- 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 Battle of Middleham~
Breaking free from the crush of bodies that surrounded her, Eleanor clawed at a breath of air to fill her burning lungs. Unhorsed long ago by a Tudor soldier weirding a deadly pike, she had fought on foot for the past two hours, sword in hand and covered in the remains of her enemies.
It had all been a blur to her, a vile and gruesome blur that she knew she had to drag herself through for victory, for Richard, for her children. The thick scent of blood filled her nose, overwhelming her senses so that she almost gagged when her dagger sliced another soldier's throat and drops of warm blood sprayed onto her face.
She spat into the churned up earth, pushing her enemy away from her and watching as his twitching body turned limp. All around her men cried 'For York and Queen Eleanor' at the tops of their voices, pushing forward with with all the strength they could muster, pushing for victory, for their Queen!
She had never felt so alive yet so close to death as she did in those hours upon the battlefield of Middleham where her final fate lay dependant on an ever turning wheel of fortune.
A wheel that had so brutally crushed her husband.
But rose to astounding heights for her.
Even God seemed to smile upon the Queen of England.
The battle had been in York's favour from the very beginning, when Eleanor's army had smashed into the Tudor forces so brutally most of their mounted knights had been wiped out in the first charge! They were not faced with an army of men but of beasts, beasts with thirsty blades clamouring for blood, spurred on by their leader who appeared almost a God of death in her back iron glory.
They fell to the ground, broken and bleeding, blades thrust through their battered armour, driven deep into their flesh with the intent to tear the life from them.
Then had been the true fray, the gory struggle to gain the majority of the field where York and Tudor soldiers alike had been butchered and the earth had been stained with their blood. Gone was the lush green grass that had so blessed the scenery of Wensleydale, now it was simply a churning mass of dirt, tinted crimson by the blood that was spilled upon it, oozing from fresh corpses.
Henry Percy was dead.
He had been torn down from his horse by the vengeful Duke of Bedford who had been at Bosworth, had seen Percy watch his rightful King be butchered and had ever since hungered for revenge. Revenge he had taken in the form of thrusting his dagger through the Earl of Northumberland's throat and almost laughing when the life drained from his eyes and he could throw his body to the mud where he belonged.
