Chapter XXX: November 1460
Scales Hall, Norfolk, England
"I will take thee to wed."
Anthony and I spoke those words, this binding promise, to one another this morrow, before the sun had even risen, and the dew had even dried. We have been betrothed on the most auspicious of days; All Hallows' Day. We both fully know well what we are marrying into- and marrying for. We know that our future lies under the Duke of York- the future King Richard, it seems to be so. For we rose from our beds this morning to find a messenger awaiting with a proclamation. An Act of Accord has passed in Parliament. Indeed, a couple of weeks afore, they conferred my title, issued me with letters patent, and now I am truly Baroness Scales. The Act of Accord states than when His Grace, King Henry dies, My Lord of York himself will be his heir! The Prince Edward is to be disinherited just like so- I cannot comprehend how this is even possible.
So, the Duke has finally achieved his ultimatum- all the Lords of the land agreed to his eventual succession, as they studied his pedigree, professing his ancestors' claim should not have been bypassed in the first place; the Lancastrians are usurpers. King Henry is descended from the third King Edward's son, but his third child. Once the lineage of the first child had died out, namely Richard II, the crown should have passed to the children of Edward's second child, but these were bypassed, because the second child was a woman, and they were too young, and the Lancasters had already deposed Richard off his throne. How many of the staunch Lancastrians did agree to this Act of Accord, I wonder, or whether there was any such bribery? Mayhap they just want to refill their coffers and end any more bloodshed.
Is it so bad of me, that when I said those words, that pledge to Anthony, I thought of Henry? I know he is gone, and he would expect me to, but would he forgive me for marrying another? Never did I envision that I would pledge myself again, that Henry would die, when I said those words, these same words, to him one and ten years gone. That many? I remember that I was so giddy and green- and all the silly folly when William tried to stop Henry and me from being wed with his accusations of us knowing one another carnally. I snort sadly, for it all seems so trivial and silly, so childish and flighty of us all, when now we are grown, and know true heartbreak, when it is all about us, as the stonemasons chip away, effigy after effigy. I wonder what would have happened if the allegations had been taken in all seriousness, and we had been prohibited to marry. Henry might have entered the church and still been alive. Would I have still found my path with Anthony?
I recall being attired in a new gown- there is nothing first-hand for me today, although I am attired in one of my finest gowns, of deep sapphire, in heavy damask with a fleur-de-lys pattern. Oh, how scandalously French! 'Tis My Lady Mother's gown. Indeed, 'tis chilling almost to wear what she once did, and slightly out of fashion, but all my own garments were in gay colours, and she wore it but once when it was fitted. Despite it being mine and Anthony's betrothal ceremony, a time to celebrate, how could I wear emerald or river blue, the typical colours of brides, when I have lost so much? I look closer at the pattern of roses, and I see them wilt, wilting for Lancaster, and the hope lost. My train is fairly long and furred, sitting at my feet like a small mink dog as I sit hunched over my account books. It may be the day of my betrothal, but I have much to sort out and show to Anthony. He must take on the joint responsibility of caring for my Barony. 'Tis strange I will only have a short time to be a Baroness independently, but it is unthinkable to live unwed at my age. Mayhap he can ease the burden, guide me through.
My headdress, which sits next to me, is studded with iridescent diamonds and covered in a latticed pattern, a short black veil hanging from the fabric coils. My sleeves are pinned back with the hairpins from this monstrosity, which does resemble a large pheasant on my head, revealing an ink stained hand. Upon my hand, is a scarlet droplet refracting in the weak sunlight, casting glittering beams which somehow, sickeningly resemble blood and the weeping Lancaster petals. My ring is steeped in blood; our marriage is through the war.
Through this war, had Henry had lived, his mother would have been the King's sister, his father the Viscount, the Treasurer of England, but now I am York's enemy, I am marrying Anthony, preparing to switch allegiance on the outside. Despite the fact we Lancastrian families will fall out of favour, when York is rising, I still agreed to marry Anthony. I know I will be content with him as Henry and I could never have been, for we grew too far apart. I know my future with Anthony will not be prosperous, when Henry and I would have had lands and titles thrown at us like toys in a nursery, but I must do what my Father wished, despite how aggrieved I am with him. The Wydevilles have been my family's friends for a long time, I know I shall be making a good alliance; I do not have to face the enormity of tying myself to complete strangers.
I have received many proposals, both Yorkist and Lancastrian, for apparently, I have found myself one of the most eligible heiresses in the realm presently. From younger sons of Earls, to widowers in their dotage, to my kinsmen offering up their spotty youths, all probably most eager to beget themselves with a title. I, with the guidance and patronage of the Earl of Oxford to advise me as my kinsman, could have wed myself to any of them, even Earl John's own boys! But if I had not been promised to Anthony, I have the rare freedom of having some say in who I marry; I have no interfering uncles or aunts to bend me to their will. I could have, if he was not jesting, even married Edward, the Earl of March! I could have become the future Queen of England... Yet I chose filial obedience for once and the cause my Father died for- I wed Anthony for this. The negotiations are all sealed. Anthony shall take my Father's title as Lord Scales, jux uxoris. In right of his wife. This is my title, I hold the power.
Indeed, Anthony is his own man. He is strong, he can command, but my senior years to his cause a form of hero-worshipping and utmost respect for his 'lady'. He looks to me for advice, wisdom, patronage, whilst he makes me feel younger and giddy away from the new level-headed demeanour I have adopted through the sorrow, the turbulent events storming on around us, and coping with my new status. He is handsome, charming, devilish, a poet indeed, and I am witty, cunning, and have fallen hopelessly for him and those radiant looks, although he argues that I am the most radiant:
"You are so very beautiful!" he said when we returned from the ceremony, for we shall have no large feast. He helped me down from my horse as I blushed, his physique, beginning to grow muscular, pressing into mine. "Truly, Elizabeth. My sister Elizabeth- Bess, we call her, is remarkable, if I may say so, but I indeed believe that there may be some competition!"
I have abandoned my account books, yawning, to peer in the looking glass before me. I have pale skin, but there are a couple of pockmarks and a scattering of freckles wearing away from childhood summers. My lips are not full and reddened, but my eyes I may deem acceptable, large, expressive, a piercing stormy grey, think I, like seaweed, although my best feature is my hair, tumbling dark golden corn still. I suppose my figure is shapely enough, I think, turning the glass from side to side, although my waist is not small, but-
"My wife is vain." Anthony startles me, lounging against the doorway with that insatiable smile of his. The last time I saw him before we ratified the arrangements for our marriage was nigh on a year ago, when he escorted me from Ludlow. While we had got to know one another fairly well, and I had dreamed of us being united all this time, I am now faced with the reality of getting to know someone who is in truth- still a stranger, yet my husband-to-be. There is much for us to learn about one another, to make a harmonious marriage.
"I am not your wife yet," I say in a mocking, stern tone, hastily shutting the drawer with a guilty leap of my heart and shutting away the dancing words Katherine de Scales on the paper before me. I lower my eyes.
He strides over. "Soon," he says, picking up a lock of my bare hair. I shiver suddenly as his oak-coloured eyes fixate on me, and I pull my hair over my other shoulder, snatching it away, hastily plaiting it to his protests.
"I am not your wife yet," I repeat, my fingers slipping, and I must have some sort of authority about me, for he complies to me always. But how can I also explain to him thus: that I cannot dally with him as I have heard in the romances of troubadours because of memories of William leering at me on my last wedding day? At feeling some sort of betrayal towards Henry when I am still legally his widow and bear his name, and I am averse to such relations after uncovering the knowledge of what my Father did to Bessie... Bessie...
"Elizabeth, when I rescued you from Ludlow, your head was quite bare then. There is no need to be ashamed of me seeing you as such, I will for the rest of my life." He moves around me, and I feel my neck prickle. Anthony is always very matter-of-fact in his own quiet way. I cannot quite believe it was a year ago- I feel like I have grown rather older in that space of time, since both Mother and Father passed. I have contemplated at times whether they reached Heaven.
"Yes, but..." How can I curb my eager young lion? Aha! I turn to him, placing my hands on his. "I always knew I would be married to you," I admit, for it is a thought I have possessed for a while now. His face contorts into a small, soft frown, and I see the flecks of hazel in his eyes shining like the bronze leaves outside.
"Pray, tell me," he says, kneeling down beside me. He pushes my chair away and I fall with a squeal onto the Persian carpet, surrounded by all my skirts with my hair still flowing, a mysterious mer-creature on her rock reaching for her sailor with his tousled chestnut hair. I like the way we are sat together, on the floor so simply, as friends. And so, I relate to him the story of the day my little brother Thomas died...
"And so, my Mother snapped at me, 'Not you, little Elizabeth Wydeville' and I repeated that name over and over in my head. Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville, Elizabeth Wydeville. She said, 'not you', but little did we all know that one day I would be Elizabeth Wydeville." I trail off, Anthony's eyebrows raising in surprise, the impact of my own words hitting me. That name echoed in my head all these years- little did I know that fate was telling me that it was my own name, my destiny to become that person. Mayhap I was never meant to find true happiness with Henry after all. I smile warmly at Anthony, squeezing his hand, for there could be nothing so more auspicious as this to tell me this is the right path to embark on. In just forty days, on a cold December morrow, I shall not be Elizabeth de Scales. I shall not be Dame Elizabeth Bourchier. I shall be Elizabeth Wydeville- Elizabeth Wydeville, Baroness Scales.
*****
Anthony returned to the family home of the manor at Grafton, or as some may call it after their family name, Grafton Wydeville, earlier this month, where he commenced arranging the niceties of our wedding. 'Twas to be held here, at Middleton, but with the building works in abandonment as I scrape the coffers for a suitable dowry as suggested by my kinsfolk- how should I know such matters?- and the question of his sizeable family making the journey hither, we decided 'twould be best to marry at the church there. A plain and simple affair, for all the money I can put aside to spare is being stored in the event that Anthony must raise troops, armour, and weapons to fight. Queen Marguerite, having heard of how her son has been disinherited, is apparently marching with forces from Scotland or the like, to challenge the Duke once and for all. I pray for the fighting to desist. I do not want to lose Anthony through death or by wounds, or to see him hasten away so soon, for the same cause my Father died for, yet my Yorkist heart is turncoat to. The Duke is Lord Protector of England thrice more- the King is rumoured to have fallen to more insanity- so the Duke rules through him, pulling his strings on his puppet King.
I pine for Anthony. I have seen Kateren and Agnes admitted as novice nuns at nearby Blackborough Priory. 'Twas sad to see the woman who cared for my Mother in such earnest all these years go- some of the only other people left with memories of her. Dame Alice Erle, the Lady Abbess, kindly accepted as their dowries the pensions my Mother left them, and I shall see the Priory is well endowed as part of my duty of Lady of Middleton. So, I am left to wonder the frost-stiffened gardens alone, and huddle in my furs at the banks of the frozen moat, and the ponds, cast solitary eyes through glazed windows to the fog in the air. I sit by the fire writing letters as a rain trickles down, my gloomy old Norfolk.
Every hour or so, as I rest my hand totalling up more struggling numbers, I will gaze upon the record from an account book so tattered and faded, of four and twenty years. Bequest- Katherine, dau of Lord Scales. A best goblet, cover silver and gilt; a silver pot, a best bed with sheets, and all trappings etc. Also, a primer. Every time I do read these words, I feel my fist clench and a sense of despair instil itself in my core. How? Why? Oh how? I wonder if Katherine still has these said most generous gifts? If she still reads from her Primer- mayhap identical to the one bequeathed to me, which I still have in my possession to this day, in these registers, not a ten month afore?
I have spent tedious days poring over them, searching for any further gifts to her, or any more bastard children. Mayhap my Father sired children he knew not himself? You should not speak ill of the dead nor feel malice toward their persons, but when I see the dealings with her marriage to Sir Thomas Grey, a sense of despair enfolds me in its clutches. He could have not told me of her? Bessie could have. Secret, all these years... I could have danced at her wedding. Would I have incurred my Mother's malice? Why did she never tell me of Katherine either? And confess it as a grave secret once she was gone from this world? To protect her pride? Father's honour? My anger shall stew, but what is done is done; they are both gone from me, I am a woman grown, and I am only left to wonder if my Father danced at her wedding. If he loved her as a daughter. If he loved her more than I. Soon, mayhap I shall know. For I sent Bessie to meet with her.
I still cannot believe Bessie's betrayal- but I have learnt my lesson- I must somehow try to show forgiveness towards her. I could not keep Bessie by my side any longer, despicable images conjuring in my head. I tossed some coins at her and told her begrudgingly to well- crudely- piss off to Katherine's abode for all I care naught, which was very uncouth of me, but I was grief-stricken. I pray she has gone to see Katherine. To see her daughter. I want to meet her. There is something inside my person, which compels me to know who she is. She is my sister, even if a bastard, and only of the half-blood, and begot in cruel and lewd circumstances. I am curious and sickened to think of a woman, half Bessie's, half of my Father. Who does she favour? She is the last link to my Father- did she mourn his horrid death as I did, or even know of it? We are so sordidly close in age, widowed each. Has she ever thought of me- she must know of my existence? Did she ever know of our brother Thomas? Our. Does she know my Mother died?
I am angered by her existence, but there is a part of me that would love to know her, my own sister, mayhap even share a small part of my inheritance with her, for I feel as though I owe her something for never having been privy to her life. To denying her blood as a de Scales. I am unsure of how Bessie and I shall ever resume our companionship, but I hope she finds comfort in meeting her daughter, so long apart.
I draw my thoughts back into my muddle of a mind as hoof beats clatter over the drawbridge. Hastily, I run to my bedchamber and cram on a headdress, for in my solitude, no person shall see my appearance- I can be free, wild, and lay sprawled on the floor with the books of Camelot and the chronicles of past Kings spread about me, as if I were a girl again. Yet I know that I am not. I hurry downstairs, wondering if 'tis the Pastons come to dine again, a messenger, a kinsman arrived early for my coming wedding. Instead- 'tis my new soon-to-be mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess of Bedford, or My Lady Rivers. I think of my other mother-in-law, Lady Isabel, and compare the two. They are both wise, but one is fair, one is dark; one is foreign, one is English. There are both of noble blood and know their position- Isabel is grander, but has a motherly nature, and is shyer and more diplomatic in nature. Whereas Jacquetta, as she insists I call her, is humbler, still proud, but with more of an allure, dancing eyes, and an amiable, chatty nature. Both are closely related to kings- but on opposing sides.
"Do not bother with niceties. We are all family here," she says, straightening her skirts. I am stood on the bottom step of the stairs. I wonder if I look like an imposing lady of the manor, reserved, with authority, or a just a mere girl still? I step down, and the girl beside Jacquetta smiles at me.
"You are Anne?" I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.
Her brown eyes ignite. "Indeed, I am! Has my brother Anthony told you of us all?"
"Many a time," I say, for Anthony has mentioned his abundance of siblings to me. I only guessed it to be Anne for the person before me is blossoming from youth to woman- and I know of her to be one of Jacquetta's elder daughters. She could not be the fabled Bess-because she has a comely nature. Her flaxen hair is somewhat dull, like a ruddy haystack, and she is not especially slender- her cotehardie does not help but accentuate this with its shapeless cotton form- but there in all the Wydevilles, mirrored from Jacquetta, is the glint, glimmer, flash, dazzle in their eyes and that devilish smile which makes them all so enchanting.
"I hope we shall be good friends as well as sisters," she says sweetly, and I smile back.
"We have come to escort you to Grafton with us, for your wedding is upon us," Jacquetta says. I smile upon her too, but not so easily. Her two eldest daughters are married, but she has kept her heir, Anthony, waiting. They chose me, even though my Mother doubtless related to Jacquetta when they were both in service to Marguerite of Anjou the sorry fates of my pregnancies, and they expect of me a Wydeville heir provided. Does Anthony know of this? What if I cannot, and I miscarry again? Jacquetta has twelve of these beguiling children alive- yet what of me? Concealing my discomfort, I ask them genially if they would care for refreshments, and we enter the solar together, goblets in hand.
*****
Grafton Wydeville, Northamptonshire, England
Before me are eight beaming, slightly wary faces.
"Bess and Jacquette shall arrive with their husbands in due course," Anne remarks to me. 'Tis a couple of days later and I am standing before all the Wydeville children in residence at Grafton. 'Tis a pretty village, not as cold as Norfolk, which I am thankful for. Their manor is not large nor with many storeys or turrets, and a couple of the children share rooms together, but it is homely, and the hearth is busy, and there is chatter, laughter. 'Tis the physick I need from my lonely days at Scales Hall, and to fill the emptiness at losing my Mother, as I gain a new one, and the bitter sorrow of my Father's death and what he left me with. Anne may seem just a sweet-headed girl, but she has a stern, business-like manner of authority also about her; as eldest at home, she probably keeps the Wydeville brood in check.
"My brothers; Rick, Johnny, Lionel, and Neddy." She gestures in turn. Rick and Johnny are younger, carved versions of Anthony, although darker in looks; Lionel, who is intended for the church, reminds me painfully of my young Henry with his stern frown and upright stance, and Neddy is just a young boy, typically disinterested and boisterous. Another John and Edward, just like Henry's younger brothers John and Edward. Another generation.
"And these are my sisters." Anne turns again.
"Mary-" A young girl but with mature looks for her small years, a fine set of pearly teeth and thin chestnut hair.
"Joan-" As disinterested as Neddy, with a sullen look about her, I must admit, the least handsome of the brood with her sharper jawline and thinner eyes.
"Kate-" The youngest, a girl of but, say four, peers up at me from underneath a silken fringe, sucking her thumb. Her round eyes instantly do earn a place in my heart.
"And Margaret." Anne says her name with a slight tut of disapproval. The maiden before me is as slender as a reed of corn crop, wearing a v-shaped gown cut low in flimsy satin, reddened lips, and a snobbish look of disdain in her tilted head.
"You are my sisters and brothers too," I say in earnest, and they soon begin to converse with me. Kate sits in my lap in a chair by the fire, the other children kneeling, crouched about me, badgering me with questions for 'Anthony's new wife'. It is a relief that they have warmed to me. Margaret even releases her pursed lips and Lionel even beams from what I assume is his adopted stern countenance. It is thus that Anthony finds me, telling them enigmatically of King Arthur, wielding the children's dolls. He sidles up to Anne and Rick, hovering by the door, too old for legends, muttering to themselves. I flush a little, as Anthony stares at me admiringly, lit up like a golden angel by the fire. He does not have to know that I think of these children as all the Isabels who never lived, the Florences and Elizabeth Tylneys I lost, the sisters and brothers I never played with, the mother who never read to me. I shall read to them. I shall protect and cosset them, my new family.
"They have taken to her," Anthony remarks, but his voice carries.
"She has a charm," Rick remarks in his gruff voice, almost grudgingly.
"Do not start lusting after her, brother!" I lower my eyes and almost stumble in my story-spinning, memories of William whirling back to me.
"No, no, Anthony, Rick is correct. I see it too. She shall make a good wife," Anne says. I bow my head a little at their talk, cheeks warming.
"She shall," Anthony agrees dreamily. I gaze up at that moment to catch his smile, warmed by the fire. I have known these children less than an hour, but somehow, I feel so very much already at ease, at home, and so very happy to become Elizabeth Wydeville.