Lady Eleanor

@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.’ 

The hills and fields of Richmond had called to her- for how was she to perch, so still and compliant and gentle, whilst the rumblings of riotous hunt for the king and his party flashed through Hampton Court? Perching against plush chairs, squinting, hunching over Needlepoint depictions of wild beasts and untameable forest was a pale cry from driving hoof into soil and achieving speed as fast as mortals could hope feel. A ride was no ride unless your cheeks were numb and red and raw from the wind. And so, Lady Eleanor felt relief to abandon her post at Elizabeth’s service in lieu of a hunt,  followed on the cusp of the party when the world was coated in an faint light she felt kindred to, until the steel toned clouds layered thick, hanging low overhead. Shrouded in her riding attire, traipsing to the stables to fetch her father’s favourite horse, Elle wrapped raven’s hair in knotted braid, braced all hesitation to stray and deviate from meticulous agenda, and prodded against mud and soil and earth, achieving Nirvana despite the mist in the air, the drizzle from the heavens. Hellbent on locating her own deer, competitive streak too strong to ignore. “Go- go!” She muttered, through trees and tall grass, down to the watering hole til she, too, was breathless, and aching, and pleased. Ready for a hunt of her own, to taste the action for her own accord.

Her accident was a monumental disaster, just as gloved hands drifted over her palfrey’s mane, just as he leaned toward the water’s surface, thunder rumbled; horse bucked, slipped, twisted hoof— catapulting the Percy daughter to fall toward the pond, submerge her hips as her ankle rolled. The sprinkle of rain turned into a storm, nearly comically, and Eleanor cursed the skies - cursed the ground as she winced and attempted to stand, failing like a fool. Worry stubbornly pushed away, but grew as the rains continued to pour- her dress, her palms collecting mud to transform her into a witch of the wild as she winced in pain. Panic, until, a new nerve entirely appeared, in the form of her king - the rainfall offered distorted view, and in that moment she wished to scramble further into the pond, conceal herself amongst the ferns, the flowerbeds.  “Majesty- You’re dreaming of me, this is an illusion! Nothing to see here-“ she protested as the king approached, dark-eyes caught on his as though she were the nervous deer, though she couldn’t keep that same, dark slide of a slanted grin on her lips from bouncing. Almost too familiarly with him. A hitched groan as she attempted to move, her fingertips stretching onto her shoulder to graze the king’s hand perched against the soaked fabric. Careful not to get mud on his holy hand, she couldn’t keep from laughing low, tilting her head toward the stormy skies. “I did not intend for you to trap me so easily, Tudor. Hide me in some other glen and strike me properly, for it to be considered a worthy test.” Attempting to stand once more only to succumb to gravity, Elle hides a flush and shakes her head, shivering from the chill of the rain. As if on queue, the horse, jolted up from its position to abandon the pair.  “If you help me back, promise not to mount me on the wall as your other deer busts, or have me for supper with the other bits of trappings from today?”

@eleanor-percy / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.

           The sound of children’s laughter touched Richard’s countenance with a warm smile as his hands came neatly together, clasped with a Tyndale Bible at his centre.  The courtyard was bursting with merriment, teeming with the scent of sweet dew that glittered across the park as the sun’s light caught the edge of sharpened shards of grass.  Beneath, the duke’s boots with fresh sludge, dampened by the bloodshed of a tourney two mornings past.  Such exhilarations had ebbed away, replaced by the children brandishing their ribbons in the square, their little throats reverberating with a shrill glee that brought Heaven itself to its knees.  Coaxed into a moment of reflection, Richard just scarcely took note of the dark-haired figure that crept silently across the lawn toward him, joining him at his side.

His grin grew wider, yet, as he tilted his head toward her.  He’d been faithful to the idea of being an impartial father – though not so impartial, strived he, as to be described as apathetic – but there was little doubt in the Percy family that Eleanor occupied a special place in his heart, unfulfilled by any other.  ‘Ma dame fille,’ greeted the duke, invoking the French tongue his wife had often employed to dote upon the children.  Had he yielded to his mother’s exhortation, Eleanor might have herself been dispatched to Paris – or a neighboring peeress’ household – to obtain an education, but his protestations had seen that proposal swiftly squared away.  ‘I was only just contemplating what else could make this morning more pleasant, save for my own daughter?’ 

Gently prodding for any tidbit of secrecy she possessed, he inquired: ‘I trust you are recovered from the pageant? Your brother is still nursing one of his megrims.  He says the airs overcome him – little wonder, for he reeks of an alehouse.’ 

She peeked around a flourished column, more the wood-nymph of a wild child she so proudly embodied in the days grown so fleeting, to view her father who peppered finely with age. Her eyes, poking out of from the corner of the courtyard, first. Her mother’s eyes - Jane’s eyes most fond of mischief, as if she were holding one thousand secrets too entertaining for mortal ears. Time was merciless with the Percy family, Eleanor thought in this moment, as she smoothed down her skirts to resemble a poised lady with enough grace to surpass statues and hedges in peaceful beauty. Of course, she wanted to make him proud. Wanted him to see her as the young woman of twenty and two rather than a curious creature so new to the world. So in need of him.

Swing in her step and a bounce in her dark-jetted brows coaxed a smile that near-mirrored Richard’s, coral velvet shoulders rolled, chin jutted high towards the overcast heavens as if any fated ancestors, any divine planners, could look upon her with interest and hope to bless her course for success. “Tell me the sun only shines when I step toward you, or the springtime  lets me paint the world in flowers from wherever I tread, and tell me that it only comes from all things Percy. Mother’s a winter creature, though there’s beauty in snow- you mustn’t tell her I said such things. And Hen- he’s summer, too clammy.”  

Looping arms with Richard, her smile turns soft, slanted. “I did not attend such pageant, father, it was Honour, who told me she allowed only the most gallant and chivalrous to attempt to compete for a dance.” Looping arms with him, checking ‘round the Eden pristine courtyard of scarlet brick and fastened fountain like, Elle leaned in to ask, most innocently in tone, “Have you heard of any gossip, or intriguing stories from your sources as of late? It seems the world looks upon our king as though he is the prized catch at the next hunt. Mother even implored I try and play a damned instrument for him, like a piper…. Such pageantry is ridiculous folly.”

for: @eleanor-percy

  A clearness of amenity and good will, shone clearly in Anne’s blue eye, a glow of warm feeling on her fair complexion, which passed where famed beauty once lay. Emancipated from the tyranny of suspicion, Anne was free to lavish affections, in the company of those she deemed amicable acquaintances; in utter seclusion in her private quarters, the beautiful youth, and pure innocence of the young Eleanor, was seated by her side. The tea they took together was passed in merriment; the honour and piety of the young lady, was a charm, which would keep any monarch, placated. “You may suspect me of entreating you into audience, to discuss the dealings of my daughter; but I promise that my interest lays only, in your own well being and matters. Pray tell me child, what you make of the King’s arrangements thus far - is England poised to remerge as a country of both art and light? I believe the French consider us bound to the agenda of King’s now deceased; they consider little, I wager, their own bloodline.” 

   Anne smiled pleasurably as she spoke of France; her affections for the country’s language, fashions, sweeping castles as fierce as ever; but passions did not eradicate a fierce desire, to strike down criticism of her songs magnanimous future. “But foreign dignitaries, poses a most fruitful opportunity, for an English rose such as yourself - have any of our visitors, caught your eye?”  

Such majesty was enough to learn from tenfold, Eleanor believed as she stood by the queen mother’s side with nothing save the crackling fire to accompany their words. A Boleyn queen,  the late king’s falcon white, her prowess and strive incomparable amongst the turmoil of her ascent, she  glowed almost ethereal in legend and presence alike, now pearlescent in Eleanor’s eyes, casting courtiers and foreign dignitaries into muted neutrals. Despite her position, despite the son she bore or the interrogation she would assume to receive from her mother following such a mighty audience, Elle couldn’t help but wish to pick her apart, piece by piece, study how to grow with such tactic, agility. 

H O N O U R // Lady Eleanor Percy

Lady Eleanor transforms into one of the eight chivalric virtues, conspicuously concealed behind a gold-stitched mask and clad in white satin, her virtue emblazoned from bodice as she sways for the production. Tosses dried flower petals, conceals  a laugh behind her disguise, perched atop a tower.

           With Elizabeth retired to her chambers, an entirely different atmosphere to the one she fastidiously maintained took root.  His sisters’ gaggle of attendants were the creme de la creme of court, high-born women whose families were in lofty esteem with the crown, rivaled only by those employed by Queen Anne.  Tonight their positions of prominence were belabored with the lavishing of the gentlemen’s attentions - gentlemen of the king’s choosing, those capricious, often low-born men who proved either useful or utterly bemusing.  Looking about the room, William’s favourites were palpably delighted by the ladies’ company, forbidden fruit as they were.  Elizabeth would have his hide if they comported themselves untowardly, but then she would come to expect it of Wills’ countrymen, full of vim and vigour as they were.  He might dissuade them, if it were not so droll.

The vinous smell of the room did nothing to dampen their flattery, as the burning hearth coaxed vibrant flushes in the women’s cheeks - stretching down the column of their throats into the pasty mounds of their chests - as they leaned forth with coquettishness.  Wills bit down upon a grin as noticed his own cousin, a Courtenay, paw at a woman he recognized from Hatfield.  Certainly he would merit the lady’s father’s wrath upon the morrow for attempting - albeit failing - to compromise her widely renowned virtue. Even Wills flouted the opportunity to try. 

To some, the late King Henry had been a tyrant - to others, he was an assiduous and goodly prince, leaving to his son a vast and prostrated kingdom crowded with the finest peers and most virtuous ladies in Europe, such as those seated about him.  It was birthright that brought the Howards and Dudleys to favour, yet, ironically, William seldom felt more at ease than with the common raffle, or those brave enough to regard him as he was - a mere man.  He found such company in few, but amply in Eleanor Percy.  Her noble breeding belied her grounded character, for she spoke with a naïveté that evoked Wills’ acclaim and surprised even he into vocal submission.  His eyes blazed black with amusement, the king was quite easily lured into a playfulness that George Boleyn had done his utmost to clout out of him.

Wills’ reddish brows crumpled as she foisted an Ace of Spades at him.  He had miscalculated - but not to the extent she believed - and glanced back to Eleanor with feigned devastation.  A hand wafted over the king’s beating heart in mock reproach.  ‘Don’t you love your king, Mistress Eleanor?  You wound me, and forget that if I win or lose, I am your king.  I may command you as I see fit.  But air your terms, if you wish.’

He then considered his deck of cards in earnest, apparently disgruntled.  ‘You should know that I never wish to be fooled.’  Selecting a few from the stack, he pushed a velvet purse to the middle of the table.  ‘I do not wish to win because I am king…’  Wills trailed off, revealing a trio of cards.  A royal flush indeed.  ‘But because I have the best hand in the country.’  At that, his face cleaved into a rather kingly gleam, self-satisfied and punchy.  

‘There is a hunt tomorrow.  You’ll come, won’t you?  I’m afraid good men -’ He glanced to the gentlemen, well into their cups, ranged about them, ‘will be in short supply, so I’ll need someone with the pluck to beat me.  You, Eleanor Percy.’ 

Wildness is a strange word, though Eleanor was fond of searching for it within the slow-burn haze of evening amongst those who ruffle when they move - adorned in family heirloom trinkets of rubies or misshapen sea-pearls, sapphires, swaddled in imported textile, basking in the sweet-potpourri summer glow holding goblets of summer-mead. Teasing each other with exotic fruits, delicacies. Secluded from all natural growth- vines, weeds, even flowers, encompassed within orchestrated circumstance, Elle’s slow-roaming gaze that some would consider bemused hovered a lingered moment on the king’s. Found traces of wild there- surely his father’s merriment, his mother’s wits, but above all- an abundance of charisma -- some entirely different level of magic. Catching the flecks of gold in the darkness, reflections of fire’s glow, daring her to leaned in slowly over the table. Placing her hand over her heart, hiding back a bouncing lilt, as though she were to divulge in a blushing secret, save for her inherited slant. Placing her hand over her heart, hiding back a bouncing lilt.“There’s a part of me that will always belong to my king.” A beat as her eyes flash as though she considered indulging him in a fact not even the walls were privileged to overhear. Eleanor's service as a princess’ lady depended on locking away secrets, and silver-tongue dolling when effect permitted. “There rests some part of me, too, who is far too curious of the commands doled to a girl who tricks his mind, triumphs over his moves. I would only hope such a king isn’t too merciful when it comes to worthy bets…?”

Supping on possibility, Elle shrugs, feigning nonchalant innocence, humming in thought. The very notion that she was close enough to win a bet over Wills was due cause for a sip from her goblet. Her features shift dark-humoured,  “Hmm… A nightswim to fetch me lillies from the middle of that pond in Richmond park... Or a personal recital of your least favourite poem, memorised. Which do you prefer? Prove the rumours wrong, let me see if even you are capable of blushing.”

𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗 for@eleanor-percy​

The days were growing longer, and this one had sent a scourging torrent of rain upon Hampton Court, shutting the young king and all his set indoors; effectively cancelling the plans for a hunt, that day.  This circumstance, however, had an agreeable side as well, as far as the Duchess of Northumberland was concerned, for she had the notion that her daughter might make much of the young king’s ensuing idleness.

So it was that the Duchess marched across the hall, flanked by a maid servant who bore a lute.  Crossing to her daughter’s chambers, Jane unceremoniously flung open the door and gestured for the servant to enter ahead of her, leave the lute, and scurry away.

Stepping inside, now that they were alone, Jane gestured to the instrument as the the maid closed the door behind them, leaving their conversation quite intimate.  “Good morning, my dear,” began Jane.  “It seems to me that Our Lord has presented us with quite an extraordinary opportunity, this day.  Will you not take up that lovely instrument and play a sweet tune to entertain His Majesty the King?  I’ve little doubt,” she added, enthroning herself with regal dignity in a nearby chair.  “That you shall both find it the exercise excessively diverting.”

Jane had come up with Her Majesty the Queen and knew well what she was talking of.  It had been, after all, many encounters such as the one Jane suggested which had propelled Anne from the hope Jane’s own present circumstances to a role even loftier, and Jane’s ambitions for her daughter were no less than Anne’s own had ultimately turned to be.

Rain lashed against the window panes with ferocity and, despite herself, Jane smiled.  “Perhaps you will even enjoy it.  Were not such days as these made for the enjoyment of such felicity as music?”

Late eves’ sparse, gifted solitude at Hampton Court provided Eleanor Percy with something so desirable it felt almost taboo, nearly sultry - a carefully sought after release of freedom that she she lacked by day as faithful attendant of Her Majesty, the Princess Elizabeth. The notion of peace and rest, or even the power to occasionally lightly tiptoe away from her padded chambers when court rested silent, to bask in languid riverside moonlight just a few moments’ journey  was a welcomed solace. Allowing the mind to roam apart from whatever courtiers’ rat race occurred come morning light’s grazing caress over Hampton Court, when ladies of all character flocked to regale their King William- placed on a pedestal above all other worldly prizes as his bachelor status remained a crimson mark of urgent opportunity. Yes, she’d acknowledge His Majesty was gleaming and glorious on his own account - yes, she’d privately ruminated over the Boleyn and Tudor lion’s claws, his might, his prowess-  but would not allow herself to become privy to the toxic sickness of ambition coating fellow tongues whenever he passed by.  Contagious though it were. 

Half-stricken in sleep, Eleanor stretched within her sheets dreaming of the impending hunt through Richmond: stretches of expansive hills, patches of trees, the breeze of late summer through leave and fresh cut grass, sliced from an army of horse’s galloping hooves. Left near the far end, where the brush is dense, and just as she’s nearing her stag--

The doors knocking against the wooden panels jolted her awake. Enough to yelp, arm herself with her pillow, and - “Mmm, mother? Mother, honestly --” One heavy-lidded eye snaps to groggy attention, hazed and glossed. Jane, cloaked in overcast morning light, standing at the foot of her bed with a scurrying attendant and that. Lips, plump from slumber, purse to inhale, exhale slowly. she’s buried beneath curls and a skeptical slant on her brow as she tries to shut her eyes once more - but her lady mother continues. “And shall His Majesty enjoy one less eardrum? Or perhaps we venture into the woods, locate a forest hermit to turn me into a dancing bear? A bear shall be no less subtle with your strategy, and perhaps, if I manage to roar once or twice during my debut, it shall earn us more space on the grounds... What say you?”

@eleanor-percy  / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓.

         William made a crafty habit of visiting Princess Elizabeth’s apartments when the court was lodged at Hampton.  There, at least, he could always find some thread of amusement to follow - playwrights, musicians, dances, virtuous women, and those choicest ladies who amused Elizabeth but who could not scrape up enough virtue to serve a Parisian bawd.  Her court received the king warmly - often with cheeks that rose in colour the moment he entered, or with performances and merriment - but tonight the atmosphere was modulated, for Bess was in one of her dour moods.  Sometime in the day, snarked William, she must have been outfoxed, out-dressed, or outdone by someone else.  The princess did sorely hate to be made a fool of. 

 A handful of her attendants had accompanied her to her chambers, though the others were strewn across her apartments - embroidering, penning letters, or chattering with the few court gentlemen the princess permitted into her vicinity (William, surprisingly, among them.)  Elizabeth kept a tight ship and Wills could imagine that her ladies were glad of the respite from translating texts or studying the Tyndale Bibles the Dowager kept in abundance throughout Hampton.

Eleanor Percy, seated across from him at their private gambling table, flashed him both a card and a wily smile.  The duke’s daughter represented a hierarchy the Tudors had dismantled;  William and his father before him did not merely reward prestige,  but royal usefulness and magnetism.  Fortunately, Eleanor could boast of both.  ‘A king of hearts.’  Wills’ lips rose into a grin.  Was it his imagination that she was simpering at him?  ‘Pray, Lady Northumberland, do you play often with king’s hearts?’ 

He stamped his own card on the table.  ‘You’ll have to play better if you intend to win.’

“Your Grace, could you please kindly ask the King of Hearts for me if he’s still upset that I sacrificed him so brutally? Warn him of such wicked collectors as I, so he’ll be wiser next time. Console him, and in return I’m positive he’ll comfort your loss after this game.” Damnit- she swallowed down a curse she as the king placed his card upon the table. This eve rolled on near lazily slow until darkness cloaked the court in a low-hum comfort; though a select echelon of courtiers drawled about the princess’ quarters in fading buzz. And yet, all the countless tasks bequeathed unto the crimson princess’ more spritely - albeit at times delinquent- lady-in-waiting, Eleanor Percy was fated to roll up her sleeves, prop her elbows against her very own battlefield card table as though she envisioned herself a general, and try her very best not to rally too competitive, too vengeful, against her very own king.  This task was proving difficult to maintain coy decorum- for the lady had a penchant for envisioning even the mundane as thrilling as a true adventure. Thus, their game commenced, a scene was set, and - though her mother would surely bemoan as shrill as a cathedral-bell over her daughter’s lack of grace,  Eleanor preferred preferred to provoke her worthy opponent for the evening Where gold-dripped Tudor dynasty didn’t feel in such proximity when his slanted grin matched her own, hidden behind thin and malleable cards.  A far cry from the throngs of courtiers who would surely rise and fall at his feet like a riptide wave come morning.  No, tonight, he was going to lose, she would wager her hand painted  Book of Hours on the challenge. 

Thus, she tuned out any eyes that lingered on the pair. She set the scene for their battle fair enough- Eleanor’s dark-jetted brows faintly curved in mischief, her sharpened dark  gaze  occasionally flashing over her hand of cards, dancing to meet her competitor’s. Attempting to anticipate his hidden weaponry, how she should arm herself. Her hand - the very same hand that stole her father’s ring  and wore it proudly across her thumb’s knuckle- swayed, traversed across the table as though it were dodging slow-roaming cannon fire, towards the card the king had played, crossing enemy lines. “’A king’s heart in this deck are curled, too sought out  by many hands... far from the most desired card. “ she nods to the deck upturned between them, “No, you see, the spade is far more enticing card to possess.” She sighed, leaning in as though she were divulging a secret between a friend. “True, subtle weaponry, spades. Sharp-edged, if you wield it, you reap your own benefit. A worthy collection to use and thrive, where hearts of all kinds- jacks, queens, kings… are conquered by a rogue Ace of Spades.” 

H O U S E  Percy