- 𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑛 -
It's the year 1464 and Eleanor Woodville lives at Grafton Manor as one of the younger daughters of Jacquetta and Sir Richard Woodville. At 11 years old, her worries are little and her joys great but her o...
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~The Race toMarch North~
5th of September 1485, London....
There was barely a word spoken the next morning as the Queen was readied for war by Lizzie and Cat, only glances of worry and of determination; sounds of clanking metal filling the almost icy air.
Outside of the royal chamber was chaos as soldiers and Lords alike rallied their armour and their weapons to act upon the order their Queen had issued the previous night.
They were to march North.
Servants ran down corridors, jumping at the hasty orders that were barked in their direction and the whinny of horses filled the palace courtyard as destriers were saddled and armoured, each bearing the colourful crest of their noble rider.
London had been thrown into chaos over the course of the night as well when word of the march escaped the confines of the palace and flew through the city streets like wildfire!
Already, many citizens had rallied together to fight for their King and Queen; to oppose the Tudor with the one last chance they had but now they gathered at the palace gates, axes and daggers in hand. When she had seen the hundreds of people willing to lay down their lives for her and her son from her window, Eleanor had wept, heavy tears rolling down her cheeks and Cecily had wept with her.
Neither had expected so much from the capital, least of all the Queen who was counting on most of her support from the North, but that night the Londoners had proved they loved her just as much as their Northern counterparts.
However, their act did not simply serve the Queen's confidence in her people, it secured the remaining nobles faith in her and dashed any doubt that lingered in their minds on her plan.
It was just the show of of unity they needed, the one final push that would fan the hot embers of resistance into a storm of fire and crush any opposition underfoot.
Eleanor was statuesque as she was prepared for war by her kinswoman, each of them taking the upmost care to see that everything was perfect from the way her hair (left flowing loose) was placed to the way her crown was set on her head; jewels sparkling.
And her armour. God it was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, all had to admit when they saw it carried through the palace that morning. Black iron, polished until it shone and truly fit for a Queen; a full suit of impenetrable power made for destruction.
The plates fit together perfectly and fit Eleanor like a glove, sliding and locking into place while she stood there in silence with a stoic look on her face.
