Chapter XXVII: June-July 1460
Scales Hall, Norfolk, England
We are in what used to be the glorious days of June. Although the sun in glistening against the window, splintering into diamond incandescent droplets, and in the gardens, every single blade of green grass ripples in the breeze, the skies are overcast with a turbulent blue. 'Tis almost too hot and bright, too ominous as though thunder would suddenly roll across the Norfolk hills, and the breeze is whispering, hushed, waiting in anticipation, as a messenger races up the road through the deserted moors. I place down the book I am reading to my Lady Mother, excuse myself with her permission, and run down into the courtyard, gathering my skirts as I run to meet Bessie, holding the latest news and fate of the kingdom. She looks up with widened eyes as the messenger canters away as quickly as he had come.
"Bessie?" I cry, out of breath, running forward, loose wisps of hair tangling on my cheeks. She looks at me, all a-bustle and crunching in the new gown I bought for the Midsummer's Day revels but a few days ago. A bright orange beacon of hope, with flowers sprayed in my tresses, and all over my skirts with borders of white lace, hoped to cheer the people on their quarter day, and muddy by the end of the day from haggling from door-to-door. Alas, many failed to pay their due rents, and my fingers are ink-stained from hunching over account books, and writing to my many correspondences on how best to deal with their lack of despair, their unrest. The nearby Pastons, for one, who now dine with us regularly, providing witty commentary on political intrigues, and my Mother's Moleyns kinsfolk, and the Howards, and the de Veres- oh how Elizabel suffers cruelly by William- to name a few. I am a little maiden no longer. I am a woman; I, Elizabeth de Scales, am making my mark in the kingdom, and am suddenly finding myself a most eligible heiress! I have Lancastrians and Yorkists and those wavering in between sending me proposals of marriage and questions into my most delectable dowry, but judging by Bessie's expression, this latest roll of parchment bears no words of wooing, or good news of Anthony, whom I long to see.
She hands me the letter, mutely. Dame Elizabeth Bourchier, it reads, duly reminding me that the past is always present. I shall be ever so glad to marry Anthony and change my name. I wonder what life we shall lead together, and how it shall be to become his wife? Lady Rivers writes of her hope for such a union. My heart is heavy as I unfurl the letter. What if this is bad news of Anthony- what if he is dead? Nay, this is the Lord my Father's most illegible hand. Most of the letters he sends are to me now- we are genuinely establishing a working, business-like partnership betwixt us, in which he recognises me as an equal and not his strange little daughter. My Mother can barely read and write anyhow. The enclosed message must be the longest he has ever sent to me, for he is a man of short words, as I have discovered from the brusque commands of a few lines over the recent months as I engage with his contacts. I draw in my breath.
Ten years since did I fight against Jack Cade (alias Mortimer) in his uprising- Ten years? I blink. Ten years since my child Isabel lived and died? Ten years, and I have not born a living child? –and now I must meet again with those unruly Kentishmen who Cade rallied to his cause, for those damned whoresons, Warwick, Salisbury and March are in England gathering a band of them.- I let out a gasp, and not so at my Father's improper language imparted for his daughter to read- but, but they are here! The Yorkists are invading... If they have left Calais, have they released Anthony and his father; can we be reunited together so soon? What will happen upon his arrival- will our marriage truly go through? Indeed, what will happen upon the Yorkists' arrival? What do they intend to do? Jacquetta must be beside herself wondering at their whereabouts in regard to her family. Unless, the Yorkists desire to keep them prisoner in England too? Why, oh how could they, and Edward, who I once regarded as my friend?
-They sailed from Calais and reached the Kent shores on the 26th, and Kent has declared for them. Traitorous southerners. They march henceforth to London. The King's army is on the move from Coventry. I must fortify the Tower for His Grace to defend the city against the traitors. I shift uncomfortably, for in my eyes they are not traitors. York has the senior claim to the throne, he was descended from King Edward III's eldest daughter, the second child, and the pretender King Henry his third child, having usurped their place, and shown himself unfit. York and his followers just declare his birthright and the true line of succession. I have no doubt he wants to be King Richard of England- although the last King Richard was born to much unhappy misfortunes, deposed and murdered by King Henry's Lancastrian ancestors. But where is York? There is no mention of him and Edmund coming from Ireland to join them...? What can they be plotting?
-Elizabeth, daughter, as commander of the Tower, with our kinsman here also, Lord Hungerford, we must fight against the Yorkists and defend the Tower. Many noblewomen seek refuge here with us. I pray you are in good health. Be dutiful and care for my dear wife Emme, and if any danger should befall you, I trust you have good contacts. I look up at Bessie, who is biting her lip, face pinched, as have the faces of many over these past few weeks as we wait to hear what shall occur. Why does my Father write so strangely with an underlying tone of care? Why would he say such of his wife if he truly had another marriage planned, one to disinherit me?
"Should I tell my Lady Mother of this news?" I ask of her, for despite being mature, I still look to her, my old friend, for such guidance. "'Twill worry her to think of my Father defending himself at the Tower in such peril," I swallow, "against the Yorkists." Bessie pats my arm sympathetically. My Father and my kinsman Edward by marriage are to fight against each other, and I cannot bear the thought. 'Tis taxing for me, torn betwixt Lancaster and York. I want the Yorkists to triumph, but what should that mean for those of Lancaster? I wish no evils to befall neither us nor my Father in London. Oh, why do they have to fight?
"My Father will be fighting against his own godson!" I suddenly cry, thinking of Edward. I feel my knees weaken a little as I gulp, taking a deep breath. This is how far we have come. I turn back inside abruptly, striding along the drawbridge unsteadily, running my hands through my hair. Godson against godfather; father against son; brother against brother; cousin against cousin. We are all so torn apart now. We have come to this. My friends and family, on opposing sides. My head reels.
I whip around to Bessie, who has scurried after me. "I hate this war. We fight our own blood, we spill our own blood. This war has to end- York must seize this chance, come across the Irish seas, and end this now. His ambition cost me Henry; his plunder lost me Anthony, my Father waits to clash with his party far away in London. Men are dying because of this. This war has to stop. It must stop. Bessie, Bessie," I grab her hands and shake them; "it is tearing me apart, where my loyalties lie!"
*****
As the temperature rises as we climb into July, so does the tension across the land. I almost wish I were still residing at Little Easton or another of Lady Isabel's Essex manors, for then we could receive news of the happenings in the city quicker. For even the fastest messengers who bring to us our letters and news are a few days late- so much could suddenly occur and I would not know of any immediate threat, for my Lady Mother seems much too wearied to give one care. Where is the formidable, sharp-tongued woman of my childhood? I pray for all the saints to intercede and say Hail Marys until my throat runs dry for her to recover. I do not want her to slip away from me at such uncertain times such as these. I refuse to accept her increasing waning life. She must recover. How can my mother...die? How can we have reached that point?
I never thought of the eventuality of either my Lord Father or her dying, oh God forbid it, and now... 'tis slowly happening. I am not ready. I know not what is worse- hearing of Henry's death so suddenly, or watching my Mother slip away so slowly, and having the time to prepare. I regret our times spent quarrelling and almost forgive her for the feelings of loveless-ness she imparted into me as a child. She is not a woman of stone; she is a woman of great heartbreak and strength, who actually fought for me a great deal, and loved me from afar. And now I have turned into a younger version of her - cuckolded, seeing our husbands with another, and the shared pain of losing children that were so precious, the inability to produce an heir, the great feelings of inadequacy and failure... An heir...
I have heard naught from or about Anthony, whom I dearly hope is alive. I could not possibly know whom else to marry in the eventuality. Not one of my kinsmen, for sure, they are all snivelling boys, not handsome gallants such as Anthony. Besides, I would have no such money for a papal dispensation either. My Lady Jacquetta is rather hopeful of formally sealing the match and the uniting of our two families, sending word whenever she can. I wonder whether I shall truly fall in love with Anthony- or if our marriage will end up turning into one of business, as most are, yet I hate to think of it in such a way. I am older now, but my thoughts of troubadours, richness, glory- they never cease to fade.
"Another letter," Agnes says, red in the face, and panting, as she enters my Mother's bedchamber. My heart leaps every time, for I pray it is word of Anthony, that he has been released, and he is on his way to claim me. I refuse to accept that the Yorkists would have suddenly slain him and his father. Edward, the youth Edward, my friend, cannot have committed such a wicked act! My kinsman, my Father's godson, would not slay my only chance of happiness, the man who saved me from the pillaging at Ludlow, a knight in bloody armour. Anthony has done naught, naught wrong. I only wish I could save him- but the idea is preposterous- how would I go about such a task, when I know not whether he be in Calais, France, or Heaven?
I sigh, but a smile weakly crosses my face as I recognise my dear friend Lady Eleanor's penmanship, small and sharp. Lizzie- oh, how I do wish so many did not address me thus- I do not want to be reminded of Henry when I am looking forward to my years with Anthony. Should I tell Anthony what happened? Lizzie, the cannons and guns have been fired from the Tower! I swallow, as my Mother looks over at me in wonderment. Cannons? The Lord your father, and my husband Lord Hungerford have refused the York army into the city, but alas, they are streaming through onto and over the bridges, as the city authorities have opened the gates with widened arms- they are hearing orations with the Lord Warwick at St Paul's Cathedral. Lizzie, I mean to cause you and my good kinswoman your lady mother no grief, but as commanders of the Tower, they are the object of ill-will, as they fight against the Yorkists- mostly comprised of Kentishmen, spurred on by the Archbishop of Canterbury- was he not your late husband's uncle? 'Tis fortunate that you are no longer bound by marriage to the York affinity!
Agnes and Kateren help my Mother to sit up in her bed as she leans forward. "What has transpired, Elizabeth?" Her voice is frail. I steady my breathing as I take in the last passage of her most foreboding letter. The Lord your father, I am most sorry to say, is the despised on the part of the Londoners. He has greatly injured many of the townspeople, burning them, sometimes killing them, bombarding down upon them wildfire, or as some may call it, open fire, with traces of gunpowder contained in it; chemical weapons as well as artillery in his attempt to fend off Warwick and Salisbury. There are reports of nigh 60,000 men, although many of the Yorkists are advancing north. The Duke of York is expected to invade, and Salisbury continues to besiege the Tower. I shall pray for your father, and I my husband.
I feel myself sway; I despise this very bedchamber enough, for 'tis where I heard of my brother's untimely death and my destiny was indeed changed; it echoes of despair, confusion, terror, panic, pain. 'Tis awkward that Eleanor is definitively pro-Lancastrian, but that is the least of my concerns; I do not even think of another battle and the eventual outcome of the country- I can only think of my Father in the Tower. I glance over at my Mother, waiting expectantly. She recognizes in Father his competency as a solider- although he was taken prisoner and ransomed at the Siege of Orleans many a decade ago in which my said Eleanor's father was slain. Father fought valiantly for many years in France, against the Jack Cade rebels (despite myself secretly championing their cause) but how can I tell my Mother he has been reduced to barbarity and he is brutally slaying Londoners? They have done naught to him- why would he terrorize them so, when they have done naught to him? Why would he employ such drastic measures... and kill...?
How can I tell my Mother that he is besieged, seemingly by 60,000 men, and greatly loathed? What will happen to him, Lord Hungerford, and the other nobles in the Tower? What if they are...killed? What will Salisbury do to them? Will they fight one another? I wrack my hands. My Father supports Lancaster, but I wish him no ill, no matter how felonious his deeds are. Despite believing in York's cause, if Salisbury has done any harm to Anthony or my Father, I would want to turn to Lancaster, for the Yorkists had no such right to degrade the Wydevilles so as Jacquetta described. Oh, how torn I am by the two sides!
"Everything is perfectly well, Lady Mother," I turn to her, the queen of false smiles, summoning my courage.
"Elizabeth, child, I can tell when you do not speak truth." She smiles wryly.
"I am not a child!" I cry suddenly and sharply, fist clenching about Eleanor's letter. My Mother blinks and appears to shrink back a little.
"I crave your forgiveness, Lady Mother, I did not mean to use such a harsh tone," I say softly, my cheeks inflaming. How could I be so impatient to her in her condition? I am so inconsiderate. I move towards the bed and gingerly sit on it next to her, handing her the letter, for I cannot conceal the worsening news. Mayhap she shall know what to do. Agnes and Kateren discreetly begin to scuttle out. We are very close together, and my Mother looks at me deeply with her grey eyes.
"No, Elizabeth, you were correct. You are a child no longer. Think you that I do not see your wiser years, your looks becoming of more maturity?" Her voice is soft. She reaches out and fingers a curling tendril of my loose hair, for at times such as these, I care naught for headdresses and propriety. I feel a lump begin to form at the base of my throat, and I nod. It is these fragile moments such as these that make me realise how much I need her, as tears threaten. She cannot die. I look at her, her wrinkled face and shaking hands, her eyes squinting as she slowly reads the letter. She looks back up at me.
"They shall be perfectly fine. Lancaster will defeat York. My Queen would never give up hope; conquering is in her blood," she says firmly. Yes, her father Rene d'Anjou and his father before failed to claim their foreign kingdoms- conquering and losing is definitely passed down the generations in her family, I add in my head. No, I must not think like that- I must not wish my Father to lose- and lose his...life... I squeeze her arm to assure her, wincing at her bony frame.
"I am proud of you, Elizabeth," she says suddenly, and she seems to be studying me intently.
"How can you be?" I laugh bitterly, "My marriage was a failure, and I have no heir for you." Just remind her, Elizabeth, insensitive again.
"I am proud of you." I suddenly realise what she is trying to convey to me- she is proud of the person I am inside, beneath my attire. She is proud of me, me Elizabeth, although I cannot comprehend why. I smile back, for I wonder if she realizes how much this means to me after the years we passed in bad spirits. I would strangely like to throw my arms about her and weep, for I want her to stay with me, but we have never embraced each other so- she never came to me as a child, my nursemaid raised me, until she died, and Bessie replaced her. Mostly she was looking after Thomas- but mayhap, she did not want to form too close a bond with me as she had her other daughters, the siblings who died in infancy, in her womb, the ones I never knew. But I will not cry now. I shall be strong for her, strong as all the Whalesborough women. I may be a de Scales and have a taint of royal blood, but I am proud as well to say I have inherited some of her bloodline, and I am a defiant Cornish Whalesborough lass. I smile at her back. I am proud to be her daughter.
I turn my head sharply as I hear the distant sound of thousands of hoof beats. We exchange startled glances, and she pales white. I jump off the bed and run to the window seat, looking out onto the fields about us. Knights. Squires. Armour. Banners.
"'Tis an army," I cry, looking back at her, over the drum of hoof beats. I turn back, my eyes widening.
"À Lancaster! À Lancaster!" they cry.
We live in anticipation and worry. The days are spent trying to continue with a normal passage of life, but how can I when my Mother is so very ill? Does my Father know how greatly she suffers? Should I write to him- nay, he is too pre-occupied. I have not heard word of him for but a few days; what can be occurring at the Tower? Some of those who had gathered for the Lancastrian army came here a few days ago, in search of any men we could send from Middleton for the oncoming battle betwixt Lancaster and York that is looming. Some, alas a few, offered to go- they are still loyal to Lancaster, but I could not help but remember Henry's St. Albans men and the smaller retinue that returned. Am I sending my own tenants to their deaths? It was hard to see them go; fighting for a cause I do not believe in, with their pitchforks and shoddy armour. I wish I could send them to York instead, but I would not dare openly defy my Mother and Father.
And now I sit again in my Mother's bedchamber as she sleeps, plaiting my fingers as I wait for the throb of hoof beats to come and tell us if, where, when, a battle was fought, and who is the victor, for will their Graces be deposed one day in favour for the Yorks? In truth, I do wish for this country to be at peace. I wait for news of my Father, any of my kinsfolk, or of Anthony.
The door suddenly bursts open, and Bessie rushes in, all askew. I rise at once, alert, glance at my Mother, and usher her out lest she wakes her. I shut the door behind me, leaning against it in the dark of the tower. Shadows cast across her tear-stained face. I reach out for her wrist, and rub it soothingly.
"Bessie, Bessie, what ails you?" I whisper, biting my lip, "has any news reached you?" I add quickly, in case it is not her own problem.
"Do you have the muster roll of men that joined the army?"
I blink. Why? What an odd request from her. "I do not; they all left in such a haste. Pray, why do you ask?"
She gulps. "I believe my brother was one of those men."
I frown. "The brother of yours who cast you out the house, when you lost your job as a milkmaid at one of the farms?" I remember my Father telling me when she was appointed to be my maid. Why should she care for such a creature? She has never even mentioned him before me in my presence. A shadow crosses her face and she lowers her eyes, nodding slowly.
"His wife and son recently died of fever- he wrote to tell me. I fear he is not in a well state of mind."
Why does she believe he joined the army? I frown, shifting. "Bessie, I am sorry, we shall have to wait until they return." If they return. "If he is not in the army, where may he be?"
"Dead. Dead on the battlefield. Dead in a river. Dead in a tavern for all I care naught," she speaks bluntly, wringing her hands. We look at one another knowingly.
News arrives three days later from My Lady Rivers and many others, who still serves the Queen in the position of lady-in-waiting. She reports the inevitable battle was fought at Northampton along the River Nene on the 10th, and lasted a pathetic half hour. The Queen and her ladies were at Eccleshall Castle when they heard the leader of the King's vanguard, Lord Grey of Ruthyn, defected to the Yorkists, having already sent word ahead of his plans to become a turncoat. This grieves Jacquetta, for he is a kinsman of her daughter Elizabeth's husband. Elizabeth, another Elizabeth, that Elizabeth. 'Tis strange to hear that name, when she haunted my childhood from the day of my brother's death.
But what are they really all fighting for, now? She does not tell us of the ordinary men who have died ignobly, an estimated four hundred, mayhap including Bessie's wayward brother, but a list of the royal blood of the Lancastrian dead. The Duke of Buckingham, a John, Viscount Beaumont, the Earl of Shrewsbury, a Thomas, Lord Egremont- they were the identified casualties in the battle that has been fought, for of course, it was going to happen. Who knows what more shall come?
My Lady Mother despairs that she was so wrong- the Lancastrians lost, the King is in the hands of Edward, Warwick, and Salisbury, who knelt and swore fealty and paid homage, saying they drew arms to only show their desire for a just government. Is that what the men believe they split their blood for? A government? Or a lineage? Or just war...? What is the point of this war? Alas, there is no sure sighting of the Duke of York, there seems to be no need for him to invade- but what he is invading for? Somehow, we have all lost what we are fighting for, and lost ourselves in the fighting.
The King is being led in a procession to London; he's reportedly fallen to insanity once more, a virtual prisoner of the Yorkists- the proud, haughty Frenchwoman late calling herself Queen of England has fled- are they even our monarchs? Everything is in disarray, and their rule is collapsing. My Mother feels it is over- and I covertly celebrate the Yorkist triumph- mayhap finally, the Yorks will guide King Henry to a firmer, stable rule, although he is so weak. Mayhap they just mean to overthrow him? Jacquetta dares not tell us where the Queen has fled, lest the letter falls into enemy hands.
She writes to my Mother also: I shall return to my manor at Grafton. Her Grace ensured I was given a pension before she left, she had no other alternative, but 'tis almost as though our cause is truly lost. Emma, you shall receive one too. I fear for Thomas; I have seen the aftermath of the battle, and the bloodied bodies of our Lancastrians dragged into graves in Delapare Abbey. Now the Yorkists have won, I believe they shall intend to storm the Tower- to take it all. I pray for the safety of all those beloved to us.
"Do you believe Father will relent and let the Yorkists take the city?" I look guardedly at my Mother, who is lying on her side, fingers curled tightly about her own dearest friend's warning. The York rule is supreme- my Father surely cannot fight back; would he be so stupid?
"He has no other choice," she whispers, her eyes staring; hollow, into the distance, as she wraps her arms about herself.
I hover over her. "Sir William Lucy was slain on the battlefield," I say hesitantly. I wonder if my Father has heard. What can I do to help relieve his situation in the Tower? Do I just have to sit here and wait, with all number of different fates available to him? I just want him to escape unscathed safely from there, with no more combat.
"Your late half-aunt Lizzy's husband?" Her eyes flicker a little as she sinks further under the coverlet.
I nod. "There is a rumour that he was slain by the Yorkist lover of his new wife, so that they could then marry."
"Hmm," she replies despondently, and I think fondly of my late aunt; how her husband has died so unjustly.
I press my hand on her arm. "I do not believe any of our other kinsfolk were slain. I have yet to correspond with them all." I endeavour, for I do wonder if there is any truth in this fanciful rumour, and think wistfully to the long-ago times with that most avuncular man, when I was young, and no person seemed to challenge King Henry's rule.
"The aftermath is just as bad as the battle itself," my Mother says quietly, clutching the coverlet all about her, "I fear the worst is yet to come."
Another handful of days flutter by as we wait. We wait. Oh, how we wait in such languish! I find Bessie pacing in the passageway, and look at her with question.
"My brother did not die in battle." She grits her teeth. "He is alive." I hesitate, for she seems rather enraged by this news. I do not mean to sound awful wicked, but as much as Bessie is my friend and I care for her, I am rather more concerned about news of my Father in the Tower, and what he and Lord Hungerford have decided to do. Have they surrendered? Have they fought Salisbury? I love Bessie dearly, but I really do not have the time to concern myself with her affairs when mine own stalk me wherever I go. I know not how to respond to Bessie.
"Oh?" I settle for, at the same time she replies. "And wasting money I could have." There is a sharp silence, and I frown. What did she say? I cock my head, eyes narrowing a little. Money she could have. Does she imply I do not pay her well? Mary and all her saints, I have no time for matters of wages, when I await for- We both turn abruptly, as the sound of a bugle bellows from nearby. A bugle? We exchange a glance, and we both swiftly convey ourselves to the nearest window, looming down from the oriel. I feel my heart skip a few of its beats, and I grip Bessie's arm, having quite forgotten what we were talking about. I watch the messenger as he hurries up the path, the hoof falls pounding in my ears, mimicking the rushing blood about my person.
"He is wearing the colours of York," I whisper, my throat dwindling dry, as the Yorkist livery colours I came to know so well at Ludlow of blue and murrey blur in my eyes. Bessie has stiffened also.
"Why have they come here? Why would a York messenger be sent hither?" I entertain all the various ideas in my mind, but I cannot possibly comprehend what a York messenger would want with us. Something from Isabel? One of the Yorks wondering if my Father would become a turncoat? News of the realm- that York has finally won? They have warrants for our arrests, seeing as my Father has defied them, and barred them from the city? Has King Henry died?
"I must go," I assert myself. I turn and flee down the steps, shaking, and run out to meet him. Whatever this news is, I know it shall not bode well for me. As the boy jumps from his steed, I try to steady my breathing. I must prepare myself, if it be so that I am about to hear at this very moment I am to be proclaimed a traitor. Bessie stands beside me as I draw my head up high, but I can feel my chest pulsing beneath my mantle. He bows to me awkwardly, and steps forward.
"I bring you this." His face is set like a cadaver. I pause before taking it, reluctantly. My fingers are shaking. What, what does this tell me? What bad news would York would bring? I think I have already truly guessed. I close my eyes. I do not want to read this. I can hear my breathing spiralling out of control and becoming louder, louder still. I open my eyes again. Time seemingly comes to a halt. The light about me is sharp, bright, white. I focus on the title whom the letter is addressed to. The ink burns my eyes, becoming blacker, bolder, running off the honed parchment in my hands. This seems to become serrated, the corners cutting into my fingers tightly as I grip it, scorching my pupils. Everything is fresh, silent, but has become fragmented in my vision, shifting, distorting.
It is this moment in time, that I know I have achieved my destiny, and come into my inheritance.
The letter is addressed to Elizabeth Bourchier, Baroness Scales.
I press a shaking hand upon my mouth.
Bessie peers at me. "What has occurred?" I turn to her dabbing at my eyes. I take a deep breath.
"The Lord my Father, he, he, h-h-he is...dead." My words become jarred in my throat, and I grit my teeth into my bottom lip. He is dead. My Father. My Father, he is dead. Bessie blanches white, and then steels herself.
"Do not fear the worst, he-"
"No." My cry pierces the air about us. "'Tis truth. Look." I hold the letter out for her to see who the intended recipient is. Her lips move up and down, as she pales further.
"'Tis a mistake," she whispers, but I shake my head. I do not know how to feel. He is just... dead. How can he be... gone? How did he die? Who, who murdered him? How can my Father...? My knees weaken and I slowly sink to the ground, the messenger, his countenance still sorrowful, and Bessie reach out to grab me. I blink. I blink again, pressing my hands to my cheeks. I never imagined this would ever happen. I knew one day it would, but it seemed so far off. He seemed invincible, beyond death. We were not so close, but... he is my Father... and now I am his heir, his only heir.
Bessie kneels beside me with her arms about my person as I tremble further, and hot tears spill down my cheeks, pooling and dampening the threadbare satin of my gown. This is impossible. Which Yorkist has slain him? Why has a Yorkist messenger come to tell me... to gloat? Oh, I am starting to rue the day I supported York! Is anyone else dead? What has happened...? God cannot have taken him so soon. He leaves me his heiress. I am... the Baroness Scales. How can that be true? I fumble to open the letter, the messenger looking down at me uncomfortably in my sorry plight. I steady myself. I have to know. I have to read this.
My dear kinswoman Elizabeth. It is my duty to inform you the death of the Lord your father, Sir Thomas de Scales, Baron Scales of Middleton and Newcelles. 'Tis true. 'Tis true. You may take some small comfort that I ensured that he was given an honourable burial in the church of St Mary Overie in Southwarke. Burial? Who has buried him? I scan further down the page. Written on the 20 July 1460, Edward, Earl of March. Edward? Edward buried my Father? Why? My messenger will convey to you the details concerning the nature of his death. 'The nature of his death'. Oh, what happened?
Damp hair falls on my face, and I sit encircled in my skirts, staring into haziness. I cannot believe this is actually... true. I look up at the messenger, Bessie holding onto me as I sway.
"How did my Father die?" I croak. I knew it might happen. I knew he was in danger. I knew he might have to fight the Yorkists. I just never per chanced that he might actually... cease to exist. Edward wrote to me. Did Edward kill him? Is that why he buried him? Was my Father executed? Am I now kin to traitors? What is going to happen to me? No, I cannot be a traitor- otherwise the letter would not confirm that I have inherited the barony. I press my hand to my lips, eyes squeezing tightly. Bessie helps me up, but my feet feel as though the ground has fallen from them, and I am falling through sand, into an unknown realm. I do not know what to do. How can he have died?
"Pray, please tell us. My Lady deserves to know, as does the Dowager Baroness." I feel a snap in my chest. The Dowager Baroness. In a few moments, the world has shifted, adjusting to the change. I have not even thought of my poor Mother. How am I ever going to tell her that her husband has been slain? How will she cope? My Mother is a dying widow, and I am a Baroness. I am the Baroness. I cannot feel the words sink in. I hold the title in my own right. My Father bequeaths it onto me, by his death. I take what is mine, the fortune and greatness I grew up knowing I would inherit, and I am now one of the wealthiest and eligible heiresses in the kingdom. How can I be a Baroness? What do I do now? What do I do, now he has gone? I am not quite sure how to feel about his passing- he was not so very dear to my heart, but the tears pool furthermore from my eyes. I feel so helpless. I could do nothing to save him, and I have to accept my new position.
The messenger shifts again. "My Lady, I would not mean to distress you. Those in the Tower had run out of supplies, and they eventually surrendered. Lord Scales tried to escape by boat under the cover of night. But... as his boat passed London Bridge, his countenance was recognized by the townsfolk." He hesitates, as I stand blinking. He escaped? Then...
"I am afraid to impart to you that he was mobbed by these townspeople. They sook vengeance for the wildfire he had showered upon them the week earlier. They... murdered him, and his body was found washed ashore on the steps of St. Mary Overie Church, where his godson, My Lord of March buried him." His eyes dart anxiously up at me, hearing my loud gasp. He conveys his condolences, and tells me he must be going. I nod, and watch him mount his steed, and canter away, and off. My head is swirling. There are so many questions I wanted to ask him. My Father was not slain by the Yorkists at all. He escaped. He was coming home to us. And the Londoners murdered him? Bessie puts her arms wholly about me, and I sob into her breast. He is truly gone. This is how he met his maker.
My Father and I enjoyed no degree of such closeness- indeed, he caused me many injuries of the mind and body over the years, namely his infidelity, but he is my Father. He was my Father. I shall never see him again, ever, that is the strangest part which I am unable to comprehend. I never even said goodbye. He was slain so brutally by ordinary townspeople, for the injustices he laid upon them. If he had not injured some of their number, he could be safe. No Yorkist killed him. It was the commoners, and I shall never know who truly killed him. Murdered. He must have died a painful death, I cannot bare to think of it, - for all the sins he had, that is no remedy. He defended the lost Lancastrian cause until the last, and he has died for him. He has been stripped of his dignity. To think of his body, lying dumped on a church porch... He died fighting for his King and Queen.
I choke again, and Bessie clutches me tighter. This is the worst news I could have possibly heard. Edward buried him. Edward, that youth, even though he rated Anthony in such a shameful manner, was so kind as to bury him. I am forever in his debt. He buried his godfather, even though they fought on opposing sides; what chivalry he displays. I am sure Father wanted to be buried at Middleton, but...
"I have to tell my Mother," I say slowly into Bessie's hair. There are so many thoughts dancing through my mind to a misshapen tune. My head aches sorely and my surroundings are spinning a little, the letter still crumpled in my hands. I feel a huge weight on my chest. I turn, and let out a small cry. Before me, I see my Mother. She stands, as if all is lost for her, and it quite possibly is. She should not be out in the cold; her hair limp about her face, her mantle thrown carelessly about her nightgown. Her feet are bare. Her face is white, her cheeks thin. Sunken eyes peer at me in pain.
"He is dead, is he not? Both my Thomas' are now dead." My own countenance creases. She has guessed. I find somewhere in me the will to run to her. I envelop her in my arms as I never have before. I cling onto her fiercely; her bones beneath me as if they will snap as she convulses. I have to care for her now. I am the Baroness. What am I meant to do; now I am Baroness? Should I try to seek those responsible for my Father's death? Are they even to be found? Do we receive no justice?
"The Yorkists have killed him," she whispers into my hair. I shake my head.
"'Nay, 'twas the Londoners. He tried to escape, by boat from the Tower, but they seized him." I lean back and look at her face. She is crying. For the first time since my brother's death, do I see her let down the walls of her fortress and admit defeat. "He was coming back to us, to you," I sniff, as my cheeks become damper. "I am so sorry." I whisper, and we stand there silently, Bessie watching from a distance, just crying. He is gone. Nothing can change that. I had Henry taken from me, and now my Father.
"The Yorkists have won."
"Not yet, not wholly." I try to concede. I do not know what to do. Should I take her inside? Does she wish to go to church? Pray in her room? It is just us now. This is happening. He is gone.
"No, Elizabeth." She looks up at me, with her smoke-rimmed eyes, and I see in them a woman who has fought all her life. "They have won. They have taken everything from me." We start to walk towards the door. I return inside a different person from before. Agnes and Kateren help her to her room. I sink down onto my own bed, an uncompressible loss fissuring inside me. He is just gone. Just like that... I think we should be alone to grieve, to realise how everything has changed now. He did not leave instructions; no one tells me what I must do now. Should I go to London? Avenge his death?
Bessie just simply holds my sticky palm. My Mother's howls fill my ears as I stare at the fading rushes. They have taken her Queen, her friends, and they took me for their cause. My Mother cannot be blind; she must have guessed my loyalties. Yet York did not slay my Father. But the Duke's quest lead to his death, the one I supported. This is what it is has ended in, this is what it was all for.