The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXXI: December 1460

Every person is shivering, and I do wish my wedding were a more cheerful affair. It seems one more of business, rather than the courtly love I once dreamed. There being no objections to our marriage, and having asked the necessary questions of formality, the priest gabbles a sermon, and we exchange our vows. I hold out my hand, and Anthony slides another ring upon it, a large sapphire.

"I take thee to wed," he says calmly, but his damp fingers betray this as he touches my icy hands. How does he feel, becoming married at last, the first time, to me- a widow? Is he completely content? I swallow. My heart beats as hard as Kate did hammering on my door this morning, excited I would be marrying her brother. I look into Anthony's eyes, of such trust, and try not to falter as I present him his ring. I say the words I never did envision I would say twice in my lifetime.

"I, take thee, to wed," I say. The priest blesses us and opens the door for Nuptial Mass, to the relief of our frozen kinsfolk. I have done it. At this moment, I have become Elizabeth Wydeville, and with that, I am no longer Elizabeth Bourchier, and I have completely lost Henry and that part of my life. Anthony and I link arms. We walk into the church together, husband and wife, Lord and Lady Scales- we walk together, into our future.

"Now, these are my kinsfolk, the Hautes and the Fogges." Anthony points down the table to a line of inconspicuous faces hidden behind mounds of tartlets, jellies, and sugar confections. I nod, sipping the hippocras from our wedding chalice, placing it down again. The table flows with goblets, the wine in them of which was sent from my new uncle by marriage, Louis, the Comte of St. Pol, all the way from Luxembourg.

"None of your lady mother's illustrious relations could be present?" I note however, thinking to my previous wedding, and all the Dukes and Duchesses there.

"No," Anthony shakes his head, and lowers his eyes a little, flushing, "This wine is the best we shall receive from them. They still do not hold my mother in such quite high esteem since her marriage to my father." His face holds an obstinate expression, and I pat his arm, feeling rather offended myself. I am clearly of no such importance to those overseas relations that it is worth them making the journey for our nuptials. If Anthony were marrying an Empress, I bet they would be on the first ship hither. I know how damaged the Wydevilles' pride is already after I feared him dead when he was captured by the Yorkists earlier this year, when Edward belittled him- calling his father nothing better than a squire and a knave to go and marry such a lady of nobility. What a tumultuous year for Anthony. When he languished in Calais, did he ever foresee he would still take my hand in marriage, that some slight fortune would come his way?

Anthony's thoughts also appear to have turned to this said incident. "I shall return the honour to our name since that whoreson dared say this of our family at Calais. I shall also try and make you, my wife, proud to give me your good Father's title, and restore the name of Scales to honour too." His colouring deepens a little, and I incline my head, grateful that he would say such a thing, but also to muster my composure; for I know not how to speak of Edward- My Lord of March-, I should not be so familiar. I must forget his intentions to me. I murmur in sympathy, wishing our wedding feast conversation were of a gayer nature.

He turns to me, eyes narrowed slightly. "Was he not a kinsman of yours from your first marriage?" I gulp, and I feel my blood run. I endeavour to remain perfectly still and calm, the sound of the minstrels' merry tunes fading around me. This is not what I wish to talk of.

"Yes," I say, licking my lips, "I was in his company but a few times. Henry and he were not close." I glance at Elizabel, sat with lowered eyes next to me, for Anthony has probably not realised who she is; not just a de Vere, but also a wife of a Bourchier, a Yorkist wife, and York cousin. Anthony's frown dissipates, and a sunny smile warms his face again, although slightly cloudy. He mayhap is thinking of my other husband, a good few years his senior, whom he feels he must live up to. He takes my hand to his lips and kisses it, sending a shiver down my spine.