The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXXI: December 1460

I brush this thought away, as I turn to Aubrey and Jem's sister, none other than my dear Elizabel. We embrace heartily and fiercely, for she is a pale wraith, thin, downcast as the flocks of clouds outside. I note she has not brought William in tow- he is too affiliated with York.

I squeeze her hand. "You shall sit by me at the feast. We have much to converse on." She nods, and I move away from her troop of siblings to greet my other kinsfolk, many sharing sympathies for my Father and Mother's premature deaths. There is John Knyvett, suitably grim, for the right to his mother's inheritance is being disputed. I thank the saints no such conquest has been made against me, and the Barony slipped smoothly to my hands. I exchange a pleasant smile, secretly speculating what those narrow archer's slits for eyes think behind.

Beside him is William Tyndale, grown a tall, licentious man with a thoughtful countenance and a beard near as long as my houppelande sleeves. There is his great-uncle, Sir Miles Stapleton, who is only truly related to us my by marriage to my dead kinswoman Elizabeth Felbrigg, and is only here today for his second wife is a daughter of the de la Pole family, whom My Lord and Lady Rivers brought Grafton manor from. Of course, the de la Poles themselves are distant kinsfolk of mine anyhow. Family connections are all most convoluted, too much so to contemplate on a day such as this.

Eleanor is present here with some obscure Whalesborough cousins who are my connection to the de la Poles, come really to pay homage to me out of respect to my Mother. 'Tis paltry numbers, and I wish my half-aunts were present- but one is dead, and one is bedridden and paralysed. Mayhap 'tis best she is ignorant of her brother's gruesome death.

We set off to St. Mary the Virgin Church, but a short walk from the manor, yet tiresome in the snow-sprinkled ground. Anthony's father Richard offers me his arm, and in this, I am strangely comforted. His eyes are merry and dancing and twinkling, although he is greying, as is his wife Jacquetta is slightly, and has lost his lither physique, with marks etched into the hollows of his face from all the battles and troubles of years. My wedding should be gay, but the skies are grey, and I can hear the Wydeville children's constant squawking. My half-cousins beside me are whispering that there is to be another battle, the Duke against Queen Margaret's army, discussing if they should muster forces.

"I am glad to gain you as a daughter," he says, our patterns and boots crunching with our footfalls, as we approach the church.

"Thank you," I manage to croak, as he casts me a kindly smile, as we come before Anthony standing with a party of his relations looking me up and down. Do they approve of me, the daughter of a nobleman so disgraced in his death? Anthony is beaming at me eagerly, bright in a short red and yellow padded tabard emblazoned with his Wydeville coat of arms- completely addling, quartered with griffins, eagles, gules, and argents and all manner of emblems all over.

"Do not be nervous," Richard says, patting my arm, for I do realise I am shaking, and not because of the frost. I do profess myself to love Anthony- I do. But am I right in following my Father and Mother's wishes, rather than marrying a Yorkist, the cause I want to champion? Am I fool to marry into Lancaster when York is in ascendant- for cannot young Anthony realise what nondescript future we shall have? Should I have considered My Earl of March's proposals in all seriousness? Even so, am I too old for both men, who have not yet reached their twentieth year? Will Anthony, with his junior years, be able to cope so soon bearing a title; will he be a worthy Lord Scales? Will this marriage be a success? Will God bless us with children?

We stand huddled in the porch under the archway, our kinsfolk gathered along the sides of the paths to spectate. Poor Kate falls over a gravestone. The church is of a rectangular shape, a tower dwarfing us all from the east end, with stained-glass windows, which glisten, colourful droplets against the bleak grey brick. I walk towards Anthony, exchanging nervous smiles with him. The priest hurries through the service as the wind strikes up a low howl about us, leaves crackling and flapping in our faces. I hear Kate, Margaret and Joan squabbling and Anne frantically hushing them. Anthony and I bite our tongues, bemused, as the priest drives his voice to exhaustion reading my dowry and the legal procedures, about to confer Anthony as Baron Scales. I wonder how he feels that I am bringing him some considerable source of income, and his very own title. We can work together to tend to our lands, and I shall coach him also.