Chapter V: Winter-Summer 1448
Great Totham, Essex, England
Above me, My Lady's screams filter through the bedchamber floor and through into the ceiling of my room. She has been in labour for about four hours and a half now, and I have not slept at all, for her excruciating grunts make my stomach roll. I hold a tallow candle in my hand, all the lovely-scented beeswax candles being in My Lady's room, as I leaf through the whispery pages of many books, searching for a name for the child. I am trying to ignore My Lord's pacing on the floor above me also, muttering about 'damned Edmund Beaufort, becoming a Duke!' and 'Richard (assumingly his brother-in-law) will be furious!' I am sure it will all be resolved without any weapons being drawn.
I am currently searching through a book relating to the saints, hoping that I will find names more interesting than Mary and Jane and Anne; however, I have only come across old Norman or Saxon names, such as Editha, Frideswide or Hedwig. My Lady has a feeling this child will be a girl, and her last, for she is over forty years now, although the grey threads in her hair are hidden by that ridiculous horned headdress of hers, and her skin is still as creamy as the milk she showed Alice and I to make in the dairyhouse. Oh, Alice! I am so pleased she has finally been sent away to her Baron. I could not tolerate her one minute longer!
I had taken to calling her Dame Alice in my head, as if she were no better than a fat old knight's widow. She complained for all of England about how she, the daughter of an Earl, had to marry a mere Baron, and one with no remarkable name- for whoever has heard of Baron Fitzhugh? Apart from appearing ever so disdainful, she greatly offended my person. A mere Barony? I am to be a baroness- I may not be a duchess-in-waiting, but I still count it as a glorious title, even though it is just words; it does not mean much, just lands and money passed through the generations. One thing Alice's complaining has done is make me wonder about my own marriage. Who will be my husband? Will they be another Baron, or something even grander? Foreign, English, noble, or recently come into their title (for the King seems to be giving them away a lot.) The endless possibilities... At least that will not be for a while yet.
Another reason I started to hate Dame Alice so much, apart from her perfection in everything she seemingly did, is that she spent all her time with William, and now William will sigh whenever I come up to him and ask him to play. He has become so cold, back straightened, chin lifted, eyes as unreadable as the confusing depictions in the stained-glass windows at church. He listened to her every word. It is like she bewitched him. I would not be surprised if she were in league with Eleanor Cobham, wherever she was banished to. He looks at me now as if I were just a goodwife from the village.
"He has grown up. We are too young for him. He prefers Alice, and I am quite sure he fancies himself... in love... with her. Alice surely must be humouring him," Henry had said rather icily, for he has always tagged around after William like an adoring squire, and is rather lost without him.
So now, even though Alice has left, I am stuck with Henry, and it is all rather dull, for I still want to caper about, no matter what My Lady says. Although, I have endeavoured to put more effort into my Latin and French lessons, which Dr. Watt is most joyous about, for My Lady says they are important languages at court, and I would not want to show myself up if someone said 'bonjour,' and I gaped at them like a gormless halfwit.
I had tried my uttermost hardest at all the tasks My Lady had set Dame Alice, with myself present too, from working with account books for her manors, to the running of the kitchens and the hiring of servants. Dame Alice had completed all these tasks perfectly, but had complained about all those lowly, bore some Baron's wife things that even My Lady had to press her lips together, for she was a Baroness beforehand. I heard her sternly admonishing Alice one day over her duties and station in life, which pleased me greatly.
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.
"Bessie! Bessie! My Lady! My Lady! I-ss-s-s-s-a-b-b-b-el." I start to sob, arms wrapped around my chest. What has happened? Where has all this blood come from? Am I going to die?
Three hours later, I have been washed in the bathtub, paid numerous uncomfortable visits to the garderobe, and have written an equally uncomfortable letter to my Lady Mother, saying that I have started my courses. My Lady has explained to me all about them- thank the Lord, I am not dying!
"Has no person explained to you about them?" My Lady says. I am sitting by the fire in the solar, while she brushes my hair.
"Yes," I reply, blushing, "I just panicked, you know how I am- as loose-headed as a shepherdess who fell asleep and lost her flock."
"Hmm," she snorts, and I presume I have said something witty again. She continues her soothing, rhythmic, strokes, and then suddenly stops. "I don't want to startle you, Elizabeth, but you know what this entails. You can bear children now, you can become married now." I whip around, as sharp as one of the hailstones flinging themselves into the window.
"But I do not want to leave here! I do not want to be married to a man. I am only twelve!" My Lady embraces me, and I lean against her knees. She makes sympathetic noises, as my stomach twists and eyes spurt.
"I know my dear, I know."
*****
A few days later, a letter arrives from my Lady Mother. She says that my Lord Father is too busy to send one himself- too busy at court, where they are all a little worried, because Her Grace, Queen Marguerite, has shown no signs of being with child yet. She repeats family gossip, and how my cousins are faring.
She signs of courteously, and then adds a little note at the bottom of the parchment. I am sending you a dark blue kirtle I used to wear when I had my courses. Of course, I have them no more, and I can have no sons. The kirtle is of the finest linen from Paris, which should hopefully befit you. I shall hope to see you in the summertide to discuss your marriage.
I swallow; The reality of marriage is creeping up on me, creating waves of nausea inside me, and making me feel rather old. I feel as though I should not be climbing trees or cartwheeling around anymore...
*****
Glittering golden rays are bouncing off the windows into flashes of brilliant white diamond light this summertide day, replacing the hailstones and storms of winter.
"My Lady Mother says we are to go out for the day. What should we do?" Henry says. He is hovering in the library doorway, watching me as I try to reach for another book of Camelot legends, right at the top of the shelf.
"Will the others be accompanying us?"
"No, because of this mighty heat, they are all hiding out in the icehouse."
"Even William?" The idea of them all crammed in that miniscule hut fills me with mirth, even if they are considerably cooler than we are.
"No, he is out riding somewhere, or practising jousting. He does not concern me. Let me fetch that book for you, you have been struggling all this while." He strides over to me; he clearly intends for us to also ride, for he is wearing his maroon leather riding boots and hose. My head only comes up to his breast now, which is encased in a rather nice-looking pourpoint, as he has grown considerably in height the past few months. He reaches up effortlessly and pulls down the book-it is the right one, out of all of them. He knows me so well.
"This one?" He hands me it, and our fingers brush together. I nod. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I look up. We are so very close. He takes a tiny step back, as I take the book and hold it to my chest. I lower my eyelids and peek at him, my lips pursing together.
"Well, since William's doing it, I think we should take a ride of our own. We will make ours much better than his."
About twenty minutes later Bessie has helped me into an old cotehardie I can wear for a long ride, with elbow-length sleeves for this scorching day, my hair plaited in braids. I cannot be bothered in the slightest to wear gloves, even though my hands will blister, although I do don my heeled riding boots, even though they will rub my skin, as I am only wearing thin stockings.
My Lady waves the both of us off and we canter away.
"Where shall we go?" Henry calls to me.
"Perhaps the forest yonder?" Already I can feel the ground beneath Lucifia's hooves is hard as stone like the hot plains in the moors of Spain. Yes, I am perfectly aware of the implication that my mare's name has. When I told My Lady, she chortled with mirth.
"Oh, Elizabeth, you are most outrageous! You cannot, in all seriousness, call her that." Of Course, Henry became all Bishop-like, with the line of his lips as thin as a Bishop's hat is tall.
"You dance with danger, Elizabeth. Her name is most inappropriate." My eyes light and glint at the memory. Teasing Henry is as easy as ever, even without William as my companion.
"Elizabeth?" Henry, with his angel's face, turns to me, for I have been dreaming. My eyes ignite, as bright as the sun in the Spain I mentioned earlier.
"We shall gallop!" I shout, the air heavily laced with the sweet scent of nature's blooms.
"To where exactly, Elizabeth?"
"One can only wonder!" I canter off, leaving Henry crying out my name, trying to hurry after me, like he always is. He tries to catch me, then I slip away, and now I play hide-and-seek in the woodland, as he searches, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Streaks of sunlight wiggle through the cool canopy, highlighting bronze and copper silky strands of my now bare head, apart from a circlet of daisies. All is silent and still, the branches on the trees' twirling, spiralling bodies frozen in time.
I have not heard Henry's calls for some time, and I throw off my shoes, clamber down from Lucifia, and run to the glazed pond. The water is pure and clear, cool at a touch, and bunches of striking, sharp violets cluster around the edges. I stand there, savouring this perfect moment in time, my toes curling in the soft green blades, feeling in harmony with nature, and realising the beauty of it.
"There you are!" Henry calls, a few minutes later, as he dismounts from his horse, Samson. I am sitting on the edge of the pond, golden hair tossed back and tumbling, arms stretched behind me, legs lazily crossed. Your hair will not be free forever, the voice of marriage whispers in my head. I grit my teeth.
"My Lady Mother had Cook prepare us our own small feast," he says, reaching into the saddlebag strapped to Samson, "I have never eaten out of doors, I confess, and Cook seems to think we are of a poorer nature, for she has given us redcurrants and quinces and-"
"Oh hush. I do not give a fig if only peasants eat ripe fruit for I am famished. Bring them here. What else is there?"
"Some gingerbrede, Cook's speciality strawberry tartlets, a small loaf of rastons, a tankard of ale, and some marzipan frosted with rose petals." He sits down in the grass beside me, cross-legged, fastidious and formal as always, and we munch on our strange little feast, enjoying the tranquillity of the woodland. We let the horses drink from the pond, and I even try some myself, even though it is considered unclean to drink water. Babies are baptised in water, so it must be fine.
We sit there for hours conversing, and when the sun is in its full splendour, and I cannot tolerate the heat any longer, I tell Henry I do not care. Before he can protest, I rip off my stockings, garters, and gown, and jump into the pond. Of course, I keep my undergarments on.
"Elizabeth, you could drown!"
"Do not be silly, Harry, it only reaches my waist!"
"Harry?" I shrug my shoulders, basking in the cold, smooth water, as it rolls over my skin. This is infinitely better than the boiling bathtub, and I love the way my skirts billow out in the water.
"Elizabeth, please come out. You cannot swim, and if anything were to happen to you, I would be held responsible. You are ever so bold, swimming in your undergarments, Lizzie." I look over at him, as he copies my nick-naming, and despite his seriousness and worries over me coming to a watery demise, he manages the faintest, half-exasperated smile. Perhaps I can coax out the playfulness in him; I have no problem with his morals and devoutness, I should probably pay more attention to Mass myself, it is just he needs to relax, smile more, stop being such a worrier.
"Harry, you must be roasting. Come on, at least put one foot in the water, it is so refreshing and crisp."
"I must relent, for you will pester me otherwise until I am driven half-mad." He sighs, and pulls off one boot and dips his toes cautiously in. He stares down at the water for a while, hence he does not notice me as I slide up to him, grab his leg, and pull him with a mighty splash downwards.
"Elizabeth, you minx! Now I am soaked."
"You will dry off soon," I laugh, paddling away. He shakes his head, half-sighing, half-laughing.
He cocks his head, staring at me. "You look like Melusina. Not that I happened upon any of your fantastical books."
"Melusina?"
"She was some sort of water goddess," Henry says, wading out the pool, scattering opaque watery beads as he shakes himself off, tugging at his pourpoint, and rolling up the shirt sleeves and the legs of his breeches. "My Lord Father said, last time he returned from court, how one of Queen Marguerite's foremost ladies-in-waiting has all sorts of stories about her, how she is descended from some kind of water goddess, Melusina. Sir Richard Wydeville's wife, Jacquetta?"
I feel as if a skilled archer's bow has shot an arrow straight at myself. I stagger in the water, which suddenly feels like a dozen heavy kirtles, chemises and shifts dragging me down, ever so icy. Henry continues to burble, but images of that day, nigh five, six years ago, my mother tormented and screaming, my brother's empty bedchamber, the empty rooms and corridors without his voice, my mother's bedchamber... everything tilts and spins, eyes diluting, as the memories flood back. Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville.
"I think we should leave. I rather think we should leave." I pick up my skirts, heart racing. The water is so cold.
"Lizzie-Elizabeth, what is wrong?" Elizabeth Wydeville...
"Nothing, nothing, 'tis nothing. I think the chill of the pond and the heat of the sun have just made me feel a trifle ill." I cannot explain it, why I feel such fear, I just remember that from that day on, my mother never smiled.
I dismount from Lucifia, Henry still fussing over me.
"Shall I send for a doctor or a physician?"
"Henry, I am fine." I turn to go inside from the stable, and blink momentarily. Is that my Lord Father's crest on the livery over there? Surely no other person has a crest of a ducal coronet with ostrich feathers blooming out of it, and escallops on their livery? Whatever could he be doing here?
Frowning, I make my way up to my bedchamber, my damp hair still trailing water onto the floor. I reach the solar, and I find the door is shut. I press my ear to it, hearing voices.
"When do you propose the ceremony take place?"
"Perhaps next spring, when she turns thirteen?" My eyes bulge, and I hold in my breath. A marriage ceremony? A girl of thirteen? And my father's voice? They must be talking about none other than myself!
"'Twould be befitting."
"As long as the papal dispensation is granted quickly," My Lord Bourchier says. I muffle my horrified gasp. A papal dispensation? One would be needed only in the instance of marrying a kinsman only! I am to marry a Howard, perhaps, taken away from My Lady and Henry and baby Florence, who grows rosier every day and gurgles when I hold her? How could they do this to me? Especially when I am finally having fun with Henry- the younger Henry would have cried and squealed if I had tried to drag him into a pond.
I have been brought up knowing it is my duty to wed, but it feels so soon. I do not even know the name of my intended! They shall not be a patch on Henry! I blink. Oh my, oh my. All my stupid fantasies about love, yet has it been staring at me in the face! He exasperates me, yet I am so fond of him, the way I gaze at him... am I in love with Henry?
Unable to stifle my cries any longer, I run up to my bedchamber and throw myself upon the bed, curling up in a soggy heap. And the other thing I weep for is my mother and father- the mother and father who did not even tell me they were visiting, did not tell me of my own marriage, and worst of all, did not care about seeing me, their own daughter. No, I am just a pawn, a pawn in one of their games. I would like to confront them and scream at them for their wickedness, but I suddenly feel so lost.