Chapter XXX: December 1460
Grafton, Northamptonshire, England
"Begone, Kate!"
"But I want to help."
"Well, you cannot."
"But I want to!" All about me is a flurry of activity- for today is my wedding day. Margaret is shouting at little Kate at my bedchamber door, telling her that there is naught she can do but hinder the process of helping me in my preparations. Joan and Mary are rushing to and fro, passing ointments and scented pomanders under Anne, Jacquette and Bess' orders as they lace my gown, tweak my skirts, and brush them down and adorn my hair. I am older than all the three sisters are, but somehow, I feel younger as they command, instruct, and attire me like a corn dolly. This is what it must be like to grow up with sisters... I stand mutely. I feel somewhat a foreboding sense tensing itself about me, for I do not wish this marriage to end in bloodshed.
My gown is a warm houppelande in dark evergreen fustian- green for young love, supposedly. I wear a heavy undergown of scarlet brocade, which peeps from the downward arch of my neckline, and from the slashes in my long sleeves. It is all bordered in roskyn- I have a belt of this sitting firmly on my hips, whilst tiny red jaspers adorn my skirts, for I must make a good impression, despite depleting my coffers even more so, and to match my red jasper necklace. 'Tis the same such piece of jewellery my Mother gave me at Henry's wedding. It is strangely comforting, as if she is with me, embarking on this journey forward today. My hair is plaited and decorated by ornamental flowers, and Anne's deft fingers lift my braid up as they pin a rabbit-furred mantle onto me, as if I were a child. My attire is modest, mature compared to my gown for Henry's wedding. All as they have attired me, I cannot help but think that this honour should have gone to Bessie, my longest friend. But where is she?
Has Bessie seen Katherine? Marry, does she even know of my wedding? She has been a part of all my life, and although her betrayal still stands great in my eyes, I feel as though I need something of the past to cling onto as I go forth into this marriage contract. I would so love for her to be present with Katherine at this ceremony. My sister. Yet my attempts to write to her have all failed. Where has she gone, oh where? I have no father, mother, nor brother. Are they all smiling upon me, proudly? Knowing that I am endeavouring to preserve the de Scales legacy and inheritance, to continue the line?
"I do declare she is done!" says Jacquette, stepping back to admire my person. Jacquette is my My Lady Rivers' daughter and namesake, a lithe girl with a heart-shaped face, wearing a hennin, as does her sister Bess, with a gauzy veil. For they are both already wed- Jacquette to the son of Lord Strange of Knockyn, and Bess, the girl whose name haunted me, the fabled Elizabeth Wydeville- to Sir John Grey of Groby Hall. Bess appears too regal to be married to a mere Baron's son. My Lady Rivers, after all, is European royalty from Luxembourg; her father was the Count of St. Pol. Bess possesses a slender figure, arched eyebrows, sharp cheekbones set in an oval face with a high forehead, and she has a lilting voice like a songbird and stands herself upright. I know her hair to be a golden-brown, almost like mine own. Her skin is pale, nose proportioned, she holds herself proudly, her neck like that of a swan, her eyes round, neat, flashing with intrigue, her little rosebud mouth curving. She is the type of lady every person would envy- I am sure when I get to know my sister-in-law better, I shall find some weakness, for even in her modest attire, she irritatingly outshines me, the bride, the other Elizabeth. They spin me about, and I swallow. I am taking my fate, my future into my own hands.
We walk down the stairs to where a small party of my kinsmen and –women are gathered- sadly all are Lancastrian, for even these days, it appears that my wedding must be political. Sir John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, walks to escort me, with his Howard Countess Izzy, her hands on the shoulders of her eldest sons- Aubrey and Jem. Jem is scowling, for he obviously believes he is too senior in years to be under his mother's palm. Aubrey has a small smug grin, for earlier in May, the last time I were jovial before my Father's horrid death, I saw him wed to the Duke of Buckingham's daughter, a rather nice hook. Indeed, a strange event did occur at his wedding- I saw the lady who had chivvied me along at that farce of a Loveday Parade two years, and she would not desist from gazing at my person!
I brush this thought away, as I turn to Aubrey and Jem's sister, none other than my dear Elizabel. We embrace heartily and fiercely, for she is a pale wraith, thin, downcast as the flocks of clouds outside. I note she has not brought William in tow- he is too affiliated with York.
I squeeze her hand. "You shall sit by me at the feast. We have much to converse on." She nods, and I move away from her troop of siblings to greet my other kinsfolk, many sharing sympathies for my Father and Mother's premature deaths. There is John Knyvett, suitably grim, for the right to his mother's inheritance is being disputed. I thank the saints no such conquest has been made against me, and the Barony slipped smoothly to my hands. I exchange a pleasant smile, secretly speculating what those narrow archer's slits for eyes think behind.
Beside him is William Tyndale, grown a tall, licentious man with a thoughtful countenance and a beard near as long as my houppelande sleeves. There is his great-uncle, Sir Miles Stapleton, who is only truly related to us my by marriage to my dead kinswoman Elizabeth Felbrigg, and is only here today for his second wife is a daughter of the de la Pole family, whom My Lord and Lady Rivers brought Grafton manor from. Of course, the de la Poles themselves are distant kinsfolk of mine anyhow. Family connections are all most convoluted, too much so to contemplate on a day such as this.
Eleanor is present here with some obscure Whalesborough cousins who are my connection to the de la Poles, come really to pay homage to me out of respect to my Mother. 'Tis paltry numbers, and I wish my half-aunts were present- but one is dead, and one is bedridden and paralysed. Mayhap 'tis best she is ignorant of her brother's gruesome death.
We set off to St. Mary the Virgin Church, but a short walk from the manor, yet tiresome in the snow-sprinkled ground. Anthony's father Richard offers me his arm, and in this, I am strangely comforted. His eyes are merry and dancing and twinkling, although he is greying, as is his wife Jacquetta is slightly, and has lost his lither physique, with marks etched into the hollows of his face from all the battles and troubles of years. My wedding should be gay, but the skies are grey, and I can hear the Wydeville children's constant squawking. My half-cousins beside me are whispering that there is to be another battle, the Duke against Queen Margaret's army, discussing if they should muster forces.
"I am glad to gain you as a daughter," he says, our patterns and boots crunching with our footfalls, as we approach the church.
"Thank you," I manage to croak, as he casts me a kindly smile, as we come before Anthony standing with a party of his relations looking me up and down. Do they approve of me, the daughter of a nobleman so disgraced in his death? Anthony is beaming at me eagerly, bright in a short red and yellow padded tabard emblazoned with his Wydeville coat of arms- completely addling, quartered with griffins, eagles, gules, and argents and all manner of emblems all over.
"Do not be nervous," Richard says, patting my arm, for I do realise I am shaking, and not because of the frost. I do profess myself to love Anthony- I do. But am I right in following my Father and Mother's wishes, rather than marrying a Yorkist, the cause I want to champion? Am I fool to marry into Lancaster when York is in ascendant- for cannot young Anthony realise what nondescript future we shall have? Should I have considered My Earl of March's proposals in all seriousness? Even so, am I too old for both men, who have not yet reached their twentieth year? Will Anthony, with his junior years, be able to cope so soon bearing a title; will he be a worthy Lord Scales? Will this marriage be a success? Will God bless us with children?
We stand huddled in the porch under the archway, our kinsfolk gathered along the sides of the paths to spectate. Poor Kate falls over a gravestone. The church is of a rectangular shape, a tower dwarfing us all from the east end, with stained-glass windows, which glisten, colourful droplets against the bleak grey brick. I walk towards Anthony, exchanging nervous smiles with him. The priest hurries through the service as the wind strikes up a low howl about us, leaves crackling and flapping in our faces. I hear Kate, Margaret and Joan squabbling and Anne frantically hushing them. Anthony and I bite our tongues, bemused, as the priest drives his voice to exhaustion reading my dowry and the legal procedures, about to confer Anthony as Baron Scales. I wonder how he feels that I am bringing him some considerable source of income, and his very own title. We can work together to tend to our lands, and I shall coach him also.
Every person is shivering, and I do wish my wedding were a more cheerful affair. It seems one more of business, rather than the courtly love I once dreamed. There being no objections to our marriage, and having asked the necessary questions of formality, the priest gabbles a sermon, and we exchange our vows. I hold out my hand, and Anthony slides another ring upon it, a large sapphire.
"I take thee to wed," he says calmly, but his damp fingers betray this as he touches my icy hands. How does he feel, becoming married at last, the first time, to me- a widow? Is he completely content? I swallow. My heart beats as hard as Kate did hammering on my door this morning, excited I would be marrying her brother. I look into Anthony's eyes, of such trust, and try not to falter as I present him his ring. I say the words I never did envision I would say twice in my lifetime.
"I, take thee, to wed," I say. The priest blesses us and opens the door for Nuptial Mass, to the relief of our frozen kinsfolk. I have done it. At this moment, I have become Elizabeth Wydeville, and with that, I am no longer Elizabeth Bourchier, and I have completely lost Henry and that part of my life. Anthony and I link arms. We walk into the church together, husband and wife, Lord and Lady Scales- we walk together, into our future.
"Now, these are my kinsfolk, the Hautes and the Fogges." Anthony points down the table to a line of inconspicuous faces hidden behind mounds of tartlets, jellies, and sugar confections. I nod, sipping the hippocras from our wedding chalice, placing it down again. The table flows with goblets, the wine in them of which was sent from my new uncle by marriage, Louis, the Comte of St. Pol, all the way from Luxembourg.
"None of your lady mother's illustrious relations could be present?" I note however, thinking to my previous wedding, and all the Dukes and Duchesses there.
"No," Anthony shakes his head, and lowers his eyes a little, flushing, "This wine is the best we shall receive from them. They still do not hold my mother in such quite high esteem since her marriage to my father." His face holds an obstinate expression, and I pat his arm, feeling rather offended myself. I am clearly of no such importance to those overseas relations that it is worth them making the journey for our nuptials. If Anthony were marrying an Empress, I bet they would be on the first ship hither. I know how damaged the Wydevilles' pride is already after I feared him dead when he was captured by the Yorkists earlier this year, when Edward belittled him- calling his father nothing better than a squire and a knave to go and marry such a lady of nobility. What a tumultuous year for Anthony. When he languished in Calais, did he ever foresee he would still take my hand in marriage, that some slight fortune would come his way?
Anthony's thoughts also appear to have turned to this said incident. "I shall return the honour to our name since that whoreson dared say this of our family at Calais. I shall also try and make you, my wife, proud to give me your good Father's title, and restore the name of Scales to honour too." His colouring deepens a little, and I incline my head, grateful that he would say such a thing, but also to muster my composure; for I know not how to speak of Edward- My Lord of March-, I should not be so familiar. I must forget his intentions to me. I murmur in sympathy, wishing our wedding feast conversation were of a gayer nature.
He turns to me, eyes narrowed slightly. "Was he not a kinsman of yours from your first marriage?" I gulp, and I feel my blood run. I endeavour to remain perfectly still and calm, the sound of the minstrels' merry tunes fading around me. This is not what I wish to talk of.
"Yes," I say, licking my lips, "I was in his company but a few times. Henry and he were not close." I glance at Elizabel, sat with lowered eyes next to me, for Anthony has probably not realised who she is; not just a de Vere, but also a wife of a Bourchier, a Yorkist wife, and York cousin. Anthony's frown dissipates, and a sunny smile warms his face again, although slightly cloudy. He mayhap is thinking of my other husband, a good few years his senior, whom he feels he must live up to. He takes my hand to his lips and kisses it, sending a shiver down my spine.
"I have the loveliest of wives," he says quietly, in his shy manner. It as though he wants to stress that I am his wife, and Henry is of the past. I wonder how he feels, knowing that I am the widow of a Yorkist? Is he perfectly alright with my widowed state, and I am not a young virgin coming to his bed tonight? 'Tis strange to comprehend that we are truly husband and wife- and not just children as Henry and I were. This is more official. Anthony's father Richard clears his throat, standing before us on the dais.
"The dancing is about to commence," he says, for the tables, once leaden with countless dishes of duck, swan, quail, pork, chicken are completely gone; the only lingering scent is of nutmeg and caraway from the sauce-grimed dishes. The pages are taking oysters in almond milk to the peasant folk on the trestle tables far below, having not gone down too well.
"Good good," Anthony says, pulling at my hand to rise, reaching out for some of the leftover marzipan.
"Oh, Anthony, I wished to talk with my cousin Elizabel," I say, a tad regretfully.
"Which lady?" He frowns. "Can she not wait? I wish to dance with my wife."
"The lady who has been seated to the left of me through the course of this hour," I say patiently, and he turns back to look at Elizabel, staring listlessly into a half-nibbled cut of goose.
"Oh, that is Elizabel."
"Look, the minstrels shall play for hours." I lower my voice, eyes darting downwards, "We shall spend the entire night together after." I have tried to give not too much thought to this. There follows a pause, and I snap my fingers at the first wench scurrying past me, plump but pretty enough.
"Pray, what be your name?"
She turns, freezing. "Gwenllian Stradling, M'Lady," she stammers, curtseying to us both hastily. I presume she must be some obscure relation of Anthony's, for her voice is heavily accented, and sounds Welsh, and I doubt any of my Whalesborough or Raleigh Cornish kinsfolk here have any Welsh relations.
"Anthony, partner your kinswoman. I am sure she shall be honoured," I say, nudging him. Anthony's eyes are widened as if with some slight horror, as are Gwenllian's. Mayhap they are not especially friendly cousins, but I must talk with mine. I turn to Elizabel, who has begun to rise, and steel her to a corner of the Great Hall here, festooned with flowers and early Christmastide boughs, for 'tis the eleventh day of December. There are fine French tapestries on every wall belonging to Jacquetta, and we stand beside one of these, every thread glimmering with silky lustre, after being beaten down to make the best impression on our guests.
Elizabel sighs and her shoulders slump, and I put my hand on one.
"What ails you so greatly?" She should be rejoicing, for the Yorks are rising, sure to win the upcoming battle against Marguerite d'Anjou and the unruly Scottish troops she has gathered, and the Bourchiers have had their attainder reversed in Parliament. Mayhap it was a bad idea to invite her, a remnant of my past life. This is my day, and I want to be selfish and have a romantic tryst all to myself, but what sort of person should I be not to care for her, to recognize the widening world about us and the cataclysmic events in it?
"William!" she bursts out, tears in her eyes. I think back to their wedding day three years gone, and bite my lip; for ever did I feel a sense of foreboding for my sweet-headed cousin that day. I know it must be awful for her, having lost her baby through miscarriage, and it seems she has been unable to conceive again, as if our fates were linked and intertwined. She does not wait for me to press further.
"I detest him! He surely detests me also. I have heard him call me a Lancaster... whore, and he treats me ill." Her lip wobbles, and my heart does miss a beat.
"What do you imply?" I half-whisper, but the look in her eyes tells all, and I swallow, squeezing her shoulder again.
"He gambles away all our money, he is barely at our manor- he is off at another whorehouse. Even the Lady Isabel despairs at his waywardness." She sniffs, her poor innocence tainted with such horrors. "Lizzie," she takes my hands, "I can bear it no longer. I am the most sinful of wives for saying I wish to run away." I blink. She trembles further. My Elizabel, entertaining such a wild gesture? William must treat her so, so ill, as if I did not hold him in contempt already, and now even more so. How can he treat Elizabel thus, the truest, steadfast, most faithful of wives?
"Could there be an annulment?" I murmur, even though I know they have consummated the marriage and 'twould be nigh impossible.
"'Twould disgrace my name," she whispers, "I am dying anyhow," she laughs bitterly.
"Forsooth, what do you mean by that?" Slowly, her hand dives into the pocket of her drooping gown, and she produces a white handkerchief. She unfolds it, small square after square, revealing a blossoming scarlet rose of Lancaster blood in the centrepiece seeping outwards. I stare at it, muffling my cries and the horror churning inside of me. I throw myself upon her into a fierce embrace. We are not the most especially close of cousins, but I cannot lose her. I have lost so much already.
My wedding is a rather sombre affair, and I am much dispirited after my talk with Elizabel, even more so after I exchange conversation with Eleanor and our brusque Cornish cousins, who talk of my Mother, lodging a lump in my throat. They talk of her when she was youthful and gay and all her virtues. Whispers follow me, as many talk of my Father's death, and I come across a grim conversation betwixt Anthony's kinsmen whether they should prefer to use a rondel dagger or axe to slice the Yorkists to pieces on the battlefield. All in all, I am most nauseous, my head is spinning – mayhap partly due to the strong wine, and I am befuddled of Anthony's whereabouts.
I dance- I twirl Kate about until she is fair exhausted, and I see Margaret making sheep's eyes at Aubrey de Vere, which fondly reminds me of my coy glances at John Howard in my youth. I dance with Jacquette, Bess, and their husbands, exchanging dull conversation about our manors as though we were a group of elderly gossips, talking of their fine but precocious sons, indeed. I quieten at this point, for I do feel some pressure on me to provide the Wydeville heir- in many years to come, Baron Rivers and Scales of Newcelles- unless we are to split the titles if we have more than one son? I was not even listening when the priest read aloud my jointure earlier, and I have not talked so far into the future with Anthony. I must cease being so light-headed at times. I have so much responsibility now. I am not just a girl; I am a woman who can talk about her crop yield with her sisters-in-law. Sisters-in-law. I am actually married. I doubt our crop yield will provide enough income to finish the repairs to Middleton. Mayhap we shall go back to Newcelles after sojourning at Grafton, and resume the family seat there after many years, making the name included in my title worthwhile.
"Anthony!" I cry, whirling about in a jig as he walks up to me, "There you are. Where have you been?"
"The garderobe," he says breezily, and I smile awkwardly.
"Look, you have been gone so long that Neddy and Kate over there have fallen asleep," Anne laughs, pointing to them curled by the fire, faces sticky with jam.
Anthony yawns too, stepping towards me. "Mayhap 'tis time we retired too." Anne raises her eyebrows.
The minstrels are by now, playing out of tune, deafening us all. Despite the sombre apprehensiveness, a good number are addled from our party, laughing merrily as we all hasten up to Anthony's bedchamber. I can hear my heart begin to thrum. Anthony is truly my husband now. And I must lie with him. I know what must occur now- shall this be as painfully gauche as my first time with Henry as a child? Does he mind that I have lain with another man- indeed, has he had... improper relations with anyperson, or is he a virgin? Dear God, he must know what he must do...? Of course, Anthony would, he is far too cheeky, and the bawdy talk about me makes me blush. My back is aching under my stiff garments, as I lift up my skirts, pull off my garter, and throw it to the crowd. Bess catches it laughingly, her husband chuckling too.
I have felt rather strange about lying with another man besides Henry, it feels somewhat like a sin. Anthony is my husband by law, I remind myself, and there is nothing improper about it. We are actually married. I am Anthony's wife. I have re-married, and we should produce an heir. What if we do this very night? What if I miscarry again...?
Anthony is flustered and somewhat quiet, for 'tis rather mortifying that all these grinning people know what we are about to, what we must do.
A page and one of Jacquetta's maids come to undress us, and most of the party shifts away, the screeching minstrels, thank the Lord, accompanying them. Anthony is trying to usher away Jacquetta and Richard, and cuffs Johnny over the air for what I presume was a lewd comment. I climb into the bed, already blessed by the priest, sprinkled with holy water and rose petals, which emit a heady, fragranced scent. I pat down the topaz coverlet, feeling very much alone, for there is no one for me to converse with, although I am becoming rather amiable with Anne. The door finally shuts. I blink. Anthony is garbed just in his long white linen night robe.
"Would you care for the rest of our wedding ale?" he says, holding our chalice, emblazoned with our initials intertwined in silver knots: A.W + E.S. As if my life as Elizabeth Bourchier never existed. Except I am E.W now, I am Elizabeth Wydeville, a wife, a whole new person, a new identity, a Lancastrian wife. He walks over without my response, sliding smoothly under the coverlet. I feel his leg brush against mine, and I shiver.
"Are you nervous, Lyzbeth?" he says, using the pet name he has begun to adopt for me. I turn to him, realising I was most probably quaking. The candles emit our only light about us, creating a dark and mysterious rippling effect in his eyes, like pools of sultry ambers.
"Think you that I am nervous? Why, I am a Scales by birth," I say, sipping the hippocras he passes me, warmed by the fire, light, dewy, rolling down my throat such as honey syrup, "I am not scared of this." He has looked at me appreciatively over the last weeks, but we have enjoyed one another's company as friends, learning about each other, rather than acting as a husband and wife. For I am scared. I responded to Henry most uncomfortably, in truth. How can I tell Anthony that my viewpoint of the male sex has been marred still by William's advances, and more recently, knowing what he has done to Elizabel, and the knowledge of my Father's misdemeanours, and the cruel things a man can do to a woman? How can I trust a man, after this, and Henry's betrayal with pretty Kitty?
Anthony appears unconvinced. He gently prises the cup from my tight little hands, placing it on the floor. He turns to me on his side, cupping my face in his hands.
"Lyzbeth, think you that I would hurt you? I have heard that some men treat their wives as such- but I can assure you that will not be me. I truly think I can profess myself to be in love with you." My eyes widen. "You are my wife, and I am very glad to have found such a lady as you." He looks at me intently, before reaching forward to kiss me, a taste of which is thrice thousand times full of fiery liquid, burning like warmed hippocras. He brushes a wisp of hair from my face as I try to catch back my breath.
"You shall never have to be scared, Lyzbeth. I declare myself your knight- I shall protect you. Always." And with that, we do proceed to kiss again.
The next morrow, having woken up to find Anthony not beside me, I slip Anthony's discarded mantle over my night robe and hurry down the stairs, enveloped in his scent about my smaller person. 'Tis a little improper, but no one shall be beholden to the glorious frowsy sight of me with a holly bush for hair other than my own new kinsfolk, a gaggle of children. I reach the Great Hall. I expect to see Anne and Rick rolling their eyes as Anthony grins cheekily over something or other, Jacquetta smiling, but all the children are sat, barely touching their porridge. My heart misses a beat, as I try to cordially greet them in my undressed state, eyes roaming over the table.
"Where is Rick, and My Lord Richard? Where- where is Anthony?" They all cast their eyes upon me as my voice trembles.
Jacquetta swallows. "I am sorry, Lyzbeth, they were called upon at first light to join the King's army."
I blink. "What? No!" I stare, barely able to form words. "How can Anthony have left without saying farewell?" Without saying farewell. Without saying farewell. To join the King's army. King's army. I clutch my stomach. I want to run and throw myself upon my bed, but I am older, married, a Baroness, and the children have already looked up at my distressed tone, as if they expected me to have some more composure as an older lady. I place myself on the nearest chair, drawing Anthony's mantle about me, seeking some comfort in his scent, as if I could will him back home.
My mouth is dry. How can he have done so? Of course, it could not be helped the Wydeville men were called to arms. Mayhap he did not want to worry me with men's business- I have known him not long, but I know he is too self-assured. He is naïve, he still believes in romance and knights and battles more as sport than bloodshed. He believes he will return unscathed, yet my experience with men and battles forbids me to be of the same mind. What if Anthony dies, or is wounded, and we only just having wed? Or, am I with child from last night and I miscarry, or they grow up to be fatherless? What if last night will be the last I ever see him alive? And we had no final farewell, the husband so quickly cherished and lost? Oh, why did he not wake me? I do desire to tell him how very much I do love him. He is the husband I romanticized as a child, my true match- oh forgive me this, Henry. He is chivalrous, handsome, tall, trustworthy, astute, and clever, bursting to the brim with energy despite his impudent ways and young hot-headedness. Last night, when he did promise to protect me, I thought I would swoon, and with my four and twenty years. Dismally, I realise in less than three months I shall be five and twenty. I am so old compared to this dashing young man, who must return to me. He has to. He shall not fall in battle.
It appears that Anthony knows and has judged my character all too well in so little time, for when I go to my new bedchamber- our bedchamber now, for before I was in Anne's so 'twas not unseemly before we were truly wedded, I found this said note in my gown:
Lyzbeth, my dearest, I knew that you would choose this gown. You always choose the colour of your attire to match your feelings. You are angry that I did not say farewell to you before I left. You feel that I should, that I was heartless, uncaring, that last night meant naught to me, that I was a coward, mayhap? Lyzbeth, my dearest wife, I beg of you not to view others' actions as betrayals, or devised to inflict hurt upon you. Accept my difference in protecting your best interests, for I know I shall return, and I know no number of embraces nor kisses would make my parting less painful to you; it mayhap, indeed heightens it. I shall have ripped out the Earl of March's heart when I come back, and defended our honour, dearest. Make merry on Christmastide. Mayhap there will be a Christmas truce, or a treaty of peace, and polishing my armour will have been for naught. Yours, your loving Anthony.
But Anthony did polish his armour for a cause. On the last day of the year, fourteen hundred and sixty, a year that has brought me so much pain, a messenger fights his way through the blizzard. A battle was fought at Wakefield, in Yorkshire, the day before, he relates. That mighty man, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, and his second son, the boy Edmund, Earl of Rutland, were slaughtered, and their heads sit on the spikes of a bridge, adorned with paper crowns. Lancaster has won; the Duke is dead, and fortune's wheel has irrevocably turned once again.