The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XXIII. May 1455

XXIII

May 1455

Worlington, Suffolk, England

I sit hunched over my knees, coughing and crying, with damp, tangled flyaway hair plastered against my face. I moan continually, and Bessie holds one of my hands, rubbing it in soothing motions. Henry shall depart on the morrow to meet with the Yorkist forces- and I may never rest my eyes upon him again.

We have quarrelled continually for the duration of the past week, for I have begged and pleaded with him not to go. I understand he wants to fight for the blood that runs through his veins, but he could die! I could lose him, for I have lost Florence, and our daughter, my little Isabel, who seems so long ago. I would be widowed. And if he did not die, he could be most greatly injured, and I would have to care for him. And if he does survive, what of his father and brother? (Although I do not care much for the fate of the latter, for his previous ill conduct that sometimes still haunts me.) York may not even win- he may lose his life himself. They may all be declared traitors or executed or imprisoned! What fate would befall me then, stripped of my inheritance and rank with Henry, and the widow of a traitor?

I have repeated this sorry state of plights to Henry in protest, yet his ears are deaf to my pleas; he tells me to cease my worries, for he will live, he will be on the victorious side, and come home to tell to me the tale. Nevertheless, I am not assured. What if he is slain on the battlefield? He will be dead, and I will never ever see him again, my husband, Henry. Why does he matter so much to you? A voice queries in my head. After the lies and his betrayals, why are you not glad to see him go off into Death's arms? Because you still care for him still. I cease my sniffling at once, looking up. All the worrying on my part- is it because I still love him, after all these years?

I throw back the coverlet and swing my legs around the side.

"Elizabeth?" Bessie says, as I pull my hand away.

"I need to visit the garderobe," I mutter, for if I tell her I intend to visit Henry, where he shall presently be in his bedchamber, I shall only face many questions from her.

"Would you take your mantle for warmth?" she says, lifting the miniver-trimmed sage blue over garment up to me. I shake my head.

"Not even your slippers?" she persists, as I quit the room, striding, almost running, with a certain determination.

"What of a candle?" she calls, as I run barefoot through the darkness, heart thumping. I climb the stairs and throw open his bedchamber door. I must convince him to stay. He cannot go. I cannot lose him. He sleeps with his back to me, and I catch my breath, dabbing mine eyes, which mistake themselves for rivers.

The moon shines bright into the room, casting light upon the desk at the foot of his bed strewn with parchment, next to a chest where a shirtsleeve sticks out forlornly. I stifle a cry, taking a few steps back, for in the corner is a silver man made of metal, staring ominously at me with his slit-like eyes, before I realise it is Henry's armour. This he has somehow been unable to obtain from his journey to the nearest town, Bury St. Edmunds, for a blacksmith cannot have made it in so little time. He also brought with him a new charger- after selling his and my own palfrey Lucy, to which I most certainly raised very indignant objections as he did so without my knowledge, and now I cannot journey anywhere until he buys her back somehow or a new horse for me. Something else dear to me, gone.

I turn to his bed- the forest green curtains are pulled back in untidy bundles, and on the table is an empty flagon of ale. I stride over to where he lays and kneel beside him. He looks so peaceful, asleep.