The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXXI: December 1460

Chapter XXX: December 1460 

Grafton, Northamptonshire, England

"Begone, Kate!"

"But I want to help."

"Well, you cannot."

"But I want to!" All about me is a flurry of activity- for today is my wedding day. Margaret is shouting at little Kate at my bedchamber door, telling her that there is naught she can do but hinder the process of helping me in my preparations. Joan and Mary are rushing to and fro, passing ointments and scented pomanders under Anne, Jacquette and Bess' orders as they lace my gown, tweak my skirts, and brush them down and adorn my hair. I am older than all the three sisters are, but somehow, I feel younger as they command, instruct, and attire me like a corn dolly. This is what it must be like to grow up with sisters... I stand mutely. I feel somewhat a foreboding sense tensing itself about me, for I do not wish this marriage to end in bloodshed.

My gown is a warm houppelande in dark evergreen fustian- green for young love, supposedly. I wear a heavy undergown of scarlet brocade, which peeps from the downward arch of my neckline, and from the slashes in my long sleeves. It is all bordered in roskyn- I have a belt of this sitting firmly on my hips, whilst tiny red jaspers adorn my skirts, for I must make a good impression, despite depleting my coffers even more so, and to match my red jasper necklace. 'Tis the same such piece of jewellery my Mother gave me at Henry's wedding. It is strangely comforting, as if she is with me, embarking on this journey forward today. My hair is plaited and decorated by ornamental flowers, and Anne's deft fingers lift my braid up as they pin a rabbit-furred mantle onto me, as if I were a child. My attire is modest, mature compared to my gown for Henry's wedding. All as they have attired me, I cannot help but think that this honour should have gone to Bessie, my longest friend. But where is she?

Has Bessie seen Katherine? Marry, does she even know of my wedding? She has been a part of all my life, and although her betrayal still stands great in my eyes, I feel as though I need something of the past to cling onto as I go forth into this marriage contract. I would so love for her to be present with Katherine at this ceremony. My sister. Yet my attempts to write to her have all failed. Where has she gone, oh where? I have no father, mother, nor brother. Are they all smiling upon me, proudly? Knowing that I am endeavouring to preserve the de Scales legacy and inheritance, to continue the line?

"I do declare she is done!" says Jacquette, stepping back to admire my person. Jacquette is my My Lady Rivers' daughter and namesake, a lithe girl with a heart-shaped face, wearing a hennin, as does her sister Bess, with a gauzy veil. For they are both already wed- Jacquette to the son of Lord Strange of Knockyn, and Bess, the girl whose name haunted me, the fabled Elizabeth Wydeville- to Sir John Grey of Groby Hall. Bess appears too regal to be married to a mere Baron's son. My Lady Rivers, after all, is European royalty from Luxembourg; her father was the Count of St. Pol. Bess possesses a slender figure, arched eyebrows, sharp cheekbones set in an oval face with a high forehead, and she has a lilting voice like a songbird and stands herself upright. I know her hair to be a golden-brown, almost like mine own. Her skin is pale, nose proportioned, she holds herself proudly, her neck like that of a swan, her eyes round, neat, flashing with intrigue, her little rosebud mouth curving. She is the type of lady every person would envy- I am sure when I get to know my sister-in-law better, I shall find some weakness, for even in her modest attire, she irritatingly outshines me, the bride, the other Elizabeth. They spin me about, and I swallow. I am taking my fate, my future into my own hands.

We walk down the stairs to where a small party of my kinsmen and –women are gathered- sadly all are Lancastrian, for even these days, it appears that my wedding must be political. Sir John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, walks to escort me, with his Howard Countess Izzy, her hands on the shoulders of her eldest sons- Aubrey and Jem. Jem is scowling, for he obviously believes he is too senior in years to be under his mother's palm. Aubrey has a small smug grin, for earlier in May, the last time I were jovial before my Father's horrid death, I saw him wed to the Duke of Buckingham's daughter, a rather nice hook. Indeed, a strange event did occur at his wedding- I saw the lady who had chivvied me along at that farce of a Loveday Parade two years, and she would not desist from gazing at my person!