The Other Elizabeth

Chapter XXX: November 1460

Chapter XXX: November 1460 

Scales Hall, Norfolk, England

"I will take thee to wed."

Anthony and I spoke those words, this binding promise, to one another this morrow, before the sun had even risen, and the dew had even dried. We have been betrothed on the most auspicious of days; All Hallows' Day. We both fully know well what we are marrying into- and marrying for. We know that our future lies under the Duke of York- the future King Richard, it seems to be so. For we rose from our beds this morning to find a messenger awaiting with a proclamation. An Act of Accord has passed in Parliament. Indeed, a couple of weeks afore, they conferred my title, issued me with letters patent, and now I am truly Baroness Scales. The Act of Accord states than when His Grace, King Henry dies, My Lord of York himself will be his heir! The Prince Edward is to be disinherited just like so- I cannot comprehend how this is even possible.

So, the Duke has finally achieved his ultimatum- all the Lords of the land agreed to his eventual succession, as they studied his pedigree, professing his ancestors' claim should not have been bypassed in the first place; the Lancastrians are usurpers. King Henry is descended from the third King Edward's son, but his third child. Once the lineage of the first child had died out, namely Richard II, the crown should have passed to the children of Edward's second child, but these were bypassed, because the second child was a woman, and they were too young, and the Lancasters had already deposed Richard off his throne. How many of the staunch Lancastrians did agree to this Act of Accord, I wonder, or whether there was any such bribery? Mayhap they just want to refill their coffers and end any more bloodshed.

Is it so bad of me, that when I said those words, that pledge to Anthony, I thought of Henry? I know he is gone, and he would expect me to, but would he forgive me for marrying another? Never did I envision that I would pledge myself again, that Henry would die, when I said those words, these same words, to him one and ten years gone. That many? I remember that I was so giddy and green- and all the silly folly when William tried to stop Henry and me from being wed with his accusations of us knowing one another carnally. I snort sadly, for it all seems so trivial and silly, so childish and flighty of us all, when now we are grown, and know true heartbreak, when it is all about us, as the stonemasons chip away, effigy after effigy. I wonder what would have happened if the allegations had been taken in all seriousness, and we had been prohibited to marry. Henry might have entered the church and still been alive. Would I have still found my path with Anthony?

I recall being attired in a new gown- there is nothing first-hand for me today, although I am attired in one of my finest gowns, of deep sapphire, in heavy damask with a fleur-de-lys pattern. Oh, how scandalously French! 'Tis My Lady Mother's gown. Indeed, 'tis chilling almost to wear what she once did, and slightly out of fashion, but all my own garments were in gay colours, and she wore it but once when it was fitted. Despite it being mine and Anthony's betrothal ceremony, a time to celebrate, how could I wear emerald or river blue, the typical colours of brides, when I have lost so much? I look closer at the pattern of roses, and I see them wilt, wilting for Lancaster, and the hope lost. My train is fairly long and furred, sitting at my feet like a small mink dog as I sit hunched over my account books. It may be the day of my betrothal, but I have much to sort out and show to Anthony. He must take on the joint responsibility of caring for my Barony. 'Tis strange I will only have a short time to be a Baroness independently, but it is unthinkable to live unwed at my age. Mayhap he can ease the burden, guide me through.

My headdress, which sits next to me, is studded with iridescent diamonds and covered in a latticed pattern, a short black veil hanging from the fabric coils. My sleeves are pinned back with the hairpins from this monstrosity, which does resemble a large pheasant on my head, revealing an ink stained hand. Upon my hand, is a scarlet droplet refracting in the weak sunlight, casting glittering beams which somehow, sickeningly resemble blood and the weeping Lancaster petals. My ring is steeped in blood; our marriage is through the war.