Chapter XIV: Winter 1452-Autumn 1453
Worlington, Suffolk, England
Today is Lady Day- a quarter day, and the official start of the New Year. I have never enjoyed having my birthday on this day, for my birthday feast was always amalgamated with the day's festivities anyhow. I am most lucky to know of my birthdate- many other girls do not have this recorded; girls are deemed so important. I only know of mine, for my mother used to jest she was in labour for two years- she started in the year of Our Lord 1435, and gave birth to me in 1436- how witty is she?
Henry has left early to collect the rents from our tenants. As I close the door, I find leaning against the wall next to the door of my bedchamber a large looking-glass. It is encircled with metal framework in the forms of many spirals, and the bottom row has my very own gold escallops for my de Scales lineage. I smile, picking up the piece of parchment tucked into it.
I bestow this gift upon my wife Elizabeth in joyous celebration of her sixteenth birthday, from her husband Henry.
This was clearly made especially for myself. How much can this have cost? How can I celebrate another year of my own life, when my baby lies dead in her grave, never to live one more day, snatch one more breath, ever again? I sigh. I have to move on.
Matters are still strained a little; our relationship, although eased, is still not as affectionate as we were as children, simply agreeable and amiable; we never gaze at one another, burning like the candles about us, anymore. I thought that we were in love, but mayhap that was another of my childish fantasies, for I feel as though I have greatly aged, leaving behind any happiness and ignorance I once knew. We are not children anymore so; this day is my sixteenth birthday. I feel rather old!
I stare upon my reflection, and I blink, for I suddenly appear older to one's eye. Looking back at me is not a skinny wench with an insatiable smile and the gleaming eyes of a minx with skirts muddied from where she has rolled about in the grass, with tangled golden hair. Instead, there is a... woman. She is tall, and her body is firmly shaped now. She stands straight, her hair now tucked beneath her headdress; this is of a heart-shape with blue silk billowing from the tops and resting about her face. Her face is serene, pallid as milk, with round, wide eyes the shade of a tempest-tossed sea. When did I start to change in my looks so much, and how could I have hardly noticed?
I knew that Henry's appearance had changed- he has cut off his curls, cutting away the past, cutting away his youth. He has indeed lost all traces of youth, becoming a man with his lips pressed firmly together and narrow eyes as dark as death. He towers above me, and speaks in a gruff, short voice. I have lost Henry and Elizabeth, Harry and Lizzie. I lost them long ago along with Isabel. I just did not realise so much, until this strange woman greeted me in the looking glass. Never will my little Isabel stand before a looking glass beside me; she is just a ghost of a girl. How would she have looked? Would she have favoured Henry or I, and which of our traits would she have inherited? I will never know...
The irises I saw at Isabel's grave last year stood for the hope that would help me to part with my grief more so. I used to yearn after her every day, but now I miss her with a sad, desperate fondness. She died over a year and a half ago, but I do not think I will ever forget that day, when Jane walked into the great hall at Tolleshunt D'Arcy. It had taken five seconds for my livelihood to be destroyed. I knew by the look on her face; I knew that Isabel was dead. I wake up every morning thinking of her, of how perfect she was. She was so small. She was my own child. I loved her so greatly, with every inch of my own person. Why did she have to die, why not I? She had not a chance to live her life. I cannot think of one lady whom I know who has not lost one child- in infancy, in their youth, in battle, to the Black Death, to fever... It is the pain, which we mothers have to endure, of losing them, for the rest of our lives.
And doubtless more mothers weep for their sons, for this very summer, a whole field of men are executed for treason against the King by the Duke of Somerset, in what many people are calling the second 'Harvest of Heads', such is it likened to the killing of so many after Cade's rebellion. These so-called traitors lived in my uncle of York's lands- this is open criticism against him, for only earlier this year my uncle marched to the city gates of London to find them locked to him- barred by his own King. What offence has he caused apart from asking King Henry to recognise him as heir apparent, for that Frenchwoman shows no sign of having a king in her belly? And then the King made him swear an oath of allegiance in St. Paul's Cathedral- oh, how unfairly they do treat him! He has only ever tried to repair the injustices against him- such as no gratitude for his long servitude as a Lieutenant and the monies owed repaid to him. The King also visited Ludlow but not Ludlow Castle, where the Duke resides- how very discourteous! Henry says 'tis not the Kings' decisions; his Queen and Somerset govern his actions.
I will admit now that my Mother was correct in her predictions, for as the feud commences, the anger deepens. I know that the serious woman who now stares back at me in the looking glass is prepared for whatever political strife the next few years bring her.
*****
By the autumn of the Year of Our Lord 1453, I have become in every sense the Lady of the manor. I oversee the crop yield, to ensure it is of a good quantity and quality, I balance and keep account books for our rents, income and expenditure and pay to our servants- including my Bessie, who has remained with me all this time. I sort out disputes between our tenants (for the people of Worlington do quarrel over who owns what land rather a lot, the tiresome lot) and carry out repairs to buildings. I have employed efficient stewards for all of my manors bequeathed to Henry and I in my dowry, and some days the little s and d in my book rise. My lands provide me fruitfully- Lady Isabel, who I have not seen for quite some time, taught me well on how to manage properties and lands.
Henry has no such interest in this business, hidden in his study. He only emerges to dine, or when we see a messenger with the Bourchier livery cantering up the road- a letter from either of his parents, informing us of happenings in the realm- or even abroad. For bad news came in July from abroad; the Earl of Shrewsbury and his son were cut to pieces with an axe in battle in Castillion, trying to reclaim our English lands in Bordeaux. Furthermore, over in the far west, Constantinople was taken earlier this year, finishing off the Byzantine Empire. Every monarch desires more lands, for power and wealth, yet they leave their own people in destitution. My estate here is my pride and joy, yet now winter has come, I find myself frowning over my account books. I will have to kindly tell Henry we must cease ordering his Rhenish wine from London, which he greatly enjoys whilst writing his theological articles. I do not know if he is even paid for them, or if I am keeping us from ruin.
*****
On a bitter morning in early October, Henry and I find ourselves fighting against the wind as we walk back inside. We hasten to the solar, away from the listening ears of our servants. Henry hurriedly breaks the seal and unfurls the latest letter- this is from his father; I recognise his slanting lettering. 'Tis only the shortest of messages:
Dear son, the damned French have taken all English lands; only Calais remains. On hearing this, His Grace did take to his bed and has not stirred- no person can rouse him. Do not inform any of your servants or the villagers of his fate- there is no cause for undue alarm when he may wake soon. However, betwixt you and I, I fear not, and the Lords will be reluctant to accept Her Grace's child, if it is a boy, for circulating rumours say he is not the King's, but Somerset's. I pray you and your wife are in good health. Your father, Henry, Lord Bourchier.
Henry and I look up from reading this, suitably confused.
"He cannot rouse?" I frown, "Is he secretly dead, or poisoned?"
"I cannot understand myself."
"And whatever sort of relationship must the Queen and Somerset have to be accused of adultery? A Queen should be seen as virtuous- she sets a bad example, as there were rumours of her and Suffolk as lovers too! I do not revere our Queen whatsoever. Her reputation should be unstained. How can she have become with child after seven years of barren marriage with the King? Indeed, I am inclined to believe that as court favourite, Somerset must be her especial favourite. What if," I lower my voice, "The King dies, and the child is a girl?"
"I believe they might look to the rightful heir apparent," Henry says, folding the letter in half, and we both smile a little devilishly.
*****
What I am about to say is treason, but unfortunately, we are delivered news that the child is a boy, born on the thirteenth of this month, a most auspicious date, which cannot bode well for the child's, future whatsoever! So, unless the child dies, is proven to be a bastard, or is usurped, I do not see the Duke of York on the throne, as we had once secretly desired. I could not wish the death of a child upon any mother, not even a queen who depletes English coffers and fills the courts with incompetent upstarts. She snubs York once again, for after her swift churching, he is not invited with the lords of the realm to the council. After many protests against his absence, Somerset storms away, and the Duke is then able to enter the privy council. My father-in-law relates in his letters of how the court is at loss, with this 'sleeping king', for when shall it be that he wakes?
"I do wish I was there at court to bear witness to all of these events, and whisper in the corridors, rather than hear condensed information by letter a week after it is current in Calais," I say to Henry, after reading the latest letter.
"You would not want to be there. These are times of uncertainty."
"Talking of uncertainty, all of the revenues from my-our manors are very low this winter."
Henry sighs. "Mayhap we could sell some of the smaller manors."
I let out an indignant gasp. "Are you a fool? We would further lose more income! You have intentions to sell my manors, my property? You desired my inheritance, only to want to sell it?" I shriek.
Henry places a hand on his hip, looking down at me. "Are you still angry because of that silly feud betwixt my mother and you? Will you never cease bringing it up?"
I feel my nostrils flare. "Silly feud? You all hurt me most deeply!"
"How many times must I repeat that I knew nothing of this? My mother had no intention to cause you great strife. She was only acting as every other good mother does- trying to secure her children in the best marriage alliances. That is the way of the world."
"I know that, but she told me so many lies- William and she were probably chortling behind my back."
"My mother did not lie to you, truly." His voice softens. "My Mother is not like that. She too felt unloved as a child- her mother dead in childbirth, her father executed, and her betrothal to a youth by the name of Thomas Grey relinquished. She was separated from her brother Richard, and given in wardship to strangers. They intended to wed her to their son, seeing the advantages of her estates. Well...the ones that had not been taken by the crown, after her father's attainder. But anyhow, soon my grandmother, Lady Anne, realised she was more than just a good catch- she became part of the family, coached from wilfulness and rebelliousness by my uncle Thomas, a young boy who desired to enter the church."
I blink. I blink again. I vaguely remember Lady Isabel mentioning her mother-in-law Anne beforehand. Mayhap there is the slightest chance I was mistaken- and Lady Bourchier did feel affectionate toward me at some point? She let me name her own child... little Florence, whom I have been parted with so long. My throat is rather dry, and the thoughts swirl about my head.
"So..." I sway to one side.
"Events and people are not the same. As I have said before, my mother realised that you must be happy, and marry myself, someone she believed would care for you, rather than William, as she had planned. He knew of the plan all along, and was so very angry that you would be given in marriage to me instead, his weakling little brother. You know how much he loathes me. Even if you would never become a Viscountess, when my father died, and rise higher in rank, as she guessed you coveted, my mother wanted you to be happy, as you could not with William."
"I...I would have been a Viscountess... in the future," I repeat with realisation, "Nay, I could not have married him; he has such a foul nature. That title would have overruled my own title as Baroness, and he would certainly have just used me ill, and he did not care for me one jot." I hesitate. I reach out and squeeze Henry's arm. I take a deep breath. "I am glad I married you." He looks at me. He smiles slowly, albeit a little gruffly. We cannot live like this, so very distant. I must move on.
"I shall write a letter to your mother and ask to visit her. Mayhap we could pay a visit to Isabel's grave at the same time; it has been so long." I swallow. I still cannot think of my baby without a little twist of pain in my chest. I still wish I could hold her in my arms one more time. I truly believe that I may have forgiven Lady Bourchier and Henry after Henry's words just now, although William's improper actions are harder to. I nod to him, and start to walk away, feeling a little confused at our conversation. Was Henry correct; did I see his mother's betrayal as greater than it was, in the aftermath of my babe dying? Mayhap I was too hasty; Lady Bourchier seemed to like me for who I was, truly?
"That is pleasing to hear. Anyhow, my brother may prove infertile and you can be a Viscountess after all." I nod, smiling weakly back; lowering my eyes a little, for the subject of fertility pains me. I cannot begin to even think of visiting Henry in his bedchamber...