Chapter XX: Lady Day 1458
St Paul's Cathedral and Baynard's Castle, London, England
Barely a week after I ceased bleeding from my miscarriage we are summoned to London. Our uncle, Archbishop Bourchier, has negotiated tirelessly for peace after the new Lord Clifford, new Duke of Somerset, and new Earl of Northumberland demanded vengeance for their fathers slain at St. Albans. Clifford and his brother even attempted to ambush my uncle of York and his ally Salisbury as they rode from Westminster to London!
And now, in the heart of London, at St Paul's Cathedral, the King has ordered a procession of Lancastrian and Yorkist nobles and lords to link arms and smile in what he has called a 'Loveday.' Trying to bring about peace, he has ordered York to pay the Dowager Duchess of Somerset, by compensation, of 5,000 marks, Warwick, 1,000 marks to Clifford, and Salisbury is to forgo fines levied on Northumberland. 5,000 marks, I say! Why, that is almost the amount, - nay possibly the whole amount of a dowry for one of his daughters! And the three Yorkist lords must found a chantry at St. Albans for the dead to have masses sung, at a cost of five and forty pounds per annum. Fie, what hefty compensation, and all the Lancaster heirs are to do is to vow not to seek vengeance for their father's deaths? What lies! Do they mean to bankrupt my uncle further, having to pay out for the widow of England's worst advisor? The King is cuckolding the Yorkists by these requests.
And now here I am, present, surrounded by the court, which I always desired so long to become part of. I shall smile falsely, not for the peace gathering, but to mask my own unhappiness. Another baby, another chance for an heir gone. Am I ever to produce a child that will live? What if I am never able to? What is so wrong that I should lose another babe, before it is even born, again? Does fault lie with Henry, as I have become with child so quickly after lying with him, or my own body?
I felt my cheeks redden at everyone's gazes as I emerged days from by bedchamber, after the fateful event had occurred. They pity me, whisper about me.
"Elizabeth is with child!"
"Hush, but it is for the other Elizabeth we pray for. She has miscarried!" I am the other Elizabeth, the pale, listless one, not the plump merry one with child. Why does Elizabel, the other Elizabeth Bourchier, keep her baby, but I, Elizabeth Bourchier, do not? God is displeased with me somehow, or mayhap Henry?
So here, I am present, walking through the capital city of the realm, the heart of the kingdom-London. I am wearing my wedding dress, for 'twas the finest gown I own fit for the eyes of the court people, as there was no time to commission a new one which would go to waste. Adjustments were of course made, for I am not as small and petite as the girl on my wedding day, and a new sash was also made to replace the torn one, the one that Henry took with him like a knight's colours in a joust off to St. Albans, and the bloody scrap that returned to me. I dared not replace it with any other emblems but our own intertwining ones, for Henry would have noticed and be saddened further. It is strange to be wearing the gown again which I wore so many years ago, filled with hope, joy, youth, innocence, not knowing what was to come.
I cannot explain my feelings concerning Henry; I just simply do not feel as passionate as I did those years gone. I have suggested we lay together more frequently- hypocritical of me, since I denied him this privilege for a while; Isabel, the baby so lost to me, took longer to conceive, whereas my poor, poor, miscarried babes, who had no chance to live, were conceived after a... long period of no intercourse. Mayhap... God is angered that we are not lying frequently with one another as a man and wife should?
We have walked, this long procession of both men and women alike, the Lancaster ladies wearing red flowers in their hair through the London streets. The townspeople have come out from their small houses squashed together on these small lanes, and the children curtsey in their rough linen skirts, in greys and browns as the King and Queen glide past. The roads are cleared of any foul substances and a few rushes have been hastily scattered, although they do not conceal the scent of the fishmongers', for the River Thames is in so very close proximity. The people stare up at us with their grubby faces.
Blessings are being shouted to the King and Queen. There is the hammering and banging from the work yards, the neighing of horses, hooves clopping on the cobbled paths. There are preachers on corners praising God and gesturing to the heavens, talking of cleansing our impure souls. I have never been to London, and despite my dull disposition and discomfort, I marvel at the bustling hive.
Almost every man who did battle at St. Albans three years past is here, some with their lady wives. The King leads the procession- and I was rather shocked by his appearance. He has no worldly air about him. He has a long face, thin eyebrows, and a small rosebud mouth. His hair is cropped to his ears, and there is something about his straight nose and the way he clasps his hands together that makes me think he is rather more suited to be a Bishop than a King. Is it treason to speak thus? 'Tis only that I see some sort of glimmer of intellect and reticulation of knowledge in his eyes.
His wife walks beside York, and behind them, the new Somerset and Salisbury. Her Grace the Queen is everything I could have possibly imagined. The arched eyebrows, high forehead, the round, glass eyes, and a little pink pursed mouth; the tilt in her head, the borders of ermine on her brazenly gold houppelande, and the mirrored jewels sewn like tiny diamond droplets all over her skirts and on the bodice that emphasizes her slender waist. This is a proud woman. How does my Mother keep in her favour as her lady-in-waiting?
But a fault lies here in this procession. It starkly shows how divided the peerage is. It demonstrates a realm of enemy lords, and that the Queen, with the falsest of smiles, hand-in-hand with York, are enemies, and a display of loveday for the people to assure them, will not change any feelings, nor will monies to Somerset's widow. If any person gave me coins for my dead children, 'twould mean nothing to me, and it makes me wonder with fear of my plight had Henry been slain at St. Albans? This procession is bringing back those memories as he went off to war... Would I be holding those empty coins? For naught will take away the empty feeling in my heart, the loss of my children, not even the glorious building ahead of me.
For my eyes, as we walk up onto Ludgate Hill, are new beholden to St. Paul's Cathedral. I blink, eyes widening, pausing in my path to admire, until the lady behind me crossly pushes me forward, glaring, and I mutter my sincerest apologies. Who is she, a Lancaster wench, to chide me? I wager she reacted in the same manner as I have now when she walked as a green girl from the country into the sight of the most magnificent building surely on this very Earth?
The cathedral is surely, twenty, nay fifty, nay a hundred times larger than any other building. It stands mightily above all the miniscule houses clustered about it, the spire stretching into the clouds. We all walk through an archway into the courtyard, and I gaze further still upwards. The cathedral is as long as it is large, with many windows of stained glass, curving spires, and elaborate brickwork. Arches build up and up and we walk through the gaping mouth inside. I crane my neck, quite forgetting the purpose of my presence here.
The vaulted ceiling is seemingly eternity away. Large pillars dwarf me on either side, the sides stretching upwards into sloping stone arches, with plaques adorning all of the walls. The lady behind me nudges me again, as I breathe in wonderment. I press my lips together, vexed at her impatience. Who is she, anyway? I look up straight ahead and almost stop again. In the very top of the east window, above the nave, is a flower of stained glass. Each petal glows and sparkles as if it were alive in bloom.
The procession slowly makes its way down to the nave to where we shall hear Mass. I study the gowns of azure and orange and rose, and the shapes of the ladies of the court's sleeves, the length of their trains, the way they wear their headdresses and stand tall, and the flashing jewels about their necks. The long walk over, for it is a mighty length, the familiar roll of Latin washes into the background as I peep at all the glory about me. This is the first time I have been to such a place and a court event- and I do find it a little exciting, being here with the court- for here is the little girl in me, dazzled by all the splendour and beauty, but the outset shows a woman mustering her courage, silently weeping for yet another lost child.
The ceremony over, I endeavour to find Elizabel, after I briefly exchange words with my Lady Mother, who is also present here, giving me birthday wishes, and the Lord my Father should be somewhere. 'Tis slightly fun to have such a great event on my birthdate.
"Ah, so this is your daughter. I am charmed to meet you at last," says her companion, a lady of foreign-seeming origin, with dark, black eyes, and an inquiring smile. Behind her hovers a young youth, who looks me up and down. His eyes are the same dark colour; I presume he is her son.
"Pray, who may you be?" I say, and then inwardly chastise myself. How rude she must think me! I did not even curtsey, to such a woman of such pre-eminence. I feel she would have all the men dancing to her tune with her mysterious, deep gems of eyes, filled with cunning; she has such an inquisitive brow, and a posture so regal she could be Queen herself. Indeed, I have only met three other women such as her, with such bearing and command; The Queen, the Duchess of York, and My Lady Isabel, who is like a softer version of them all.
The lady chuckles. "I am Lady Rivers, the Dowager Duchess of Bedford." I blanche- this former Duchess, my mother's good friend- and I spoke thus to her in my haste to hurry away.
My Mother frowns. "You must remember Lady Rivers, Elizabeth? She is my good friend Jacquetta, Jacquetta Wydeville." I blink. I blink many times. Jacquetta. Jacquetta Wydeville. Jacquetta Wydeville. A flash of light blinds my eyes as I whirl into the past.
"And I'm sure Sir Richard Wydeville's wife Jacquetta had her daughter Elizabeth in mind for Thomas' hand in marriage." ... "Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville..."
I shake my head, the ghost of my sobbing mother on the day of my poor brother's death merging into the frowning countenance before me. Wydeville. The said family of this name have haunted me for so long; one mention of their name sends me spinning into the past- the day Thomas died.
"Are you quite al-"
"Forgive me, Lady Mother, Lady Rivers, I must excuse myself to find my husband." I barely look at Jacquetta as I scurry away to find him, my mind all a-whirling. I cannot stay in her presence, with such memories of that day in my head- the day that turned fate for me. I do need to find Henry- for he has been behaving rather oddly all day and has an air of agitation about him, for he is clasping his hands together and muttering, or putting his head in his hands, but I did not walk with him during the procession, and am anxious to see how he fares.
I find Elizabel, the Elizabeth with child, and we duly make our way to William, Henry, and Humphrey, who are standing behind My Lord and Lady Bourchier, and the Duke and Duchess of York with their eldest boy, conversing with their graces. Elizabel and I hover uncertainly, two young foolish girls at court, unsure at how to join a party in the presence of their graces, the things to do and say; we glance over at Joan, Humphrey's wife, standing a little way off, looking about her, and wonder whether to join her; the three Bourchier wives.
Queen Marguerite's sharp magpie eyes do not fail to notice us hovering.
"Pray, what may be the names of you fair ladies? Come, come." We meekly scuttle forward. I am to be presented to the King and Queen- never mind how unjust monarchs they are, I am so close to such riches and royalty.
"Ah," the Duke chuckles, "these are my nieces, married to my Bourchier kinsmen." He gestures at William and Henry. I am so close to Her Grace, this whore, as the country calls her, those glittering, sharp eyes behind all the country's ill will, that I can smell and drink in her heady perfume and see every pearl sewn around the neck of her bodice. I can study the little grooves on her face, the cracks on her lips, the scars on her skin, the powder attempting to cover this. Elizabel and I sink into our most sincere obeisance each for this Queen, trembling. For what if we displease her? How are we to smile unfalteringly through her hard, critical stares? What if she does not like us, or we make fools of ourselves? She professes her hand for Elizabel to kiss.
"I am honoured with the pleasuring of meeting Your Graces," Elizabel says carefully, although the King is disinterested in us two unimportant maidens, wittering to the Duke, "I am Elizabeth-"
"Dame Elizabeth, for my lord husband, His Grace the King, knighted Sir William, and Sir Henry Bourchier this morrow," Queen Marguerite cuts in. He did? Henry has now become a knight? Why, this is such an unexpected surprise! Mayhap it will cheer him from his recent foggy mood? This King has bestowed such an honour upon us? Why- to make peace? Does this mean we shall be richer? Are we moving forward in the world? Is Henry pleased? William shall be, for it confers his manly pride.
Elizabel flushes. "Dame Elizabeth Bourchier, wife of Sir William Bourchier, and daughter of the Earl of Oxford." Her Grace nods approvingly, and her hand extends to me. I tremble. I kiss it. I am kissing a person anointed by God, yet a treacherous Queen.
"I am also Dame Elizabeth Bourchier, wife of Sir Henry Bourchier, daughter of Lord Scales." I am introduced second place, I am the wife of the second son, I am the daughter of a lesser noble, and I am the elder. In every respect, I am the other Elizabeth, and my cousin has taken my place, with her little full belly and stretching seams. Yet I cannot quite hate Elizabel, for she has done naught wrong.
"Lady Scales' daughter, my lady-in-waiting?" she enquires.
"Yes, Your Grace," I say demurely, wondering how it could not have been clear to her that I was of course Lady Scales' daughter- what other family of Scales does live here in this realm so noble as us, and what other Scales children are there? What can be this Queen's intentions?
"Charming, most charming," she says rather absent-mindedly, and then she turns towards the Viscount and his wife. "You have caught yourself two very good matches for your sons in this sea of dowries," she chuckles to herself, and we cautiously raise from our place on the floor, knees aching a little, "Their parents are some of my most loyal servants." I bristle uncomfortably, as does many of the party, casting their eyes to the floor. This loveday is meant to reconcile Lancaster and York, not for the Queen to further endeavour to point out the rift! I think not much of her tactfulness, but of her slyness and the way she can easily spur a fight. I feel most embarrassed to be pointed out as a daughter of Lancastrian parents married to Yorkists, as she so easily implies, for it is not something I wish to bring attention to. It makes me feel as though I am very separated from the family, especially Henry.
Before my father-in-law can stammer any form of reply, the King turns to York.
"My cousin! (The Queen grits her teeth and narrows her eyes at this.) Will you think of staying for the Lady Day feast? There shall be jousting also afterward."
The Duke bows humbly. "Your Grace, I would indeed love to enjoy your company as I always do, but I make for Ludlow on the morrow and must retire to Baynard, for I fear dining in your company will make me pine to stay longer."
"Very well then," the King chuckles. I watch as all the pleasantries are observed. I walk back out into the weak sunshine, and think how false court is. Every person wears smiles full of lies.
When the Duke of York did remark to us that we would all retire to Baynard, I did not forsee that we would all be going to his castle, Baynard's Castle, to enjoy our very own Lady Day feast. 'Twould have been splendid to have stayed for the feast at court, but I am not too sure I would be inclined after my meeting with the frost Queen. My uncle indeed must be very rich, despite his hardship with money, and having recently given so much away.
The castle is but a short walk away, and it sits on the very edge of the River Thames. I judge it to be half the size of St. Paul's and built for the purpose of a fortress, for it does not at all appear to one's eyes as picturesque. It is square in shape, the grey brick walls looming above. Hexagonal towers jut out about each wall, all with spires, and circular turrets dwarf the corners of the castle with their forked prongs. The windows, which are paltry, are mean little archer's slits, and we walk through the gates onto a square lawn built inside the castle. Despite the ugliness of the building, I have never been to such a great residence!
"Knight, hmm?" I say to Henry, as the Duchess Cecily, the woman called 'the rose of Raby', from whence she grew up, who glows with beauty, leads us to the great hall. I dart my eyes from Henry to my skirt hem, for our relationship has indeed been even more so estranged since that night, and since my miscarriage. I know he blames me. I know he wonders what is so wrong with my body that it should not carry a healthy baby. I know he is wondering what is to become of us and our future if we, if I do not produce an heir...
"Hmm," Henry murmurs.
"'Tis a very great honour," I say a little breathlessly.
"Indeed." I sigh at his short responses and do not endeavour to ask why he was favoured so.
Our celebratory meal for the Feast of Annunciation, the day dear angel Gabriel told Mother Mary she was blessed with God's child, completed, Lady Isabel addresses a matter with me. Our bellies are all very full of my Lord Duke's finest capon, herring and duck.
"Elizabeth, where are you and Henry to live?" Henry himself has retired early along with the Duke's young son the Earl of March, complaining of a headache. I do not know how to resolve the discourse between us; we are slipping away, and we are two older people, not little children any more. I frown, for what does she mean?
"Well, Elizabel and William are to reside at Little Easton, and I am moving to our manor of Helstead. Since Henry's wound no longer ails him, I wonder if you plan on moving back to Worlington?" I knew naught of such plans! I blink. I ask for their leave so that I may see if Henry's headache is gone, and thank the Duke and Duchess for their hospitality.
Having declined the offer of a page to guide me to my bedchamber, for all of us Bourchiers are to stay the night, I make my way through the garden, and, curiously, walk down some stone steps and across a platform outside. My eyes light up. The night air is cool against my skin and the river is ignited by pools of light casting their shadows across the midnight ripples. Boats and wherries of all sizes travel up and down, and I breathe in, staring out at the River Thames. I can vaguely distinguish a few buildings on the Southwarke side of the river. It is a most becoming sight, although the stench the river is omitting is not pleasant in the slightest, but it is breath-taking to be able to glance up and down this long, silky black ribbon of water which is so fabled.
I suddenly spot Henry, sitting, on the bottom step, head in his hands. I bite my lip. Should I go to him? Does his headache ail him or another matter entirely? Then I hear the quiet sobbing, and rush to him at once, gathering him into my arms.
"Henry, Henry, what ails you?" I cry, holding him tightly as a mother would her child, as my chest twists. It is hard being so near to him when I have just miscarried our child. Henry is crying. Is this the reason so? He has been knighted this very day- he should rejoice!
"Elizabeth. Please. Go."
"Nay, not until you tell me what has brought you to this state, and it is not a headache," I say firmly, still averting my eyes directly from his, for how can I look at him, in our shared pain for another lost child?
"Lizzie, please." My mouth becomes dry, and my body tenses. Lizzie. Lizzie. The pet name he has not called me for years. 'Twas the name he called me when were young and affectionate, and now he calls me thus, when I really cannot stand to be near him, the father of my dead child, my miscarriages. How can I look at him and not feel ashamed for my failure, our loss? I swallow- all confused concerning mine and his feelings, and wondering what could have possibly caused a man to...cry?
There is something in his pleading tone and beseeching eyes that causes me to relent and press no further, but I am still shaken with worry. Biting my lip, I press him to me tightly and he cries into my chest, and I clutch onto him, seeking some type of comfort in him, although it almost stings to hold him.
We sit, strangely, on the cold steps, wrapped close to one another in front of a castle, and we watch the lanterns casting small balls of light from the boats bobbing up and down the river...