faithful.
I sink onto a low stool by the fire and, resting my cheek on my hand, begin to look for pictures in the flames as we used to when we were children.
Cecily and I always saw castles and gardens, fairies and flowers, but my brothers saw dragons and battles. Our visions would give rise to marvellous stories of bravery, my brothers’ faces bright with anticipation as I reached the inevitable chivalric climax.If I hadn’t been born a princess I should have liked to have been a storyteller, a minstrel or a songster, travelling the countryside to entertain the king.
Sometimes I still miss my younger days with a desperation that is almost a physical pain, but I endeavour to hide it behind a smile. The outside world only sees my serenity, for my inner feelings are not for sharing. But how I crave a confidant; someone I can trust and who will trust me in return. I sigh again, and to my relief realise that Lady Margaret has begun to roll up her parchments.
“I will see that it is done,” she says as she stands up and shakes out her skirts. “I am meeting with the chaplain in the morning.” She bids us good night. Henry walks with her to the door where her page is waiting to conduct her to her adjoining rooms.
While she is at court she is forever under our feet. I long for the day she will take herself off to her own properties again. She holds a vast amount of land and is the wealthiest woman in England, far more affluent than I. Even though I am queen, I am forced to be very thrifty to make my allowance last; and that is not helped by the necessity of funding my numerous sisters. Catherine is always in need of something, and Bridget is always spending her allowance on the poor.
A Song of Sixpence: The Story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck Page 13
