Chapter XIII: Lammastide 1451
Worlington, Suffolk, England
Henry clears his throat and knocks gingerly on the open door. I swallow; I know upon which matter he wishes to discuss with me. We are currently residing at my manor in Worlington, for I could not abide returning to reside at Tolleshunt D'Arcy for the moment, with the memories it conjures up, or living in my gloomy manor at Tylney, and besides, we are old enough now to have our own household. As soon as the snow last winter evaporated, my Lady Mother returned to court, and Henry and I set off, destined for many months of a tenuous relationship, for we sleep in bedchambers at two ends of the manor. I told him that while I understood it was my duty for us to conceive another child, I did not wish to try again for a while, until my grief for Isabel had finally passed- if it ever will, and if I ever stop blaming myself for her death. Henry complained that we could still share a bedchamber, but I requested that I have space of my own. Since then, we have to seem to have grown apart... Henry's character has changed. He used to make me feel very special, and now he seems so distant...
"Do you not think you and I could possibly share a bedchamber again?" Henry had said one day, rather gingerly.
"I will cease eating again if you force me to," I had murmured, and then I had blinked. Why did you say that, Elizabeth? When will you ever think before you speak? I stared at my soup, for we dined alone together and created stunted conversation, otherwise avoiding one another for the rest of the day. This was not how I envisioned our marriage bed to turn out, so estranged, two years on.
"What?" Henry looked at me, and I froze, my spoon halfway through the air.
I gulped. "Methinks we should not conceal any fact from one another ever again," I said in a low voice, "'Twas simply that before I realised that I was with child, I stopped eating, for fear I was becoming plump." I shrugged my shoulders, and sipped at my pottage, the herbs suddenly tasting very strong, and the vegetables sticking to the back of my throat. Henry looked at me, unblinking, his hand clenched about his cup of bitter Gascon wine.
"You killed Isabel," he finally stated, in a hoarse whisper.
"What?" I laughed and gasped nervously, rather affronted that he could possibly think I had slain my own poor darling baby like some barbarous knight on a battlefield with a sword or a lance or spear or whatever weapons they deign to use. How could Henry state such a wicked accusation? He turned to look at me with one short, sharp, turn of his head.
"For how many months did you cease eating?"
"A-a-about three," I whispered, staring at my soup again, cheeks flaring from indignation still.
"It is a wonder you did not miscarry."
I stifled a cry, looking up, blinking back tears, "How could you say that!"
"Isabel never grew; she was born so small." His voice cracked. "I still remember her, s-s-smaller than a loaf of bread, with b-b-big b-b-blue eyes." I pressed my hand to my mouth. Why did he torture me so?
He turned to me, eyes black, voice low, and growling. "She was small from malnutrition. She would have been a healthy baby if-if you had not been my brother's vain little whore and stopped eating because you thought you were plump!" And with that, Henry quit the table.
"Henry!" I had screamed, and I consequently sat there sobbing, too at loss to follow him, for I knew he must have spoken truth. I had killed Isabel, my own baby, who I miss so much, and for that, I will never forgive myself.
And now Henry is standing here to ask of me what he would want us to do, one year on from her death. I cannot quite believe it was one year gone. On her birth date this year, I told Henry I wished to be alone. He is the father of my dead child, the child that I surely murdered in my womb, and my husband, yet I could not seek condolence from him. I sat in my bedchamber crying all day, remembering how I had laboured and screamed to birth her, my small little bundle of joy... I would not even let Bessie in, who has now journeyed to be with me, and who I have become rather close to over the last few months.
"Elizabeth?" Henry says quietly. I look up.
"Next week...," he hesitates, "would you like to journey to Tolleshunt... and visit the... churchyard?" I blink. Would I? Does Henry wish to do so? How much does he grieve as well, or does he not think of Isabel, our baby that we created from a love we once shared, when he wakes every morning in his separate bedchamber? Does he lie there torturing himself at night, wishing she were still alive? Yes, it will be upsetting, and I do not want to let go of Isabel, ever, but mayhap visiting will give me strength to cope better, and when I see her grave, realise it is true...
"Yes, I would like that," I say slowly, smiling a little.
"Very well." He hovers. "Listen, Elizabeth." Henry moves to sit beside me, "I have been thinking of late of how you are my wife and how we should repair our ill-will. I do wish we could converse as we once did, Lizzie. I propose again... we share a bedchamber and try and replace Isabel with a new baby." I gasp a most horrified gasp. How could he? How dare he?
"How could you suggest replacing Isabel? I do not want another child at present, how many times must I tell you. I am not even sure if I could ever have another child." I stand up sharply. "Maybe I am like my Mother- maybe I am just going to have miscarriage after miscarriage, or all my children will die. Henry, I do not think I have the strength to face it."
"Elizabeth, we will have to-" He rises too.
"No, we will not," I say, holding my chin up. How can he have moved on from Isabel's death so quickly? Did he not have any affection for her whatsoever? Does he blame me still for her death?
"Elizabeth, you are my wife, you are my property and-"
"Your property?" I shriek. Replace Isabel. Your property. Since when did Henry become so sharp with words? "You believe you own me, do you indeed? You believe I am your property, like the property you desired from me, my inheritance, my barony?" I fold my arms, bottom lip wobbling. Henry turns away, wiping his brow.
"By god's bones, Elizabeth, will you forget that? I did not know until my wedding night, and that silly chain of events was a whole year gone. I did harbour feelings for you; I never lied to you, as you perceive my lady mother and I have to done so. Surely you grew up knowing you would be wed to your family's advancement and that as an heiress you were most desirable?"
"Yes, I did!"
"Then quit placing blame on my family and I for your anger over Isabel's death."
"I am not!" I scream, biting my lip as I quell my sobs, "You do not understand."
"I do understand, Elizabeth. You cannot forget my brother's actions, Isabel's death, and my lady mother supposedly deceiving you. How can you doubt I care for you after I rode all the way after you last winter? How can you doubt my Mother, while she may have had ulterior motives, genuinely liked your person? She always had you in mind for William, but changed her mind when she doubted William would take good enough care for you after the way she saw him behaving. She was correct-look what he did. Sweet Jesu, Elizabeth, stop being so stubborn. It seems you are unable to forgive. William is my brother and I must forgive him."
"No, I will never," I mutter. I was supposed to marry William, but Isabel changed her mind, and wanted me to marry Henry instead?
"Then this shall be the end of this conversation." He sweeps out of the room, glaring at me coldly. I sit there, wanting to claw at something, preferably Henry's face, and scream. He wants another baby, to replace Isabel? It is a year on, but I will never forget her. Is my marriage destined to be ruined? Am I simply being stubborn like Henry says, or is this how we shall live for eternity?
Tolleshunt D'Arcy, Essex, England
A week later, I am stepping down from my horse at the front of St. Nicholas' Church walls. Luckily, we have just seen the Lammas Day procession depart; they celebrate new harvest, yet I mourn the death of my child. How can it be so that it was one whole year ago?
We walk silently into the shadows, for the west tower looms over us, blocking out the sunlight. I feel as if I will never walk in sunlight again. I wear a black cotehardie devoid of any patterns, embroidery, or trimmings, and of the sparsest, roughest linen, my face concealed by the veil that hangs from my headdress.
"To the left," Henry says, gently touching my arm. I pull it away. We walk through the grass. My baby was not important enough to be buried in a tomb with a marble effigy and Latin mottos engraved on the side, inside the church; she was buried outside, lucky not to have been thrown into a fire and burnt, which is what I hear some midwives do to stillborn or dead babies. How vile. How vile.
It was so cruel that she was taken from us. From me. Was this God's punishment for me for being a daughter of sin? I have flirted with men, lied to my husband, spoke ill to my Lady Mother, and am guilty of the sins of vanity, as Henry has so rightly pointed out and greed, to name a few. But why did Isabel pay for what I had done? She was innocent- she was a beautiful little baby, and she lived but two months. I so wanted to see her grow into a little girl, and then a woman, even if she was raised by nursemaid. I so wanted to be her mother, to dress her in miniature versions of my own dresses, to hold her in my arms, to brush her hair, to chase her through the meadows...
I toiled in labour so long. I wish I could have been present when she died; I wish God had sent a holy miracle, or even a form of sorcery could have occurred- anything to save her. I knew she could die; I had seen my mother bury stillborns and infants and miscarry all throughout my own infancy, but I thought she might live, my Isabel, named for the woman- standing... not a stone's throw from me. She looks up. I stop, blinking. I have not seen her since the night of her namesake's death, a whole year ago.
She looks at me, sedate and dignified as she always appeared so, but her eyes betray her. "Elizabeth, Henry."
"Pray, Lady Bourchier, what may be your business here?" I call, standing straight. I would rather be alone to think about my poor Isabel; I do not feel like conversing with any person.
"I was... I was... merely offering a prayer for the soul of my granddaughter." She regards me hesitantly. I glance over at the small stone, which marks my baby's last resting place. I clench the rosary, which I have donned this day, swallowing hard.
"I shall depart now," she says, "It was lovely to see the both of you." She turns and starts to walk away. Henry and I exchange a glance. What should I do now? I do not want to yell at her for viewing me as a lovely barony-shaped gem.
"Henry, why do you not go to converse with your mother, for you have not seen her awhile," I say, at loss to what to do after our brief encounter, nudging him. When he looks like he will hesitate, I nudge him again.
I make my way through the grass to the little stone, which has inscribed upon it: 'hic sepultus Isabel Bourchier, filiae Henrici et Elizabethae.' Here lies Isabel Bourchier, daughter of Henry and Elizabeth. A sniff protrudes from my person as I try not to cry, sinking to my knees at her grave. This is where she lies. My dead baby lies here. I sit there awhile, dying more so inside. Why did my Isabel have to die? Why? Why? Why...? And why, a year on, do I still feel so wretched?
"Elizabeth?" I turn to face Henry. He kneels awkwardly beside me.
"My mother has invited us to the Lammas Day feast at the manor." Lady Isabel wants me to dine heartily on the day that my child died, who lays dead at my feet.
"No," I whisper, "No." I can barely spit out the words; too choked am I by such a thoughtless suggestion.
"I would like to go."
"What?" I whip round, blinking many times.
"I would like to spend time with my family."
"How can you say that? I am your family." I gesture wildly. "Your daughter lies there! We were your family!"
"Today proves hard for myself too. I shall be back within the hour." He gets up, turning away. He is just going to leave me here? I do not have the heart to run after him, chastise him for behaving so callously. I clutch my rosary and sob, beating the earth, tears dropping on my Isabel's stone. I double over, and I weep for some time, tracing the blurring inscription on the stone with a shaking finger.
There is a yellow rose growing to the side of the grave. Such is irony that the flower should stand for a broken heart, intense emotion, and extreme betrayal. I frown. On the right-hand side, there are little blue chrysanthemums, blue... blue like Isabel's eyes...There are irises growing at the foot of my little Isabel's grave. I smile a little through my tears, a sudden wave of peace coming over me. For irises stand for hope, and the thought that maybe, one day, I can heal the pain of the past.