The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXIX: September- October 1460

Chapter XXIX: September- October 1460 

Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire, England 

Eleanor and I kneel in the church here at Stoke Poges, the walls emblazoned with the Moleyns and Hungerford arms. All is still, fresh, and crisp, with a ray of daylight streaming through the stained glass depicting Our Lord Jesus, illuminating our strands of tawny, tangled flaxen hair, and the creases upon our countenances. As I kneel here in the silence, I feel a great sense of eminence resting upon me. I am now Elizabeth, Baroness Scales. I am a woman now.

"I was baptized at this very church," Eleanor says softly, turning to me, her hands still clasped in prayer. She has a portable altar at her manor, having been granted licence for one, but we both found it fitting to escape the house, shrouded in darkness, as my Lady Mother lies in her bedchamber. She is dying. My Mother is dying.

"The lord your father would have stood on these very flagstones." She clears her throat. We smile weakly at one another. "When I received my own letters patent conferring my right to the Barony of Moleyns many years ago, and was summoned to Parliament, I had to give proof of my age; so of course, I had to call some witnesses. The witnesses told of my birth and baptism on the feast of Saint Barnaby the Apostle- a day when a wind so strong did blow they thought even my old little manor would blow down as well as the whole village!" I smile again, nodding for her to continue, knowing there must be some relevance of this story. I feel the floor beneath me; my Father was here. I shall carry his title with pride, and make him proud of me from Heaven as I carry it. That is of course, if he went there, after his actions in his life.

"My godmothers were Elizabeth, Lady Say-"

"Surely not the same Lady Say whose late husband was Sir Frederick Tylney?" I frown, thinking of my dearest Elizabeth Tylney-Bourchier, as I know these to be her parents. A pang resounds in me to think of the little girl I seemingly so abandoned two years gone- will she have forgotten me?

Eleanor shakes her head. "Nay, not that lady; another by the name of Lady Say. The account says that she was dressed in blue damask, and my other godmother, the Countess of Salisbury attired in cloth of gold, no less!" Eleanor smiles and I squint, trying to fathom who would have held the title of Countess of Salisbury in the year Eleanor was born, in 1426. For the Countess now is of course the wife of York's ally Salisbury. Oh, of course, it would have been Alice Chaucer, my Mother and Eleanor's cousin.

"And then there was your own father- described in these testaments as wearing blue velvet- and he was drinking hippocras from all the goblets." Eleanor turns to me as I sniff. "Have I upset you?" she says worriedly.

I shake my head, smiling fondly. "No, I am laughing. That sounds just like my Father- drinking all the time. He ever liked his goblet to be full." I squeeze her hand. "'Tis lovely that these memories shall be preserved in writing for years to come. Such tales are comforting in light of the manner of his death." I smile again. 'Tis truth; this is nice to hear, a story of when he was a young soldier and knight, newlywed, for now he shall just be remembered as the old Lord who fired at Londoners and was then murdered by them. I make a vow to preserve the honour of our family name and his if I can, even if to me, he was, during my childhood after my brother Thomas died, a mean ogre who would sneer upon me, try to break my arm, and entertain lewd ladies. We never spent much time together, and I never honestly knew him as a person, I think wistfully. He is gone now. I hope he is happy I am his heiress. The strange, tall, imposing, commanding man I knew is no more. I never expected him to be murdered- but who knows how our fate shall be sealed? Nor did I think I would receive a proposal from his godson!

Edward- My Lord of March- has some daring cheek. How dare he approach me in such a manner, whilst I grieve for my Father? He is grown into a very handsome young man from the youth I knew at Ludlow- but I could not marry him, Henry's own cousin, and a Yorkist- mayhap a son of a traitor soon, for who knows which way fortune's wheel will turn? I could not be wife to a future King- his advisers would cast their eyes abroad for a foreign match. As much as the idea excites me, I have Anthony, and it could never happen. 'Tis but a fantasy to be a future Duchess, to take wicked Marguerite d'Anjou's place when God rest their souls, My Lady Cecily and the Duke passed, if they were to become England's monarchs. I cannot consider this proposal and give way to my delusions. Such a marriage could never come about.