Chapter XXIII: September 1458
Ludlow Castle, Shropshire, England
"I wish not to talk with you."
"L-lizzie, wait."
"Henry-"
"L-liz-zie, please."
"Henry, oh Henry, I forgive you." My eyes fly open and a tear drops down upon my cheek, onto the signature on the letter before me. Elizabeth, it reads, and then there is a large pool of ink stretching off into pronged spiders, blotting all over my page whereupon my quill has rested. A lump forms in my throat- how can I end my signature with 'Bourchier'? I again was envisioning of what could have happened- if only I had given Henry my forgiveness, he would still be alive on this Earth.
I simply cannot believe he is truly vanquished, as if he never breathed. These weeks since he has gone, it is almost as though I were an apparition myself. My lips move as I speak, my legs move as I walk, but everything I do is almost in a trance, as if I were not existing here in the present. I am torn halfway betwixt worlds. It is if I were buried underwater; I cannot breathe or see properly, nothing is corporal, for the voices and faces of those about me are blurred, they fade away. I do not know what to do. How to cope without Henry. I never imagined that he would die- even when he went off to battle at St. Albans, and received his wounds; the thought of death never seemed a true reality. Now it is. He is gone. 'Tis my fault.
No matter how many coins I offer at Church every day for masses to be said for his soul- and to hasten his stay in purgatory, although none shall know of the true fate of someone who they once perceived to be so godly- will bring him back. He is gone. He is gone. I wake every morrow knowing I cannot gaze upon his face. He is not here, and in that, I find hard to comprehend. And we must hide his true cause of death, Humphrey and I, it must surely be a secret privy betwixt us till our own deaths? We burned the bedsheets, we cleansed the bedchamber ceiling to floor, we threw the dagger, that bloody dagger that helped his end, his most errant end, into the river. Humphrey ensured the priest who performed the scurrilous Last Rites was so addled, he would never remember.
We both agreed 'tis best never tell any person, for fear of our own ruin. How could we tell poor Lady Isabel and My Lord the Viscount- they shall remain in ignorance, believing their son died almost naturally- just of an awful chill- or so says the post mortem, written with a hand full of bribery and shaky with more copious ale. I cannot express my gratitude enough to Humphrey for all of his aide- he is a true friend, despite our childhood slights and romances. Yet I know some part of him must blame me responsible for Henry's demise, and so does every other person. Our feud was the death of him. How hard must he find it, knowing that his brother was tormented to such an immoral end?
John, Edward and Thomas are present here, serious, studious grown boys blanched permanently white at the death of the older brother they always revered. Isabel is inconsolable, and My Lord, a distant figure to me, a warrior of a man from my childhood memories, large and gruff, cries and shakes into his hands. Elizabel and William, having recently lost their baby son, look now close to death themselves. No one expected Henry's so sudden death. Henry and I shall never have a child- there is no child, which shall bear Henry's blood in its veins, no reminder of him, to continue his lineage. No heir for me. I have only memories, tainted with all our struggles, to remember him by. And I sent him to his death; my words were the first daggers, and how I wish, how, how I wish, I could take them back. Henry shall be with Isabel now, the child of mine seemingly so far away, seemingly a figment of my imagination...
No person does dare gainsay the truth concerning Henry's death from his fragile wife, a little moon face swathed in black, and bloodshot, and his brother, with his head in his hands. I am a widow- I should not be one so young, this should be when I am old! I know of the Duke and Duchess' suspicions, wondering why we did not call for them as Henry lay dying. "Henry wanted a peaceful, quick death with just the both of us, when he realized how quickly he was dying," we lie, but surely they hear the servants' whispers of Humphrey and I poisoning him, or smothering him with a pillow whilst he sleeps. I cannot believe that I would even be though capable of such a wicked deed! How far from the truth we speak- was his death peaceful, as he lay writhing in agony, the beads of blood spattering all around him? Why did he not just slip poison in his ale? Why did he suffer so much- was it to represent how much I have put him through? I hurt him. He shed his blood for me, and God was cruel to me, because I ran to him, when it was just too late. I detest myself for this.
Bessie is the sole person who can comfort me, for she knows the whole truth, for even Humphrey does not know of how I came upon Henry and his mistress. Does she sorrow for his death? Is she happy? I have told him of our recent strain, but although Humphrey has been married these two years, he would not understand the pain of infidelity, for his marriage to Joan seems purely a matter of business. I let Bessie sleep beside me and envelop me in her warm person as she used to do when I was a maiden and had a night-fright. She would climb from her truckle bed and comfort me with soothing words until I fell asleep, but nothing she says can ease me. For how can I live with myself, knowing I sent my beloved childhood friend, husband, my love, to his death?
She tells me 'tis not my fault, it is his for committing such heresy, but how can I think any different? How can I not? How can I not? I would gladly rack myself at the Tower of London for behaving as such these past eight years. If only he could know I forgive him, I forgive him for Kitty. Why was I such a silly little fool? Why did I waste away the years, in such pity, sorrow, hatred? I am wretched now to think of all the time Henry and I could have had- yet, I spent it in our manors distant from him, infuriated at the trifle, trifle argument betwixt Isabel and I and him. Look what I have done, where my stubborn manner has led me. I have lost the thing I love most. Oh, how can I have completely wasted away my youth? It is gone forevermore, for I am widowed. Slowly, with a regretful sigh, I sign the letter telling of Henry's death, the first of one of many to my kinsfolk as Elizabeth Bourchier, wishing simply that only matters were different. For how can this have truly happened? How can Henry be dead? How deeply must I have hurt him, for him to end his own life? Did he plan it? He left no Will? He has left me alone on this Earth to deal with my conscience.
Sitting surrounded presently in my Lord Duke's study with both my nuptial family and mine own, I wonder if they shall ever know of the true nature of his death. Did they have any knowledge, at his funeral? I was forbidden to attend, as is protocol; I could not say my last goodbyes. Only in his absence, do I realise how much I had loved him in the past and miss him. I cannot cause them any further grief and tell them the truth- I cannot slay the honour of his memory and stain our reputations.
We are all seated rather uncomfortably, for Isabel, who was once so dignified and proud, is crying again in company.
"Look, see this handkerchief? Henry sewed this for me when he was a boy. My boy. My boy..." She buries her face in it as the Viscount tells her to muster some composure. I stare down at my lap. Does she know, will she ever know, that her son died because of me? That I drove her boy to compel himself to take his own life- I was a hateful little harridan who would not recompense him for his actions. He only lay with another woman, because I refused to grace our marriage bed, grieving still for our miscarried child. Our child... Our two lost children, my lost Isabel... And I did not realise his terrible guilt over Somerset's death, too self-involved was I. I was the most awful of wives, and now there is nothing I can do to make amends...
"Now," the Duke says, clearing his throat, "There are a few matters we need to resolve..." My ears are deaf to his words as he brandishes the original marriage and dowry contracts. The picture of them all before becomes lucid, as I stare into a mist. Henry has been dead nigh only two weeks, yet already they want to quarrel over money and land. 'Tis strange. Henry and I would have been Lord and Lady Scales one day upon the Lord my Father's death, yet that future is vanished now. And, ironically, at Henry's death, most of my inheritance will revert back to my own hands- and Isabel will never get what she wanted, all those years ago when we squabbled over it. She will never receive that which she so coveted.
"Elizabeth?" My mother turns to me, looking both worried and impatient. I blink, for I have not been listening to any of the words spoken; they all turn into one endless, sorrowful fiddler's tune to flounder in, as I am consumed all over with utter regret and grief. For how can I live now? What am I to do?
"Have you been listening? We are...discussing the instance of you being with child." Her look is both exasperated and loving- she has now aged so much her hair is grey, her body is spindly, and all traces of a voluptuous form are now no longer. Isabel has also aged considerably since hearing of my Henry's death; her face is etched with lines, her eyes are sunken, she no longer walks confidently, she keeps her head downcast and moves slowly along. Henry's death has affected every person- the Yorks tiptoe about with red-rimmed eyes, all glistening with ghosts to me. They cast their sympathetic gazes upon me if they find me just standing in a corridor, staring into the past, wishing the pain consuming my chest would be relinquished.
"I am not with child," I barely murmur.
"There is a chance," she says hesitantly.
"No, I could not be with child," I sigh heavily, my throat still hoarse, as I tell the beads of my rosary beneath me. I pray every moment for absolution, for Henry to forgive me. How can I be such a wicked person to do this to someone? There is a pause, in which my mother frowns.
"Elizabeth, do you mean to say your marital relations were still very much strained?" I flush, and turn away, closing my eyes, lest I cry again. How can she bring this matter up, in front of the whole congregation here, when it is the very cause of my suffering?
"Ismania, be quiet. You hinder, rather than help." My face burns further; what must their graces think of them, my Father hushing at my Mother as such? My Father now looks to be in his dotage; silver skeins plastered to his skull, his body, unlike my Mother's, is thickening further. I am guessing their own marital relations are not so forthcoming, for him to be publicly humiliating her, and calling her 'Ismania'. They are more concerned over my lack of child, rather than the wellbeing of their actual, living child. The Duke and Duchess tactfully look away as they begin to bicker in whispers. They watched Henry's strain and mine; they think of the last time they saw him, as I did, alive, out of his wits. They used to be such august beings, almost fantastical figures, whom I heard of as having political crusades against the King- and now they are my family, and I sit weeping before them.
I see a flash of pain dart through Isabel's eyes, the small look shared between both my Father and father-in law at this news, enemies usually. I cannot bare this. My mother is glaring continually at the Duke and his lady wife, so deep still is her hatred for the people she believes should have been hung, drawn and quartered long ago for their treachery, as well as their family; namely, Isabel, and her lord husband. Henry- named for his father. How hard must it be for Isabel to say his name, without thinking of her son? My Lord here and his brother the Archbishop were dining at Hunsdon and hunting with one Sir William Oldhall when they heard of Henry's death. I do wonder what business they had there. Who knows? Who, indeed, cares?
I stand up abruptly, and they all turn their heads to stare at me.
"Pray, I ask to withdraw. You can deal with the matters concerning my dower lands, I frankly do not care." My throat is thick with tears.
"Elizabeth-" My Father says in a warning tone.
"Forget your silly political differences. This is not court, this is no time for a Loveday façade, this is about my husband, my husband who is dead!" Six shocked faces blink back at me, for my outburst is most forthright. I sweep out of the room before any person can scold me. I am not a child, I am a woman now. I am a widow. Henry is dead, and my guilt shall thus consume me forevermore, and his memory shall be a chimera to me.
I let out a long sigh as I turn one way from the study along the grand passageway draped with the coats of arms of all the York and Neville ancestors; Mortimers, Beauforts, and Plantagenets alike. I do not know where I am headed. I do not care. I shall find myself going to the river, or to one of the battlements of one of the towers, thinking what would just occur if I threw myself off or into one of them? For I cannot bear this torment, knowing Henry's blood was stained upon my heads, both metaphorically and physically. What will even become of me now? How am I meant to be Elizabeth Bourchier, without Henry Bourchier?
"Humphrey!" I cry suddenly as I almost career into him, my fists clenched, for sometimes I feel quite angered that Henry left me alone in this world, with not a thought of the implications of the act he was to do. Although, he was drunk...
"Elizabeth," he replies gravely, and puts his arms about me, as my body trembles once more. All I can see is carmine in my eyes at every corner and turn. I still wonder if he blames me for his brother's death? I know we will both never forget the sight of Henry's bloodied corpse...
"Oh Humphrey," I whimper, for he is the only other person who can bear my true misery, apart from Bessie; yet she will never know what it was like for us to walk in upon that sight. What would have happened had I not been the first to discover him, and it was some servant? "They are all bickering over my dower properties." He releases me and regards me carefully.
He coughs. "Indeed, I only walked past a few moments afore and could not help but hear your lady mother, and my aunt the Duchess... er... quarrelling rather heatedly, one may put it. I heard her be called 'a penny-pinching York scoundrel'." I wince, and look down. My mortification, alas, is deepened! Oh, what must all the Yorks think of me now? How could my Mother say such a thing? I glance at Humphrey, the man shorter than I, who has lost the sparkle in his eyes, and has already thinned considerably. Joan has been rather a dear to him, and somehow through this loss, they have become more tender together.
"Before you leave, I-"
"Before I leave?" I echo, frowning, still burning with all the recent things he has said to me.
"I overheard the lord your father say you were to depart on the morrow." I feel a thud in my chest.
"But- but. I am not ready, nor prepared. I cannot leave Henry...here. I must stay here, so I can visit his place of burial. What will happen to me? Why did they not tell me? Where am I to go? What am I to do without him? What becomes of me now?" Tears slide down my cheeks, and another lump forms in my throat.
"Will I be taken from this family? Am I to go back to my family home? Humphrey, what of our great secret? What shall we do if we are not to see each other no more and discuss it? Will I ever see you again?" I feel quite alarmed. I suddenly realise the finality of this. My time with the Bourchiers is over; now Henry is gone, there is nothing left for me here. I did not even think what would happen to me.
Humphrey shrugs his shoulders sadly. "This is farewell." He turns to go down the corridor, then fleetingly looks back.
"I hope I shall one day revere my Stanhope knight's daughter the way I do you." I look at him sharply, and he gazes into the rushes, red-faced. Some things are much, much better left unsaid.
Later, I take a single, wilting red rose, the last one amongst all the autumn leaves, to Henry's coffin buried in the Mortimer chapel where his forebears were laid to rest, and I say my final farewell, my final farewell to him, my husband.