Chapter XIX: Winter 1458
Little Easton, Essex, England
I gaze upon the reflections of the two women before me in the looking glass. The taller, myself, wears a most elaborate headdress. It is like a tall cap on my head, with a roll of padded fabric curving down in a circle from the top. There are many ostrich feathers protruding from the back, and a long thin piece of fabric, resembling a gauzy veil, trails down and is thrown over my shoulder, drooping down to my waist; past my low V-necked shaped gown in dark green with a peep of taffeta- trimmed kirtle underneath, and the gown is bordered in black fur. I look a little severe for a young woman off to a gay event.
Whilst I attempt to look ridiculously stylish, the girl beside me looks most radiant, a little virgin bride with a girlish, fresh face and rosy cheeks to match her ruby velvet gown. 'Tis an unusual colour for a bride, who usually wears blue or green, but this is no ordinary marriage; this is the wedding between the red of Lancaster and the white of York. A circlet bearing a small diadem tops Elizabel's wavy brown hair, and knots of gold roses embroider her gown. Her dress, of the v-shaped neckline, fits tightly from the tops of the shoulders. She is so innocent, but I know William will by vying the buxom girl.
For William Bourchier and my own kinswoman Elizabel de Vere are to be wed. I am entrusted with the task of preparing my cousin, the daughter of the Earl of Oxford, ready for the day. It brings back memories of my own wedding day, almost... ten years, next year! Nine years, and what has become of our marriage, with no living children?
I remember my silk dress, the feast- and William trying to... put his hands up my skirts. I shudder. Should I tell her, this sweet little maiden? Here is another Elizabeth- although she is nicknamed Elizabel- marrying at thirteen, as I did, my own cousin, sent off to be used for her inheritance by William. I want to warn her, yet I cannot ruin her happiness, and tell her that her husband, over a decade her senior, will be unfaithful to her; he frequents the brothels still. I look at her giddy little face and swallow. I know she is just a political pawn to create peace between the warring sides, but she is so young, she does not know, and I cannot shatter her heart by telling her the cold truth. Tonight, she will bed my brother-in-law, the boy who dived his hand up my skirts.
It seems none of us will forget it, for yester-evening, when William came swaggering into the solar wearing his cocky grin, he remarked to Henry beside me:
"Ah brother, I am to be wed. At last! And to your kinswoman." He shot me a grin, "Now we both shall have an Elizabeth. Two Elizabeth Bourchier's, aye!"
"You desired my Elizabeth at one point," Henry had muttered, as William moved on to talk to his father. My chest had twisted, and I drew a short breath, wondering if I should remark on his comment. Nine years on, the memories are still fresh...
A knock comes upon the door, and Elizabel calls in her wavering, excitable voice, "Enter!" There stands her mother, also called Elizabeth- Izzy Howard, Countess of Oxford, holding herself proud, and her younger daughter Jane, who bounds in and throws herself at her sister.
"My word, you look simply beautiful, Elizabel," Izzy gabbles. I suddenly feel most nauseous; they have come, for it is time to go to church, and I have to throw Elizabel into the lion's den, and she will soon face the harsh reality. What if a war does break out? I do not care if her father fights for Lancaster, as mine does. She is my cousin, even if I have only encountered her briefly when she was a small child. For her mother, standing next to me smiling and tweaking a fold in her daughter's skirt, and also Elizabel's eldest brother, are some of the co-heirs to my estates if Henry and I do not ever produce a child. Henry's wound has improved most greatly, but he is very dull and does not talk nor smile. I find I am still married to a stranger.
There is another knock upon the door, and I open it, as the Countess is scolding Jane considerably for pulling off one of the pearls sewn all over her sister's bodice, and Elizabel is smiling sweetly. I open the door to find a man standing there.
"I am looking for Elizabeth."
"That is I," I say without thinking.
"No, the other Elizabeth, Lizzie." Oh! I feel my cheeks flush. The Other Elizabeth. I have had it with little Elizabeth Tylney, we are two Elizabeth Bourchiers, but now there is be a third! She is my cousin, soon to be my sister-in-law, two Elizabeths married to brothers, yet she will be the Elizabeth Bourchier, wife to heir, daughter of an Earl, young and bonny, and she will supplant me and usurp my position. I swallow. I am second best.
I hesitate. The man called me 'Lizzie'. Only close family call me by that nickname. I look him up and down, from his forked beard and long hair, to his padded sapphire doublet and matching thick breeches on his pointed shoes.
"Pray, who may you be?" I frown.
He blinks. "Lizzie, how can you not recall me? 'Tis I, Humphrey!" Humphrey? Humphrey! Not little Elizabeth Bourchier-Tylney's husband Humfrey, but my brother-in-law Humphrey, who once professed himself to feel amorous inclinations toward me.
"It-it is pl-pleseant to see you," I stammer, thinking how much changed he is. He grins at me crookedly.
"I shall sit with you at the feast, for we have much to converse about, but I am here to escort young Elizabeth to her wedding for now." I nod mildly as he walks in and is once interrogated by little Jane. I am not even young anymore: she is the young Elizabeth. He intends to sit with me at the feast? Dear God, if he still has feelings for me... He is a charming fellow compared to the blunt, mean boy he used to be. How people change... How we have all grown up from our childhood...
We all walk down the steps outside, and here are some of the same people from my own wedding- albeit aged a little. Howards, de Veres, the families of my half-aunts, my half-aunt Lizzy no longer being of this world... I spot John Howard and his wife Katty Moleyns talking amiably with my good friend Lady Eleanor. They wave, and as the party sets off walking, singing, and laughing, I join them and catch up with their news.
"Katty!" someone calls, and Katty turns around abruptly.
"Emma!" she cries back, and she and my mother embrace? My Mother looks in good health, smiling, a little less thin and bedecked in a claret houppelande with the most atrociously long sleeves with a headdress very like mine own. She looks young and gay, and I am startled that the grey-haired man with his arm linked in hers, in sober dark blue, is my own Father.
"We were wondering if you have seen Elizabeth," he says to Katty, glancing over the party indifferently as Katty and my Mother exchange greetings. Which one? I think rather sourly.
"Your dear daughter Elizabeth? Why, she is right here!" John cries, gesturing at me, and I hold up my head.
"Elizabeth. By my troth, you have grown!" My Father widens his eyes. Apparently, not so much that Humphrey could still recognise me. Perhaps he is slowly losing his eyesight in his old age?
"Where is your husband?" my Mother says shortly. Not even a greeting to me? I look at all the walking, smiling people.
"I know not of his whereabouts; I presume he is with his brothers."
"Hmm," she says, and our company falls silent. They know her thoughts- where is the husband, the Yorkist husband whom I have no children with? I bet Izzy Howard was looking at me sideways as she feigned interest over her daughter, wondering if I looked ill, when I will die childless, and if soon, so she can snap up my barony? A barony from a barren woman. Oh, how they must laugh at me.
At the feast, after the ceremony, Elizabel sits, encircled in her happiness, chattering feverishly, whilst William stares at her chest. Humphrey sits beside me as planned, and next to him are John, Thomas, and Edward, who are coming to terms with their pimples and deep voices. Humphrey mutters in a low undertone he thinks of me as his sister, and I smile back, knowing what he implies. He talks fondly of his wife Joan, who is sitting a way down the table next to little Elizabeth Tylney, a pleasant looking woman with an oval face and green eyes. Humphrey is a very merry man with a twinkle in his eyes and a jest up his sleeve- he would make for a good court fool. He even gets a begrudging, monosyllabic Henry to smile.
"Come, come, brother, forget the battle!" I see him wince- I suppose his wound still pains him and reminds him of it. "You must win your fair lady's heart! Have a dally tonight and name your child Humphrey!" I smile and blush at his forthrightness, and Henry looks down awkwardly. I think of the child Henry who would have scolded him for such lewd talk. I think of Isabel and the baby I miscarried.
The dancing begins after we have all devoured many haunches of venison, goose, and capon. William is drunk. The Duke of York is making stilted conversation with the Earl of Oxford, and I laugh to see his wife, the Duchess Cecily, trying to talk to my own Mother, who once labelled her as a whore. Oh, how political. My Father is no-where to be seen and I sigh; whom is he bedding now?
As everyone else rises unsteadily to dance, I realise that Henry must not be inclined to with his wound, and walking all the way to the church and back must have sorely tested him, especially since he bears ill-will to his brother.
"Shall we?" he surprises me, jerking his head.
"What?" I frown.
"Go upstairs to our bedchamber. No one shall miss us." I widen my eyes, taken aback. He slips his hand in mine under the table, groaning with sauce-covered plates and empty goblets. I admit I feel a small frisson at his touch- I am transported back again to the boy Henry whom I loved. I feel as though the rest of the room is blurred out as I look into his eyes. Without thinking, I silently slip away with him from the fiddler's tune and the sea of colours and the competition of badger, squirrel and miniver furs from the ladies and the ceiling, from which hangs wedding day wreaths of roses and daises. We move from the scent of the heady rushes and spilt jars of cinnamon and garlic and the stench of Flemish and malmsey wine from everyone's mouths. Silently, we creep up to his bedroom. My heart is racing. My mind is whirling.
Half an hour later, I am sitting at the foot of the bed, with my nightgown wrapped about myself, and my back to Henry. We can hear the cavorting down below, the echoes of laughs. I suddenly have felt so embarrassed about the two of us being in a state of undress. It is three years gone since we have lain together, the night before he went to St. Albans, and this all feels so strange. His wound- his wound is so awful I can barely look at it, and part of me wants to pinch my nose. I am glad the room is in half-light, so he could not see my awkward expressions.
"You do not love me," Henry says flatly, from behind me.
"I do," I say feebly, looking at my lap. He feels like a stranger to me, an older man, not the boy and youth I knew.
"Elizabeth, I care for you very affectionately. Today, you looked very elegant. You have never looked so beautiful to me than here tonight. When did you stop loving me?"
"I pray that God has blessed us with a child," I say, voice wavering, holding my head up. I cannot look at his hurt face. Never did the little girl I knew envision she would stop thinking herself in love- and now it seems Henry is the one with unrequited love.
Two months later, Bessie knocks with her bloodstained hands on Henry's bedchamber door, and she informs him that I have miscarried again, as my screams and sobs echo throughout the manor.