The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

III. Winter-Spring 1446 *EDITED*

III

Winter-Spring 1446

Rivenhall, Essex, England

The physicians were sent for with great haste after my Lady Mother had learned of the malady to my arm.

"Make haste," she had cried to the messenger, "My daughter could die! And where would that leave us? Without an heir at all!" I very much doubted I would depart from this life by a few possibly shattered bones which were causing me much pain, and was more affronted that my Lady Mother would not care for losing me, me, Elizabeth, but me, her heir- or more technically accurate, heiress.

The physicians she had summoned concluded that my arm was fractured and recommended me, if possible, to go south, and recover in the less harsh winter months there. This befitted my Lord Father well to take up residence closer to London; he needs to acquire the favour of the King and Queen, since his post in France had relinquished after the peace treaty last year, which I probably should have paid my attentions to more, and my Lady Mother is in the employ of the Queen herself.

So this is how I come to be at Rivenhall Place, in Essex, nigh forty miles from the capital. It used to be the family seat for parliament, but my Lord Father deigned to move this to Scales Hall. Why anyone would prefer the bleak, rambling moors of Norfolk is beyond my comprehension. This manor, however, is the pinnacle of beauty, with the river flowing beside it, the uncountable acres of lush green land, and the window seats snuggled into little crevices overlooking the village of Rivenhall, with the tower of St. Mary and All Saints Church rising above all.

I go to pray there regularly, and enjoy my walks to and from it. Had my Lord and Lady not been at court, they would have been scandalised by my walking there and most likely dismissed Bessie and my other maids for their leniency, but I relish in these jaunts, even in the biting winter cold. However beautiful Rivenhall may be, there is nothing to do. I cannot ride, because my arm is still healing, and on the days when the clouds decide to shower us, I am to be found stifling a yawn over my studies or needlework. My tutor, Dr. Watt, is an ever-patient man, and I must cause him many grievances with my wandering mind. I confess these sins to God every time I venture to the church but I still have not repaired them, and I shall probably never learn.

This venture is no different; however, I must make haste to home, for the clouds ahead are glaring at me. In my haste, I stumble into someone. I look up.

"My apologies, my Lady," I say meekly. I can tell to address her thus so by her scarlet and gold houppelande trimmed with fur, complete with sweeping sleeves that almost trail to the floor. I sink into a curtsey.

"Rise, little maiden. Pray, what be your name?"

"Elizabeth de Scales, my Lady," I reply, glancing out the window, where the storm clouds are thickening.

"Lord Scales' daughter?"

"Yes, my Lady."

She laughs. "You defer to me as 'my Lady', yet I suspect you do not even know who I am."

"No, my Lady," I mumble, beginning to feel and look like a fool.

"I am Lady Bourchier." The surname means naught to me, and I stand there numbly.

"Your Mother and Father are at court, I believe, with my Lord Husband," she supplies. So, she must be from a grand family!

"If I may be so bold, if your good husband is at court, what are you doing in a sleepy little village such as Rivenhall?"

"I am simply here because I wish to present to the church."

"No, but what are you doing here, in Essex, when you could be at the glamorous court with your husband! Why would you choose to be here?" I press my lips together, realising I have probably offended her and been far too outright. She looks at me and bursts into a peal of laughter, which echoes around the now empty church. Is she mocking me? She stops suddenly, sensing my confusion.

"I confess I have never met such a maiden as you, with such an outspoken way, and it greatly amuses me. We are neighbours, I only live yonder." She gestures with her arm, spraying out the silky fabric pools of her sleeves. She cocks her head. "Pray, what person has your wardship and is enlightened daily by your wit?" I blink again; I never receive compliments such as these, and my Lady seems genuine. For some rather strange reason, I feel like I have known her all my life.

I frown a little. "I confess too, my Lady, that this wit, as you call it, is the reason why I am not positioned in another household, for according to my Lady Mother, I am too outspoken, and as you can see, (I slowly proffer my arm out from underneath my mantle) my arm is fractured and I am unable to do much." Why am I revealing myself to an utter stranger?

"My dear, how can you have acquired such a fracture?" Her face floods with concern, and she forgets laughing at my response.

"I slipped over rather badly on some rushes," I assert boldly, conscious of the fact that I am lying in the place of worship. This was the lie that we agreed on, my Lord Father and me. No, the lie he forced upon me to tell, so no person could discover his ill treatment of me and the breaking of his marriage vows, which still lies on my conscience. It grieves me that my Lady Mother should wake every morning next to Satan himself and not know it, but by telling her, I would doubtless cause more problems. I still cannot comprehend his treatment of me, and in the days after, he looked at me rather abashed, head lowered and face reddening. I wonder if he is even sorry. I used to respect my Lord Father, but now I know what kind of man he truly is.

My Lady gives a comforting smile; can she see the lie in my eyes, hear it in my voice? I feel rather bad about lying to someone as kindly as her, for I have warmed to her quickly. I glance out the window.

"My Lady, it has been lovely to meet you, but I must take leave and depart for home, if you will permit it."

"Of course I will permit it," she laughs, "but pray, where are your maids, companions, or someone from your household?" She frowns, and a rumble of distant thunder rolls outside.

"Nay," I say, eyes darting to the window again, "I came by myself."

"All by yourself? With a fractured arm? Who is looking after you?" She reaches out and holds my good arm; she is genuinely alarmed for my well-being, whilst I am genuinely alarmed about the little pitter-patter of rain. I don't mind rain, it's harmless, but I'd rather miss it.

"My Lady, I assure you I am not an object of negligence. My maids cannot stop me from-"

"Lady Mother? Are you ready to depart, for I fear if we do not take leave soon we will reach home rather drenched." A young boy has entered the church, standing in the archway. Ah, finally someone who sees the same sense as me. Even from this distance, I can assert that he has the same wide eyes and smiling mouth as his mother, and he has a golden halo around his shoulders. Judging by his girlish high voice, he is only a couple of years my senior. He glances at me indifferently.

"William asks me to remind you that my Lord Father may have arrived home with news of his rise!" My ears prick up.

"Pray, I am rather too inquisitive, but what rise has he recently acquired?"

My Lady smiles. "His Grace the King might create him a Viscount." I blink. I have learnt all about this new creation of His Grace's- higher in the ranks than a baron, but lower than an earl. I assumed she had a good rank, for her husband to be at court, but not so high! That was one of the rare occasions I was listening to Dr. Watt in the schoolroom, for I love all the titles and greetings and jousts and courtly love and glittering attire of the court; I so want to join my Lady Mother and become a lady-in-waiting to our good Queen at the very pinnacle of glamour. I am a romanticist and a fantasist, I admit, which is probably a bad quality in this world where a woman's path in life is shaped for her. But I am not going to change. I am not going to change for anyone.