The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XXIV. August 1459

XXXIV

August 1459

Tolleshunt D'Arcy, Essex, England

As I walk up the overgrown path to Isabel's grave, I think of the last occurrence when I was present here- seemingly so long ago. And with Henry. Henry. A year now has slowly passed by, and his death is still a painful matter. I resume with my day-to-day life, I read, I play on my lute, I look after the estate, but I still have those moments of weakness and self-loathing. How could I be so wicked to drive my husband to such a sorry fate? I suppose these will only heal as time goes on, and even though I cherish the good memories of us together, I must console myself on these occasions; 'tis Henry that decided to go against God's will, and become inhabited by the demons of the mind and drink. He knew what would become of me, and him, and he decided to take that risk.

Sometimes I have dreams that he was murdered instead, that the pious boy would never have amalgamated into such a man. Mayhap it was Humphrey, or pretty Kitty? I still wonder whether he begot her with child, and what I would do in the instance. I think of his adultery and my own dramatic reaction, but there is no use in trifling with the truth; I must accept what happened, I must banish from my mind the images from the day when I found him, blood-covered. Blood leads me to think of battle, and his own part in the Duke of Somerset's demise, that only he knows about, and thus he shall go down, in history, his small part without fleeting reference.

There are still those times I wonder what my life would have been, had he lived, and if we had any other children together. But there is no use in thinking if Isabel or my miscarried babes had lived; there is unquestionably a new husband, the prospect of a fresh brood on the horizon. I will live in a new manor, and there shall be a different Lord and Lady Scales in the future. Of course I wish I had forgiven him, and that I do not remember so vividly the feel of the dagger in my hands, cold, damp, damp with blood, but 'tis not just I that must bear this burden, which shall lessen as time heals, Humphrey must too. How does he fare?

And presently now, I cast my eyes upon Isabel's grave, half-concealed in tangles of grass. An indignant feeling swells inside me, for who does not tend to this churchyard in proper decorum? Bessie stands a distance off, head bowed, watching me as I kneel down in the grass, with not a care if I stain my skirts, for they are soiled enough from our horseback journey. A lump forms in my throat and as my eyes sting, I haunch my shoulders and take in a deep breath. I have to be strong now, a widowed woman trying to make her way in this world.

"Good-day, Isabel," I croak out, gently uncovering the stone from the grass with my bare hands. I sigh, tracing the inscription with my finger. Mayhap 'tis for my best interests and security that I am not married to Henry, with a daughter to protect, at times such as these. For in June, the Queen summoned all the peers to Coventry. Alas, the Duke of York, whom I still view as kin to me in some way, and his allies, of course, including the Viscount, failed to attend. Because of that singular reason, they have been all declared traitors- how very unjust! I frequently write to my cousin Elizabel, the other Elizabeth Bourchier, and she informs me that following this proclamation, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, from Calais, and his father, My Lord of Salisbury from his castle of Middleham are to meet the Duke of York, mayhap at Ludlow. They are to ride out against the king's army once more with their supporters, in a final demand for justice for all that has occurred. There is to be another battle, inevitably. The Loveday parade, last year, did nothing to solve any political rifts.

Elizabel writes fleetingly of her husband, and I know she is rather lonely, for all the Bourchier brothers and their father are with the Duke. Even the three younger brothers, who talked of gallant knights and battles as if they were jousts, will now face the bloody deathbed themselves, mere youths. How we have all aged. Would Henry, were he alive, go with them, or would his wound still prove too trying? What fate would befall us anyway proclaimed the family of traitors? Elizabel conveys her increasing sense of fear for her future in the family, and 'tis strange, for they are still my family, but in another way, they are not. I left them and my life with Henry behind.