Initiative

The nerves which have plagued me throughout this ordeal remain unsettled. They jitter within the pulse of my heart and flutter throughout the very blood beneath my pallid skin.

Not for the unnerving presence of arms, for I have slowly come to accept them with each visit of the western gate, nor are they for any apprehensions I may have of speaking to the duke.

…But the very real possibility that I might come to fail in my efforts. That I should arrive upon the forlorn conclusion that this strategy of convincing him is entirely folly and, thereby, condemn myself to not only another requiem of my beloved's vacant stare, but to the remaining purgatory in which I linger until my Lord finally grant me deliverance.

I shan't dwell upon such a prospect…and, yet still, I do as I navigate the empty, narrow ways of my shortcut to the muster and the waiting target of my present efforts: Lord Edmund.

My task is clear, as are my means, thanks to the women I have claimed the assistance of. As I so confided in Maud, I shall be direct in my approach.

“If Lord Edmund is as much of sound reasoning as you believe him to be then you ought to appeal to that directly.”

That was the recommendation she had made to me in the end.

“Surely, if he so cares about the men he commands, he might value a change to his plan that ought to see less of them come to harm. Thus, you should frame your pitch in just such a way…”

‘Only but your dressing maid’—calls herself the woman with such a reliable head upon her shoulders.

Upon this new avenue I meditate as I come to approach the destination of its logical beginning.

T'is just as it always is. The usual few knights so early in the harness, their squires moving between them and the other men-at-arms of their lance.

Then, of course, there is the immaculate, blackened harness of their collective liege, conversing quietly from atop his imposing, ebon destrier within the collection of his own household retinue.

Now is the time for action to be had.

I recall the lessons of Goodwife Elizabeth, drawing back my shoulders with intent.

—

“Posture is the very first thing that shall be minded if one is ever hoping to project their will,” remarks the housekeeper, straightening the roll of her back. “Before one is to lay the boards of a house, first shall they lay the stonework of its foundation.”

I stare from behind her within the vacant pathway of the cathedral graveyard, only offering an indifferent shrug.

“Well, I suppose I've gotten that covered.”

The serving woman turns.

“You've the posture of an upright toothpick, lady.”

…Is that not straight?

Elizabeth slowly steps closer to me, purpose following each length of her stride.

“You've the upright posture of a lady, yes. Lady Halford—God rest her soul—taught you well, but this is not the same as you might think.”

She stops just shy of an arms distance away.

“A lady of the court's posture is straightened with grace,” she says, squaring her shoulders to me.

“But a lady who shall not be defied, her back is straightened by the will and intent of what must be.”

I frown at her, still not quite understanding until she offers more.

“Would you ever so compare the posture of Lady Halford to the bearing of Lord Halford in the saddle?”

When prompted, I remember that of my mother—dignified and graceful. Just so, I recall my father atop his horse and, in general, when he so dictated his will with such natural resolve.

He may not have always shared the erected discipline of my mother's cable-tight posture but there was never a hint of uncertainty in his own; the effortlessness of what must come to pass.

…And so I think that I might understand what Goodwife Elizabeth is speaking of. As if to acknowledge this, she continues.

“Next is to internalize the value of what you are to speak,” she says, planting a creased fist to her bosom. “You must believe that the message you utter or command you bestow is of utmost importance, no matter how truly consequential. You are what ultimately determines the significance of it in the end. How might you expect another to value your word if you care not for its own value yourself?”

She turns her back to me, slowly strolling away from where I stand.

“You are a lady of noble birth. You may not be your brother but yet he chose you in his absence to serve as his regent. No matter the opinions anyone may have of such an appointment, it changes not the fact that you do speak for him.”

She turns back to me.

“And, if his word is important, as the Lord of Halford, then your word is just as much so.”

I grimace.

“And what of my word to the Lord Edmund?” I ask. “What is the word of a baron to a duke?”

Elizabeth's brow furrows at my inquiry.

“What is a duke without his barons?”

The goodwife shakes her head.

“The duke has only but his retainers and his king to listen to and I would dare assert that he seems quite estranged with his grace at the moment. That quite whittles down the list, would you not think?”

She turns back around and I follow behind her as she strolls through the graveyard, continuing in her explanation.

“Any in power should be wise enough to listen to those who are the very base of their power. I believe your lord is wise enough to consider what you might have to say if it truly is in his best interest.”

I am led as much by her words as I am her body as she strolls us through the hallowed ground to the path in front of the property's ossuary, rolling rows of eastward-facing gravestone all carefully nestled beside it and filled to the edge of the yard's secluding stone walls.

“Finally, it all means nothing in the end without proper delivery,” she asserts. “Your word must be heard and it must be understood if it is to be given the consideration it ought to.”

She looks back directly at me with intent.

“Half-measured and vague mumbling will never inspire attention, for one cannot attend to what they cannot comprehend. Annunciate every word of your speech, for its contents entirely depend upon it and some may not have the patience to hear it twice.”

I look beyond the housekeeper, contemplating her instruction with a skeptical frown.

“Posture, self-assertion, and annunciation? Is that really all you have for it?”

But she simply nods.

“You should already know that it is harder than it sounds. It is simple, however, because it needs to be. From the highest king to the humblest hayward and every common artisan and shopkeeper, the world does not run without stern voices. That is all there is to it. Simple techniques are a language spoken by all.”

I consider her words, internalizing them with a tentative nod.

“Then simple I shall keep it.”

—

I take a breath.

I am here because I need to be. None may declare me elsewise. Tightening my fingers upon the fabric of my cotehardie, I harden my resolve and initiate my new attempt.

“Excuse me, my lord Sir Edmund,” I call with purpose, “Might I have a word with you?”

The duke, noticeably surprised at my appearance, comes to meet me halfway in my march over to him, his knights trailing behind.

“My, good afternoon young Lady Eleanor! What a pleasant surprise it is to find you here!” He cheerfully says in his gruff voice. “You're not here this early to see us off, are you?”

“That I am, sir,” I say with a polite and practiced curtsy. “But I am also here with a concern, my lord.”

He smirks as though he were a father speaking gently to his daughter about battle.

“I presume you mean to speak with me about some concerns you have for the safety of your brother’s knights? If it may ease your worry I shall do my best to see them back—”

“Nay, my lord,” I say. “I might wish to voice a suggestion, if you would be so gracious to hear it.”

The duke stops, looking inquisitively at me.

“Lady Ellie, I fear we are quite well beyond the point of suggestions.”

I already feel the budding dismissal within his voice. I had been anticipating it but cannot help but feel a little disheartened all the same.

“The men upon the wall are left vulnerable as they are, my lord,” I say, pushing through my natural urge to waiver against my lord's martial supremacy. I've never stood against a man in his element in such a way, much less one of such rank. Until this past year, I was only but the daughter of one of his retainers and, even this day, I am only but the regent of one.

Even if I were a man, I’ve no business speaking here and entirely feel the weight of it lain down upon me as his gaze lingers…

“I understand the purpose of your men-at-arms in this battle, for the outcome of it rests upon their maneuver,” I say, willing myself to press onward. “But allow me to take a handful of knights, and—”

“Lady Ellie,” Lord Edmund sighs, “I admire your initiative and even applaud your rare dabbing for warfare tactics as a lady of my court…”

I can feel the indifference carrying through his words and the imminent collapse of my effort, my eyes shifting about my brother's liege as I mentally fumble with the reality of my approaching failure. The thought overwhelms me like the tide, and pulls me like a weight, deep within the abyss of my own despair.

“...But everything has already been arranged and knights upon the wall may only betray my presence here to the enemy. We all have our duties to see to, and yours now are to offer your support for the knights in their departure.”

I want to fight it but only do I struggle to breathe against my foolish effort.

…However, in reaching the bottom of my despondency, I find something else astirring.

Maud had instructed me to remember for whom I should make all of this effort—and I do so—but I also think of what is destined to happen if things continue as they are; of my dear Larkin and the terrible fruitlessness of it all. Of Prince Edward's escape and the ultimately hollow victory my beloved's life will purchase for his liege and I find that I can no longer contain myself.

Lord Edmund motions to the man at his immediate flank.

“Sir John, if you would please see that Lady Ellie—”

“—My lord, there are men who need not die this day!” I assert, my voice sured and frantic. “Allow me to take five knights to the Southern wall if only to harden their ranks!”

The duke grimaces, shaking his head as he motions for Sir John to dismount and handle me but I press defiantly onward.

“They need not even be in the open, my lord! Poised within the towers for after the enemy's commitment to the attack will be enough!”

“My lady, enough…” Urges the knight as he grasps my arm but I am not made silent.

“No!” I say. “Five men, my lord! Such a small amount in cover should be more than enough to make a difference!”

I recall the image of my beloved against the stone…

“I must have this order, my lord! Men will perish, otherwise!—”

“BE SILENT!” Roars the old commander, taking me by surprise.

“By the age you stand here now, I had already commanded a banner of my own men! That is what has been my life since decades before you could walk! What have you busied yourself with before this day?”

I shake my head, yet unable to accept where my plan has brought me, but the old duke only continues.

“Flattery? Embroidery?" He questions. "Dictating the decorum of holy days to your household's servants?!”

I want to snap back about it but cannot think of how I even ought to before he shuts the door upon it regardless.

“I've ordered the deaths of thousands, girl, and on this day I shall lament those who go to follow them! I will take the weight of them all to my grave and it is I, not you, who knows how best to keep them from piling up any higher than they must!”

Even if he is ultimately right to question the grounds of my reasoning, there is a fire ignited inside of me and I am unwilling to back down all the way until I feel a gauntlet place firmly upon my shoulder from behind.

“Eleanor!”

“What?!” I yell furiously but, with a whirl, I find the hand belonging to possibly the only man who might have a handle on me and I freeze.

“What has gotten into you?!” Exclaims Larkin.

His eyes flicker between me and the duke, expression switching rapidly between concern and frustrated bewilderment all the way until he groans out a defeated sigh.

“My lord, please excuse her. I'll see her away from here.”

I want to scream but I bite my tongue, practically spitting through my teeth, “NO,” as Larkin pulls at me until we are interrupted.

“So, that is what this is all about then…?”

We both stop to look at Lord Edmund speaking softly again in his gristled tone, shaking his head.

“Sir Laurence…you are engaged to wed Lady Ellie, are you not?”

He does not wait for an answer, having already recalled it hiding within his memory. He looks at me instead with a touch of pity.

“I see now why you've come. My lady, you must have a great concern for the wellbeing of Sir Laurence if you're here. I understand well that fear for your loved ones going into battle...”

The man grimaces but not at me. Perhaps at something hidden behind his eyes?

“...But the dangers of battle are just as unavoidable as warfare is itself. The best I can offer you is a promise to keep an eye on Larry for you out there but your part is not to play with the sort of things you know nothing of.”

He retrieves his sallet, holding it readily for to cover his head with.

“Larry, say your farewells to the lady and be gentle with the poor girl. We're to be off in short order now.”

…I am entirely disarmed by the manner in which I have been dressed-down. I look at the ground before me, unable to bear how easily he saw through my motive and left me so thoroughly denied that I know any further daily attempts at this approach would only leave me with more failures to live through.

But I am not without recourse.

“...Eleanor?”

My finger I raise to him, as I do my countenance, stricken but not defeated, and offer him the warmth of a shaken smile.

“I have something for you, my love…”

I produce my favor, willing myself through to the completion of my daily ritual of loving obligation. But the affections of my heart share a bed with the feelings of my mind; nervous quiver and the sensation of henflesh beneath my sleeve.

Because I am going to the only place that a woman ought never.

I am going to observe a battlefield.