The Other Elizabeth

Chapter V: Winter-Summer 1448

So now Alice is Baroness Fitzhugh, and has left behind all the pieces of mine and Henry's friendship with William as scattered and few as the rushes on my floor. (All the new rushes were sent to My Lady's room yesterevening, to keep her warm.) William hardly utters words to me now. He is growing a pointy beard; he is growing up, leaving me behind, a discarded childhood playmate. Even Henry now has a low, gruff voice, and his slender stature has thickened out, testing the stitching on all his doublets, tabards and hose. He does look rather handsome now, all muscular... My own gowns have started to tighten a little about my chest, admittedly.

A sudden screech from above interrupts my thoughts and I hear raised voices. I place the candle on the chest by my bedside. I put my knees up, dragging the heavy coverlet and blankets with me, and wrap my arms around my knees, gripping at my rosary, praying for My Lady Isabel and the safe delivery of a healthy, live baby, to replace the emptiness Fulk left.

*****

The rest of the family are about to go to church, as the sun's rays just splinter through the miserable clouds, to meet the priest and baptise the baby. My Lady beckons me to her bedchamber. I am to stay by her bedside, whilst the midwives rest after their tiresome night and the nursemaid prepares more swaddling bands, linen and boards for the baby, and the maids rush about with hot coals for the bed-warming pans.

My Lady's eyelids are drooping a little, and she is slumped down in her bed, which has a scarlet and gold canopy and hangings. She smiles and straightens up when she sees me. Childbirth must be very testing and rather horrible, after all the screams I have heard. Soon, I will have to face that. I feel my stomach turn and I gulp. I do not want to leave here, even though William is behaving like an ass to me.

"Elizabeth! I am pleased to see you. Have you thought of a name for the baby? It is a girl."

"Pray, My Lady, what does she look like?" I hover at her bedside, as her bed is raised up quite high, with the costers lapping and tickling at my bare feet like the sea, with their frothy white lacing.

"She is healthy and of good size, with a crop of the same dark hair as myself, but as glossy as the silk they spin in Italy..." Something clicks in my head. A dusty, dull day in the schoolroom with Dr Watt talking about England's trade with Italy... Italy... wool and silk importation... Florence...

"Florence," I say slowly, then assert myself, "Yes, she shall be called Florence."

*****

Two months later, My Lady has been churched and baby Florence is thriving, and she suits her name well. I had feared that the birth of a daughter would create a divide between us, since My Lady would have her own daughter, but it has brought us closer together.

I am forever pestering Florence's nursemaid to let me rock her, or hold her, or feed her. I find it strange that I am becoming more patient, especially with Florence. I feel very close to her; after all, I named her, as if she were my own. I used to think little babes were ugly and boresome, but Florence is like a little cherub. I am even good at silencing her cries and rocking her to sleep!

It must be past midnight, and I have woken up, and to my annoyance, cannot fall back asleep. I turn over, somehow feeling uncomfortably sticky. I throw my head back on the pillow, and close my eyes.

I wake the next morning to hailstones hitting and bouncing off my window. The constant sound is a bad as the sound of horses' hooves when My Lord goes out hunting. I groan, pushing back the coverlet, knowing I will be constrained indoors all day, listening to Dr. Watt.

I let out a gasp, eyes widening. There's blood all over the featherbed.

"Bessie!" I cry, my jaw beginning to quiver as I let out shaky noises. I look down from my bed- which is raised a little, with a canopy of silver and blue – to Bessie's truckle bed on the floor. It is empty. My heart races. I swing my legs out of bed, and let out a little scream. Ruby red rivulets and pools of crimson soak the swan-white of my nightgown. My heart quickens; what is to become of me? I begin to tremble, and then I start to shout.