Despite my urge to dispute this, I find myself nodding. It is true. From the first she seemed to belong to some other place, some intangible realm of existence forbidden to lesser beings.
“What will become of me?” I ask in a small voice, feeling as desperate and despondent as an abandoned child.
She offers a slight laugh. “I don’t worry about you,” she tells me. “You are a Howard. Howards survive.”
She avails herself of a fit of coughing. Blood spews forth, coating the front of her nightdress.
Now, I have seen much in battle. I have been drenched in the blood and gore of my enemies as well as my own, but nothing compares to this. This is my princess. This is not supposed to happen to my princess….
My heart skips in wild fear. “Somebody help her! Somebody help her!” I cry.
Servants flood the room, attending her with gentle hands. But she has no need of it. Her eyes have focused on her faery country; she is gone. I gesture for the servants to cease their ministrations. They depart, heads bowed, some making the sign of the cross.
I gather my princess in my arms. She is limp, heavy. I cradle her head in the crook of my shoulder, watching my tears glisten off her rose-gold hair.
I begin to sway, humming some tuneless song in nervousness.
I am alone. She is the last of my short-lived family.
I am alone.
After her interment, I lie abed at Lambeth, allowing myself the luxury of dwelling on the past. I do not scream or cry or rage against God. I think of my princess, of the first time I saw her at Westminster. I think of our wedding, of our babies…. I do not want to think of the losses just yet. I want to imagine them all twirling and laughing in some faery garden. I want to imagine her smile, her sweet soft voice, her gentle touch.
My father comes to me one night, interrupting my musings with more unwanted realities. He sits on the edge of my bed, regarding me with sad brown eyes.
“We both know what it’s like to lose,” he begins, folding his hands and bowing his head. “What I am about to tell you may sound cold, even cruel but, my son … you must move on now.”
“Move on? Are you mad? I just buried her!” I cry, sitting up.
My father nods. “Yes. She is gone. Now you must rebuild. You are an earl’s firstborn son. Someday everything I have will go to you. And then where? You need a young, sturdy wife and a houseful of children. Your marriage was dead long before your princess—”
It is all I can do to refrain from slapping him outright.
“I have arranged for you to meet with Buckingham’s daughters at Shrovetide,” he informs me, unaffected by my outraged expression. “You would do yourself credit to make a match with one of them. They are offering a good dowry and it seems the Staffords are of fertile stock.” He pauses, then reaches out to pat my leg. His tone is gentle. “We are not a breed who can afford to love. That is left to the peasants; call it their one great extravagance, their compensation for their miserable lot in life.” He shakes his head. “But us … no, not us. We marry for advantage; we marry so that we might be the founders of dynasties. It is a business, Tom. You were fortunate with your princess if you found some affection. But now you are of an age to put such nonsense away and look toward what is practical. Marry. Assure me a great line of successors.”
The anger fades to numbness. I nod, accepting the truth in his words. I am the son of an earl. I cannot leave my inheritance to a sibling or nephew. I have to rebuild.
The princess would understand. She told me I would survive, and part of ensuring that survival is marrying again. It will not be the same. How could it ever be the same?
“A Stafford girl,” I say, lying back down and closing my eyes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter who she is as long as she’s a good breeder.”
“Good lad,” says my father, patting my leg again. He rises. “Nothing like having your bed warmed again to abate your grief. That’s what I did, and Agnes and I have proven quite successful.”
“Yes,” I say in cool tones. “It is a good business.”
No longer will marriage be considered anything else to me.
Elizabeth Stafford, Yuletide 1512
Everything is so wonderful. Father is home safe but has been so preoccupied that Ralph and I have had plenty of time to be alone. He reads me poetry and sings me frivolous little songs. We play with the dogs and take long walks in the snow. My sister Catherine teases me.
“I see roses in winter!” she cries.
“Where?”
“On your cheeks!” She laughs. “Who put them there?”
We dissolve into giggles as I recount Ralph’s attributes. Is it his smile I like best or the silkiness of his blonde hair, or perhaps his spontaneous laugh? I shiver and giggle for no reason and every reason. Oh, to always remain young and in love and happy!
Ralph decides to ask for my hand at Christmas. It is the perfect arrangement. One of the primary benefits of taking on a ward is ensuring the right of marriage to a member of the guardian’s family—in this case, me. How could anyone object? It is probably what they have been planning all along.
While Ralph takes my parents aside in the parlour for a cordial meeting, Catherine and I wait in the dining hall.
“Father loves Ralph,” I say, my hands twitching in nervousness. “He must have had plans for him to enter our family from the start, don’t you think? Oh, Catherine, it will happen, won’t it?”
Catherine offers her gentle laugh. She is a plump and merry girl with deep dimples on either side of her rosy mouth and lively blue eyes. “It will be fine, sweeting. Don’t fret so. It was ordained from the start!”
My heart is pounding. My cheeks are hot and my breathing short. My head tingles. I don’t know what to do with my hands and keep flexing my fingers.
At last my parents emerge with Ralph. His face is drawn, his eyes are red, and his lips are puffy. He rushes past Catherine and me and I rise, trying to stop him, but am not quick enough. Father reaches me first, seizing my hand.
“I did not tell him no,” he informs me in his gentle voice. “But it must wait.”
“Why?” I ask, biting my quivering lip.
“We are having a guest,” he says slowly.
“What does that matter?” I furrow my brow in frustration.
He reaches out to rub my upper arm. “He is coming to look you girls over and decide which of you he would like to take to wife.”
Catherine and I turn to each other. I approach her, taking her hands in mine. We draw near one another.
“Who?” I whisper.
“Lord Thomas Howard.”
“Lord Howard!” I cry. “But he’s married!”
He shakes his head. “He is a widower newly made.”
“How newly?” I demand.
“Lady Anne Plantagenet passed in late November,” he replies, bowing his head. “God rest her sweet soul.”
“Gracious, he doesn’t waste any time!” I cry, furious.
“Elizabeth!” Father’s voice is sharp. “Remember yourself! His reasons are not for us to question.”
I look to my sister, who at thirteen is already more rounded in figure than I. As uncharitable as it may sound, I hope he chooses her. I shall have speech with her later about endeavouring to make a good impression on him.
My