Chapter XXXIV: April 1461
Grafton, Northamptonshire, England
"Has the battle has been fought?"
"Who has won?"
"How long should it take for a messenger to come by?"
"Elizabeth, please," Anne finally says, leaning over to seize my hand, "Quit torturing yourself." She looks at me with half-opened lids, for I have been sitting in our shared bedchamber wondering aloud. I look at her guiltily for rousing her in the small hours of the morning- the first morning of April now- All Fools' Day. Deep down, she is just as worried as I am about the ongoing conflict, and it is unfair that I should show the younger girl my fears, when I should be looking after and consoling her.
"I cannot Anne, I cannot. I am sorry," I sigh. I have not slept one full night since Edward- oh that fiend!- came to me. I would hate for him to be killed and for the York cause to die with him, but what of Anthony? He cannot die either. He is my husband- I married him, not Edward, and I love Anthony. Forget the allure of becoming wealthy and favoured at court, I want us to grow into our dotage together with our children, with a quiet country baronage. All I desire is he, even battle-scarred. I would not really want to be a Duchess. I push aside thoughts of Anthony tragically dying, and Edward coming to claim me as his wife, his Queen, having triumphed against his enemy, as I chastise myself. I have a lovely homestead here at Grafton. I can start a proper, stable family. When Anthony returns.
"Elizabeth, try to rest." Anne's eyes look into mine, and I concede, lying down. My last thought is if King Henry shall fight, be slain in battle, or flee from it, before sleep evades me.
It seems not long after that Anne is frantically shaking my shoulders. Her eyes are widened and ablaze.
"Anne, what-"
"À York! À York! Edward the fourth, King Edward of York!" I blink, sitting up in bed and staring out the window. I let out shaky gasps, my chest convulsing at the acclaim outside by the country people.
"They have won?" I manage to choke out. Edward- Edward has- has won? York triumphs? The rightful monarch? Why else would these people cheer? This is the moment so many of us dreamed, to know that the righteous action has been done. How the late Duke would have loved to see this moment! My throat becomes quite parched as I blink, swaying a little. I reel, for it is never too early for politics now, and in a moment, I realise how our fortunes have been reversed. I glance at Anne's thin-set countenance, for we are Lancastrian. We shall be very out of favour, us Wydevilles, as some of the closest intimates of the now deposed Lancasters, as were my own Mother and Father. My Father died in vain for a lost cause. I think even when he hindered all the Cade rebels nigh ten years gone, his cause was lost then. How they might be glad never to see this day come, when York ascends. For they would be traitors, as am I. In a second, I am a traitor to crown and monarch. My word.
"What- what?" My lips are dry as I slide out of my bed, reaching for yesterday's garments.
"The King and Queen have fled. York won the battle, he has been proclaimed King." Anne says, almost breathlessly.
"You did not hear any other news?" I draw in my breath, fumbling in the half-light with my shaking fingers, as I throw on my gown. She swallows, shaking her head.
"We must venture outside to find a messenger. We have to know more." I eye her seriously.
Some of the children are already awake, and Anne tells them to look after themselves and remain inside the manor as we run out of it, hearts pounding, and into the street. The sun, the sun in splendour, the York sun, and the omen we saw that day, is ripe in the sky; the grass is dewy, and the air fresh, and the small Yorkist faction of villagers are singing. Everything shall change now- a new reign to this kingdom. I press some coins into a passing lad's hand, and impress upon him with some urgency to find the messenger who brought the news to the village and to bring him to us.
"Do you think they will be spared?" Anne dares voice our concerns in a whisper. "Shall they be attainted, and everything we own forfeit?" Her eyes dart up to me. Or are Richard, Anthony and Rick already dead on the battlefield?
"Mayhap King Edward will be merciful, and pardon them," I say weakly, shivering in the crisp, early spring air. King Edward. How strange that sounds, yet how right it also does sound. Or Edward may have slain my husband, my young handsome husband, himself, and there will be no need for a pardon. My jubilation at his win quickly turns to fear for my new family.
"Oh, how I hate to call the Duke of York that! I bet he puts their heads on the block." Anne starts to cry. I put my arms about the younger woman, usually so composed. I grit my teeth, for I have to be strong for her. Is it true? Shall my father-in-law and husband be killed either way, be it battlefield or block? Shall we become traitors? Edward, be merciful, I pray. Or else Anthony will have escaped. His father has fought so many battles, and has always come home to Jacquetta. Why should this one be any different? He cannot be dead. He cannot be.
The bringer of the news comes to us. I cannot bear it, yet I try to haunch my shoulders.
"Have you come straight from-"
"Towton, the site of the battlefield? Yes." He says, in his garbled accent, as I eye his clothes, caked in mud, and the dried rivers of blood and mud on his face. What kind of battle was this?
"'Twas a very bloody battle. We fought from dawn to dusk, all through a snowstorm, on Palm Sunday. Men lay dead for a stretch of two miles; only one is a prominent Yorkist. Men drowned, on a bridge when it fell- a stampede, a crush, a mire of shouts, screams and bloodthirst. Shall go down in history as the ghastliest battle ever seen, Milady. Guts... entrails...blood..."
"That is rather quite enough," Anne says faintly, clutching her stomach, as I sway. I cannot even begin to imagine it- and the fate, which has befallen my husband. Has he been slaughtered in this quagmire? Dear God, what shall happen to me? What of Lord Rivers, also? How shall the children live without a father?
"You say but one Yorkist lord dead. What of the Lancastrian lords?" I ask, biting down hard on my lip. Do I even want to know this answer? To confirm what must be true- that one I have loved for so short a time is perished? That I am a widow once more? That my chance of happiness is so cruelly snatched from me? That Jacquetta has lost two sons and the love of her life? Indeed, are all three Wydevilles dead?
"King Edward was indeed merciful" -I let out a large gasp- "A few were put to death, or taken prisoner, but most died in battle. He is issuing pardons and shall ride south now, in all due pomp for his coronation." My belly knots and twists itself. A heavy flare of breathing emits from my nostrils. Please. Please.
"And those dead- or condemned to death?" Anne's whisper is barely audible, as she purports forward the question that we have both been clamouring to ask, yet dare not, for fear of the worst.
"I know the Earl of Devon shall die for one, but on the battlefield... Trollope, the Earl of Northumberland, Sir Richard Percy... the Lords Clifford, Welles... Willoughby, Scales, Dacre and-"
"Scales," I say, "Did-did you say Scales?" The sting of tears silently fills my eyes. No. No.
"Anthony Wydeville, Lord Scales?" Anne's body becomes cold beside me. I misheard him. We misheard him. It's not true.
"Yes, Milady, the Lord Scales is dead. Be him some relative of yours?"
"He is my husband. He was my husband." My lips chatter together, numb and cold. The hangman's noose is about my neck and lungs. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. I sink to the ground, bile washing up in my throat. Tears stream down my cheeks.
"Noo-o-oh-oh-o..." My bloodcurdling scream rings on forever. Anne drops to the ground beside me, placing her arms about me fiercely as I convulse. He is gone. 'Tis true. He is dead.
"Anthony? My oldest brother?" She looks up at the poor messenger. I let out another moan. Someone is ripping out my entrails. Hot coals have been poured down my throat. My mouth tastes of acid. Hot tears fall fast down inflamed cheeks as I wretch. Anthony. My Anthony. He is dead. He has died. He died fighting for Lancaster. Edward took him. Edward has taken him from me. My ugly moans continue, as pain bites through all my veins, wracking my body. I heave into my skirts, as Anne clutches my sweating palm.
"I am sorry for you, Elizabeth. I am so sorry." Her own face is damp too.
"He- he- was your brother."
"You loved him more." She says, squeezing my hand further, and I realise she must be slightly discomforted at seeing my usually more composed persona react thus.
I look up. "My husband. How did he die?" My throat burns and rasps as I choke and spew in my lap. I knell over, feeling as though I am breaking inside the core of me, for Anthony, my husband of so little months, is dead, and I am a widow again. He promised to return to me. He said he would be safe.
"I know not, Milady. I am sorry for your loss." The lad says uncomfortably, drowned by my sobs. How he shall have fun telling all he meets of the despairing Lady Scales. Anne cares naught for the nauseous contents in my lap, probably having seen such many a time with her young siblings, and puts her arms about me, crying into my shoulder. I clutch her back, for she has lost her brother, her eldest brother, courageous Anthony. How shall I live, widowed again? Oh, oh, oh, how can he have died? Who hath slain him? Why him?
"Nay," I say hoarsely, "Bring me my horse."
"What?" Anne rocks back. Her countenance is completely red.
"I have to go. To his body. They will- they will probably b-b-bury it t-t-there." I gulp, pressing my hand to my mouth, for I shall wretch again. Lord Scales, my husband, is truly dead.
"Elizabeth, you cannot go. You are not thinking straight."
"He is dead!" I scream at Anne, "he is dead. H-h-he is dead." I let out a mangled, ugly moan, clenching my hair as she moves to clutch and hold me as I sink completely to the ground, crying into it. I retch. I gasp. An arrow has struck my heart. Anthony. Oh, how did he die? My own rasping breathing grows louder in my ears. My surroundings spin about me. I cannot breathe anymore as it grows faster. Faster. Blood rushes to my head as I let out another excruciating scream. For I can see Anthony's body. Lying there. In the mire. Coated, in thick layers of mud. Snowflakes upon his eyelashes. Deep gouges across his countenance. Blood, seeping into the snow, staining it around him. His arms and legs wracked from his body, twisted from torture worse than that at the Tower. His lips all cracked. An arrow wound; deep claret blood oozing out of his heart...
My gasping becomes more hysterical. Oh, how can this have happened- how could fortune be so cruel as to send me into my second widowhood, and be forced to marry again? My Anthony, my Anthony. I beat the ground as I scream. Wet hair tangles in my face, as liquid of all manners spurts from my eyes, nose and mouth. Anne's arms clutch greater about me, her body convulsing against mine.
Anthony is gone. Dead on a battlefield. We were married, not even half a year. We spent but one day together of our wedded state. I did indeed fear for the worst, that he might die, but I never expected it to come true. He was my young golden prince, slain in his prime, who rescued me from Ludlow. Yet I could not save him. Who hath slain him, and snatched away my chance of happiness? I shall slay them too. What am I to do, now that he is dead? I am five and twenty, and will have buried two husbands, and all because of this war.
"This damned war," I cry. This is what York has done to me. I supported their cause, and look what they have done. Yet I inflicted this upon myself; I knew the risks of marrying into Lancaster. I am a widow of a traitor, disgraced. Shall I be cast from the Wydeville home, for I shall have no family now, but this half-sister Katherine?
"Elizabeth," Anne says gently, snivelling, and brushing back my hair, "We have to stay here. We must wait for word from my Mother and Father. I do not know if they have fled with the King and Queen."
"Surely they cannot leave us?" I say, startled, "they must send word." Jacquetta and Richard. They have lost their son and heir. They must be beside themselves. I look up, but the messenger has long awkwardly walked off. Mayhap I should muster my last shreds of dignity and pull myself off the floor. It must be treason now to weep so openly for Lancaster. I do not care for sides; he was my husband, and is he dead. My feet feel as though they are slipping upon a frozen moat as I make my way back inside, Anne holding onto me.
Some of the children run out to meet us, clearly having seen us rocking back and forth on the ground, sobbing, through the windows. Anne endeavours to dry her tears, squeezing them gruffly on the shoulders, saying that Anthony has just received some bad wounds in battle, that's all, but he shall get better. They look at us carefully, knowing that we are deceiving them, deep down. It makes me think of Henry, with his wounds, brought back in a cart from St. Albans. For how could we tell the children the truth, when we can barely cope with it ourselves? I put my arms about Kate, as she curls up in the chair with me by the fire, crying too for Anthony, as are the others, in a state of confusion. I lift a goblet of watered-down ale to my lips, but I cannot taste. I stare numbly. My weeping has ceased; I am just cold. I sit blankly, unfocused.
I have lost so many in my life- some, I have driven away. How many more of my relatives died in battle, at Towton? Why Anthony, of all? Taken like Edward Bourchier and Edmund of York last year, at the height of virility. And we never said farewell. He never said farewell to me the day he left. My anger flares. I tear out the note from where I keep it tucked at my breast, holding it in my shaking hands, as the children pester Anne, clamouring around her, asking for their Father and Mother and the details of the battle. Anthony wrote that he did not need to say farewell. He would be home. Oh, you arrogant fool, why?
"I would like to be alone," I say, and run from the Great Hall to my bedchamber- not the one I have shared with Anne of late- our bedchamber. I throw myself upon it and weep, muffling strangled moans. He is gone. I have to accept he is never coming back.
I wake up a little later as I hear Anne transgress the room. I sit up, noting her still pale face.
"I brought you some food," she says, laying down a tray beside me.
"My thanks," I say, as she sits on the bed hesitantly, reaching out to stroke my cheek.
"I am very sorry, Elizabeth. God has been wicked to you, as he has to Bess." Oh yes. The other Elizabeth Wydeville, my sister-in-law, a widow like me, for her poor John died not long ago in battle also. How similar our fates are. Everything has been in vain- all this death, what for? So that Edward, Edward, can sit on the throne? I wish I had never been at Barkway to see him, for I felt unfaithful to my husband greeting him. Why, oh why, did I not instead go to travel with the Lancaster army, and spend time with Anthony? What am I to do with the miserable existence I seem to be living and regretting? I glance down upon my wedding ring. He is gone, he is dead, and I should probably take it off, prepare my widow's weeds, and my move back to Middleton.
"He has, Anne, indeed he has. But he was your brother, and I must console you too."
"He and Bess were closer; it is she who shall grieve more for him. And my Father and Mother." Wherever they may be.
For as the days go by, I wonder if they have abandoned us, and have gone into exile with the Lancastrians. We receive no word from them. Mayhap, dear God, both Richards fell in battle also, and the news simply has not reached us? What if Jacquetta has somehow also perished, then what would we do? Anne and I conceal our growing worry from the children, and beseech the servants not to impart to them the news, which they have doubtless heard, of Anthony's fate. But some of my siblings-in-law are not merely children, they know that Anne and I cannot simply be playing a very long 'private chess' tournament in our bedchamber. They know that Lancaster, and their family, has fallen from grace, and their futures seem bleak and uncertain. We are really lamenting, knowing 'tis cruel to keep the truth from them so long, weeping, recalling memories. It feels sinful to laugh at stories that Anne recounts to me from their childhood, yet somehow, it helps ease the pain a little.
I wish I had known Anthony for longer than less than three years. Our families have always had links. He was my family for so little time, but I must protect and look after his in this troublesome time. Anne and I share the same bed every night, comforting one another in the dark, planning our Yorkist futures.
"Do you think that my Father and Rick were some of those condemned to die as traitors?" Anne asks on the fourth night since we have known of Anthony's demise. We have sent our own messenger with frantic notes to find Jacquetta, but who knows if they have reached her? Perhaps she has gone with the fleeing Marguerite, her loyal servant?
I sit in silence for a while thinking of this fate for them, and whether 'tis more dishonourable than Anthony's death. "I am sorry, Anne, mayhap they were." I sigh, for 'tis a likely possibility, my voice wavering. Half of the country is rejoicing because Edward- King Edward, has claimed his throne, and what should have always been his birth right. Yet the other half is picking up what is left of their lives from Towton battlefield, the 'Bloody Meadow', they are calling it. It must deserve such a name after that messenger painted such gruesome scenes in my head. Anne has been woken from her sleep each night as the images rolled into a night-fright. I sob and scream, sweating all over, as each night, I see my husband slaughtered.
I watch the moment his head is sliced off and hacked to pieces, the next night his eye is shot by an arrow, and it all spews out, his remaining eye watching, watching me, and the night after that, I dream that he is sliced in the belly and his guts fall about him, and I am drowning in his blood. And Edward's laugh is echoing in my ears as he looks on, as Anthony sinks to his knees, moaning, wincing. I am powerless to stop the tides of blood. Anthony cries my name 'Elizabeth', he is saying, as he falls to the ground in the mud. 'Elizabeth', he cries again and again...
Tonight is no different. I dream again of his death. There is a roar all around... Swords are clashing as men parry up and down the bridge. There is blood on the tip of his tongue. Snow is falling, faster. He wipes it from his eyes, thrusting his sword against someone, barely able to make out whether they are friend or foe. The wind is howling. Anthony staggers. Blood. Blood everywhere. His rasping breathing. There is an almighty roar, a charge of soldiers. The bridge splinters. Anthony plunges into the river below with nigh over three hundred men. I stand distant from it all, gasping, flinching.
Someone is shaking me. I watch him. Icy knives immediately attack his body. He drops his weapon, feeling the press of the crush, the muffled shouts of drowning men in the water as they are submerged. Bodies press on top of him. He is going under. The cold eats away at him as he sinks into the murky depths. Everything is black. He presses. He is pushed further down. Struggling. Gasping. His armour clanking. He is drowning. He struggles to pull his visor up. His eyes are wide with fear as he floats down. Down to the riverbed. Down... down... I scream. I cannot save him. He looks straight inside my eyes. He is calling my name again, "Elizabeth, Elizabeth." I sob. He is dying.
"Anthony," I moan, "Anthony."
"Elizabeth, Elizabeth." Someone shakes me more violently. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth." I open my eyes, drenched in perspiration, gasping. I am still looking into his eyes. I scream loudly. Anne wakes beside me, clutching me as we scramble up in our bed. Anthony's eyes are looking at me. He is there. He is looking at me.
"'Tis a ghost!" I wail, clinging to her, still unsure if I am dreaming or not, and feeling as though I am about to faint. I stare wildly at the figure before us, heart pumping.
"Elizabeth, Anne, are you alright?" Anthony says. He's talking. He is standing before me. I must be dreaming. Forsooth, truly, it is his ghost or some spirit? My palpitations become stronger. How can Anthony be here in my bedchamber, standing in the half-light, appearing corporal? The bedchamber door opens, and Jacquetta stands illuminated by her taper, her face haggard and creased.
"I heard screaming. Whatever is the matter?" Jacquetta asks. Jacquetta is here. Am I dreaming? She has come, and she is here.
"Anthony- his ghost," Anne pants, for she must believe the same as I, that we are seeing some manifestation now that he is dead. Jacquetta walks over to this form of Anthony, frowning deeply.
"Lyzbeth?" Anthony says again, staring at me and Anne, clutching one another in a bundle of our coverlet, shrinking in the corner and whimpering. He reaches out to make my hand, and I almost recoil at his smooth, warm touch. He is real...?
"Why were you crying my name? What ails both you and Anne? Pray, do tell me why you believe I am a ghost." His lips twitch with a half-amused smile. The hand clasping mine feels solid, corporal, not ethereal, as if he is honestly present. As if he were not... dead.
"You drowned," I say, head whirling from my dream, "At Towton. You're dead." Is some witchcraft or sorcery occurring to bring this lifelike form of him to me? Or has his ghost come to console me from the dead? Am I witnessing a seeing from God? Jacquetta and he share looks, as his face creases in a frown.
"Elizabeth, I am here. I haven't died, sweeting." I take in his face properly now Jacquetta has moved closer with her taper. He is not clean-shaven. A large purple bruise spreads over the left side of his face. There are cuts all above his eyes, and his lip is swollen. Am I... not dreaming, the cruellest of dreams? He is truly come back to me? In body? He hasn't died? How can this be truth? Anne stops sobbing for a moment.
"The messenger was misinformed. You are not dead?" I whisper, rising shakily. Could it be... could it truly be? I reach out for him, placing my hands on his sides. He winces. I gasp again, for he seems to actually be here. He is not dead. Anthony didn't die! The messenger was horribly, horribly wrong. Anthony lives! My shoulders sag as I sob tears of joy.
Pure horror crosses his face, which he shares with Jacquetta. "Oh my, Elizabeth, you were told I were dead?" I nod, my tears falling fast and hot, burning, as my knees knock together. He is alive. Anthony did not die. God has granted me some divine intercession, the holiest of miracles.
"Oh Elizabeth, I am badly injured, and for a while all three of us were King Edward's prisoners, but I am assuredly alive." He steps closer toward me, and puts his arms stiffly about my convulsing person. Anthony. My Anthony. Alive. He tilts my chin up with a calloused hand.
"You know I would never break my promise to return to you," he says softly. His lips brush mine, and I promptly faint in his arms.