@eleanor-percy / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. richmond palace, old deer park.
The wind was weighted with the dampness of an impending rain, swirling atop Richmond Park’s sweeping hills, gathering up autumn leaves and debris in its humid swirls. With the back of his hand, William wiped the slick lather from his forehead, swept aside the forelock bonded to his skin, and squinted as he glared ahead, the lush verdure of the greenwood meeting sharply with the leaden skies, a wroth arrangement of clouds skimming the top of the thicket of cedars. He does not need to lift his head and sniff the air like a grizzled hound to know a storm beckons. It was heralded across the heavens in shades of gray. ‘I declare a truce, my lords.’ His strident whistle induces the attention of the small hunting party. ‘You have all shown yourself worthy. Let us all engorge on the spoils of the hunt.’ The merry cabal returned with: ‘a feast!’
William looked back at the palace, the wind clouting his cheek. The great, white-marbled Richmond Palace, rambling along the banks of the Thames, stood mostly empty when the king’s court was lodged at Hampton, save for the attendants who sweetened the air and ensured the stained-glass sparkled in his absence. Often the young king would set off to Richmond under the cloak of darkness, taking with him a select cabal of courtiers to regale him with the merry pastimes their betters looked down upon, forming a rich, skillful, lively little court of the king’s trusted few.
Wills’ eyes scanned the party, smirking impishly to himself as a Mistress Tilney – or was she another Stafford, full-figured, and lavishly kitted out? – met his eyes, her skin deepening to the richness of a pomegranate. He choked down on a laugh as his lungs swelled with hearty cheer. There was not a single, gray-bearded, insipid noble among them; but rather, beauty and wit all ‘round. Rather like Arthur’s Roundtable, only cleverer, and more handsome – and far less virtuous.
Mounted atop a jet-black Spanish jennet, the king himself cut an avid figure, veins sprung to his skin, muscles rippling beneath. Like both his mother and father before him, he proved himself an exceptional hunter, making sport out of corralling the red stags that teemed in the Old Deer Park. Yet as the rest of the court beat a retreat to the palace, their bloody takings strapped onto the back of their steeds, Lord Howard’s dark, honey-coloured eyes tempted Wills into yet another competition, and with a whistle, they made off to the track that looped around the perimeter of Richmond. Neck and neck like kinsmen, and not merely king and subject, they galloped at such speed as not to be deterred by the wind, but flung into its current, as they blustered toward the waterhole bubbling up at the center of the greensward.
The rains trickled upon them, boring through the canopy of the wilderness like arrows from the sky, sloping from the tree’s waxy leaves into the mop of Wills’ hair, blazing the hue of rust - so dark as to be considered more of a burnt auburn, than his natural copper - clouding his vision, collecting in his mouth. Yet, when Lord Howard howls and grips his reins harshly enough that his horse should convulse to a violent halt, panting laboredly, Wills follows in suit. Up ahead, she looms, the reason for their incredible crescendo: the umber-haired water nymph and her snow-white paltry perched on the banks of the pond.
He recognizes her, as he would virtually anywhere, as Henry Percy’s sister. Proud, pretty Elle brought so low? How she had come to such a state, the king cannot fathom a guess – he knows only that she her teeth must clatter with the frigid cold, and by the wince distorting her countenance, he wagers she’s wrought injury upon herself. Hotfooted, Wills dismounts, barking out a stern command. ‘Go, Howard, go and find Doctor Billinglesy. Have him come at once. On my orders.’ A puddle of mud splashing beneath his horse, Lord Howard disappears into the mist without another word. He would not have Henry Percy rain hell upon him for his sister catching her death in Wills’ care.
Kneeling, the king places a comforting hand to Eleanor’s shoulder, looking at the lady silently - as if taking measure of her anguish. He follows her gaze to the empurpled skin stretched taught about her ankle, twisted into an unnatural angle. He is heartened by this: it was nothing that a tightly-wrapped linen and loafing could not fix. A quiet chuckle escapes him as he gives a shake of his head, lips lowering into a sulky grin. ‘When I said I wanted you to come hunting with us, I did not intend that you should be the wounded prey, ‘Perc.’







