The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XVII: Whitsuntide 1455

Chapter XVII: Whitsuntide 1455 

Worlington, Suffolk, England

Although today is Whitsunday, I am not enjoying the Feast of Pentecost. I sit on the dais with an unoccupied chair beside mine- Henry's. The merriment below of the villagers, who do not have to labour this week, fades to my ears. I stare at their red, beaming countenances in a daze. How can they make merry; are they not worried for their husbands? How can they make merry, when I am sick with fear for my Henry? Indeed, not two weeks gone I thought of him but as my estranged spouse, now, we have renewed our affections and I wish we had done so sooner. How silly I have been! For underneath our great struggles we both still greatly cared, and I have had no such regrets for having lain with him, a whim, of my headstrong impulsiveness. This table should be filled with our children, our promise, and our future, for I would like of us to have a family.

But where is my Henry? This morning, a passing merchant had come calling on his way from Hertfordshire enquiring where the nearest smithy was, for he could not find it. I, having run to the door with my sleeves rolled up like a tavern wench and my hair all askew, said my own blacksmith would re-shoe his horse if only he could tell me news of the battle.

"My Lady, it was fought at St. Albans on Thursday."

"Pray, was any person killed?"

"Yes, I believe many important lords were- and the Duke of Somerset himself was." This news did not even ring joyously to me, as I wrung my hands and bit my lip.

"Would you have heard anything of a Henry Bourchier?" I was almost too scared to ask. What if he told me Henry had perished? What would I do then? What would happen to me?

He cocked his head sympathetically. "Nay, My Lady, I have never heard of his name, but I expect he is your husband, and you are fearful worried."

I nodded, sighing inwardly. "Oh, but who was victorious?"

"The Yorkists. I believe the King has agreed peace with them, but I know no more." I had thanked him greatly, and now, the feast having thankfully finished, I reflect on his words, pacing up and down my bedchamber.

"Why has Henry not returned home? That merchant reached here, and he left on the day of the battle!" I cry.

"Mayhap there has been a small delay, or they have returned back to London," Bessie says calmly, embroidering in the corner.

"But why has he not sent word?"

"He has probably been very busy. There is no cause for alarm, Elizabeth, and some person would have surely sent bad news to us now."

And so, I wake on the first morning of the Whitsuntide week, after another tempest-tossed, fitful night, bargaining with God for his return. What will happen to me if he does not? How could I live without him? The Duke has successfully ridden himself of his enemy- Somerset- now in the most literal sense, and mayhap now, the King will rule more wisely- but I care naught for politics until I know Henry is alright. I am so very distracted- I stumble, I drop tankards of ale that I am consuming by the hours as I weep throughout the day. What am I to do? I need Henry! I have realised that I am still in love with him!

Eventually I hear the heavy drum of hoof beats, which mimics my soaring heart, and I run into the courtyard. I sink, seeing it is not Henry, but a messenger. I plait and unplait my fingers together as I stand up straight. I lick my dry lips, trying to maintain my breathing. What news does he bring? He dismounts, and frowns at me.

"Lady Elizabeth Bourg-chi-er?" He enquires uncertainly. I nod slowly, feeling my heart pound.

"I bring you this." From his dirt-stained hand, he holds out- I let out a cry, sharp pain coursing throughout my body, a jolt in my chest, as I step back, gasping. I snatch it from him as he shifts uncomfortably. It is a torn part of the sash I gave to Henry on the day he departed. It is bloodstained. Tears spring from my eyes. No. No. No.