Rivals in the Tudor Court. Darcey Bonnette

      “You must learn this now, Lady Elizabeth,” says Ralph, stroking my thumb. “That an unquiet peace can be more miserable than a decisive battle. One can live a whole lifetime in a state of unquiet peace.”

      I do not know how to respond. I do not like being challenged this way. I would just like someone to see things as I do. I expel a heavy sigh of frustration.

      “Your father will return, my lady,” he assures me. He bows his head. “Oh, I do wish I could be among them! But, alas, I must remain behind.” He casts a shy glance my way and I shiver in delight.

      “I hope you can find ways to pass the time while everyone is harvesting their fruits of fortune on the battlefield,” I say with a smile.

      He reaches up, tracing my jawline with a velvet fingertip. “I’m sure I can find something….”

      He leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. They are soft and moist, warm, filled with sweet eagerness. Only loyalty to my good queen’s virtues gives me the will to pull away and stare into his face in bewildered joy.

      “Ralph …” I murmur, just for the sake of saying his name.

      He kisses my forehead. “I have longed for you, Elizabeth,” he says. “Say you are mine.”

      The courtly language is not the least bit original but as it is addressed to me, I cannot help but offer a giddy little nod and say, “Yes!”

      “When your father returns, we will seek his permission to be married,” he continues, his eyes wide with excitement.

      I cannot say I really know Ralph altogether well, but he is so handsome and charming that the thought of being his wife has me nodding my assent, caught up in his enthusiasm. I am already imagining what our children will look like. They’ll have our blue eyes, no doubt. I begin to tingle.

      “Oh, Ralph, do go away so I can find someone to confide our news to!” I cry, shooing him off.

      Ralph laughs, rising from the garden bench and dipping into an extravagant bow. “Fare thee well, my wife,” he whispers.

      My face flushes bright crimson. I lower my eyes, watching Ralph’s boots as they plod off.

      All thoughts of battle and bloodshed are abated, replaced with fantasies of a grand wedding.

      I shall be Elizabeth Neville!

      The king departs with great fanfare. My father accompanies him with an entourage of six hundred archers, three hundred household servants, musicians—even the choir of the Chapel Royal! No one is left out of this campaign. Wolsey leaves, Bishop Foxe leaves—everyone. They are all dressed in the Tudor livery of green and white. It is a splendid farewell.

      The queen rules as regent from Greenwich Palace and it is very quiet without His Majesty. In the company of Her Grace I help sew banners and badges and standards for our soldiers. As my fingers work the needle, I feel I am a part of something great, that somewhere in France someone will be carrying a standard or wearing a badge that I, Elizabeth Stafford, have sewn with all of my love and good wishes.

      We follow the war from our safe vantage, learning that on 16 August the king and Emperor Maximilian I routed the French at what became known as the Battle of the Spurs, taking the town of Therouanne.

      But the triumphs are accompanied by tragedies. We learn of the casualties. Thomas Knyvet, the shy courtier who amused us all by climbing naked up a pillar when the rabble stole his clothes at the festivities celebrating the late prince’s birth, died at sea off Brest when fighting the French. There are so many others, all young merry men eager for such useless enterprise.

      With heavy hearts we mourn our soldiers. Soon there are no more banners to sew, no more standards to bear. The queen’s household grows smaller and smaller.

      I am sent home to Thornbury that autumn, but to my delight, Ralph Neville, as my father’s ward, is there as well. As much as I am devoted to Her Grace, I am relieved to be away for a while. The household was so tense waiting for news of the king’s success that my gut was constantly churning and lurching in anxiety.

      Now I have but to await the return of the king and his army in a more peaceful place with my betrothed at my side.