The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XIII: Lammastide 1451

Chapter XIII: Lammastide 1451

Worlington, Suffolk, England 

Henry clears his throat and knocks gingerly on the open door. I swallow; I know upon which matter he wishes to discuss with me. We are currently residing at my manor in Worlington, for I could not abide returning to reside at Tolleshunt D'Arcy for the moment, with the memories it conjures up, or living in my gloomy manor at Tylney, and besides, we are old enough now to have our own household. As soon as the snow last winter evaporated, my Lady Mother returned to court, and Henry and I set off, destined for many months of a tenuous relationship, for we sleep in bedchambers at two ends of the manor. I told him that while I understood it was my duty for us to conceive another child, I did not wish to try again for a while, until my grief for Isabel had finally passed- if it ever will, and if I ever stop blaming myself for her death. Henry complained that we could still share a bedchamber, but I requested that I have space of my own. Since then, we have to seem to have grown apart... Henry's character has changed. He used to make me feel very special, and now he seems so distant...

"Do you not think you and I could possibly share a bedchamber again?" Henry had said one day, rather gingerly.

"I will cease eating again if you force me to," I had murmured, and then I had blinked. Why did you say that, Elizabeth? When will you ever think before you speak? I stared at my soup, for we dined alone together and created stunted conversation, otherwise avoiding one another for the rest of the day. This was not how I envisioned our marriage bed to turn out, so estranged, two years on.

"What?" Henry looked at me, and I froze, my spoon halfway through the air.

I gulped. "Methinks we should not conceal any fact from one another ever again," I said in a low voice, "'Twas simply that before I realised that I was with child, I stopped eating, for fear I was becoming plump." I shrugged my shoulders, and sipped at my pottage, the herbs suddenly tasting very strong, and the vegetables sticking to the back of my throat. Henry looked at me, unblinking, his hand clenched about his cup of bitter Gascon wine.

"You killed Isabel," he finally stated, in a hoarse whisper.

"What?" I laughed and gasped nervously, rather affronted that he could possibly think I had slain my own poor darling baby like some barbarous knight on a battlefield with a sword or a lance or spear or whatever weapons they deign to use. How could Henry state such a wicked accusation? He turned to look at me with one short, sharp, turn of his head.

"For how many months did you cease eating?"

"A-a-about three," I whispered, staring at my soup again, cheeks flaring from indignation still.

"It is a wonder you did not miscarry."

I stifled a cry, looking up, blinking back tears, "How could you say that!"

"Isabel never grew; she was born so small." His voice cracked. "I still remember her, s-s-smaller than a loaf of bread, with b-b-big b-b-blue eyes." I pressed my hand to my mouth. Why did he torture me so?

He turned to me, eyes black, voice low, and growling. "She was small from malnutrition. She would have been a healthy baby if-if you had not been my brother's vain little whore and stopped eating because you thought you were plump!" And with that, Henry quit the table.

"Henry!" I had screamed, and I consequently sat there sobbing, too at loss to follow him, for I knew he must have spoken truth. I had killed Isabel, my own baby, who I miss so much, and for that, I will never forgive myself.