The Other Elizabeth

Chapter VIII: Midsummer's Day 1449

Chapter VIII: Midsummer's Day 1449

Rivenhall, Essex, England 

"Bessie," I whisper, "Bessie!" She makes a groaning sound, for even the servants will have feasted heartily, for last night was Midsummer's or St. John's Eve, and everyone made merry, dancing, feasting, and lighting bonfires.

"Elizabeth, it must be past midnight. You need to sleep!" she mumbles into the darkness.

"Bessie, I fear I will not sleep at all. I am to be married tomorrow- nay, today, for it is past midnight! Bessie? Bessie!" But she has fallen back asleep. 

I am awake at first light, when all is still quiet. This is the last time I will awake as Elizabeth de Scales, for on the morrow, I will be Elizabeth Bourchier, and my maidenhood taken from me. I swallow. Today is the greatest day of my life. Nothing must go wrong. I will not let whoever sent that note blight my day. No, indeed, I will not. I feel a surge of excitement power through me- I am marrying Henry!

Two hours later, Rivenhall Place is a flurry of activity. I am in the bathtub; Bessie is washing and combing my tresses with rose water, and another maid sponges my body, so I have no time to be coy. My Lady Mother is in the passageway, barking out orders. "More hot water!" "Attire yourself!" "Get the seamstress!" And to one spluttering kitchen boy, "You complete fool, you are a knave, a jackass a-a-"

"Ismania-" (her full name, my Father must be serious!) "I do not wish to hear any woman, least of all my lady wife cursing. Now, what problem is there...?" My back is turned to the door, but I can imagine her quelled look at his amicableness, and refrain from laughing, for their quarrelling provides entertainment, and at times like this, I can take it lightly.

I get out of the bathtub and sit by the fire, wrapped in an old sheet. Bessie combs my hair further, and I listen to the sounds of my kinsmen and women, who are presently staying with us for my marriage, all around the manor, calling and laughing with one another. My mother is yelling for the tub to be removed, and Agnes and Kateren to come hither to help me dress. I sit huddled, watching and hearing this whirl of people, eyes going back and forth.

"God's teeth- what are you wearing?" I hear my mother demand.

"A gown, Emma dear." I hear the patient, soft voice of my Aunt Margret.

"Yes, it is a gown, Margret, dear," (they have never been on best terms after her husband Richard owed my Father a substantial amount of money) "but a pale blue gown. You cannot wear the same colour as the bride!" I smile to myself as she chides her away. I would not care if Aunt Margret wore the same colour- her beauty can hardly outshine mine, and I doubt her gown will either, for mine is extremely divine. It is indeed pale blue, for blue stands for purity and faithfulness, and most brides don this colour. It is a houppelande of a costly silk, and there are such a number of seed pearls sewn on it that you could spend all day counting and still never finish. There is a patterned front of gold and blue swirls on white, with a fabric belt bearing the Scales escallops in gold, and part of the Bourchier arms in blue. I am told these are four water bougets sable and cross-engrailed gules, but I am yet to understand what they actually are.

My hair has partly dried to Bessie's liking, and I begin to attire myself. I want to take it slowly, take in every moment. First, my chemise, stockings and garters. Then, I am laced into my tight-fitting kirtle, of pale gold, and this is shaped thus to cleverly peep out at the front of the gown and show on my arms when I spread the wings of my houppelande. Every edge of my gown is trimmed with a thin line of white fur, and some poor seamstress has painstakingly sewn on the smallest little gems of amethyst all over my skirts, to compliment the pearls, and matching the circlet of amethysts set upon my head.