The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XXI. August 1458

XXI

August 1458

Ludlow Castle, Shropshire, England

Henry has steadily become more addled throughout the evening. He slurs his words, laughs loudly, and knocks over flagons of ale. His Grace the Duke and his wife, and the head of the table, exchange worried glances betwixt them. Humphrey is muttering fervently to him, Joan is casting anxious looks, and the eldest York son, the Earl of March, Edward, whom I enjoy walking with in the grounds, throws me looks of puzzlement, whilst trying to distract his younger siblings from the spectacle that is my husband. I sit staring into the thick sauce coating my untouched pork, as the stench clogs up my nose. The veil from my headdress falls over my burning countenance. Here we are all gathered, feasting as we do every night, yet every person is witnessing instead my marriage bed crumble about me. They see the way we pointedly do not converse, how my head lowers further. They do not know what has been the cause of this rift. They presume I have lost a child again, or the like, I must suppose. Elizabel did.

We received word that her baby son was born far too early, in the eight month. He was stillborn. The Bourchier heir, gone. Another babe who had no chance to live. All my cousin's dreams and hopes are crushed- she must now face the harsh reality, as I did. I want to console the girl, but what comfort could I bring, a motherless woman myself, having suffered the same plight? The Duchess Cecily sends her a letter and talks to myself, saying for us not to despair, for we are young, and she and the Duke produced one living child from the first twelve years of their marriage.

"It must be in the York bloodline, for my father sired over twenty children. It must be misfortune that we York wives have to endure so many stillborn babies, miscarriages, and infant deaths." She tries to say consolingly, affecting not to know of my own mother's woeful pregnancies, and how they all ended. Even with these hindrances from both mine and Henry's bloodlines, I shall never now have children. I cannot lie with Henry. I cannot forgive his adultery. I know many wives accept their husband's mistresses, and even sometimes their bastards, it is the man's will and right, so they turn a blind eye. But we are Harry and Lizzie. We were Harry and Lizzie. We were so deeply infatuated as children- and now that is all gone. Mayhap we did not love each other at all.

Little Beth has already retired for the night with the other children, so I make my way to my bedchamber alone. I am walking slowly up the stairs, when I hear a drunken cry of "Er-lerz-erberth," which makes my blood run cold, for the last time I heard my name said in such a manner was when my father almost broke my wrist that night, so... many years ago. I sigh, rolling my eyes a little, and turn to a swaying Henry standing, half in the shadows. I do not recognise or know the man before me.

"I wish not to talk with you," I say curtly, turn back around, and begin to walk away faster. He catches the stupidly long sapphire sleeve of my houppelande.

"L-lizzie, wait." I am hindered in my path at once, slowly twisting. A lump forms in my throat. He means to woo me with pet names; he means to try to turn back the seeds of time and pretend I did not find him and pretty Kitty coupling as he destroyed our marriage?

"Henry-"

"L-liz-zie, please." He spreads his hands out. He has a stain down his rumpled shirt, and he is missing a button on his doublet. His hair has seemingly not had a comb through or it or seen a cold jug of water for years, hanging limp and in knots. His face is red, his eyes are unfocused, and he has an unpleasant stubble all about his lower face, once such an angelic, smooth face. He looks like a man who has lost almost everything gambling in a tavern, and is clinging onto his last treasure. For he has my spoils, he has my treasure, but he has not the greatest prize to found from the booty, the greatest treasure: me. He has lost me. He lost me completely, and there is nothing he can do to gamble me back. For I will not, I cannot take him back. I cannot be merciful. One look at him, and I see him, lying, with her.