The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XVIII. Lammastide 1451

XVIII

Lammastide 1451

Worlington, Suffolk, & Tolleshunt D'Arcy, Essex, England

Henry clears his throat and knocks gingerly on the open door. I swallow; I know upon which matter he wishes to discuss with me. We are currently residing at my manor in Worlington, for I could not abide returning to reside with Lady Bourchier or living in the gloomy manor at Tylney. As soon as the snow last winter evaporated, my Lady Mother returned to court, and we set off, destined for many months of a tenuous relationship, for we sleep in bedchambers at two ends of the manor.

Indeed, we quarrel much, and we still set much blame on each other and ourselves for the course of truths which was revealed, so much so that the Lord my father troubled himself to write me a letter telling me to 'repair the said feud that has occurred for fear of angering people of noble blood'. To which I replied that he should check his facts, for we have royal blood too, and so my mother then sent me a letter telling me to curb my tongue, and that my father meant because of the current situation with the Yorks and Lancasters, which I believe is still very prominent, and which I have no interest in.

Henry's character has changed. He used to make me feel very special, and now he blames me for Isabel's death, and, so do I...

"Do you not think you and my lady mother could repair your feud?" Henry had said one day. It was trying enough inhabiting with him when I was doubting whether I wanted to be wed to him, loved him, or forgave him.

"I will cease eating again if you force me to," I had murmured, and then I had blinked. Why did you say that, Elizabeth? When will you ever think before you speak? I stared at my soup, for we dined alone together and created stunted conversation, otherwise avoiding one another for the rest of the day. This was not how I envisioned our marriage bed to turn out, so estranged, two years on.

"What?" Henry looked at me, and I froze, my spoon halfway through the air.

I gulped. "Methinks we should not conceal any fact from one another ever again," I said in a low voice, "'Twas simply that before I realised I was with child, I stopped eating, for fear I was becoming plump." I shrugged my shoulders, and sipped at my pottage, the herbs suddenly tasting very strong, and the vegetables sticking to the back of my throat. Henry looked at me, unblinking, his hand clenched about his cup of bitter Gascon wine.

"You killed Isabel," he finally stated, in a hoarse whisper.

"What?" I laughed and gasped nervously, rather affronted that he could possibly think I had slain my own poor darling baby like some barbarous knight on a battlefield with a sword or a lance or spear or whatever weapons they deign to use. How could Henry state such a wicked accusation? He turned to look at me with one short, sharp, turn of his head.

"How many months did you cease eating?"

"A-a-about three," I whispered, staring at my soup again, cheeks flaring from indignation still.

"It is a wonder you did not miscarry."

I stifled a cry, looking up, blinking back tears, "How could you say that!"

"Isabel never grew; she was born so small. I still remember her, s-s-smaller than a loaf of bread, with b-b-big b-b-blue eyes." I pressed my hand to my mouth. Why did he torture me so?

He turned to me, eyes black, voice low, and growling. "She was small from malnutrition. She would have been a healthy baby if-if you had not been such a vain little whore and stopped eating because you thought you were plump!" And with that, Henry quit the table.