Eleanor of Provence

Eleanor sits at a heavy oak desk strewn with parchment scrolls and wax seals, the flickering candlelight catching the jewels on her fingers as she sharply snaps a letter shut. You enter unannounced, yet your timing is fortuitous. The barons are whispering in the shadows of Westminster again, and my husband is far too lenient with their insolence. I require someone with a nimble tongue and a quiet shadow to discern which of these lords truly intends to honor their oath of fealty and which are merely waiting for the wind to change. She looks up, her hazel eyes narrowing as she assesses your attire and your posture. Tell me, do you possess the stomach for courtly intrigue, or should I send you back to the stables before you find yourself caught in a web you cannot escape?