Chapter XVI: Spring 1455
Worlington, Suffolk, England
We received news that on Christmas Day, the King had finally awoken from his great sleep, gladly accepted the baby Prince Edward as his own, despite the rumours of his illegitimacy, and so the Duke of York had to end his own reign as Protector. We watched as over the course of this year, he has tried to reform the country and organize matters of state. He gave Henry's uncle Thomas the Archbishopric of Canterbury, which is very grand, seeing as one of his forebears was Thomas à Becket, the holy martyr!
He also appointed himself constable of Calais in place of Somerset, who cannot be trusted with foreign lands after his previous said disasters abroad. The post provides him with 2000 marks per annum, so he is able to earn some of the monies owed to him by the crown, Henry's mother wrote to him. She wrote to me as well once more, but I threw the letter in my fireplace. For I cannot forgive her for sending poor Florence to the abbey, nor can I comprehend why, and why she and Henry concealed the fact... Oh, how I detest her!
However, when the Duke reached Calais, he found himself barred by the Lieutenant there- one Richard Wydeville. Upon hearing this surname, I revisited the morning after my little brother's death, the name of Richard's daughter, Elizabeth, Elizabeth Wydeville chanting in my head, and my Mother's never-ending sobs. I was with her in Scales Hall in Middleton when we were informed of this news, in her very bedchamber where that scene had played, and my eyes became so haunted with scenes of the past I had to sit down, for I was shaking so very much, whilst my Mother was exclaiming joyously of this news.
It is hard for me, for my father-in-law the Viscount was given the task of delivering wages to Sir Richard's men, for they had not been paid by the King and stole the wools of merchants to compensate, Sir Richard supposedly powerless to stop them. I had Henry complaining of his forthright cheek, whilst on the other hand, I had my Mother praising Sir Richard's actions against him, knowing fully well the Duke was my uncle. It is now I truly understand what it means to be in a realm torn apart by Lancaster and York- for all families are divided, and so is mine own.
The reason I had journeyed to Norfolk the last summer was my Mother's idea of re-acquainting myself with my blood relatives, and to help her stow away all her goods and belongings, for my Father is refurbishing Scales Hall. It was indeed nice to return to my childhood home, and see my kinsmen and women. My 'father's sisters of the half-blood,' as my mother scathingly calls my Aunts Lizzy and Margret, for she now appears to hold them in complete disdain, came to dine with us. My Mother and I also visited John Howard, whom I had my childhood attentions on, and he remarked on how I had grown, and how I did not witter so much as I had as a child, causing me to blush. He is still remarkably charming. Both his wife Katty, as well as my Mother's niece the Lady Eleanor and her husband visited, and in Eleanor I found a very companionable friend, and we spent many walks together in the gardens.
I spent an uncomfortable evening with that old bore John Knyvett, and an equally awkward one with John Paston and his wife Margaret, my father's good friends. My said Father journeyed to be with us to enjoy the company of our cousins John, Earl of Oxford and his Howard Countess and the less-noble, rather shy youth of fifteen, William Tyndale.
"These people are to be the heirs to the barony if you do not provide an heir yourself," my Father had said after finishing dining with them.
"Oh," I had responded, swallowing. Why can I still not bring myself to create another child with Henry, and lie with him, after Isabel's death, although it was five years gone. Five years...? In truth, I am scared of the same fate befalling another child, of dying in childbirth, of miscarrying, of the child having some malformation, and coping of being nine months with child again, least of all being romantic toward the stranger that is my husband.
"Ye are not barren, are you girl? Or has he become impotent?" My Father had asked most boldly, for I do not believe he has been informed of the continuing bad relations between myself and the Bourchiers.
"No!" I had cried, face burning.
"Look at thee, my daughter grown to a woman, yet blushing like a little maiden," he laughed, chucking me under the chin, and I duly squirmed, to which he only chortled at further. I do believe he was rather drunk, and thought himself grand by saying 'thee and ye'. I do hope he does not embarrass himself at court like that. It was indeed strange to see my Father and Mother together, and smiling. I enjoyed my amiable time with her, although I was quite bothered that they were considering the possibility of myself dying childless already and had organised who would be my heirs. The Howard Countess, Izzy does not need any more lands, and how that spotty, fumbling Tyndale boy would cope does not bare to consider- and my Mother was muttering about she wishes she had married me to him- good Lord!
"Did you enjoy yourself?" Henry had asked when I had arrived back to our manor. I had given a small nod.
"I take it most of your family are for Lancaster." I had sighed; I had not wanted to think of politics, but my relations had also thought otherwise...
"'Pray, is your husband not the nephew of the tyrannical Duke of York,' they would ask, and I would reply diplomatically that all families had those loyal to the monarch, and those not, and they did not question my loyalty," I had replied.
And now Henry and I are presently seeing a messenger canter up the road, and, as usual, we go to the solar to read the letter they have brought. We both gasp and widen our eyes. The King has given Somerset the keys to Calais as the captain- how insensible can he be to re-appoint him? He has also dismissed York's allies from the posts he appointed them during his Protectorate. Has the King forgotten Cade's rebellion from the people demanding for fair, just counsellors? Then, a great council was suggested to be held at Leicester- and the Duke of York and his allies were not invited, after all he had done for the country the year before! Another secret council was held by Somerset earlier in the year for the Lancastrians.
This is the final injustice, for my brother cannot contend with this anymore. He is collecting troops. He shall declare war against the King, a dangerous, open act of treason, if he is not invited to the Council! I pray daily for his safety, his life, and I pray to God that it will not come to battle, Henry's mother writes. Henry and I turn to one another, countenances white.
"An actual war," I whisper, realising how serious matters have indeed become.
"The Queen is behind the King's every move; she will no longer let my uncle weald any power after he sent her away during his protectorship last year than she would let her precious bastard out of her sights," Henry spits. He is so vehement, so passionate for the York cause! He strokes the little beard on his chin that he is so nicely deciding to sport. Many questions fill my head- how will the battle be conducted? Will the King, who is apparently more monk than monarch, fight? Will it only be nobles who fight, or will peasants join in as well? Who will win- will anyone die, and what will be the outcome?
We anxiously anticipate more news. More letters arrive in the following day full of confusion on Lady Isabel's part. She hears the Queen has told the King that the Duke intends to take the throne, that she hears York and his allies, the Earls of Warwick and Salisbury, have been accused of treason, or have been summoned for trial, or that the Duke is gathering more troops, are just some of the rumours. A man who comes by on the road from London says the King's court is about to progress to Leicester as intended.
On the last day of April, Henry receives a message addressed only to him. He reads it privately, and then shows it to me. His father confirms that all of those of the Yorkist faction are mustering troops or themselves and are meeting up. The Viscount says although his half-brother, the Duke of Buckingham, is a strong supporter of the King, his loyalty goes to his wife and her brother, and he and William, are to ride and join the army. He considers the possibilities of death and defeat for the both of them, and what would happen in those events. Henry would be the Viscount, unless there was an attainder against a traitor inheriting. He has badly drawn a small rose as he finishes off his letter with his flourishing signature, and scribed underneath it is À York!
I look up at Henry.
"À York!" he repeats, a little croakily. I stare at him. I realise what he is about to propose. I realise that Henry wants to prove himself.
"No." I shudder, shaking my head repeatedly. No, no, no. He cannot. He will not. He will not join them. I begin to quiver, jaw clenching, eyes welling.
"I am sorry, Elizabeth, but I am going to join my father and brother; I am going to fight in battle for York."
*****
On this May Day, I sit hunched over my knees, coughing and crying, with damp, tangled flyaway hair plastered against my face. I moan continually, and Bessie holds one of my hands, rubbing it in soothing motions. Henry shall depart on the morrow to meet with the Yorkist forces- and I may never rest my eyes upon him again.
We have quarrelled continually for the duration of the past week, for I have begged and pleaded with him not to go. I understand he wants to fight for the blood that runs through his veins, but he could die! I could lose him, for I have lost Florence, and our daughter, my little Isabel. I would be widowed. And if he did not die, he could be most greatly injured, and I would have to care for him. And if he does survive, what of his father and brother? (Although I do not care much for the fate of the latter.) York may not even win- he may lose his life himself. They may all be declared traitors or executed or imprisoned! What fate would befall me then, stripped of my inheritance and rank with Henry, and the widow of a traitor?
I have repeated this sorry state of plights to Henry in protest, yet his ears are deaf to my pleas; he tells me to cease my never-ending pessimism and my worries, for he will live, he will be on the victorious side, and come home to tell me the tale. Nevertheless, I am not assured. What if he is slain on the battlefield? He will be dead, and I will never ever see him again, my husband, Henry. Why does he matter so much to you? A voice queries in my head. After the lies and his betrayals, why are you not glad to see him go off into Death's arms? Because you still care for him still. I cease my sniffling at once, looking up. All the worrying on my part- is it because I still love him, after all these years?
I throw back the coverlet and swing my legs around the side.
"Elizabeth?" Bessie says, as I pull my hand away.
"I need to visit the garderobe," I mutter, for if I tell her I intend to visit Henry, where he shall presently be in his bedchamber, I shall only face many questions from her.
"Would you take your mantle for warmth?" she says, lifting the miniver-trimmed sage blue over garment up to me. I shake my head.
"Not even your slippers?" she persists, as I quit the room, striding, almost running, with a certain determination.
"What of a candle?" she calls, as I run barefoot through the darkness, heart thumping. I climb the stairs and throw open his bedchamber door. I must convince him to stay. He cannot go. I cannot lose him. He sleeps with his back to me, and I catch my breath, dabbing mine eyes, which mistake themselves for rivers.
The moon shines bright into the room, casting light upon the desk at the foot of his bed strewn with parchment, next to a chest where a shirtsleeve sticks out forlornly. I stifle a cry, taking a few steps back, for in the corner is a silver man made of metal, staring ominously at me with his slit-like eyes, before I realise it is Henry's armour. This he has clearly obtained from his journey to the nearest town, Bury St. Edmunds, for a blacksmith cannot have made it in so little time. He also brought with him a new charger- after selling his and my own palfrey Lucy, to which I most certainly raised very indignant objections as he did so without my knowledge, and now I cannot journey anywhere until he buys her back somehow or a new horse for me. Something else dear to me, gone.
I turn to his bed- the forest green curtains are pulled back in untidy bundles, and on the table is an empty flagon of ale. I stride over to where he lays and kneel beside him. He looks so peaceful, asleep, yet he is definitely not the meticulous, quiet, serious boy I married.
"Henry," I mutter, shaking his shoulder, "Henry." After a violent shake, he stirs, groaning, glaring at me, mumbling, "What the devil?" He sits up, rubbing his head.
"Whatever are you doing? I must sleep well for tomorrow. What most important matter can have brought you here at this hour?" he snaps, "Is it news of the army? From my father? My uncle of York?"
"You cannot go, I beg of you," I whisper, reaching out for his hand.
"God's bones and all the saints, Elizabeth, you wake me and come to me with your pretty cries in the middle of the night and... clad so scantily? Begone with you." His eyes flash and he turns his back upon me, placing his head upon the pillow. A little wound is inflicted upon my heart at his dismissive tone, but I swallow.
"I love you."
"What?" He turns sharply around, his eyes boring into mine. He looks me up and down, in just my nightgown, and I blush a little; it has been quite a while since he has seen more than just a peep of my skin. I know that I am a woman grown to him now; at eight and ten I am more curvaceous than the little girl he once knew. My knees almost give way as I quake from where I kneel.
"I said I love you," I murmur. He gazes upon me for a long time, frowning, opening his mouth as if to speak, and closing it as if he thinks wiser. He rubs his eyes.
I take his hands. "Let us not speak of matters." He looks down. He rises up to sit in the bed, and pulls one of my hands up to his lips and kisses it uncertainly. I nod fervently. He pauses and then reaches down to my waist and lifts me up onto the bed. I am so very close to him; I can feel the heat emitting from him.
He looks into my eyes, his own swimming with utmost confusion. "W-w-what changed your-" He falls silent.
"Harry." I say, tears flowing again, for if he is off to get himself killed, I know what I must get from him, and what we must do. He blinks, searching my face. "Lizzie?"
I am awoken in the morning by the sound of Henry ripping back the coverlet quite carelessly and stomping about the room. I scramble from the bed,
"Please do not go, I beg of you, I beg of you." Henry strides over to me quickly, places his hands on the sides of my head, and roughly kisses me. I blink a little.
"You know I have to, it is my duty." To which you could end up with a traitor's death. For all I support the York cause, I wish to God it had not come to this. I blink back sharp tears.
"Now," he says, "I have no squire, for I am no proper knight, so you must help me dress, wife." I supress a little sob. He is actually going to do battle, against our anointed, albeit unworthy king. He shall see men die around him; he may kill someone himself, a man who has a worrying wife like myself and a family. I cannot believe Isabel has let her sons and husband go to their deaths- but Henry is not a youth at all. He is clad now in his brigandine, worn over many protective layers, such as his hauberk- a long coat of mail, and this one with metal embedded on it. He looks very frightful.
He puts on the lower half of his armour himself, lips pressed together staunchly. How can he actually bring himself to face this battle, something so bloody and cruel, mayhap death, when he is still quite young? I wring my hands, still just in my night robe. With fumbling hands, I do as I am bid for I cannot refuse, securing the upper half of his armour on him, locking him into his metal deathbed. The rondels- the circular plates- wink at me, for Henry has polished his armour well. I secure the gorget- a steel collar- about his neck, which is already covered in mail, swallowing hard. Will all this armour protect him, my Henry, my husband?
I burst into another sob and throw my arms about him, leaning my cheek on his breastplate, for I am rather small against him now.
"Elizabeth," he says in a warning tone, for we both know there is little time. I reach onto the table for both of his gauntlets. They are the heaviest gloves I have ever held. I slip my hand into the solid silver cave, which closes about each finger. He will hold a weapon in these gloves; these hands may slay another. I take the glove off and pass it to him, sighing. He looks so frightening after donning all these weighty items. I pass him his helmet, which Henry turns about in his hand, staring down at it, countenance slowly becoming white. For all his pretend courage, now the time has come, he is petrified. Mayhap I could still persuade him? He coughs gruffly, and looks at me.
"Promise before God and all the Saints and angels you will return to me," I cry, biting down on my lip as I sob. This could be the last time I ever see him alive. What if it is?
"I know you do not wish to talk of such matters, but I have scribed my will in the event of my death. It is in the drawer of my chest," he murmurs, causing me to cry furthermore. Dear God, he thinks he will die too! "Wait! I must write a codicil." I watch him wrench his gauntlet off, pull the will out of the drawer- many, many pages, and dip his quill in the open inkpot. He scribbles furiously for a few minutes before blowing on the paper. I look over his shoulder, smiling faintly. He is writing a codicil in the event that I am with child.
Henry places down the quill and turns to me; "I am confident we will be able to throw that in the fire on my safe return, but this is in the case if-if-if- I do not... and this..." He leans forward, this hulking monster of metal. Indeed, the faulds, two pieces of plate that protrude around his waist such as a small skirt, dig into me, but I care naught. He engages me in an amorous embrace, which could melt all his armour. I am blind to reality, as I feel what I have not felt for five years. He clings onto my person and the world tastes of honey and fire for a minute all about me. Then, we break away, and put our arms about each other. He could die. He might die all because his uncle wants to be on some silly Council. I will lose him, when I have just found him again. I will pray night and day he returns unscathed, but as long as he lives, no matter how scarred.
"I love you," he says, kissing my head, and my face creases up. As fumbling children, we whispered that we did, but after one night, I know that he truly does and what love and real intimacy truly means. I doubted him after his betrayals, but I am assured of his affections, and this is his way of saying goodbye, mayhap an eternal goodbye.
I rush back to Bessie and demand of her to find my wedding dress, symbolic of the union that linked us together, a girl from Lancaster, and a boy from York, albeit it being a trifle small and hastily don it. I stand with the entire household in front of Henry and his small retinue to bid them farewell. He is to journey south-westerly to Royston in Hertfordshire, where the Duke of York's army are advancing. They plan to march toward London from there, meeting the King and his army on the way, to do battle. The men in his retinue are not clad as Henry is- they will die within minutes. I tear off the sash of my dress, with the Bourchier and de Scales symbols entwined, press it to my lips, and hand it to Henry.
"Wear it like a knight bearing my colours at joust," I laugh through my tears, as he presses it to his lips too.
"I love you," he says again, and our eyes meet for a final time. I capture the moment in my head, for this may be the last time I do see him. Alive. We watch as they canter away down the road until we cannot see them anymore. I sob so loud that the doves in the dovecote caw.
Every person watches as the lady of the manor collapses to her knees and cries. I feel as though my heart is breaking, for I could not stop him going. I swear I will hunt down the man who dares kill him. Bessie kneels beside me, and pats my back. He rides, with the sash of my wedding dress, our wedding, in his hand, knowing that possibly there is a new baby growing inside my stomach, a child who might not know their father- my husband, my Henry Bourchier.