The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XX. October 1453

XX

October 1453

Worlington, Suffolk, England

I have become in every sense the Lady of the manor. I oversee the crop yield, to ensure it is of a good quantity and quality, I balance and keep account books for our rents, income and expenditure and pay to our servants- including my Bessie, who has remained with me all this time. I sort out disputes between our tenants (for the people of Worlington do quarrel over who owns what land rather a lot) and carry out repairs to buildings. I have employed efficient stewards for all of my manors bequeathed to Henry and I in my dowry, and some days the little s and d in my book rise. My lands provide me fruitfully- I can grudgingly accept that the Viscountess taught me well on how to manage properties and lands.

Henry has no such interest in this business, hidden in his study. He only emerges to dine, and when we see a messenger with the Bourchier livery cantering up the road- a letter from either of his parents, informing us of happenings in the realm- or even abroad. For bad news came in July from abroad; the Earl of Shrewsbury and his son were cut to pieces with an axe in battle in Castillion, trying to reclaim our English lands in Bordeaux. This earth is fighting- over in the west, Constantinople was taken earlier this year, finishing off the Byzantine Empire. Every monarch desires more lands, for power and wealth, yet they leave their own people in destitution. My estate here is my pride and joy, yet now winter has come, I find myself frowning over my account books. I will have to kindly tell Henry we must cease ordering his Rhenish wine from London, which he greatly enjoys whilst writing his theological articles. I do not know if he is even paid for them, or if I am keeping us from ruin.

On a bitter morning in early October, Henry and I find ourselves fighting against the wind as we walk back inside. We hasten to the solar, away from the listening ears of our servants. Henry hurriedly breaks the seal and unfurls the latest letter- this is from his father; I recognise his slanting lettering. 'Tis only the shortest of messages:

Dear son, the damned French have taken all English lands; only Calais remains. On hearing this, His Grace did take to his bed and has not stirred- no person can rouse him. Do not inform any of your servants or the villagers of his fate- there is no cause for undue alarm when he may wake soon. However, betwixt you and I, I fear not, and the Lords will be reluctant to accept Her Grace's child, if it is a boy, for circulating rumours say he is not the King's, but Somerset's. I pray you and your wife are in good health. Your father, Henry, Lord Bourchier.

Henry and I look up from reading this, suitably confused.

"He cannot rouse?" I frown, "Is he secretly dead, or poisoned?"

"I cannot understand myself."

"And whatever sort of relationship must the Queen and Somerset have to be accused of adultery? A Queen should be seen as virtuous- she sets a bad example, as there were rumours of her and Suffolk as lovers too! I do not revere our Queen whatsoever. Her reputation should be unstained. How can she have become with child after seven years of barren marriage with the King? Indeed, I am inclined to believe that as court favourite, Somerset must be her especial favourite. What if," I lower my voice, "The King dies, and the child is a girl?"

"I believe they might look to the rightful heir apparent," Henry says, folding the letter in half, and we both smile a little devilishly.

What I am about to say is treason, but unfortunately, we are delivered news that the child is a boy, born on the thirteenth of this month, a most auspicious date, which cannot bode well for the child's, future whatsoever! So unless the child dies, is proven to be a bastard, or is usurped, I do not see the Duke of York on the throne. I could not wish the death of a child upon any mother, not even a queen who depletes English coffers and fills the courts with incompetent upstarts. She snubs York once again, for after her swift churching, he is not invited with the lords of the realm to the council. After many protests against his absence, Somerset storms away, and the Duke is able to enter the privy council. My father-in-law relates in his letters of how the court is at loss, with this 'sleeping king', for when shall it be that he wakes?