He has sworn to marry her but Henry Tudor, ever cautious, ever careful, withholds the marriage ceremony for several months. Elizabeth knows he is waiting for the papal dispensation and the fact of his kingship to take route, unquestionably, in the minds of the public. For her part, Elizabeth is somewhat relieved to be given a brief respite; she sometimes dreams she sits on a throne built over the graves of her father, brothers, and uncles.
Old dynasties wither and new dynasties grow in the shadow of shattered lives and plans.
Still though, her betrothed brings her a welcome pre-wedding present. Henry Tudor repeals the Titulus Regius and, suddenly, Elizabeth and her sisters are legitimate once more, their mother a proper widow.
And so Henry Tudor and Elizabeth of York wed, the heirs of Lancaster and York (alternately; they wed, the semi-legitimate heirs of dying Houses. Elizabeth is sure their enemies whisper this sort of thing as they sharpen their knives and wait for the opportune moment to attack.) They say their vows, and the new Tudor rose is drawn up, red and white together.
Elizabeth has a husband now, though he is a stranger still. He may not trust her yet (it seems the concept of having a spouse is as foreign to him as it is to her), but he makes it clear that he is prepared to admire her. And it is easy enough to respond to affection, however tentative.
Perhaps they will rebuild this kingdom together. Perhaps.