Chapter XXXII: March 1461
Newcelles and Barkway, Hertfordshire, England
After we rode away from the city gates, I found myself conveniently placed to visit my Hertfordshire manors, having no desire to return with Jacquetta to serve with the Queen, the Duchess of Buckingham having also returned homeward. Although I would have been with Anthony, and it might have seemed most adventurous, I had no desire to flee with the Lancastrians away from London, with their savage Scottish mercenaries, and put myself through hardship. I could not contend being in Her Grace's presence also- although my Mother would have wished me to be of service to her, I would rather not try to make a friendship with that double-dealing she-wolf. I still fume from the way she abused us and lied to us.
I shall quietly celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday alone in a few days' time, on Lady Day, the official start of a new year. Mayhap the dispute over who should sit on the throne will then be resolved. I shall move from Newcelles to Barkway on the morrow. 'Tis nice to set affairs in order here and establish my position as lady of the manor, take on responsibility for my property. However, I feel sad that as I move into another year of my life, that I have no child still to pass these properties to, and the people who brought me into this bloodthirsty realm are now gone. In the manor that they spent so much time in, I expect to see my Father, but his image to me is shadowed in horror. I search for my Mother sometimes, expecting to see her face, to hear her voice, but realise that she isn't here, that she never will be again, and that there is just the emptiness that she left me.
I speculate over Katherine and Bessie. The thought of Bessie's secret that she bore, while she served me all those years. Did she resent me all this time, for being the daughter of a man, who in necessity, despoiled her future? In truth, I think the harshest truth I must deal with is the thought that she did not love me or care for me, when I thought she did, and once again in life friend has turned to foe. Everyone lies. They all lie... And where is she presently? Should I try to contact Katherine- my half-sister? Mayhap she despises me also? My family seems so far, for 'tis like Anthony and I are not truly wed, for I have not spent much time with him. What if we grow apart from each other in our absence? Was it a mistake not to go with him and the Lancastrian army, show myself as a loving wife?
I endeavour to keep in contact with the outside world. I write to Eleanor, and poor, poor sickly Elizabel, and to Katty, who informs me that her husband John Howard has mustered forces for the Yorkist army, and shall meet with them when they journey from London northward, for it appears that there shall be a decisive battle- Edward's army against the King and Queen's, in the coming weeks. Edward, the boy I knew, the young man whom proposed to me- what would my life have been like- I contritely wonder if becoming Elizabeth Wydeville was in my best interests- has been proclaimed as King Edward of York in the streets of London. From what information I receive here in my country manors, I believe that there has been some sort of procession and ceremony to declare this. He cannot pretend that he seeks only a just Council as his father did. This war is not about court favourites any more- was it ever?- it is about the rightful owner to the crown, the rightful lineage. Edward, Edward of course, for the present King's grandfather was a murdering usurper. I want Edward to win, to avenge the poor Duke, but I want Anthony to be safe too. Can I win both ways?
I have left Newcelles, having spruced the manor up and ordered new tapestries bearing mine and Anthony's ensigna entwined together alongside my Mother and Father's beside that, to put in the solar and Great Hall. A new start, marking my own small reign, in harmony with their memory. Barkway is but a short distance down the road, say a mile or so, and I do begin to wish Bessie was here to accompany me, and we could go back to matters how they were beforehand, confiding, jesting... but was it all falsehood? Did our friendship mean naught to her? I would indeed like to find myself a new companion, but how could I trust another? I wish even that Anne was here, for she is the loveliest sister-in-law, or my little Beth Tylney, lost to me now. Oh, how I wish I had children to cuddle and cosset when Anthony is not present!
Alas, there is no sign of a quickening in my womb, for my courses come again- my wedding night did not prove fruitful for the heir they all want, and the child I so desire to cover up the sadness inside of me, the holes Isabel, my two miscarried babes, Henry, my Mother and Father left. And Elizabel. For William sends me a curt note saying his wife has died, yet he could not go back to see her, for he is in the Yorkist army.
I lock myself in the bedchamber and slump to the floor, tears spilling all over it. I knew Elizabel was ill, but how could she die? She is-was so young. I always felt an instinct to protect her, my lovely, sweet, youthful cousin and sister-in-law. Yet she wasted away so unhappily, having miscarried the Bourchier heir, neglected by William, that fiend, who would not even leave the army as she lay on her deathbed. I wish that I could have gone to her, held her hand, and eased the pain. A wave of anger flows inside of me, for she was Isabel's pawn, Isabel's Lancastrian pawn in her game, and look how it ended. I try to remember her alive with joy, on her wedding night, not the pale girl at my own.
And there is no-one to hold me in their embrace as I weep, for I am quite alone here. No Bessie. No Mother. My Mother is gone, gone like Elizabel. We were two of the three Elizabeth Bourchiers, for Elizabeth was her proper Christian name. And now, the other Elizabeth is dead. I sit on the floor of my bedchamber against the door, a canker pressing against my chest. She is gone, so young, and Anthony is not here to make me smile and ease my pain.
There comes a knock upon the door, and I hasten to stand up, smoothing my skirts, sniffing still, and my face awfully red.
"My Lady, we would not trouble you but... the King's army is advancing," one of the maids, Blanche, says nervously.
I blink. "The King's army? Why, I thought they moved to Dunstable and then north to York?" Why would the army have turned around so suddenly, and how could they have moved so quickly?
Blanche flushes. "No, beg your pardon, I was referring to the Duke of York's army... called King Edward by the Londoners." Oh! So, he is so widely known as 'King' now, is that so? He is marching north, ready for battle with the Lancastrian army awaiting him there. I swallow. He is off to claim the crown, and he marches through Barkway on his path to it. Does he know I am in residence? Was there not another route? I move towards the window, at Blanche's gesture, and watch the oncoming mass of silver steel and armour, the weak sun reflecting off breastplates, and glossing the sweating coats of horses. The standard-bearer's flag bearing the Langley, Mortimer and York arms flutters in the gentle breeze, and there is a distant cry- 'À York! À York!'- a mumble which carries through all the hedgerows and under the heavy stamp of hoof beats. I see Edward, a miniscule bead to me, but a jewel of hope for the people, at the front of his army, noticeably tall above all others, even on horseback.
"Assure the villagers that they shall do no harm, and pass peacefully," I say, for I am sure Edward would not stoop so low.
"Think you that they shall not be like Queen Marguerite's army- they shall not loot?" There is little to loot here, I silently think, but assure Blanche they shall probably go by and not even bother us. We must let them pass, for what else could I do? Surely, they would not trouble us, even if they know this to be a Lancastrian de Scales residence. Surely, the Lancastrians would not expect me to try to hinder their path at all? Should I send word to Edward, for what if his army does pose a threat to the villagers, and myself and my household, and ask for a peace truce? I dry my eyes, and we bide our time, as the sky grows inky-black, and I curse my manor for being situated on the Great North Road.
As a couple of hours go by, it soon becomes clear that they have set up their camp about half a mile away on the large green expanse. The very cheek, or the honour, to have the Yorkist army encamped on my doorstep?
"There is naught we can do," I say, pressing my lips in a thin line, for I must remain outwardly Lancastrian to my household, even if they have Yorkist affiliations, lest the word gets back to my Wydeville family.
"Have you ever met the new King?"
"I hear he is handsome, with red-gold hair."
"Imagine if old mad Henry's army came here, and they fought!"
"Think of Barkway- with so many bloodied corpses strewn for miles away on end!"
"That is quite enough, girls," I reprimand Blanche, and her tittering younger sister Ellen, also in my household, as they serve me dinner, for I have no pages here. I am rather at ends- should I write to the Queen and Jacquetta concerning the army? They pull faces and mumble apologies, and are about to leave when I recall them.
"Girls, forgive my curtness. I am rather upset by news of my good friend the Lady Elizabel Bourchier's death. Mayhap you could stay with me awhile and dine, for I am in need of company and friendship. Ellen- fetch my lute. Blanche- fetch more wine, for we should try to make merry." They share glances at my request, but we manage to have a pleasant evening, and 'tis rather nice to create a friendship with them, even if I shall never be as close to them as I was to Bessie. I try to eat as much as I can, although, how can I? Everything is sour, even spiced twice over, because Elizabel is dead, and William is out there on that heath somewhere. I could march over and strangle him, or put poison in his morning ale for his treatment of her.
I am awoken by Blanche in the twilight hours, bending over me with a taper illuminating her bemused face.
"Forgive me for rousing you, but there is a wandering merchant come to beg for some ale, and to use the anvil for his horse." I mutter some unseemly words into my pillow, pull on an old cotehardie over my nightgown, comb my hair, splash my face with water, and hurry outside. What coxcomb fool comes-a-calling at this...hour. I stand frozen before this said 'merchant'.
"May my wish be granted, My Lady?"
"What, in God's name, are you doing here?" I snarl, locking the solar door behind me and leaning against it, ten minutes later, wrapping my arms about my shabby clothing.
He laughs. "Why are you never overjoyed to see me, Lizzie?" He swills from the goblet I have given him, lounging arrogantly across my chair.
"Because you should not be here!" I hiss, balling my fists, "'Tis improper. What would you have done had my servants known your countenance? What if word gets out that you visited me, a Lancastrian heiress?"
"'Twill not, Lizzie. Barely any person knows I am gone from camp."
"William told you I was here, did he?" I snap, pulling the goblet from him.
"Yes, when William's messenger came back today, he said he had travelled all the way to Norfolk, then Northamptonshire, before being directed here, to give you the letter concerning the sorry news concerning Elizabel. I hoped you would be here." He casts his soulful eyes at me. Whenever I am about his person, my blood seems to burn with fire- oh, how he irritates me with his arrogance, even if I believe he has more right to the throne of England, his swaggering confidence!
"Why? I am your enemy. I am married. I am of no consequence to you."
He falters. "You did marry the Wydeville boy. When the messenger said he had gone to Northamptonshire, I feared as much. I had to hear it from your own lips... that you were truly married to him."
"Yes, yes I did. Edward- My Lord- Your Grace, please collect your horse from my blacksmith, he shall be done now. The longer you stay, the longer we endanger ourselves. Elizabel is dead, let me grieve, I beg this of you." I whisper, and close my eyes, body slumping. "Why did you have to come here?"
He rises and walks toward me, and I stiffen, my chest going up and down. "If you had waited, I would have married you." I falter, and look up at him, mind a-whirl. He was not... jesting? He truly intended to marry me? Me? He is in... love with me? What a fool I am, we are alone; I am sure he means to take his last pleasure, as the only woman in the vicinity desirable enough, before he goes off to war.
"And I would become a widow in a few weeks. You will die, Edward, you will die on the battlefield." I swing the door open abruptly and hold it open. "Now go." I raise my eyebrows as if to question him, swallowing down threatening tears. He stiffens, drawing himself to his rather threatening height, looking as though he has swallowed horse dung.
"I shall be writing to Queen Marguerite to tell her-"
"That my army is advancing. It is perfectly alright, Lady Scales, I see where your loyalties lie." He strides out the door, leaving me standing there omitting shaky gasps. Oh, what have I just said? How could I be so cruel, even if 'tis dangerous for him to be here. If word got out... how could I ever face Anthony? But how can I have condemned him to death so wickedly? How could I say that, when his father and brother were killed but a scattering of months ago, so raw? I must assure him of my fealty to his cause, that if he were to die, I would be bereft. I reach for the table behind me, tear off a piece of parchment, scribble upon it, and run after him. I cannot leave matters between us like this. I cannot offend the future King, and my friend, for of course I pray that he wins.
He is mounted on his horse, his hood slung back up. He presses some coins into my hand, gesturing toward the blacksmith, and at the same time, I pass the note into his, heart thumping. He blinks. My eyes plead with him. He thanks me for his hospitality, and trots off down the path, the curious gaze of my blacksmith following him. Does he know he is- after all, what other man is as tall as him, standing at over six feet high? The note I had scribed told him the same news my messenger delivered to me yesterevening; that my cousin John Howard shall meet him at Cambridge with forces on the morrow. 'Tis the only way I can assure him my loyalty, to make up for the harsh words I dealt him, but he must understand my difficult position, torn between Lancaster and York.
Halfway down the path, he stops to turn around, and nods to me. It is gloomy, but I can just make out the look in his eyes, somehow softly saying 'thank you'. I smile back, and turn into my manor.
I wake up the next morrow full of confusion, and for the many days after that. We celebrate my birthday on Lady Day with a few revels to compensate for it being a quarter day, but there is a decisive hush about the village folk, for they believe that whoever wins this battle shall be King.
I dutifully wrote to Jacquetta and Her Grace to tell them that the army passed through and caused no harm. Doubtless, the Queen knew this from her spies, but I must appear loyal to both sides, overridden with guilt that I married into a prominent Lancastrian family with a wonderful husband, yet entertained their enemy and talked of marriage proposals with him. Why, Anthony wants to run a blade through him for how he slandered the Wydevilles in Calais! He knew what lay betwixt us... Nothing! There is naught. Edward is nothing to me. How I hate this war. How I hate the divide in my heart. Edward is my friend- or is he?- tricking me with this folly of me becoming his wife? Does he indeed, just desire to... bed me? Who do I trust? I just desire for this conflict to end.
I decide that I shall ride back to Grafton, so I can be nearer to York, whereabouts or near the battle shall supposedly be held. I need to be near, to hear news. What if Anthony dies in this battle, and we having only been together for one day of our marriage? Spare him, Edward, I think. Oh, spare him, Edward, spare him, please.