Rivals in the Tudor Court

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I don’t care a fig about that. Ralph Neville may not have Lord Howard’s well-turned legs, but he is the sweetest, most beautiful … oh, please God. I turn to my sister. She looks as dumb and appealing as any man would want a girl to look. Surely he’ll choose her….

Thomas Howard

It seems the sun still shines and the snow still falls. The birds sing and I manage to take in nourishment. I sleep and dream and think and live even without the princess. But the ache, that relentless dull throb filling my chest, encircling my heart like a coiling snake, never abates. It pursues me with the ardour of a new lover.

I divert myself with hunting. I watch the crimson blood of my kill stain the snow and try not to remember the blood of the princess against the stark white of her cheek. It is no use. Sometimes I sink to my knees with my bow amongst the silence of the trees, watching the sun filtering through the canopy of branches above. I watch a chipmunk scamper across the moss. Does he talk to the faeries? Does he know my princess? Can he tell her … What would I have him tell her? There is so much, and all left unsaid.

I abandon these strange fancies and at Shrovetide remove to Thornbury, where I must fulfil my obligation to my family and choose a bride.

The pre-Lenten celebrations are in full tilt when I arrive. A feast is laid out in my honour and though food holds little appeal for me now, save for the fact that it is what keeps me alive, I partake of the lamb in mint jelly, peacock, cheese, warm bread, and sweet comfits with feigned enthusiasm.

It is very strange, this choosing of a wife. My first marriage was arranged for me, which was most appropriate for that time in my life. I did not have to fret about a thing. Negotiations were made above our innocent heads and all we had to worry about was pleasing each other. That was easy to do.

But now it is different. Now I am in control of my fate and I must choose a wife, mother, and helpmate. And I have one night to do it.

I assess the girls. They are quite young. I recall the one called Elizabeth from our few encounters at court. Though she is on the thin side, she has grown into a beautiful young lady with her long waves of chestnut hair threaded with auburn tumbling loose down her back. Her blue eyes remain fierce and determined and she has retained that set jawline. Her smile is slow in coming but worth waiting for.

The younger sister Catherine is a beauty as well, though a little too plump for my liking. It is pleasant now, but I imagine once she drops a pup, she will give herself over to resembling the broad side of a ship, which just wouldn’t do.

Yet there is a sweet element in Catherine that seems lacking in Elizabeth.

How does one know what is right? We eat and make small talk but they say little. I converse more with the duke, who proudly lists his daughters’ talents and virtues, and I listen attentively. Catherine excels at embroidery, but Elizabeth can sing like a bird. Catherine is a beautiful dancer, but Elizabeth is a skilled equestrienne.

I will just have to see how this night goes.

Elizabeth Stafford

Look at him narrowing his black eyes at us as though he is assessing jewels for scrapes and flaws! Oh, I remember him right enough. A well-intended man but an arrogant knight nonetheless. Well, I shan’t do a thing to impress him tonight. I will be myself and say and do exactly as I like and if Father is displeased with me, so be it. Let him have Catherine. I love her and I truly don’t want to make her a sacrifice, but if it comes down to her or me …

“So, Mistress Elizabeth,” he begins, leaning forward to look down his long nose at me. “What is your favourite thing to do?”

“I enjoy passing time with young people,” I tell him in sharp tones. “Young, merry people.”