The Other Elizabeth

Chapter II: Winter-Summer 1446

Chapter II: Winter-Summer 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, the '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 he relinquished his post in France 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, uncountable acres of lush green fields, 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- I suppose I should confess, I actually go to admire all the bejewelled icons and intricate stained glass, and I rather 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 naught 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 as I seem to have the attention span of a mere insect.

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 the Lady Isabel, and my husband is Baron 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?"