The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXIII: September 1458

Chapter XXIII: September 1458 

Ludlow Castle, Shropshire, England 

"I wish not to talk with you."

"L-lizzie, wait."

"Henry-"

"L-liz-zie, please."

"Henry, oh Henry, I forgive you." My eyes fly open and a tear drops down upon my cheek, onto the signature on the letter before me. Elizabeth, it reads, and then there is a large pool of ink stretching off into pronged spiders, blotting all over my page whereupon my quill has rested. A lump forms in my throat- how can I end my signature with 'Bourchier'? I again was envisioning of what could have happened- if only I had given Henry my forgiveness, he would still be alive on this Earth.

I simply cannot believe he is truly vanquished, as if he never breathed. These weeks since he has gone, it is almost as though I were an apparition myself. My lips move as I speak, my legs move as I walk, but everything I do is almost in a trance, as if I were not existing here in the present. I am torn halfway betwixt worlds. It is if I were buried underwater; I cannot breathe or see properly, nothing is corporal, for the voices and faces of those about me are blurred, they fade away. I do not know what to do. How to cope without Henry. I never imagined that he would die- even when he went off to battle at St. Albans, and received his wounds; the thought of death never seemed a true reality. Now it is. He is gone. 'Tis my fault.

No matter how many coins I offer at Church every day for masses to be said for his soul- and to hasten his stay in purgatory, although none shall know of the true fate of someone who they once perceived to be so godly- will bring him back. He is gone. He is gone. I wake every morrow knowing I cannot gaze upon his face. He is not here, and in that, I find hard to comprehend. And we must hide his true cause of death, Humphrey and I, it must surely be a secret privy betwixt us till our own deaths? We burned the bedsheets, we cleansed the bedchamber ceiling to floor, we threw the dagger, that bloody dagger that helped his end, his most errant end, into the river. Humphrey ensured the priest who performed the scurrilous Last Rites was so addled, he would never remember.

We both agreed 'tis best never tell any person, for fear of our own ruin. How could we tell poor Lady Isabel and My Lord the Viscount- they shall remain in ignorance, believing their son died almost naturally- just of an awful chill- or so says the post mortem, written with a hand full of bribery and shaky with more copious ale. I cannot express my gratitude enough to Humphrey for all of his aide- he is a true friend, despite our childhood slights and romances. Yet I know some part of him must blame me responsible for Henry's demise, and so does every other person. Our feud was the death of him. How hard must he find it, knowing that his brother was tormented to such an immoral end?

John, Edward and Thomas are present here, serious, studious grown boys blanched permanently white at the death of the older brother they always revered. Isabel is inconsolable, and My Lord, a distant figure to me, a warrior of a man from my childhood memories, large and gruff, cries and shakes into his hands. Elizabel and William, having recently lost their baby son, look now close to death themselves. No one expected Henry's so sudden death. Henry and I shall never have a child- there is no child, which shall bear Henry's blood in its veins, no reminder of him, to continue his lineage. No heir for me. I have only memories, tainted with all our struggles, to remember him by. And I sent him to his death; my words were the first daggers, and how I wish, how, how I wish, I could take them back. Henry shall be with Isabel now, the child of mine seemingly so far away, seemingly a figment of my imagination...

No person does dare gainsay the truth concerning Henry's death from his fragile wife, a little moon face swathed in black, and bloodshot, and his brother, with his head in his hands. I am a widow- I should not be one so young, this should be when I am old! I know of the Duke and Duchess' suspicions, wondering why we did not call for them as Henry lay dying. "Henry wanted a peaceful, quick death with just the both of us, when he realized how quickly he was dying," we lie, but surely they hear the servants' whispers of Humphrey and I poisoning him, or smothering him with a pillow whilst he sleeps. I cannot believe that I would even be though capable of such a wicked deed! How far from the truth we speak- was his death peaceful, as he lay writhing in agony, the beads of blood spattering all around him? Why did he not just slip poison in his ale? Why did he suffer so much- was it to represent how much I have put him through? I hurt him. He shed his blood for me, and God was cruel to me, because I ran to him, when it was just too late. I detest myself for this.