- 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 Final Fight~
17th of September 1485, Middleham....
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Eleanor held her hands together, clasping them so tightly that they hurt. One knee shook, jittering up and down relentlessly while she tried to focus on her breathing; the steady rattle of her armour filling her ears.
In....
Out....
In....
Out....
Each breath shook with fear and anticipation, each ounce of air sending a new shock through her veins; a tremor through her heart. Dawn was many hours behind but Eleanor had been awake long before the first rays of light blessed the hills and valleys of Wensleydale with their golden glow.
She hadn't slept a wink.
By the time the sunrise had graced England, the Queen was already dressed in her armour with her sword strapped firmly to her side and her golden cloak on her shoulders; crown on her head. Her ladies had offered to stay with her but she had sent them away with a silent wave of her hand, any words she wanted to say drying up in her throat.
Pacing for a while she had tried to clear her head, walking back and forth across her room while she avoided the windows. Though they were closed and securely bolted in an attempt to keep the noises of the awakening armies nearby out, some of the noise filtered through in small choruses.
Hooves on cobblestone, barked orders from irritated nobles each wrought up with battle nerves that were wound tightly in the pit of everyone's stomach.
At last she had sat at the end of her bed and that was where she remained while the morning sun rose, perched tentatively on the very edge of the covers. Every so often her eyes would flick sharply to her chamber door, as if she expected for some dark force to come bursting through at any moment, or to her dressing table mirror.
The stony faced warrior that stared back at her was almost unrecognisable to her but she knew it was her. The red curly hair that cascaded down to her hips, the green eyes that were still bright against her pale skin despite the slight glaze of grief over them were hers, all hers.
And yet they weren't. She felt as if she were looking on from another body, watching from a distance that was miles away from her bedchamber and from the castle.
Taking another shaking breath, Eleanor shook her head to herself and forced herself to stand, making herself move towards the doors and pull them open; walk out into the hall. She had to rally her spirits, she had to be strong.
And she had to see her children.
She knew they would be in the nursery, all of them together. Despite the vast difference in ages between all the children who resided at Middleham they were a tight knit group who loved one another and sought to comfort each other in their grief. Once more, Eleanor was proved right.
