The Other Elizabeth *OLD VERSION*

XXXVIII. June 1460

XXXVIII

June 1460

Scales Hall, Norfolk, England

We are in what used to be the glorious days of June. Although the sun in glistening against the window, splintering into diamond incandescent droplets, and in the gardens, green, every single blade of grass ripples in the breeze, and the skies are overcast with a turbulent blue. 'Tis almost too hot and bright, too ominous as though thunder would suddenly roll across the Norfolk hills, and the breeze is whispering, hushed, waiting, as a messenger races up the road, in anticipation as they rustle all around in these deserted moors. I place down the book I am reading to my Lady Mother, excuse myself with her permission, and run down into the courtyard, gathering my skirts as I run to meet Bessie, holding the latest news and fate of the kingdom. She looks up with widened eyes as the messenger canters away as quickly as he had come.

"Bessie?" I cry, out of breath, running forward, loose wisps of hair tangling on my cheeks. She looks at me, all a-bustle and crunching in the new gown I bought for the Midsummer's Day revels but a few days ago. A bright orange beacon of hope with flowers sprayed in my tresses and all over my skirts with borders of white lace, hoped to cheer the people on their quarter day, and muddy by the end of the day from haggling from door-to-door. Alas, many failed to pay their due rents, and my fingers are ink-stained from hunching over account books, and writing to my many correspondences on how best to deal with their lack of despair, their unrest. The nearby Pastons, for one, who now dine with us regularly, providing witty commentary on political intrigues, and my Mother's Moleyns kinsfolk, and the Howards, and the de Veres- oh how Elizabel suffers cruelly by William- to name a few. I am a little maiden no longer. I am a woman; I, Elizabeth de Scales, am making my mark in the kingdom, and am suddenly finding myself a most eligible heiress! I have Lancastrians and Yorkists and those wavering in between sending me proposals of marriage and questions into my most delectable dowry, but judging by Bessie's expression, this latest roll of parchment bears no words of wooing, or good news of Anthony, whom I long to see.

She hands me the letter, mutely. Dame Elizabeth Bourchier, it reads, duly reminding me that the past is always present. I shall be ever so glad to marry Anthony and change my name. I wonder what life we shall lead together, and how it shall be to become his wife? Lady Rivers writes of her hope for such a union. My heart is heavy as I unfurl the letter. What if this is bad news of Anthony- what if he is dead? Nay, this is the Lord my Father's most illegible hand. Most of the letters he sends are to me now- we are genuinely establishing a working, business-like partnership betwixt us, in which he recognises me as an equal and not his strange little daughter. My Mother can barely read and write them anyhow. The enclosed message must be the longest he has ever sent to me, for he is a man of short words, as I have discovered from the brusque commands of a few lines over the recent months as I engage with his contacts. I draw in my breath.

Ten years since did I fight against Jack Cade (alias Mortimer) in his uprising- Ten years? I blink. Ten years since my child Isabel lived and died? Ten years, and I have not born a living child? –and now I must meet again with those unruly Kentishmen who Cade rallied to his cause, for those damned whoresons, Warwick, Salisbury and March are in England gathering a band of them.- I let out a gasp, and not so at my Father's improper language imparted for his daughter to read- but, but they are here! The Yorkists are invading... If they have left Calais, have they released Anthony and his father; can we be reunited together so soon? What will happen upon his arrival- will our marriage truly go through? Indeed, what will happen upon the Yorkists' arrival? What do they intend to do? Jacquetta must be beside herself wondering at their whereabouts in regards to her family. Unless, the Yorkists desire to keep them prisoner in England too? Why, oh how could they, and Edward, my friend?

¬-They sailed from Calais and reached the Kent shores on the 26th, and Kent has declared for them. Traitorous southerners. They march henceforth to London. The King's army is on the move from Coventry. I must fortify the Tower for His Grace to defend the city against the traitors. I shift uncomfortably, for in my eyes they are not traitors. York has the senior claim to the throne, he was descended from King Edward III's eldest daughter, the second child, and the pretender King his third child, having usurped their place, and shown himself unfit. York and his followers just declare his birthright and the true line of succession. I have no doubt he wants to be King Richard of England- although the last King Richard was born to much unhappy misfortunes, deposed and murdered by King Henry's Lancastrian ancestors. But where is York? There is no mention of him and Edmund coming from Ireland to join them...? What can they be plotting?

-Elizabeth, daughter, as commander of the Tower, with our kinsman here also, Lord Moleyns, we must fight against the Yorkists and defend the Tower. Many noblewomen seek refuge here with us. I pray you are in rude health. Be dutiful and care for my dear wife Emme, and if any danger should befall you, I trust you have good contacts. I look up at Bessie, who is biting her lip, face pinched, as have the faces of many over these past few weeks as we wait to hear what shall occur. Why does my Father write so strangely with an underlying tone of care? Why would he say such of his wife if he truly had another marriage planned, one to disinherit me?

"Should I tell my Lady Mother of this news?" I ask of her, for despite being mature, I still look to her, my old friend, for such guidance. "'Twill worry her to think of my Father defending himself at the Tower in such peril," I swallow, "against the Yorkists." Bessie pats my arm sympathetically. My Father and my kinsman by marriage are to fight against each other, and I cannot bear the thought. 'Tis taxing for me, torn betwixt Lancaster and York. I want the Yorkists to triumph, but what should that mean for those of Lancaster? I wish no evils to befall neither us nor my Father in London. Oh, why do they have to fight?

"My father will be fighting against his own godson!" I suddenly cry, thinking of Edward. I feel my knees weaken a little as I gulp, taking a deep breath. This is how far we have come. I turn back inside abruptly, striding along the drawbridge unsteadily, running my hands through my hair. Godson against godfather; father against son; brother against brother; cousin against cousin. We are all so torn apart now. We have come to this. My friends and family, on opposing sides. My head reels.

I whip around to Bessie, who has scurried after me. "I hate this war. We fight our own blood, we spill our own blood. This war has to end- York must seize this chance, come across the Irish seas, and end this now. His ambition cost me Henry; his plunder lost me Anthony, my Father waits to clash with his party far away in London. Men are dying because of this. This war has to stop. It must stop. Bessie, Bessie," I grab her hands and shake them; "it is tearing me apart, where my loyalties lie!"