The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXIV: Christmastide 1458- August 1459

Chapter XXIV: Christmastide 1458- August 1459 

Scales Hall, Norfolk, England 

Snow is softly sitting on the branches of the trees all about us; everything is festooned in a layer of alluring white. Somehow, although everything should appear bleak and dull, with the bare branches against the empty landscape, this snow seems to light up, and the skies above are aglow. The airs are not so unfavourably cold; none of the branches appear sparse, sprinkled with snow crystals, and I care naught for my skirts and boots which are most certainly exceedingly sodden. I relish the cool feel of the air upon my soft cheeks, the way my hair is loose and free, and the way as I chase after Bessie, I can bury my face in thick layers; layers upon layers of deep emerald miniver and squirrel furs about my neck. My houppelande is of damask claret velvet, with intertwining roses printed on it as if they were climbing a trellis; they are the new blooms of hope.

The snow crunches in my leather gloves as I pick it up and hurl some at Bessie. She shrieks with glee as it hits the back of her skirts, bending down to throw a ball of snow back at me. I am caught off guard, and it hits me squarely in the face. I let out a startled shriek, shaking it off, as my hair, furs and eyelashes becomes star-studded with snow.

"Elizabeth, I am most sorry, have I hurt you?" Bessie runs towards me, all concern, and a little out of breath, for she is nearing her forties, and I do inwardly sigh to think that she will never marry, and will remain erstwhile to me forevermore in my service, the mother I never had. For who has always been constant to me, never wavering, always there to console me?

"Of course it did not, you fool! 'Tis just snow!" I laugh, diving down and hurling some more snow back at her. I look upwards instantaneously upon hearing my Lady Mother's voice as she leans out of one of the new windows of the buildings. The Lord my Father has indeed been most busy with the new additions to our manor. I glance over at the new rectangular dovecote, before glancing up, gulping, to where my Mother is poised in the incomplete gatehouse. This is a most imposing building and there shall be three storeys on completion- yes, three! 'Tis of the finest red brick with stone dressings. The building works are however abandoned due to the season, and the weather- there are half-finished polygonal turrets and a rather sorry-looking frozen fishpond yonder.

"Elizabeth!" she calls again, "You are behaving in a most unseemly manner," she hisses.

Bessie bows her head and curtseys. "My sincerest apologies, My Lady," she says, although she does not meet my Mother's withering gaze. She inclines her head to me.

"You are of two and twenty, Elizabeth, not two and ten. You shall catch a dreadful chill- whatever can you have been thinking?" She tuts, sighs, glares at the both of us, then disappears from sight. I sigh, scowling myself. As she rightly said- I am two and twenty- yet she still treats me as if were two and ten, scolding me thus. Heavens forbid if she knew we had been walking on the frozen over moat like naughty village children moments afore!

"Shall we hasten inside? I have a fancy for some mulled wine," I say, and we trudge inside.

The Great Hall is a hive of activity. I dust off sprinkles of snow by the fire, my hands clasped about the warm goblet as I watch glistening spit boys run from the kitchens, loaves of bread being delivered every now and then. Some maids are trying to attach boughs of mistletoe to the ceiling, others hastily scattering fresh herbs on the floors. There is a constant, homely smell, gay laughter, and a lute player practising for the revels. With the fire curling at my feet beside me, I feel rather much at home, after a very long time away. I have not spent Christmastide here for three and ten years- and there is something comforting about being at my childhood home. Although, my last Christmastide here, my Father did almost break my arm. How long ago that seems... Shall he be whoring this season too? Surely now he is too old? Shall I dance with John Howard and feel like a silly girl again? I immediately lower my eyes, feeling most contrite for my sinful thoughts regarding John, and fumble for my rosary beads.