The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXI: Spring-Summer 1458

Chapter XXI: Spring-Summer 1458

Ludlow Castle, Shropshire, England 

When Henry and I had sat down in the Great Hall at Baynard's Castle to break our fast the next morning, Lady Isabel addressed at once the matter of where we should reside.

"We make for Little Easton at noontide," William had interjected, but was cut off from his speech by Elizabel gasping that she could, mayhap, feel her babe quickening. William affected interest. I had averted my eyes to the ale and bread placed in front of me, swallowing. She is an innocent girl, but I wish she, the other Elizabeth, or Elizabel, as we have all taken to calling her by her nickname, would stop flaunting her present condition with child, with no care for me, and the bloody, sticky images of my poor miscarried child whirling around my head; my screams, my gasps, the searing, rippling pain...

I perfectly well understand her joy- when one is in a certain state; you tend to forget others who have gone through the same, such as I did forget Lady Isabel losing Fulk, when I lost my own Isabel. Then again, every time I do see her eyes light with excitement as she talks of her coming baby, her Bourchier heir, a little part of me sinks further into melancholy. I am scared of the same fate befalling her, and also, I am most vexed by William's behaviour toward her. Does she not see that he clearly has no care for her but for begetting her with a son? That her girlish prattle is unheard to him? To him, she is just the wife. A mare for breeding.

Despite the feelings of passion towards Henry dissipating as my hot-headed younger self once attributed, after the scene that unfolded on the steps by the river at Baynard's Castle that night, we had lain in the darkness, feigning sleep. My hand was clasping his, although he pulled away many times, and tossed and turned, his pupils white, almost with some fear. I believe that to be the first time we had simply lain there, garbed in our night robes. 'Twas strange to be in the same bed as his, for I had not graced it since our quick dally on his brother's wedding, and leading to my miscarriage... That night at Baynard's, there was no childish fumbling, or pained gazes, there was no child created. By my troth, I could not bear to know him in such a way so soon. How could I keep lying with him, loveless, and bear fruit to so many dead children? How could I take pleasure from such a task, knowing the tragic, grim ending ahead?

Anyhow, Lady Isabel was about to talk when the Duchess Cecily had interjected.

"My dear sister Isabel, you have given these two no such time whatsoever to move to a new residence, they have not chosen such a place, nor have they had time to commission any building repairs if it be so. I understand your family seat, Scales Hall -is it not? (I nod) - is under repair, so you cannot go there. You shall come to Ludlow with my lord husband and me, if it pleases you both?" Henry and I had stared at each other, at loss at how to respond, and whether we should accept or not without discussion.

"And Humphrey. (He turned his head.) What business have you currently? None? You must come as well, and my dear sister, you must invite the other Elizabeth, the little one- the other Humfrey's child bride?" Joan immediately turned to Humphrey, and began to whisper to him. And so, it was decided for us. 'Twas strange to think of residing with Henry, rather than caring for him, for a year ago he lay still abed, his wound festering. And here we presently are, walking arm-in-arm in the grounds of Ludlow Castle, the prestigious home of the Mortimers from whom the Duke is descended from...

Whilst the Duke's London residence was imposing, this castle is the pinnacle of romance. It is set high on a hill above the town, and the River Teme flows prettily down below. A bridge is set above the river, and the brick is shaped in half-moons, so a reflection in the water gives off the appearance of many rings on the river itself. Clustered from the banks of this echoing river and about the castle is an abundance of oak and elm trees, obscuring it from view.