Chapter XXIV: Christmastide 1458- August 1459
Scales Hall, Norfolk, England
Snow is softly sitting on the branches of the trees all about us; everything is festooned in a layer of alluring white. Somehow, although everything should appear bleak and dull, with the bare branches against the empty landscape, this snow seems to light up, and the skies above are aglow. The airs are not so unfavourably cold; none of the branches appear sparse, sprinkled with snow crystals, and I care naught for my skirts and boots which are most certainly exceedingly sodden. I relish the cool feel of the air upon my soft cheeks, the way my hair is loose and free, and the way as I chase after Bessie, I can bury my face in thick layers; layers upon layers of deep emerald miniver and squirrel furs about my neck. My houppelande is of damask claret velvet, with intertwining roses printed on it as if they were climbing a trellis; they are the new blooms of hope.
The snow crunches in my leather gloves as I pick it up and hurl some at Bessie. She shrieks with glee as it hits the back of her skirts, bending down to throw a ball of snow back at me. I am caught off guard, and it hits me squarely in the face. I let out a startled shriek, shaking it off, as my hair, furs and eyelashes becomes star-studded with snow.
"Elizabeth, I am most sorry, have I hurt you?" Bessie runs towards me, all concern, and a little out of breath, for she is nearing her forties, and I do inwardly sigh to think that she will never marry, and will remain erstwhile to me forevermore in my service, the mother I never had. For who has always been constant to me, never wavering, always there to console me?
"Of course it did not, you fool! 'Tis just snow!" I laugh, diving down and hurling some more snow back at her. I look upwards instantaneously upon hearing my Lady Mother's voice as she leans out of one of the new windows of the buildings. The Lord my Father has indeed been most busy with the new additions to our manor. I glance over at the new rectangular dovecote, before glancing up, gulping, to where my Mother is poised in the incomplete gatehouse. This is a most imposing building and there shall be three storeys on completion- yes, three! 'Tis of the finest red brick with stone dressings. The building works are however abandoned due to the season, and the weather- there are half-finished polygonal turrets and a rather sorry-looking frozen fishpond yonder.
"Elizabeth!" she calls again, "You are behaving in a most unseemly manner," she hisses.
Bessie bows her head and curtseys. "My sincerest apologies, My Lady," she says, although she does not meet my Mother's withering gaze. She inclines her head to me.
"You are of two and twenty, Elizabeth, not two and ten. You shall catch a dreadful chill- whatever can you have been thinking?" She tuts, sighs, glares at the both of us, then disappears from sight. I sigh, scowling myself. As she rightly said- I am two and twenty- yet she still treats me as if were two and ten, scolding me thus. Heavens forbid if she knew we had been walking on the frozen over moat like naughty village children moments afore!
"Shall we hasten inside? I have a fancy for some mulled wine," I say, and we trudge inside.
The Great Hall is a hive of activity. I dust off sprinkles of snow by the fire, my hands clasped about the warm goblet as I watch glistening spit boys run from the kitchens, loaves of bread being delivered every now and then. Some maids are trying to attach boughs of mistletoe to the ceiling, others hastily scattering fresh herbs on the floors. There is a constant, homely smell, gay laughter, and a lute player practising for the revels. With the fire curling at my feet beside me, I feel rather much at home, after a very long time away. I have not spent Christmastide here for three and ten years- and there is something comforting about being at my childhood home. Although, my last Christmastide here, my Father did almost break my arm. How long ago that seems... Shall he be whoring this season too? Surely now he is too old? Shall I dance with John Howard and feel like a silly girl again? I immediately lower my eyes, feeling most contrite for my sinful thoughts regarding John, and fumble for my rosary beads.
"Elizabeth," my Mother bustles towards me, "Go to your bedchamber at once, and find yourself a headdress, 'tis very improper of you not to wear one. And you change from those sodden garments!" I look down, fingers tightening about my cup. If only Bessie had not gone to the garderobe and left me alone to my humiliation. My Mother talks down to me as if were still the girl who left here. Can she not see that I am grown now, I am a woman, and I am taller than her?
"Whatever must the servants think? You are lucky none of your guests arrived and saw you as such, their future wife cavorting such as a-"
"Future wife?" I blink, my stomach twisting, eyes widening. She is thinking to this already? This is not just Christmastide revels, this is a marriage market? These are my guests? Of course, I knew she must be thinking this was a good opportunity, when I agreed to join the festivities. I cannot just sit in my room mourning, as much as I would like to. I have to move on. My other purses her lips.
"Mother, pray, I beg you; this is far too early for me to consider such a matter."
"Well, we must think to the future." She looks about us, but the servants are singing carols. "Why should you be so surprised? Of course you must be wed- and as soon as possible. I was lead to understand that your relationship with Sir Henry was most constrained, and you cared naught for him." Sir Henry. Of course; he was knighted before his death, I almost forget, on the day of the Loveday parade. Humph, what political assurance that Loveday gave in the end. I think back to those last painful weeks at Ludlow, when Henry and I but barely uttered a few syllables to one another, when he was roaring drunk and I sunk into bitter unforgiving defiance. I swallow.
"That is untrue. My Lady Mother, I regarded my late husband with great affection," I say, "And Isabel," I add, almost as an afterthought, for my baby is so gone from me now, a chimera of my youth, as are my miscarriages- my lost children.
My Mother widens her eyes. "Lady Bourchier- York's dragon of a sister? Why, how she wrangled over your dowry! And that insufferable, treasonous Duke! Mayhap 'tis almost fortunate your husband died early, so we would not have to deal with them." I feel a little twist in my heart. Why, she is so insensitive- how can she speak thus of Henry's death for political benefit? Has she truly forgotten my baby, Isabel's namesake, or is she deliberate in her insensitivity?
"No," I say, "I was referring to my baby Isabel," I say wretchedly. I inhale, as a flash of pain crosses her face. "I must find my headdress," I say quietly, turning away. I thrust my goblet into her hands, some of the liquid brimming over and dripping on the floor between us, pick up my sodden skirts, and run away up the stairs, trailing my furs and drops of melted snow behind me.
Once in my bedchamber, I do not throw myself upon the bed and weep. Instead, slowly, I sit down, and stare at my folded hands in my lap. My skirts are still wet, but I have no care. Henry has not been in his grave for more than a few months, yet I must forget him already and the life we had, for the future and my duty is thrust upon me with such immediate haste. I must forget my child, Isabel, for no person seems to recall her existence eight years ago. In truth, she has faded from me too. I confess I can barely remember what it was like to hold her in my arms. I just remember her eyes- Henry's bright blue eyes; yet these eyes inflame my own. How can Henry have left me as such? How can he have been so selfish as to end his life in such a sinful manner; what if I had not discovered him but instead a maid who spread the word and stained my reputation? I was wicked toward him, yet he took his own life because of it all? What cowardice! He started this sorry business- I must lift the blame from myself a little.
But my Lady Mother wishes Henry to perish from my memory completely. Sometimes I do wonder if 'twould be better to forget, but I know I cannot. Guests are invited for our Christmastide revels- mayhap even a family whom she wishes to form an alliance with. Who are these men, whom could be my new husband- all Lancastrian- but who? My new husband... I had realised in the days after Henry's death- untimely, they all called it- that I would be given in marriage, after a year of respectable mourning, so I could beget myself with a new child, a new heir. Yet, my Mother is thinking of this so soon. It strikes me strange to think of lying with another man. Yet Henry is gone from this world, to a place where no amount of gold coin I offer for his soul at church will ever tell him how much I craved his forgiveness for my callous manner. I agonized over the time we could have spent, the future we could have had, yet I know it is gone. Although some days I do still sit wondering about it, 'tis no good; the wheel of fate has spun in a different direction, the cards mark a future without him, and I must let Henry go, no matter how hard.
I rise, staring out the window at the approaching horseback party. Who shall these guests be- pray, some kinsfolk of mine? Why, I do espy my good friend Eleanor, Lady Hungerford! I snivel a little, and change from my sodden clothes. I don the new gown my Lady Mother had commissioned for me; a houppelande with dagged sleeves in murrey and black, which pools about me sickeningly like Henry's blood. I swallow, my fingers tightening on the folds of satin, and the metal spangles about my waist with the de Scales symbols cut into my palms. Cut... blood.... Henry...
I shake my head, as Bessie enters, and she helps me dress my hair. I stare at myself in the looking glass as she brushes the tangles in my hair. I am quite fine one moment, I accept my fate, and then I will tilt back again and will want to weep with guilt, for I find Henry's ghost in everything, reminders of what occurred when I am trying to get through the day, without casting my mind upon those awful scenes. This was the looking glass he bequeathed to me. Bessie is brushing the unkempt ends of my waist-length hair, whilst my countenance is as white as the snow, and with my reddish dress, I could be mistaken for a martyr. There is a certain tilt in my chin, a melancholy gaze in my round eyes; it makes me seem drawn from this Earth. My hair is not so golden, but tawny, and there is no fever of excitement on my face. I sigh.
"Elizabeth, are you quite alright?" Bessie asks, as she pins my veil in place, billowing from my severe headdress. I rise, and stare at the dismounting party below in the courtyard. I have to pretend to these people that Henry died of an awful summer fever, and not that every four or so nights, I will walk sobbing with the image of his bloodied corpse, and the dagger in my hands.
I force a smile, turning around. I nod at her; I must convince myself that I am not solely responsible for my husband, my Henry's death, for I live, and I have to see to it that I do fulfil mine, no matter how challenging this may be.
*****
Tolleshunt D'Arcy, Essex, England
A year later, I walk up the overgrown path to Isabel's grave, I think of the last occurrence when I was present here- seemingly so long ago. And with Henry. Henry. A year now has slowly passed by, and his death is still a painful matter. I resume with my day-to-day life, I read, I play on my lute, I look after the estate, but I still have those moments of weakness and self-loathing. How could I be so wicked to drive my husband to such a sorry fate? I suppose these will only heal as time goes on, and even though I cherish the good memories of us together, I must console myself on these occasions; 'tis Henry that decided to go against God's will, and become inhabited by the demons of the mind and drink. He knew what could become of me, and him, and he decided to take that risk.
Sometimes I have dreams that he was murdered instead, that the pious boy I once knew would never have amalgamated into such a man. Mayhap it was Humphrey, or pretty Kitty? I still wonder whether he begot her with child, and what I would do in the instance. I think of his adultery and my own dramatic reaction, but there is no use in trifling with the truth; I must accept what happened, I must banish from my mind the images from the day when I found him, blood-covered. Blood leads me to think of battle, and his own part in the Duke of Somerset's demise, that only he knows about, and thus he shall go down, in history, his small part without fleeting reference.
There are still those times I wonder what my life would have been, had he lived, and if we had any other children together. But there is no use in thinking if Isabel or my miscarried babes had lived; there is unquestionably a new husband, the prospect of a fresh brood on the horizon. I will live in a new manor, and there shall be a different Lord and Lady Scales in the future. Of course, I wish I had forgiven him, and that I do not remember so vividly the feel of the dagger in my hands, cold, damp, damp with blood, but 'tis not just I that must bear this burden, which shall lessen as time heals, Humphrey must too. How does he fare?
And presently now, I cast my eyes upon Isabel's grave, half-concealed in tangles of grass. An indignant feeling swells inside me, for who does not tend to this churchyard properly? Bessie stands a distance off, head bowed, watching me as I kneel down in the grass, with not a care if I stain my skirts, for they are soiled enough from our horseback journey. A lump forms in my throat and as my eyes sting, I haunch my shoulders and take in a deep breath. I have to be strong now, a widowed woman trying to make her way in this world.
"Good-day, Isabel," I croak out, gently uncovering the stone from the grass with my bare hands. I sigh, tracing the inscription with my finger. Mayhap 'tis for my best interests and security that I am not married to Henry, with a daughter to protect, at times such as these. For in June, the Queen summoned all the peers to Coventry. Alas, the Duke of York, whom I still view as kin to me in some way, and his allies, of course, including the Viscount, failed to attend. Because of that singular reason, they have been all declared traitors- how very unjust! I frequently write to my cousin Elizabel, the other Elizabeth Bourchier; she informs me that following this proclamation, the Earl of Warwick, from Calais, and his father, My Lord of Salisbury from his castle of Middleham are to meet the Duke of York, mayhap at Ludlow. They are to ride out against the King's army once more with their supporters, in a final demand for justice for all that has occurred. There is to be another battle, inevitably. The Loveday parade, last year, did nothing to solve any political rifts.
Elizabel writes fleetingly of her husband, and I know she is rather lonely, for all the Bourchier brothers and their father are with the Duke. Even the three younger brothers, who talked of gallant knights and battles as if they were jousts, will now face the bloody deathbed themselves, mere youths. How we have all aged. Would Henry, were he alive, go with them, or would his wound still prove too trying? What fate would befall us anyway proclaimed the family of traitors? Elizabel conveys her increasing sense of fear for her future in the family, and 'tis strange, for they are still my family, but in another way, they are not. I left them and my life with Henry behind.
Her father, my kinsman the Earl of Oxford, writes bitterly of how he wishes he did bestow Elizabel as a pawn in a peace treaty. What would it have been like, if I were entangled with the Bourchiers- would they have resented us, the two Elizabeths of Lancaster? I know not whose side Elizabel takes- but they would have my firm assurance and support. It is indeed hard not to quarrel with my Mother on these matters, without revealing how divided our loyalties are.
She has resumed her position at court as one of the Queen's trusted ladies-in-waiting, leaving me alone as lady of the house at Middleton to spend my time at leisure, mostly with Bessie. In a way, although it is quite solitary, it is nice to not be confined to the bounds of an unhappy marriage; I am free to do as I please and become my own woman. My Mother is looking rather weary now, complaining of many agues and rubbing her back, sighing as she pulls on her fine court gowns and shifts her swelling feet into thinner slippers, rubbing lotions on her face to disguise her wrinkles. Although I still wear my widow's weeds, my Mother says I have grown into a graceful and beautiful woman, and I do not flare my temper as much. Neither does she. It warms my heart like mulled wine to know that she is finally proud of me, and she entrusts me with the care of the manor, for I am now a responsible woman.
She feared that I would be lonely at Middleton when she went away back to the Queen, but I have many guests. I dine with the Pastons frequently- they are well informed of the goings on in the realm when I have received no letter from my Mother, and I have been hostess to many of my kinsfolk, regardless of their political affinity. They mostly assume I am for Lancaster, now that Henry is dead- they all offer sincere apologies and comforts, but I am finding that although I grieve for his loss, I am bearing it, as a year has gone by, and slowly he fades from me. They are all painfully aware of my lack of heir from the marriage, and it is tactfully ignored...
Indeed, my Mother does not know I am here at Isabel's grave. With so many armies congregating about the country, she would be thoroughly horrified to find me cavorting about the country just with Bessie, my faithful helpmeet Bessie, and no escort, more so if she knew I plan to journey to Ludlow, especially as the Duchess Cecily, whom she despises, is in residence. But I must. It is for my own sake- for I hate to say it, can I be guiltless in saying so, but I must put the life I led as Elizabeth Bourchier completely behind me, for in a couple of weeks, I shall be free from my year of respectable mourning. I never shall cease mourning for Henry, but I shall remember him as the little boy I fell in love with; his cherub looks, golden curls, saintly demeanour. I shall cherish him in that form- when we were young and giddy, because the man who he became, is such a stranger to me, I know him not at all. The memory of the guilt and the anger shall stay in my mind, but I am turning afresh a new page. I have to let go completely; I have a duty to my family which was instilled upon me at a young age. I cannot keep wiling away the time at Middleton turning circles in the garden; there is a future ahead, whatever it may hold in the growing political turmoil and instability in the kingdom.
I stare at Isabel's grave. "You shall always be my most precious child, for you were my first, and you were born in doting, childhood affection. But I have may have other children, and not with the lord your father. You will be always in my memory, but I hope you forgive me, your lady mother, in moving on..." I stroke the stone, as if I am talking to her, as I used to talk to Florence when she was but a babe. That all seems so long ago... Florence, Fulk; Isabel's dead son. How does Lady Isabel cope with Henry's death? Why, sending me a letter nigh a sennight ago, proposing Thomas' hand in marriage to me! She so wants to cling onto my inheritance, despite my Lancastrian affinities? She would marry me to Henry's younger brother? He is likeable enough, albeit a shy youth the last I saw of him, but it would be to be a carnal sin of incest, and insult Henry's memory. Her letter brought to light and prompted me to take the journey here to Little Easton, for it made me realise I must marry again, no matter how strange it may seem to take another to marry. The Bourchiers are gone; I have no desire to marry Thomas.
Your late granddame-in-law did take to husband twice before your former grandsire-in-law two Stafford brothers, she writes, but I responded telling her that I could not marry one of Henry's brothers. And this is why I kneel before my child's grave. I can never forget her, nor my miscarried babes, and their father Henry, but I must move on, and accepting Thomas' hand would take me backward, and burden me furthermore with guilt at Henry's death, a secret I must take to my own grave. 'Tis the way of the world, I must marry again, I have come to accept my fate, and most importantly provide an heir- if God permits me to give birth to a healthy babe? I know that the Lord my Father is trying to arrange a marriage for me- but these prove difficult times to do so; men are more interested in taking up arms- flocking to the Duke and his Yorkists, or to the Queen and her son Edward's army of the badge with the white swan, the old Duke of Gloucester's emblem. How dare she use it for her bastard when she is reported to have sent the orders to murder the old man?
I may grow to love my new intended- I am sure he will be a kinsman, or a friend of our family of some sort. Shall he be widowed also, young, old, a blushing virgin, Dear God help me, or spare me, so old he could have granddaughters my age? Doubtless he shall be Lancastrian, but as long as he is worthy of the title to be the next Lord Scales, and treats me meet as a husband should a wife, I care not. I never thought I would marry again, and 'tis unlikely for love. Henry is gone now, I cannot bring him back to life, I must accept this. I feel as if the same thoughts are turning over and over in my head.
With a sigh, I stand up and stare at Isabel's grave, brushing away a few tears. I am putting my life as Elizabeth Bourchier firmly in the past. I vow to do my duty and marry again. Oh, I do miss Beth Tylney-Bourchier. I sorrow to think we had no farewell when I left last year. She was like a small stepdaughter to me, but I guess she is in the past, for will I ever see her again? She is an orphan; who shall care for her interests? Will I ever visit Isabel's grave again?
"Elizabeth," I hear my Bessie call gently, for we make for Ludlow with great haste, lest my mother discovers I am not at Middleton covering my ears as the builders whittle away at the new turrets, or bound to Lady Eleanor's for a visit, as I told my steward upon my departure. That said lady has grudgingly agreed to lie for me; her husband, Lord Hungerford, works beside my Father at the Tower, and we have become great friends through correspondence and since her visit last winter, in spite of her thoroughly Lancastrian views. Indeed, I correspond with many, I shall not closet myself from the world like a nun. I enjoy my kinsman John Howard's letters for one, for he sympathizes with the York cause and has no shame about it, as does his wife Katty. My Mother is somewhat scandalized by her views, but is not every family divided?
I incline my head to the grave once more. I cast a smile and slowly walk back to Bessie. When I see Henry's resting place, mayhap I can be at peace with myself, and relinquish the blame I have on myself for his death. I tuck my arm in hers familiarly.
"Was that of help?" she says, as we walk.
"Is It awful to say I have...accepted her death?" I think back to my heartbroken younger self.
Bessie squeezes my arm. "Of course not. You are beginning to accept Henry's death too, as time passes, and the dreadful circumstances. You may have let go of Isabel, but you will never forget losing your child." There is a waver in her voice and a flash in her eyes, which tells me my earlier suspicions of a sorry fate in either the marriage bed or childbed were true. I do not press her for details as I once would have; 'tis not my business. I look back at Isabel's grave fleetingly before I climb back upon my horse, and I prepare to canter across the country through the gathering armies and into the political storm, for besides peace waiting for me at Ludlow, is the prospect of a battle, and not just with my conscience and my heart.