Maid of Norway, Queen of Scotland: A Plantagenet Britain Timeline

pandizzy · Jan 25, 2024

May 1294. Whitehall Palace, England.

The Queen walked through the palace with her belly leading her forward, visible under the fabric of her skirts. She carried it like a crown, her two hands resting at its curve and stroking it absentmindedly. There was a soft smile upon her face as she moved, the confident tilt in her head of a beast well-roosted in its lair. It was as if she feared nothing.

The belly was not just a belly, it was a symbol. A symbol of the King’s hopes for a spare to his throat and for his favour that was bestowed upon her. If the baby growing amidst her organs was a boy, then Yolande of Aragon would be crowned as Queen of England and Joan would be ruined.

She stopped before her stepmother, however annoyingly it was to think of someone a whole year younger than her as her father’s wife, and curtsied shallowly. The Queen smiled gently at her and opened her arms, sleeves decorated in gold thread falling to the ground. Joan could see that nearly every finger in Yolande’s hands were covered in rich rings, which made her wonder how she managed to lift up her arms at all.

“Sister!” Yolande exclaimed, wrapping Joan in a tight embrace. She smelled like rosewater and French perfume, her white wimple bordered by cloth-of-gold. Joan embraced her with much reluctance and stepped back, though the Queen was quick to take her hands in hers. “I’m so happy to see you. It’s been so very long.”

Joan had left court for a few months so she could avoid seeing her father parade his new daughter around, calling her the future Queen of France. She was a silly little child, born from his silly little wife and Joan couldn’t abide to see her rise higher than her sisters did. She had married her father’s vassal, Eleanor was trapped with a weak king and the rest of her sisters were saddled with counts or dukes. But this child, this Constance who was not a daughter of her mother’s blood, would wed into the greatest kingdom of them all. Joan hated it all and she only recently returned, drawn to the centre of government.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Joan. “It has been too long.”

The Queen arched a carefully sculpted eyebrow, but her smile remained, dark blue eyes looking right at Joan. Her fingers felt like a spider’s legs on her hand and she swallowed the want to pull it back.

“We should be friends,” Yolande said. “We have so much in common.”

Joan arched an eyebrow. “Really?” she said. “Such as?”

“Well, we’re both young women,” said Yolande, not letting the acidic tone in Joan’s tone reach her. “Married to men who are, unfortunately, older than us. Beloved mothers and kin to our King.”

“Kin?” Joan asked.

Yolande smiled. “I’m his wife,” she said simply. “And my mother’s mother was Beatrice of Savoy, a niece to your great-grandmother, another Beatrice.” Her smile was poisonous, though and sometimes Joan felt like she was the only one aware of it. “Come to my rooms, my maids have made some cakes so we may talk. I’d love to have one of your daughters as a companion for young Margaret.”

Joan brought her hands back. “Perhaps that is not the best choice,” she said. Her daughters were barely out of their leading strings. “Where is the King? I wish to speak with him.”

“The King is out riding with the Earl of Lancaster,” Yolande answered and Joan nodded. Her uncle had returned from France with the new year. “Did he not tell you?”

“Oh, of course,” Joan said. “The King does love riding his mares.”

For a moment, no one said anything as the Aragonese ladies gasped behind Yolande. Then the Queen of England smiled and, stroking her belly, said, “He does.” Her face was soft, as if she was too stupid to notice the insult in Joan’s words. “Have a good day, step-daughter.”

Yolande accosted him as soon as he entered the castle. Edward had been handing his hat to a groom when she entered his field of vision, moving fast and angrily. Her ladies came after her like a flock of hens, silent and obedient and he looked at her with tired eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he called. “Have you missed me already?”

“Your daughter was rude to me today,” Yolande said instead of a greeting. Edward sighed. “Joan. She called me a mare.” She looked behind her, at the grooms surrounding them and her own ladies, like silent statues. “You may ask my ladies about it, if you don’t believe me. They were witnesses to the insult.” She waved at them. “Tell the King what you saw.”

They all fell into themselves, repeating back her words like a pretty little song. “Yes, Your Grace!” they all said, in some way or another. “The Queen’s honour was greatly offended.”

Edward sighed and made them stop with a movement of his hand. “I believe all of you,” he said. “Joan has always been difficult. I will speak with her.”

“You can’t simply speak to her,” Yolande insisted, tears coming to her eyes. “She has insulted me, and our son who grows inside me.” She took his hand and brought it to the curve of her stomach, as the eyes of their servants looked on. “I don’t want to suffer her presence anymore. Send her away, I beg of you.”

He touched her face gently, her soft cheeks. She had a pinched chin, and high cheekbones, with angular dark eyebrows that made her face seem even more mysterious. But he had grown to love that face in the nearly two years they had been married.

“You won’t have to see her again,” he said. “I’ll send her back to her husband, I promise you.” He stroked her belly with his other hand. “You won’t have to suffer her again.”

pandizzy · Feb 18, 2024

June 1294. Kings Langley, England.

“Lady Constance will be sent to France once she turns twelve,” the ambassador began. “The marriage will be celebrated immediately and consummated after she turns sixteen, or seventeen, under our prince’s discretion.” Edward nodded, sitting before the fat sausage that the French had sent to negotiate the marriage whilst his pregnant wife stood behind him, holding Constance in her arms. “As agreed, the lands of Agenais will be given to the French crown in lieu of dowry and its income will help maintain Lady Constance’s household during her marriage until a new set of lands is given to her.”

Edward held a smile back. This was the final meeting he would have with the French ambassador over this matter and, at the same time, the final moment his wife would have at court before her confinement. Their child was expected to arrive either at the end of the month, or the beginning of July, and there were only so many weeks that could pass by then. And he wanted his daughter’s future secured by then.

“More else,” the French ambassador continued, “The King of England will hand over the Duchy of Gascony and its associated lands for a period of forty days, before returning it to King Edward’s possession.” At the end of his words, the French sausage placed a written document before Edward, detailing all that had been agreed. When he signed it, the document would be sent to France for King Philip to sign it and for safekeeping.

“Thank you, monsieur,” the King murmured. He dipped his quill into a pot of ink before signing it with a flourish, a servant handing him his royal seal. “I'm eager to celebrate the bonds between my family and the House of Capet.”

“Such is my king's wish,” said the ambassador. “In fact, His Grace has asked me to invite you and Queen Yolande to Paris so as to meet King Philip and Queen Jeanne. He is eager to hear of your response.”

Edward said nothing for a moment. Instead, he stood up and looked at Yolande, who had handed Constance over to a nanny. He placed a hand over her swollen belly as he felt the child moving inside. It was a strong boy, he was sure. Someone to safeguard the succession, to keep England safe if Édouard failed to thrive.

“Not before my child is born, monsieur,” he told the man. “I won't leave England until a second son of my loins sleeps in his cradle.”

The ambassador nodded, his eyes wide. Edward didn't see how he paled as he left. And even if he did, he wouldn't care. There would be a large feast afterwards to celebrate the signing of the betrothal and he returned to his chambers to be changed, his grooms dressing him in a cloth-of-gold doublet trimmed with white fur.

The children had been invited to attend the feast, as it would begin while the sun was still out. Edward was pleased to see his son invite the little queen of Scotland to dance, and even more pleased when she accepted it with a smile. They had difficult moments, as all children had, but they were slowly getting used to each other.

Yolande sat beside him with a flourish and he gestured for the servants to fill up her goblet with wine. She smiled at him, this little wife of his, and rested her hand over her belly as her dark blue eyes flew around the room.

“I'm so happy,” she murmured. Edward looked at her as she placed a hand over his, interlacing their fingers. “Thank you, my king, for taking such good care of our child.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Edward responded. Yolande arched a delicate brown eyebrow. “When our son is born, many more rewards will come your way, don't you worry.”

Yolande smiled. “I know Constance is eager to meet her little brother,” she said and he smiled. Their daughter had been returned to the nursery, since there was no reason why she would attend the feast, even if it was held in her honour. And soon enough, she'd be returned to Windsor to grow away from court. The diseases that came from such a pack-filled environment were sure to affect the babe in a way.

“Look at the Earl of Gloucester,” Yolande whispered in his ear, causing Edward to look at his son-in-law, who was sitting in one of the lower tables. His meddlesome wife was not present, thankfully, and Gilbert seemed to allow himself to let loose, enjoying all that the king offered in terms of food. “Does he not remind you of a suckling pig?”

That made Edward laugh and Yolande giggled, leaning closer to him.

“And the French ambassador,” she continued, her warm breath hitting the side of his face. Edward wrapped his arm around her so as to hold her close. “If he were a prince, we’d get peace treaties just by presenting him with the prize of a good hunt.”

“Thankfully, he is not,” Edward murmured.

“And look at the royal governess,” Yolande said. He turned towards Egidia Stewart, who walked around the room with a sour expression on her face. When one of the Scottish girls seemed too eager to dance, she pulled her back with a scowl. “Why does she always look like she drank spoiled milk?”

He laughed again. “I could not tell you,” he said, sipping at his wine. “For someone with such an important role, you'd think she might smile more.”

“Trust the Scottish to subvert expectations,” said Yolande. She looked at him, her eyes forlorn and her mouth twisted. “Oh, my king, how will you fare without me in the next two months? I do so worry for you.”

“There is no need to worry,” Edward murmured. “You must focus only on our child.” He palmed her belly and she smiled, covering his hand with hers.

“What name will you give him?” she asked gently.

“I have not decided yet,” said Edward. “Henry, perhaps, for my father and my son. Or maybe Edmund, for my brother.”

“I like Henry,” she said. “And if it's a girl?”

Edward didn't think it was a girl, but he also thought it would upset Yolande if he were so careless about it. Her question made him hesitate before he said, “I don't know. Catherine, I believe, or maybe Matilda.”

“Whatever sex our child is,” Yolande began, “I know they will be well-loved by their magnificent father.” Edward smiled and leaned in to press his mouth to hers. Normally, he wouldn't kiss his wife in such public settings, but Yolande was different. She made him feel young, and spry. She made him feel like a man.

He was beginning to think that he loved her.

pandizzy · Feb 26, 2024

June 1294. Oxfordshire, England.

The procession moved slowly out of the castle, a moving city of nearly a thousand. The court was moving to another one of the King’s residences, whilst the Queen stayed behind, to join them once she had given birth and was recovered from its trials and tribulations. Edward held tightly to his horse’s reins, leading the procession at its helm.

They rode to Oxford, and Beaumont Palace, which had returned to royal hands after the death of Franciscus Accursius. Edward took Édouard and Queen Margaret with him, the two children riding with an escort just behind him, in case anything happened on the road. He turned his head slightly and saw that his son was riding next to one of his knights, silent, with his blonde hair stuffed under a black cap. Little Margaret and her ladies rode in carriages at the middle of the procession and he could trust them to be safe. As for his son…

Édouard was ten now. Of Edward’s other sons, only Alphonso reached such an age. John was only five when he died and Henry was six, having been raised by his grandmother nearly since birth. Alphonso died only a few months after Édouard was born and Edward had not thought of him in years. He was almost eleven and would be married to Margaret of Holland some months after his passing. Tears burned in the King’s eyes at the memory of his little son.

He and Eleanor had had many children. And they had lost many children together. Baby Katherine, the first Joan, John, a daughter who never gained a name, Berengaria, an unnamed stillborn boy. And now he had the chance for more heirs with Yolande, but was a child gained capable of replacing another lost?

Edward looked behind him again, at his son. His last son, his last boy, the only one he had left. “Édouard,” he called out and the Prince of Wales raised his eyes, blanching at the sight of who called for him. “Come here. Ride by my side.”

“Y-yes, father!” Édouard spurred his horse forward and the procession opened to let him pass. He slowed down when he was next to Edward, keeping his head down in submission.

“Look up,” the King commanded. “Look at your kingdom.” Édouard frowned as he looked around them, the long sprawling plains of Oxfordshire surrounding the procession on all sides. “One day, all of this will be yours.”

Édouard shook his head. “I know, father,” he said.

“I won’t live forever, boy,” said Edward. “England and our continental possessions will trust you to care for them.” He looked behind them, at the carriage that shifted and moved through the road. “Scotland will need a strong hand to keep the clans in check.”

“I know, father,” Édouard repeated and Edward sighed. He led his horse down the road, next to Édouard.

“Until Yolande gives me a spare, you’re my only son,” he said. “What I say and do is because I care, because I want you to surpass me and unite this godforsaken island once and for all.” He sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps I’m being too harsh on you. Your mother…” The words died in his throat. He could not speak of his beloved Eleanor. “You must be brave, son. And strong.”

Édouard looked at him in confusion, but there were no more words to be said.

“We’ll take rest for the night,” said Edward, looking at the knights behind him. “We’ve been riding long enough.”

He looked at Édouard a final time as he allowed his horse to slow down to a stop. His son wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he looked down the line, where Margaret of Scotland and her ladies exited their carriage.

Her servants set up her tent quickly, but Margaret is too high strung to go to sleep already. She hasn't been able to see the people, and the lands around them, after Lady Egidia insisted they use a carriage and Margaret doesn't want to sleep before then. England is a beautiful country, it reminds her so much of Scotland, and she wished to explore before they were trapped in another castle at Oxford.

They didn't wander too far. Of course not. The court set up camp near the River Thames and she and Mary Bruce walked along the banks, trying to see if they could find any fish. Elsbeth was not feeling well, so she stayed in their tent with Egidia and the two girls were giggling as they spoke of one thing or another.

The sun had yet to set completely and the sky was filled with purple, red and orange lights. Mary was holding a long stick that she found, her pug nose perked up in joy. Her father was coming south to visit her and possibly help find a husband for her, as it was her mother's final intention that Mary wed a handsome English lord and her lady could not stop talking about it.

“It will be an earl,” said Margaret, distracted. She noticed, not too far from where they stood, her betrothed Édouard and one of his father’s knights, talking together. “Your brother is an earl now. Why shouldn't you be a countess like Elsbeth?”

She looked back at Mary. They were nearly at the edge of the riverbank, the water rushing beside them. A flurry of birds took flight above them, cawing madly. All it took was a moment, a final distraction as her feet slipped against the mud and she fell. Fell and fell and fell. She belatedly heard Mary Bruce screaming in despair before her back hit the river, water covering her body.

Margaret couldn't think. She felt her dress holding her legs down as she attempted to return to the surface, snapping her legs and arms to come up. I can’t swim. Her velvets and furs were too heavy and she held her breath, her lungs burning with the need for air.

Then suddenly, two hands closed around her shoulders and someone pulled her out, dragging her away from the water. She overheard others running to help as she took in gulping breaths, coughing water as tears ran down her face.

“My lady!” she heard Lady Egidia scream before a pair of arms wrapped around her tightly. “Oh, my lady.”

Margaret looked up and saw Édouard looking at her quietly, his clothes wet and his chest rising and falling in breathless gasps. All at once, she understood what happened.

“You saved me,” she murmured and he looked away from her. But Margaret couldn't stop looking at him. She felt like she was looking at someone else entirely.

pandizzy · Mar 8, 2024

July 1294. Beaumont Palace, England.

After Édouard saved her life, Margaret began looking at him with new eyes. She felt he was an entirely different person, someone who risked himself to save her.

His father was furious. Of course he was. Édouard was his only son and there was an adult knight present who could’ve saved her. There was no reason why he should’ve jumped in the water after her to rescue her. Margaret didn’t even know Édouard could swim, but it seemed he had been taught by his guardian, in case something similar happened to him instead. There was no reason why he should jump, but he did in fact.

What he did… Had been marvellous. He was like a knight in a white stallion from one of her stories, saving the princess from ‘evil’. Even if the evil had been a slight misstep in the river’s edge. And more importantly, it had made her fall utterly in love with him.

She watched him from the window of her bedchambers, this time hiding herself behind her curtains, not wanting him to notice her. He was walking with his guardian across the gardens, both of them talking excitedly, with the guardian holding a large book in his hands. Certainly, they were in the middle of a lesson or another, though Margaret didn’t know. She herself was having an off day, as it was thought detrimental for women to study as fervently as men did, and for so many days.

Édouard was ten to her eleven, and she was a little taller than him, but her heart now stuttered when she looked at him. She could hardly meet his gaze without blushing.

A sudden crash echoed behind her and she turned around to see that Elsbeth had dropped a jewellery box. Lady Egidia approached her and began to assist her lady in picking up all the dropped rings. Thankfully, the crown jewels of Scotland had stayed behind and Margaret knew none of those pretty baubles should cause a tragedy if broken.

Margaret looked at her governess when the woman stood up again, directing Elsbeth and the jewellery box out of the room. Her foster mother was married to the High Steward of Scotland, but they hadn’t seen each other since the Queen’s household moved to England. She wondered if she missed him. Everyone said Lady Egidia loved and obeyed her husband with all her heart.

And Elsbeth… Her lady was only twelve and she was married to Robert Bruce, who was eighteen. With his mother’s death, Elsbeth was now a countess, even though the marriage hadn’t been consummated yet. Her brother John was married to Christina Bruce, who sewed by the fire with her little sister Mary. There were other ladies in Margaret’s entourage, of course there were, but she only cared about the four.

And save for Mary, all of them were already married.

“When will I be married?” she asked in a high voice. Egidia Stewart looked at her.

“My lady, what a question,” said the royal governess. “The Queen knows well that she and Prince Édouard will be married once my lady is sixteen.”

“Can’t it be earlier?” Margaret asked and Egidia smiled.

“Why are you so eager, my queen?” she asked and Margaret looked away, her cheeks flushing. “The law states that no girl under twelve or boy under fourteen may be married.” Egidia approached her, taking her diamond-shaped face in her hands. “The years will pass quickly. Don’t worry about it.”

“I want to invite the Prince for supper,” Margaret said. “Can you arrange it?” His father had left Beaumont Palace, because word came that the queen had given birth to another child, so they were technically alone. With only Egidia and his tutor as supervision. And no need to attend to the king.

“What do you think she wants?” Édouard asked one of his grooms, standing before the mirror in his bedchambers. The man was dressing him silently, face scrunched up in concentration but Édouard knew he heard him. It would be impossible not to.

“The Queen probably wishes to thank you for saving her life, my lord,” the groom said.

“She already thanked me,” said Édouard. His groom stepped back and he looked at himself, the reflection of his body in the mirror. Édouard was ten, wearing a fine green tunic and with his hair brushed to perfection. His mother used to say he would grow into a very handsome man, but he still didn’t see it. He wondered if he ever would.

He left his bedchambers and walked to the Scottish Queen’s apartments, his heart racing inside his chest. She must want something from him. Margaret, that is. She wouldn’t have invited him for supper without a reason. Everyone wanted something from him. He wasn’t stupid.

Her governess opened the door to him, curtsying deeply. The first thing Édouard noticed was the table set up for them both in the antechamber, filled with delicious food, such as sweetmeats, roasted goose and much more. His eyes looked at Margaret standing by the table, wearing a pretty green dress trimmed with cloth-of-gold.

She was very beautiful. Even Édouard knew that. And would grow to be even more beautiful. Her face was shaped like a cut diamond, her lips full and heart-shaped. She had blue-green eyes, more vivid than his own, who were blue-grey. He wondered if she’d be more beautiful than him someday.

The greyhound named Oslo stretched before the hearth and Édouard smiled. He liked dogs. Very much so, in fact. His father had many dogs, though he didn't have any as of yet. When he became king, he'd have as many dogs as he wished.

“Hello, Prince Édouard,” Margaret said, making him look back at her. She was smiling and Édouard smiled as well.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m happy you invited me here, my lady.” Her smile was as bright as a thousand suns and she gestured for them to sit down. A maid pulled his chair for him to sit and he sucked in a breath when they began to serve him goose’s pie, his favourite.

“I’m happy you came,” said Margaret, in a stilted and practised voice. He wondered if he made her nervous.

He smiled again and began to dig in at his food.

pandizzy · Mar 17, 2024

August 1294. Kings Langley, England.

Edward rocked little Henry in his arms, the newborn boy opening and closing his mouth in a healthy little sigh. He had a fine weight, and a good size, with tiny little hands reaching forward in an attempt to touch his father. He had Yolande’s dark hair over a round little face, eyes still a muddled baby blue, though Edward imagined he would grow to look like his mother, as his sister Constance already showed herself to be becoming.

“He will be Earl of Kent,” Edward said, looking at Yolande, who was laying down in her bed. Her dark hair was twisted into a plait and there was a gentle smile on her face. “Once he survives infancy, I’ll name him such.”

Yolande beamed up at that. Edward handed Henry to a wet nurse and watched as the woman walked away with his son in her arms, bouncing him gently. He took in a deep breath and allowed himself to calm down. He had a second son, a spare. England and Édouard would be safe.

“He will be strong,” he said, overhearing his cries as he was taken from his father. The boy had a clear idea of what he wanted, and would not accept anything less. It made Edward smile. “A warrior.”

“Just like his father,” Yolande echoed in the bed. Edward looked at her.

“You must rest,” he told her. “Before night’s fall, I’ll ride back to Oxford and I expect you to meet me there as soon as you have been churched.”

“Will my lord Henry come with me?” she asked in a soft voice, blinking her large blue eyes up at him.

“He will stay and be joined by Lady Constance,” said Edward. He didn't miss how she hadn't asked the same question when their daughter was born. “The court is a festering pit for children so young. I'll not subject them to such intrigue.”

“Very well, my king,” she answered. Edward looked at her for a final time before he turned around and left the chambers of her confinement.

He was hardly out into the corridors when one of his knights accosted him, out of breath. Edward recognized him at once. He was Arnaud de Gabaston, a man who served him in Gascony. He was supposed to oversee the forty-day period where the French king would control his continental possessions. And if he was here…

“My king!” the man said, stopping suddenly before him. His cheeks were red with exertion and he was sweating beneath his velvets.

“Good grief, Arnaud,” said Edward. “What has happened? Breathe and speak.”

“I've ridden day and night to tell you this,” he said. “The French, my lord. They have refused to hand over Gascony as was agreed. More else, Crown Prince Louis has been legally betrothed to Mademoiselle Marguerite de Bourgogne, daughter of Duke Robert II.”

For a moment, Edward said nothing. His heart stuttered in his chest and he looked at Arnaud, his long and sun-kissed face.

“What is their reason for breaking our treaty?” Edward asked, careful, not letting the rage inside him burn through him.

“The failure of His Grace to appear before the King after the conflict with the fishermen last year, Sire,” said Arnaud. Edward nodded.

“Find yourself and a warm meal,” he said, handing the man a golden coin from his pocket. Arnaud nodded and left with a deep bow. When he was gone, Edward looked at the men around him, his other knights and servants who overheard what happened.

John St John met his eye. Before, John had served him loyally in Aquitaine and Gascony, strengthening his position and his holdings. Which meant that now, they were all in the hands of the French and he was sure they would defend it to the last man.

“Months ago, the French king invited me to his court to meet his wife,” Edward began. “I see now that this was merely a pretext to have me in his custody before the war started.” He shook his head, thankful that he had decided to stay in England until Yolande gave birth. “The King of France is a boy of six and twenty, old enough to be my son.” When he was still in swaddlings, Edward had gone on crusades already, and had defeated the barons who plagued his father’s reign. Now this boy intended on humiliating him before the world and take what was rightfully his. “Let us show him how men wage war.”

pandizzy · Mar 20, 2024

August 1294. Beaumont Palace, England.

Margaret blinked her eyes open and the sunlight hit her vision, filtering from between the green leaves above her. She could feel the boy shifting next to her, their backs pressed to the soft grass beneath. The air was warm all around them, but there was a hint of dampness in the back of her throat that made her think it would rain in the afternoon.

“There!” Édouard said. “That one looks like a rabbit.” Margaret looked up and quickly saw the cloud he was talking about. White and fluffy, with two long ears that pointed forward. It flew across the sky, like a little bunny hopping above them. It made her smile.

But she looked at him from the corner of her eye, the gentle slope of his nose and the delicate ever-present pout of his lower lip. His hair had grown more golden over the past months, whilst hers had started to pale as she inched closer and closer to her adolescence. He still had some softness around his cheeks, his baby fat hands.

“That one looks like a crown,” he murmured, not noticing her gaze. “Perhaps it is the Lord's crown. It certainly is quite big.”

Margaret looked at white and blue expanse over them and stretched in her place, blinking her eyes lazily. The sun was making her feel sleepy.

“My mother used to let me wear her crowns,” Édouard commented in a low voice. “She said I had to get used to its weight before my father passed.” He smiled sadly. “I never thought she'd die before the King, even when she fell ill.”

“My mother died giving birth to me,” Margaret murmured. Édouard looked at her, blinking his large blue-gray eyes. “And I can't even remember what my father looks like.” She shrugged sadly. “He has to send me letters in Latin, because I don't know how to speak Norwegian anymore.”

Nothing happened for a moment and then, Margaret felt a soft hand close around her wrist. She looked at Édouard.

“I'm sorry about that,” he murmured. “Truly.”

“I'm sorry for your mother too,” she responded. “I don't understand why sad things happen to people. It's not fair.”

“My sister Joan said such events are to test us and our faith in the Lord,” Édouard said and Margaret knew how much he admired his older sister, how said words must have impacted him. “The Lord must have a great deal of trust in us.”

“Lady Egidia said it's because we are trusted to rule kingdoms,” said Margaret. “You’ll inherit England and the continental lands once your father passes whilst I rule Scotland.” She smiled. “And if my father never has a son, I'll be Queen of Norway too*.”

“It is like the empire of King Cnut,” said Édouard. “He was married to Emma of Normandy, aunt to William the Conqueror. I'm reading about him in my lessons.”

“Cnut was King of Denmark as well,” Margaret pointed out. Her father’s mother had been Ingeborg of Denmark, who died a handful of years after Margaret was born. Eric VI was the current King of Denmark though and Margaret knew her father disliked the man.

Before Édouard could say something, a voice called out to her, “My lady!” It was Egidia Stewart walking down the garden to meet with them, holding her skirts in one hand. Margaret sat up as did Édouard, both of them looking at her governess. When she stopped before them both, she smiled gently. “My lady, King Edward wishes to speak with you.”

“Whyever for?” Margaret asked. She pouted. “Édouard and I are talking!”

Egidia made a sympathetic face and offered her a hand. “Come along, my lady,” she said. “We don't want to keep your future father-in-law waiting.”

Margaret groaned in despair and stood up, cleaning the grass stains from her skirts as she did so. Egidia took her hand and they walked away from Édouard and the sun-filled gardens.

They walked and walked until they reached the English King's solar, two of his household guards posted at the double doors. They opened it for her to enter, bowing for a crowned queen and Margaret entered with her chin held high.

The King, her great-uncle, was standing by the window, surrounded by his councillors. He turned back to look at her, his once golden hair now almost white in his old age and the drooping eyelid that so scared her when she first came to England. He was now though as familiar to her as anyone else could be.

The King bowed his head to her and she to him before he turned his gray eyes to Egidia.

“You may go now, Lady Stewart,” he said. “Allow me to speak with my niece alone.”

Margaret saw when her governess grew pale.

“Y-Your Grace,” she stuttered, “I could not ever leave Her Grace alone.”

The King waved his hand. “She is not in any danger from me, my good lady,” he said. “If that's what you're implying.”

Egidia gulped and nodded, curtsying once again. She squeezed Margaret's shoulder before she left, careful not to show her back to any of the two ruling monarchs present. With her gone, Margaret looked at her great-uncle and she wondered what he wanted. Everyone wanted something, that was how the world worked. She had learned it with each passing day.

“Sit, my lady,” said the King of England. “We have much to talk about.”

She sat and saw that there were sweets, candied fruits and jams. Margaret bit her lip, want pooling low in her stomach and swung her legs back and forth beneath her heavy furs. Her eyes turned up to look at Edward of England. “I was with Prince Édouard just now,” she murmured. “Why wasn't he invited as well?”

Her great-uncle chuckled. “This is a talk for crowned heads only,” he said. He approached her slowly. “I'm sure you are aware of the news that has reached the court with my return.”

“Is it about your baby?” Margaret asked. “I've never met a baby before.” She supposed Lady Constance didn't exactly count since they hadn't been introduced to each other. She only came around so the French ambassador could take a look at her and then returned to Windsor to be raised by her governess.

The King smiled again.

“No, my lady,” he said. “It is about the war.” Margaret pouted. She disliked talks of war. “The French have taken my continental lands and broken our agreement over the marriage of my daughter.”

“I'm certain you will win over them,” Margaret piped up, having heard many tales of King Edward's greatest military exploits. She had no doubt that he’d defeat his enemies. And she told him as much.

“But they are our enemies, gentle Margaret,” the King said. One of his councillors pushed a document to her. “Your son with the Prince of Wales shall rule a broken duchy in France unless we act now.”

She looked at the document. It was an announcement, really. An order, summoning each and every Scottish lord and lady to call for their men to fight in the war.

“I don't understand,” she said. “The lands are not ours.” Margaret looked back at the King.

“But they will belong to your son in a handful of generations,” he said.

“If we conquer any other land,” Margaret began, “Will it be ours? In this generation.”

“My dear girl,” said the King. “The war is merely to restore what was taken from me and my child.”

Margaret bit her lip, thinking, before she turned back to the document she was now expected to sign.

“I don't understand,” she said. “In truth, it doesn't seem right to me for Scottish men to die in an English war.” She pushed the document away with her little finger. “I won't sign it.”

“The alliance between our countries is strong…” said Edward.

“And it will continue to be strong without Gascony,” Margaret murmured. She started to grow angry with his refusal to accept her decision. “They are my men, not yours.”

“My lady,” said one of the councillors, in a soft and conciliatory voice. “You speak with the King of England. Your great-uncle. Be respectful.”

“He is not my king,” Margaret retorted. “Scotland is mine, not his.” She looked at the King of England. “His Grace said it himself that we are both crowned heads.”

She could see in his face that he was angry and insulted. Good. She didn't care for his stupid, stupid French holdings.

“I won't have it!” she said it. With a final twist of her mouth, Margaret pushed her chair back and left.

pandizzy · Mar 25, 2024

August 1294. Beaumont Palace, England.

Edward watched as the children played from his window, the two blonde heads jumping and running under the close supervision of Egidia Stewart, the royal Scottish governess. Margaret was eleven whilst Prince Édouard had just turned ten in April, but the thirteen months separating them would seem less and less as they grew older. He wondered what would happen then, when his son was a man grown and married to a queen in her own right.

“She is just like her mother,” he murmured to no one in particular. It had been only hours since Queen Margaret rejected his suggestion of her calling his armies and he could not stop thinking about it. The thought reverberated in his mind, bouncing from one corner to another and driving him mad.

Edward remembered his niece. In the physical aspect, there remained nothing of her in her daughter. Margaret of Scotland had auburn hair and green eyes, with a lopsided smile and a gap between her front teeth. She was no great Scandinavian beauty like her daughter proved herself to be every passing day. Even if Edward had never met the King of Norway, he knew he’d find him to look very similar to the young Queen. It was obvious that his niece Margaret had left little of herself in her only child’s appearance.

She wasn’t a great beauty, but she was loved. Born in Windsor Castle and brought to Scotland at a young age, she frequently visited her royal uncle and sent numerous letters. Edward remembered her laugh and her witty remarks. How, no matter how she grew over the years, he still towered over her, to her great distress and anger. And by Jesu, she had anger. Stubbornness, pride and power. Strength too, sometimes.

Margaret had not wanted to marry the Norwegian king. Edward remembered thinking the match was perfectly suitable when he heard of it, but Margaret did not like that the King was younger than her and reportedly uncultured. Her father almost had to force into it and Edward nearly intervened to make her sail to her intended. When he heard that she had died, he thought how ironic it was that a fantastic creature like her should be felled by such common means.

And now, her daughter proved herself to be just as stubborn and obstinate. He’d been tricked by her passion for dresses and jewellery. It would’ve brought a smile to his face, if they were in any other situation. Now, he could only grimace. Who was she to stand against him? A maiden, a child. Were she his daughter, he’d have acted, but without the bonds of blood and marriage between them, he could do nearly nothing.

“My lord,” said a man behind him. Edward turned and saw that it was one of his grooms, bowing. “The Earl of Carrick is without and asks for an audience.”

“Send him in,” said Edward. His groom nodded and left for a brief moment to tell the Earl of Carrick to enter his solar.

Edward took his cup of wine in hand and sipped it as a tall, strapping youth entered. The boy was almost as tall as him, with broad shoulders and a head full of brown unruly hair, but there was still something childlike in him. Perhaps the slight pooling of fat in his cheeks, or maybe even the innocence in his eyes. Either way, his arrival had piqued the King’s interest, mostly because it was unexpected.

“Good afternoon, my lord of Carrick,” he said. “Robert, isn’t it?” He had fought with his father in the crusades, before he became king. Eleanor had been there and Robert Bruce the Elder always treated her with great respect. The memory was a sweet one.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the boy.

“Like your father, and his father, and his father,” said Edward. “The name Robert is very common in your family.” He shook his head. “What is it that caused you to come to me, rather than to your Queen?” Clan Bruce held some lands in the north of England, and some in Essex, but most, if not all, of their power was derived from Scotland. And their ties to its Queen, especially now that their claim to the throne had been officially recognized by the government.

“I have heard about the war, Your Grace,” he said. “The men of my father’s English lands will fight, but I wish to join them.”

All at once, the King understood. There was a glint in the eye of Robert Bruce, a glint that Edward recognized from his own youth. Thirst for glory, a desire to prove himself.

“How old are you, Robert?” asked the King of England in a gentle, fatherly voice.

“Twenty, Your Grace,” said Robert.

For a moment, Edward didn’t speak or move. The boy in front of him, for he was a boy in truth, had the same age Alphonse would’ve had, if he lived. The thought was sombre and it made him ponder.

“If you wish to join the men, you’d have spoken about it to your father,” Edward pointed out. “The fact that you didn’t means you know he wouldn’t approve. So you come to me, possibly because you’ve already heard that Queen Margaret has no wish to see Scottish blood spilled in this war.” Robert lowered his head, ashamed at the quickness in which his intentions were understood. “You’re young, with no sons to carry on your legacy and no hope in sight for them, as your wife is barely fourteen.”

“I have younger brothers,” Robert said. “Many of them, in fact. The Bruce name will not die if I fall in battle.”

“What of children?” Edward asked. “Your marriage, like that of your sister Christina, was arranged to secure peace between your family and Clan Comyn. So that future generations would bear the blood of the two rival clans.” He placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Do you wish to risk all of that?”

“The war could last many years and when it is finished, my wife may be of age to bear me heirs,” said Robert. “Father will permit it if Your Grace allows me to join his armies. He’ll give his blessing, even. He always held you in the highest regard, Your Grace. My brother Edward was named in your honour.”

Edward hesitated before he smiled. “You'll have to be careful, Robert. I do not wish to deprive your father of a son.” The boy's brown eyes turned up to look at him “But I cannot fault you for seeking to right what was wrong.”

“So His Grace will permit me to join the war?” Robert asked and Edward nodded.

“I will.” He nodded at the door. “You may go now, to write a letter to your father.” The Lord of Annandale had certainly remained in Scotland when his son rode south with the Queen's court.

Robert nodded and left with a deep bow. As he went, Edward began to think. And think. And think. Much like Robert Bruce, his son would marry a woman to bring peace and they were too young to produce children. And much like Robert, there were still things his son didn't know about the world. Things he had to learn.

For all he spoke, it was very rare for a noble such as Robert Bruce to be killed in battle. Most likely, he'd be held for ransom. And for princes and sons of kings to be felled… Well, that simply never happened and the few times it did resulted in great consequences for the two realms. To take a man's son from him was to incur his wrath for a lifetime and a king was more than capable of having his revenge.

He made a decision then. His son was ten. It was time he learned the price of ruling. Edward wouldn't allow him to fight in a battle himself, but to attend meetings, to see the army and meet the people could give him great knowledge about the world. Knowledge he'd never have whilst being pampered and spoiled at his father's castle. He'd soon travel to France with his men and Édouard would come with him.

This war would make a man out of Robert Bruce. And it would make a man out of his son as well.

pandizzy · Apr 3, 2024

September 1294. Beaumont Palace, England.

Margaret stood at the steps of the royal residence, the wind snapping her skirts. She closed her eyes for a brief moment before opening them again, looking at the crowd of people that prepared to leave. Hundreds of men said their goodbyes to wives, daughters and sisters under the eye of the Lord, their female relations giving them what could be a final blessing. The King and the Prince sat atop their horses and Margaret heard the women around her whispering about King Edward’s decision to take his son with him to France.

It was unnatural, certainly. Prince Édouard was a child, just like her. Should children go to war now? Was that the state of the world?

And everything sounded so unfair. Margaret couldn’t stop thinking that the King had done this to punish her for refusing to call her armies. He took Édouard away from her, supposedly to teach him how to rule, but she was sure it was to prevent her from having her betrothed by her side. He was taking away her chance to grow and fall in love next to her intended husband.

She met the Prince’s eyes and he pressed his mouth together in a sad expression. Margaret tried to look sympathetic and happy, but she was sure her smile had come off as off-putting. Édouard raised a hand in greeting and she raised her own, recognizing his gesture.

The King was expected to arrive in France before the end of October and had left his cousin Edmund of Almain as regent. Rumours said he considered the Queen to be too young, as she was just one and twenty years of age. And the unfortunate timing of her latest delivery was counted against her, as she hadn’t been churched yet.

Margaret knew the regent would let her stay in lavish accommodations. He had no choice but to. They had met before, when he welcomed her to England, and Margaret was aware that he knew how important her marriage to Prince Édouard was. He wouldn’t wish to see her leave, even if it would be difficult to keep her in England without her consent.

The previous night, she had come to a realisation. The King and the regent could not offend Scotland by forcing her to stay and neither could she permit herself to never return. If she did, she’d betray not just her heart, but her country and her father, who agreed that she would one day marry Prince Édouard.

When the King ordered his men to resume their departure, Margaret gestured for Lady Egidia. Her eyes continued focused on Édouard, who smiled sadly as he coaxed his horse into a trot and left, following behind the King. She didn’t know when he would return and her heart stuttered painfully into her chest.

Egidia stopped by her side, her face twisted in a sour expression. Margaret waited until the King and the Prince were out of sight before she said, “I want to return to Scotland.”

Her governess frowned. “My lady?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“There is nothing for me here,” Margaret said. “The King and his son will fight in France for what can be years and I have no wish to stay in a foreign court, waiting for their return.” She looked at Egidia and then turned her head slightly, to look at her Scottish household standing behind her. Many men had left for the war due to their family’s lands in England, but most had stayed. She turned back to Egidia. “It’s time we come home.”

Louvre Palace, Kingdom of France.

The tension in the air was thick as each person dined in silence, the candles flickering in nerves, as if they too were afraid. Edmund, Earl of Lancaster held tightly to his knife as he sipped from his wine, eyes never leaving the face of the youth that sat across from him. The hairs at the back of his neck were raised in nerves and he was acutely aware of the guards that surrounded them.

He looked back at the man before him. King Philip, a tall and willowy male with slick black hair and blue eyes, long-fingered hands moving carefully as he ate the food offered. He wore expensive red velvet, but his face was neutral and serious. Beside him was Queen Jeanne, a plump and plain woman with auburn eyebrows and a maternity smock, as her latest pregnancy had just been announced.

Beside him was Edmund’s wife, Blanche, the Countess of Lancaster and once Queen of Navarre. She was quiet, but she could feel the strained air around them, thick enough to cut through with a blade, and her nervous eyes went between her and Jeanne, and then to Philip, as if trying to decide who would loosen the first arrow.

Jeanne looked at Edmund, pale skin flushed. “Is there something wrong, father?” she asked in a gentle voice. “You’ve barely eaten.”

“I’m not hungry,” Edmund answered. He smiled tightly at her before returning his eyes to the King. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

The King said nothing for a moment before he smiled, though the grin did not reach his eyes.

“My dear father,” he said, “If you’re bothered by something, then I’d be happy to send my personal doctor to see you.” He brought a spoonful of soup to his mouth and Edmund thought to throttle him, if only his stepdaughter was not present and carrying one of the man’s children.

“It’s not my health that bothers me, Your Grace,” Edmund said. Blanche gripped his wrist as a silent warning, but he shook off her hold. “It’s the disregard that you have shown to my family, to my niece, that was betrothed to your son.” And it was a legal agreement that bound Constance and young Louis, Edmund knew. The King of France had broken the laws of God and men for his ambition.

“I cannot explain to you that which does not matter,” Philip answered. “The children are mine to do with as I please, my father, and to arrange their marriages as befits France’s interest first and foremost.”

“The day a duke’s daughter comes before that of a king is the day I grow cold in my grave.” When he finished speaking, Edmund stood up. “Come, my lady. It’s clear we have no love left in this court.” Without looking, the Earl of Lancaster left the room, determined to put all that was French behind him.

pandizzy · Apr 11, 2024

October 1294. Shropshire, England

The carriage rocked from side to side, struggling against the uncertain grounds of the Welsh marches. Margaret could hear the members of her entourage riding their horses before and behind her coach, the lords and ladies that made up her court braving forward the journey back home.

There were some men, like Robert Bruce, who volunteered to fight in the war, alongside the men of their family’s English lands. It had been greatly upsetting to know that, mostly because few deemed to speak to her about it, but Margaret knew there was little she could do about it. She couldn’t exactly order them to return to Scotland. If they wished to kill themselves in France, they were free to do so.

She pulled the curtain of the carriage away from the window, looking out into the great expanse of nature that stretched across the county. They would be taking shelter in the city of Shrewsbury for the night, as she could already see the sun setting in the distance. They had been travelling for nearly a month now, moving slowly, but surely, and she could only hope they would be in Scotland before the end of the year.

It was already too cold for the month, she thought, and she had been born in Norway. Although she hardly remembered it, since it had been three years since she left. Sometimes, Margaret would remember bits and pieces of her home country, and her father. During her time there, she lived in Bergen, under the supervision of Bishop Narve, and King Eric would visit her nearly every month, bringing presents and stories. She remembered he had hair like hers, blue eyes and a soft smile. He had gentle hands and liked to pick her up in his arms, to throw her to the air to make her laugh and giggle.

He sent her frequent letters and she sent him back twice as many, written in her best Latin and read by Lady Egidia to be certain that the grammar was correct. For her saint’s day, he gave her a golden locket set with diamonds and emeralds. Margaret was certain he still loved her, despite the distance.

She missed him greatly. It seemed that ever since she was born, she was leaving or being left by so many members of her family. Her mother, her father, King Edward and his son, the Prince. Could there ever be any peace from it?

The carriage rolled to a stop and she looked out the window again, her procession now surrounded by tall houses and stone buildings. The door to her carriage was opened by Sir William Wallace, the tall captain of her guard offering a hand to allow her to step out. Margaret moved as elegantly as her position, and age, allowed, kicking out her velvet dress so as to not step on it.

William Wallace cleaned his throat. “Her Grace, Margaret, Queen of Scots,” he exclaimed as all those that stood around the carriage bowed or curtsied before her. Although she had left her carriage with a smile, Margaret felt it melt off her face at the look of everyone. They seemed fearful and the air had the taste of tears.

A man hurried to greet her, offering two large hands to clutch hers. “My lady!” he exclaimed in a deeply-accented French. “How joyful I am to see you well. The Lord knows how much I prayed for your safety.”

Margaret removed her hand from his grasp.

“Has something happened?” she asked in a soft voice.

“A rebel by the name Madog ap Llywelyn has inflamed the Welsh,” the man said. “They have already hanged Sir Roger de Pulesdon, the High Sheriff of Anglesay.” He looked at her with the softness and gentility of a father. “We feared of the same happening to you.”

A sheriff was hanged by rebels? The thought of it made her nervous, as well as the possibility of the same happening to her. “Anglesay?” Margaret asked. She looked at William Wallace. “How far are we from Anglesay?”

“Many miles, Your Grace,” it was Lady Egidia who answered. “Thank the Lord. Whatever trouble the Welsh have begun shall not reach you.” But Margaret took her foster mother’s hand, trembling with fear.

“I’m scared,” she admitted in Scots. Egidia stroked the back of her hand, as everyone looked upon them.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” said Egidia. “We won't let anything happen to you.” She stroked her arm. “The Welsh have only acted, because they know King Edward is out of the country, but my lord of Cornwall will soon put down this rebellion. Even before then, though, we will already be on our merry way home.”

“I hope so,” said Margaret.

“Come along now, Your Grace,” her governess murmured in a gentle, but firm tone. “Time for supper and then, bed.” Margaret tried to groan in frustration, but Egidia began to pull at her and she had no choice but to obey.

Valois, France

Edmund opened his eyes with great difficulty, feeling as his head pounded him from the inside out. He felt as if he was a piece of meat that had been masticated and then chewed out, or that they had cut him open and then sewn him together again, though with his organs in all the wrong places. There was little to no strength left in his body and he could only wonder why God kept him alive still.

Servants bustled around them, carrying materials to and from the room. A doctor had been summoned, but Edmund did not know if he had arrived yet. In truth, it didn’t matter. He was too late.

He could see Blanche’s face, still handsome after so many years together. She was six and forty now, her lips pursed in worry as she pressed a wet cloth to his forehead. Edmund knew, even without her saying it, that he had a terrible fever. He could feel it, the boiling blood and the fog that permeated his mind, though it had given him a reprieve in that brief moment. It was a slim chance to put things to right and he had to seize it.

“When I’m buried, continue to Flanders,” Edmund began. “Count Guy will welcome you. He is friendly with Edward.”

“Don’t speak such words,” she whispered. “Don’t act as if you are already doomed."

“Aren’t I?” he asked with a grin. Blanche sighed, her eyes filling with tears. “Thomas is a man already and safe in England, with Henry. You mustn’t think of them until you, yourself, are safe.”

“Edmund…” Blanche whispered.

“I love you,” Edmund murmured in return. His wife leaned her forehead against his, setting the cloth she was using aside. “I’ve always loved you, Blanche. Please, tell me you know this.

“I do,” Blanche said. “I do know it and I love you too. I love you, Edmund. I love you more than the sun loves the heavens and the moon loves the stars. You are my husband, my lord and mine. You have always been so."

She raised her gaze to look at him and saw that he had closed his eyes, his mouth slightly parted. For a moment, she didn’t move and only watched him in silent horror, the slow realisation of what had happened coming to her.

“My husband is dead,” she murmured before raising her voice. “My husband is dead.” And the King of France killed him.

pandizzy · Apr 16, 2024

December 1294. Lille, County of Flanders.

They had landed in Flanders months before as the winds had dragged their fleet away from the Bay of Biscay, although his father had taken advantage of their misfortune and began searching for an alliance with the Count. The man, a Flemish lord by the name of Guy of Dampierre, was some years older than Édouard’s father, but he always deferred to the King of England when it came to their shared rival, the King of France.

Édouard sat in a chair as his father and his generals discussed the war plans. The Count had wanted to marry Édouard to one of his daughters in return for an alliance, but Édouard knew that his father would never break the bond he had with Margaret, mostly since she was already a queen in her own right. So, instead, they had agreed to betroth Henry, Édouard’s little brother, to one of the Count’s kinswoman, an infant of the name Joanna, who was the granddaughter of his eldest son. She would be Countess of Kent one day, and the King of England had promised to endow his second son with more lands in the continent when he came of age.

No one asked him for his opinion during the many, hours-long war councils, but Édouard liked that. He found that he enjoyed listening and he could mark his questions to himself, to ask his father later when they had their supper, just the two of them. He understood now that it was important to mind your supply lanes and to move your army slowly enough to keep up with your supplies, but not so slowly that an enemy will be able to discover your location before you’ve conquered any major cities.

It was fascinating to learn and understand of his father’s plans. The King intended to set sail again with half of his army and land in Gascony, while the other half would stay in Flanders under the command of John St John to take the north back and liberate Flanders from the tyrannical King Philip. Édouard would go with his father and be installed as Duke of Aquitaine before they retook it as well as Gascony.

“We will wait until February before we travel by sea,” he heard his father say. The weather at the end of time made the English channel too nefarious to take ships. The brother of Empress Matilda had died in November due to a shipwreck and everyone knew it was due to the weather. Édouard thought his father feared the same happening to them, which was why his little brother and stepmother remained in England. To inherit the throne and lead the country without them. “I expect my brother to meet me in Bordeaux.”

Édouard missed his uncle. He had not seen him since shortly after baby Constance was born, because Uncle Edmund spent most of his time in France, at the court of his stepson-in-law. Although his sons, and Édouard’s cousins, were born in their father’s English lands and lived there, even if the Prince didn’t see them frequently. Thomas was sixteen already, while Henry was thirteen, some years older than Édouard.

“Perhaps we should send a rider to Aragon, my lord,” said William de Grandison. “To treat with King Alfonso and convince him to join our side.”

His father nodded. “Alfonso has much to thank me for,” he said. “Because of me, he has a son and has reconciled with the Pope over the matter of Sicily and his younger brother.” He looked at William. “I’ll send your brother, Otto. He has the charisma for this task. You may go and write a letter to tell him.” William nodded and left with a bow. Otto de Grandison was in Wales at Caernarfon Castle, where Édouard was born, so it would take some weeks for him to arrive in Aragon.

His father had many people to trust. His cousin, whom he’d left as regent. Otto de Grandison and his brother. John St John. Even Queen Yolande, as he gave her the custody of Édouard’s younger siblings until his return, or in the case of his death. Édouard could only hope to have so many friends like his father when he became king.

He would become King of Scots as soon as he wed Margaret, and consummated the marriage, so he imagined his most trusted companions would be Scots. At least, the first ones.

A knock echoed around the room and all eyes turned to the door. It opened a moment later to reveal a young servant wearing the livery of the Count of Flanders.

“What is it?” his father asked and Édouard adjusted himself in his chair, trying to see better.

“A woman has asked for a meeting with you, Your Grace,” the man said and the King of England frowned.

“Who?” Édouard frowned as well.

It was strange to think that a woman wanted to speak with his father, not here in Flanders. Since the Queen hadn’t come, or any other major noblewomen, few female servants had been brought to Flanders and most were to care for Édouard’s clothes, but he didn’t think they ever would feel the need to speak to his father about his garments. Even if they accidentally tore a stitch.

There were women at the Flemish court, but they were the relatives of the Count and their household. Which meant they would go to their mistresses or to the Count himself if they needed anything. It didn’t make sense.

And the servant knew it too, for the way he seemed confused even as he spoke, “It’s the Dowager Queen of Navarre, Your Grace. She says it is most urgent.”

“What?” his father snapped, a rare show of emotion in him. “Send her in.” Édouard looked at the King in confusion, as he knew the Dowager Queen of Navarre was his uncle’s wife and his uncle was supposed to meet them in Bordeaux.

The servant stepped out to fetch his aunt and Édouard straightened up, trying to see better as the portly woman in widow’s clothes entered the room. She was clutching a wooden rosary on her hand and her face was ashen with grief.

“Blanche,” his father exclaimed, “What has happened? Where is Edmund?”

“He killed him!” said the Dowager Duchess in a hysterical tone. “He killed my Edmund!”

“What?” King Edward looked at one of his men. “Give her some wine, Richard. Let her calm herself.”

But Blanche waved Richard off. “I don’t need wine,” she said. “I need revenge.”

“Revenge on whom?” the King asked. “Who killed Edmund?”

“That damned son-in-law of mine,” Queen Blanche answered, sitting in a chair offered by a general. “I trusted him with my only daughter and he betrayed me. He poisoned Edmund!”

“Why do you say that, Your Grace?” Richard asked.

“We had a final dinner with King Philip, at his insistence,” Blanche said. “He insulted Edmund and we left. Not even a week later and my husband was dead! He must have poisoned the food. You must believe me!”

Édouard watched his father’s face, the way his entire expression changed at the words he heard.

“Where is my brother buried?” he asked in a clipped voice.

“At the Priory of Saint-Arnoul,” Blanche said. “I gave him as much respect as he deserved and paid for the tombstone by selling my jewels.” Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, my poor lord.”

“I’ll help you return to England to be with your son, my sister,” Édouard heard his father say in a low tone. “And in the meantime, I will avenge my little brother. Philip of France wanted to hurt me and destabilise my family, but I won’t allow it.” It seemed to Édouard that his father was almost crying, but he was sure it was only a trick of the light. “Edmund deserves better than that.”

pandizzy · Apr 21, 2024

February 1295. On the border between England and Scotland.

Margaret observed the fast movements of Elsbeth’s hands, switching and mixing the little present between her enclosed fists. Her lady, who recently turned fourteen, had long-fingered hands, and healthy olive skin, which hid the truth underneath. The Queen twisted her lips in concentration and, when Elsbeth appeared to be finished, she pointed at the right hand.

The young countess turned over her hand and opened her fingers, revealing that there was nothing nestled in her palm. A second later, she opened her other hand, revealing the small glass marble they were playing with.

“Fiddlesticks!” Margaret exclaimed. Seated next to her, Lady Egidia cleaned her throat, still embroidering the edge of a handkerchief to pass the time during the carriage ride. The little queen looked at her governess in disbelief. “I didn’t say it!”

“If you use another word in its place, then you are thinking of the curse,” Egidia pointed out. During the journey, Margaret had learned terrible words from the lesser men in William Wallace’s ranks and the governess was determined to stamp the habit out of her. “Don’t exclaim at all. A queen doesn’t show her surprise, even at a game.”

“But Elsbeth is very good,” Margaret said with a smile. “I’m always surprised at how easily she hides the marble.”

“I know well of Lady Carrick’s many abilities, my lady,” Egidia Stewart answered. “For four years, I have been in charge of her body and her education.”

“The trick is to use the curve of your knuckle,” Elsbeth said in an eager voice. Mary Bruce rolled her eyes, defiant and unladylike as always.

“It’s my turn,” said the young girl, a red curl escaping the confines of her veil. Elsbeth laughed at her sister-in-law and gave her the marble. Margaret watched in focus as her friend and lady hid the marble between her fists, moving them wildly to try and confuse.

“Elsbeth is good,” Margaret murmured, “But Mary is too rash. And her ego is too big.”

“No, it’s not!” Mary exclaimed, flushing as red as a rose. At the moment of her distraction, Margaret saw the glint of the marble shoved between her fingers. She pointed at the left hand and Mary grunted. “You’ve done it again.”

Before Margaret could even speak, her governess clicked her tongue, “Mary Bruce is not egotistical, but she gets easily riled at the perception of an insult towards her person.” She looked at Mary. “My sweet girl, you must calm yourself. Why should your friend call you so, if not to win this silly game?”

Elsbeth and Mary Bruce were sitting together, while Margaret sat by her governess. She leaned her head over Egidia Stewart’s bony shoulder and smiled.

“Last night, Christina told Mary that their father has arranged a marriage for her,” Margaret whispered. “Surely, he told you who it was, didn’t he?” Lord Annandale had gone to England months before to find a husband for Mary, as his deceased wife had asked him to arrange a match for her with an English lord. If he had made a decision, as Christina said, he would tell his daughter’s governess, to be sure that she was being prepared properly for the match.

Egidia laughed and poked Margaret at her nose. “Mary Bruce is as rash as Elsbeth is delicate, but you, my lady, you are manipulative,” said the governess. “I would bet all my jewels that you were the one to suggest to ask me about this, because you thought I couldn’t refuse your request. Since you are my queen, after all.”

Margaret pouted. She had promised Mary to see it done, to ask about the intended husband and have his name in hand for nightly prayers and sweet dreams.

“Who is it?” she asked. “We won’t say anything.” She looked at Elsbeth and Mary, who were looking eagerly at Egidia. “Why should myself and Elsbeth know whom we will marry, but Mary cannot?”

Egidia pressed her mouth together in a thin, white line.

“Lord Annandale will be very disappointed if he hears that his daughter knows of her intended before he was able to tell her himself,” she murmured. “I suppose I could whisper a name. Just one. As long as my charges remain very quiet and act surprised when he announces the betrothal at the welcome feast in Edinburgh.”

“Oh, we will be very quiet!” Margaret promised. “We won’t say anything!”

“I can act surprised,” Mary promised. “My brother Robert said I always act the fool.”

Egidia smiled and turned her head slightly, while cupping the Queen’s to whisper in a name. Margaret giggled in delight as her governess leaned back and Elsbeth and Mary looked at her in expectation. The little queen leaned forward and gestured for her older friend to lean in, so she could also whisper the name, unable to hide her own smile. Mary, the intended bride, would be the last to hear of it,

Elsbeth’s face was washed with delight before she turned to whisper in Mary’s ear as well, giggling at the end of her words. “Edmund Fitzalan.”

To her, had there ever been a sweeter name?

The three young girls fell into a fit of giggles so strong they barely even noticed that the carriage had stopped until William Wallace opened the door and offered her a hand. Margaret felt her heart seize in delight as she stepped out, recognizing the faces of the men that came to greet her easily.

“My queen, you are in Scotland now,” said Sir William Douglas, falling to his knees. “Welcome home.”

She smiled.

Arcachon, Gascony.

Édouard watched from his horse as his father’s men walked out of their ships in marching order, his eyes concentrated. They had brought around fifteen hundred men to Gascony, and left another fifteen in Flanders. There was hope for additional men from Aragon and support amongst the populace since they had already been under English control for a hundred years, but he couldn’t say if it would happen. People could act very differently from what was expected of them.

“I heard the King of France has married his sister Marguerite to the Count of Bar,” his father said. He cursed lowly. “I should’ve acted with him first.”

“The King had no daughters to marry Count Henri,” said William de Grandison. He was close enough with the King to speak in such a way with him, almost comfortingly.

“I can offer other girls,” his father answered, almost petulantly. Édouard chewed his lower lip nervously. “Or make more daughters.”

“Should I write the letter summoning the Queen, then?” William asked. His father merely looked at him before smiling, shaking his head.

“No need,” he said. “If Henri can make peace with Queen Jeanne and marry Mademoiselle Marguerite, I suppose I can win this war before the end of the year and return to England to father more children.” He looked behind him, at Édouard and sighed. “I suppose it will be years before I see a male-line grandchild born. Édouard is only ten and in a month, his bride will be twelve. Children can’t produce more children.”

“The years pass quickly,” William murmured. “Soon enough, this war will be over and we can all return home and father children.”

“Do you really think it will take years to win this war, William?” King Edward asked.

“I prefer to sin as overcautious than disappoint you by saying it will take months and see it stretch into years, my king,” William answered. His words made the King smile again.

“We’ll crush that overly-ambitious king and return home soon, William,” he said. “We’ll have our revenge for Edmund.” William had served many years under the Earl of Lancaster, and knew him well. Perhaps, after the King and his wife, he was one of the most affected by his murder. “I shall return to Yolande and you to your Sybill. In the end, we will prevail.”

“God willing,” William murmured.

The King looked back at Édouard again. “It will be difficult to bring a child along with us as we ride into the country,” he murmured. “Sometimes, I wonder if a King is capable of regret.”

“Perhaps, it will be easier if we bring along a companion for the young prince, to keep him company in the moments unfit for innocent eyes,” William de Grandison suggested. His father looked at him.

“Do you have one in mind?” the King asked.

“Arnaud de Gabaston has a boy around the Prince’s age,” William said. “Piers, I think is his name.”

The King smirked. “Well, we are already in Gascony, are we not?” he asked. “Send out a rider to fetch this Piers. If he is anything like his father, he will be a great example to my son.”

Édouard felt a smile curl up his mouth at the promise of a friend. He hadn’t had one in quite a long time.

pandizzy · Apr 22, 2024

March 1295. Edinburgh Castle, Scotland.

Margaret held her breath as she attempted to thread her embroidery needle, focusing until her eyes crossed. She managed it in the third try, pulling the red thread through the small hole, and breathed again, relaxing her entire body. She began her sewing with care, as Lady Egidia had complained about loose stitches just the past week and ordered more hours dedicated to needlework.

There were only so many womanly arts she could learn amidst all the history, geography and laws though. And Margaret couldn’t exactly understand what was the point of learning how to make a dress when she had plenty of seamstresses do it for her. But Egidia insisted and the little queen wasn’t even close to the age where she’d be able to determine how to spend her days.

Elsbeth stood up and left the room, perhaps to relieve herself and Margaret twisted her mouth. Mary Bruce was receiving help from her sister Christina, and the other women sewed in silence, her rooms filled with people now that she had returned to Scotland. Every minor noble family adored the chance to send their daughters and sisters to her now that they, and she, were slightly older, taking advantage of the fact that Margaret had dismissed her English attendants before her return.

“Well done, Your Grace,” Egidia Stewart said next to her. Her governess had brought her own daughter to attend to her charge, another Egidia. Since their name meant small goat in Greek, Margaret had begun to call the daughter Geit, after the word for goats in Norwegian, and the nickname caught on quickly. Perhaps, because she was the Queen and all the other girls wanted to imitate her. Not like Egidia the Younger minded so much, probably because she didn’t know the origin of the word, as Margaret decided not to tell her. “Your stitching has improved greatly over the past few weeks.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Margaret answered with a tight smile.

The door opened behind them and a servant stepped inside, carrying in his hands a silver platter filled with piles and piles of unopened letters. Lady Egidia stood up with a sigh and walked to the servant, exclaiming as she did so, “Oh, the mail! At long last.” She took the letters in her hand and began to walk about the room, handing them to each receiver. “For Her Grace, the Queen. For Mary Bruce, be careful you don’t cut your fingers again, my lady. For Christina Comyn. Oh, heavens,” the governess looked around herself, confused even as she spoke, “Where is the Countess of Carrick?” She meant Elsbeth.

“I believe she is relieving herself, my lady,” Christina Comyn answered and Lady Egidia sighed. “I’m certain she will return soon enough.”

“I’ll go find her and see what is taking so long,” Lady Egidia murmured. She stepped out of the room and Margaret frowned at the sight of the seal that had closed the folded paper in her hands. It was her father’s seal. She opened her letter eagerly.

My beloved Margrete,

Words cannot convey how much I miss you, my child. I’ve heard that you returned to Scotland, which is why I’m sending this letter there, now that war has broken out between England and France. I hope you will keep yourself safe and out of trouble; it’s not fit for girls to wage war. And even less fit for children to follow the path of violence.

I have happier news than talk of war, though. Your new mother, Queen Isabel, is with child. Before the end of the year, you’ll have a little brother sleeping in the cradle. Isn’t that wonderful? I hope I receive word of your reaction soon. Oh, how I miss you, my sweet girl. Do you remember how we used to play?

Sending you away was the hardest thing I have ever done. When you were four, and I was chasing you around the Bishop’s castle just to make you laugh, I knew you’d be a great ruling queen. Your grandfather was dead by then already, but I couldn’t lose my only child. I hope one day, I can forgive myself.

By the hand of your loving father,

Eirik Magnusson.

Margaret sighed. Oh, papa. She missed him greatly as well. He was always so kind and loving to her.

She could not say she was unhappy at the prospect of a younger brother, even if he’d take away her place as their father’s heir, but Margaret was upset at the knowledge that she would never meet him, or any other sibling Queen Isabel gave their father in the following years. It was disheartening, to be sure.

Édouard had many siblings. Sisters, mostly, though there was one brother. Queen Eleanor of Aragon. Lady Joan, the Countess of Gloucester. Margaret, the Duchess of Brabant. Mary, a nun. Elizabeth, who’d soon wed the Count of Holland as soon as both came of age. And then the babies, Constance of Windsor and Henry, who would become Earl of Kent if he lived through infancy. Her betrothed was very lucky in the aspect of siblings and Margaret couldn’t help but feel jealous of him, now that she was to have a baby brother.

A servant came inside to whisper in Christina Comyn’s ear and Margaret saw the way her lady blanched and stood up, her brown eyes turning to the little queen. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must assist Lady Stewart with something,” she said, leaving with a quick curtsy and without looking back.

Margaret looked at Mary Bruce and Geit, who were both confused as well. “What has happened?” she asked.

“I heard the servant say two words,” Mary admitted. “But I don’t understand them.”

“Well, what did he say?” The other women in the rooms were looking at them, so Margaret leaned in to speak, mindful of her tone.

Mary twisted her mouth. “I heard the word flowering and Elsbeth’s name,” she said. “But I don’t see what those two words have in common.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Margaret admitted as Geit raised her shoulders in confusion.

But Elsbeth had left to go to privy and Lady Stewart went after her some minutes later. Perhaps, her lady was ill and had asked after their governess. Christina, as she was married to Elsbeth’s brother, could be a comfort to her, since they were sisters in the eyes of God. But Margaret couldn’t be entirely sure.

She supposed she would find out eventually what was happening.

June 1295. Mortagne, France.

They had been travelling for days before arriving at the city, which was conquered easily from its French governors. Mortagne stood at the border between lands loyal to King Philip and those that were under the command of Count Guy and had been constructed at the confluence of the Scheldt and the Scarpe rivers, and the castle of Helkijn. It might be relatively small, especially when compared to Paris and Bruges, but it was important. It could be used as a starting point for a conquest of France’s north.

Robert Bruce had been placed under the command of the Count’s eldest son, another Robert. They had not met open battle yet, but the morale was high and they moved quickly enough to avoid consuming the supplies of the land past beyond what was necessary. With seven hundred Englishmen, and another two thousand supplied by the Count of Flanders, they could prevail upon their campaign.

As a high-ranking nobleman, Robert was allowed into the war councils led by Robert of Bethune and other Flemish. They were together then, standing all around a long table with an open map of the French countryside, trying to decide where to go now.

“I hear King Philip is gathering his men in Compiègne,” Robert Bruce said. “We ought to go there and finish them before they can become a threat to our campaign.”

Bethune relaxed his jaw, considering. “Compiègne is eighty miles away,” he murmured. “It would take us five days to travel there, if I’m not mistaken, but we can’t be entirely sure that your information is correct, Lord Carrick. And it’s quite risky to chase another army, with no knowledge as to their numbers.”

They continued to discuss the idea, and though Bethune considered it fully, they didn’t manage to quite reach an accord on it before night fell. Robert left with a sour state in his mouth, disappointed that they hadn’t agreed with what he said. He had come to France with the hope of proving himself on the field, but all the other men thought of him as a child first, and a man second.

He supposed such was the way. They had skirmishes, but no battle. So he could only wait for the chance to gain glory. It was to come, he was sure.

Robert had been sleeping at an inn by the walls of Mortagne, as most of the Flemish nobles had taken the best houses for themselves. Though he didn’t entirely mind the offence, as the innkeeper had a pretty daughter with wide blue eyes and a pretty smile, always topping his goblet with wine, even without him asking. He was sure he would have a chance with her before the end of the stay.

He was almost at the inn when a horn echoed around the city, shaking the ground. Robert looked around in confusion as every man in their army started to run about in search of their weapons, chaos quickly descending into the city. He stood in the middle of the stone street, confused until a soldier he recognized ran past him, cheeks flushed.

Robert grabbed his arm. “What has happened, Louis?” he asked. “What is going on?”

“The French army is here!” the man shouted. “They have crossed the river. They are at our gates. We must remake our formations and drive them back.”

But it was the night and they were taken by surprise. Robert looked in the direction where every soldier was running towards, where the weak moonlight could not illuminate. The enemy was shrouded in shadows.

He was not wearing armour, and it would take too long to put it on. But this was what he wanted. He wanted glory and glory had come knocking. He only had to be brave enough to face it.

pandizzy · Apr 24, 2024

August 1295. Windsor Castle, England.

The Queen had come to visit her children, as both royal heirs had been moved to Windsor after an outbreak of smallpox in Kings Langley. Isabella de Beauchamp, the royal governess, watched them in silence as the Queen and her Aragonese attendants played with the little children, a smile on all their faces.

Lady Constance of Windsor was two with round blue eyes and her younger brother, Henry, was just one, crawling around the room with childish wonder. They were healthy and well-cared for. Isabella had made sure of that. Who knew what would happen to her if something were to occur for these two babies? They had entrusted her with them and it would threaten her financial independence to have such trust broken.

“Your papa has had a great victory,” Queen Yolande told Lady Constance. “His men in Mortagne captured Charles of Valois, King Philip’s own brother. This is a step closer to seeing you become Queen of France, my baby.”

Constance did not seem to care. She was only two, showing her mother her many dolls that her father’s vassals had gifted her. Yolande sighed and took them all, though, as soon as her child looked away, she handed them over to an Aragonese attendant.

The Queen looked at Isabella and the young governess looked back, giving her a shy curtsy.

“I won’t be able to see them for long, Mistress Beauchamp,” she said. “I hope you’ll care for them in my absence. With a mother’s care.” She smiled. “In fact, I don’t know when I shall return. It could be many years indeed.”

“Oh?” Isabella frowned. “Has something happened?”

“I intend to join my husband in the war,” Queen Yolande said. “Where my king goes, there is my kingdom. And a queen must be in her kingdom.” She laughed as young Henry began to pull on her dress, but quickly gestured for a lady to take him away. The Queen looked at Isabella again. “Do you understand what I have asked of you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Isabella said.

Edinburgh Castle, Scotland.

“What is it like?” Margaret asked, sharing a bed with Elsbeth. The two whispered together beneath the covers, as the others slept in cots laid on the floor. It was the only way they could discuss it, because Lady Egidia thought the topic was improper for conversation. “To be a woman.”

Elsbeth smiled. “It’s strange,” she admitted. “Messy, even. I wasn't expecting so much blood. And for it to be constant too. It lasts for almost a week. Lady Stewart had me wear these rags to catch it every time.”

“It doesn’t stop?”

“Not until it stops completely, then it comes again the next month,” Elsbeth said. Margaret nodded. She had always thought that becoming a woman would mean you bleed once, then it stopped until it was time again. She had not imagined it was constant.

Although she understood now why her friend was so embarrassed about it. To bleed at every moment for an entire week? It sounded like a nightmare. She supposed she ought to be thankful that it hadn’t happened to her yet, though it would eventually. Although, she was only twelve and if she were to be like Elsbeth, it would be another two years before it did.

“Now you’re a woman,” Margaret murmured. “You can bear children for Robert.”

“Lady Stewart said that I will only be married to him in truth when I’m sixteen,” Elsbeth answered. “She said it’s too dangerous to get pregnant before then.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” said Margaret. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before many times over. “But it will probably be a long way before they win the war and return.” Even if they had captured the French king’s own brother, there was still much to be conquered before they felt comfortable enough to sue for peace. At least, that was what her tutor said when teaching her about laws. Wars were expensive and drawn-out. You wouldn’t want to sign a treaty without being sure it was suitable to you.

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” Elsbeth asked, her eyes glazed over with love for Robert. Just fourteen, she was already in love with her husband.

“I don’t know,” Margaret said in a long voice. “Years, maybe.”

“But time runs fast,” Elsbeth murmured. “That’s what my mother used to say. The years go by quickly and before you know it, there is no need to wait anymore.”

Margaret smiled. “I hope so,” she said and they began to giggle for no reason at all before someone hushed them. Then, they giggled even more before finally going to sleep.

pandizzy · Apr 24, 2024

King Edward of England (June 1239-) m. a) Eleanor of Castile (1241-1291); b) Yolande of Aragon (1273-)

a) A short lived unnamed daughter (1254);
a) Katherine (1261);
a) Joan (1265–1265);
a) John (1266–1271);
a) Henry (May 1268– October 1274);
a) Eleanor, Queen of Aragon (June 1269–) m. Alfonso III of Aragon (November 1265-);
1. Eduardo of Aragon (November 1293-);
2. Maria of Aragon (February 1295-);
3. Jaime of Aragon (June 1296-);
4. Elionor of Aragon (September 1298- );
a) Unnamed daughter (1272);
a) Joan of Acre (April 1272–) m. Gilbert de Clare, 7th Earl of Gloucester (September 1243-December 1295);
1. Gilbert de Clare, 7th Earl of Hertford (May 1291-);
2. Eleanor de Clare (October 1292-);
3. Margaret de Clare (October 1293- );
4. Elizabeth de Clare (September 1295-);
a) Alphonso, Earl of Chester (November 1273–August 1284);
a) Margaret (March 1275–) m. John II, Duke of Brabant (September 1275-);
a) Berengaria (1276–1277);
a) Unnamed son (1277);
a) Mary of Woodstock (March 1278– ). A nun;
a) Elizabeth of Rhuddland (1282–) m. John I, Count of Holland (1284-);
a) Edward, Prince of Wales (April 1284–) b. Margaret, Queen of Scots (March 1283-);
b) Constance of Windsor (August 1293-);
b) Henry of Kings Langley (July 1294-);
b) Catherine of Bordeaux (May 1297-)

pandizzy · Apr 28, 2024

February 1299. Bordeaux, Gascony.

The land stretched before him, the earth so flat beneath his feet that he could see for miles ahead. He could see the Garonne estuary and the many vineyards that the wealthiest Gascons owned. The stone and brick houses from the city just beside them, the people going out and about, moving on with their lives. The children that played on the streets, too young to learn a trade.

They stood inside his rooms in the Château de Blanquefort, looking out from the window at the world that didn’t seem to realise they were at a war. It fascinated him to no end. Édouard enjoyed watching the common folk mingle about. They didn’t care whether it was an English king or a French king that ruled over them. Only that their babies were fat and healthy, that they reap a blessed harvest and that winter came gently. That was what they cared about.

He crossed his arms and sighed. When he became king, Édouard knew that he would have to take care of these people. And the English, the Welsh, the Scottish as well. God trusted him with many lives. He could only hope to care for them fairly and justly.

“I hear my father is suing for peace,” said Édouard, turning slightly to look at the young man sitting by the fire, preparing a game of chess. “We have what we want.” They had the King’s brother in custody still and enough leeway within the country to demand the return of their lands and the betrothal of his sister Constance to the French heir.

“What makes the Prince think King Philip will accept the offer?” Piers asked in a soft voice. Édouard walked to him and sat down in front of him, eyes going to the game before them.

“He has to,” said Édouard. “The new pope is putting pressure on my father and him to have peace.”

Piers had the white pieces, so he started. Édouard looked at his friend as he pondered before taking hold of one of his pawns and moving it forward. He had hardly removed his fingers from the piece when Édouard moved his own pawn, two spaces forward. Piers smiled.

“Plus, there is something else,” the Prince of Wales said.

“What?” Piers moved another of his pieces and Édouard moved his own, taking one of his pawns. Piers smiled again.

“My father wants me to get married,” Édouard said. “I’ll be fifteen in two months. Best get on with a treaty so we can all return home.” Him, his father and his stepmother, and Édouard’s newest little sister Catherine, who had been born only some days after they retook Bordeaux. “He wants me to father legitimate children.”

“As opposed to all the illegitimate children you’ve been fathering, my prince?” Piers asked in a teasing tone. Édouard rolled his eyes.

When he turned fourteen, his father had instructed his minder to procure a female companion for him. To be certain that Édouard knew how to consummate the marriage and produce children with his bride. But after that, he hadn’t bothered to do it again, possibly because he still thought of himself as young. And Piers knew he hadn’t experimented since then, which was why he made that joke.

“Shut up,” Édouard mumbled weakly. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Piers said as they continued to play. “Who is the lucky lady?”

“Margaret,” Édouard answered. “The Queen of Scotland. I've mentioned her before.”

Piers nodded. “What is she like?”

“Pretty,” Édouard said, though that probably changed now. Everyone said Margaret would grow to be a great beauty. She was likely even more beautiful in her adolescent years. “Determined, I think. She liked to spend time with me and said no when my father told her to bring her men to France for the war. Not every girl is like that.”

“So she is not like other girls?” Piers asked with a laugh.

“I guess,” said Édouard, not having realised his friend was mocking him. “But she was actually the first girl I met that wasn’t one of my sisters. So there is that.” But all his sisters were determined. Eleanor was a queen and Joan had been banished from court because of her words to the Queen. Margaret had moved to another of her husband’s castles to express her discontent at his philandering, and they hadn’t even had a child yet. And Elizabeth still refused to travel to her husband in Holland. Not to mention Mary, constantly ignoring the papal order prohibiting nuns from travelling. He supposed that aspect of Margaret didn’t count. “I remember she liked dresses. And jewellery.”

“Every girl likes dresses and jewellery, my prince,” Piers said. “You have to be better if you wish to conquer her heart and have a good life once the Lord binds you together.”

“Well, how do you do it?” Édouard asked. “Oh, Sir Lancelot. Master Rake. Philanderer. He who speaks to the fair sex.” Piers began laughing.

“I’ll show you, Your Grace,” his friend said. “Stand up. Forget the game.” Édouard frowned, but did as bid. Piers stood up as well and they came to stand next to each other, one in front of the other.

Piers was a head shorter than him, with red hair and green eyes. But he had a sultry smile and a charisma that Édouard could never hope to match with his personality alone. He knew he was handsome, but Piers had an air about him that was attractive.

“First,” Piers began, “You take the woman’s hand with a bow.” He dipped his head as he took his hand and Édouard frowned, not truly knowing where this would go. “Then you drop a kiss to her knuckles.” He pressed his mouth to Édouard’s knuckles, but he raised his eyes to look at him with a heavy, penetrating gaze. “But you look up at her scandalously. Then you stand up,” he straightens himself as he speaks, “And you kiss her.” Piers leaned in as he smacked his lips and Édouard laughed.

“Shut up!” He pushed his friend away, shaking his head. “Is that all you know?”

“I know more,” said Piers with a laugh. He adjusted his posture, looking at Édouard. “You have to cherish women, Your Grace. Tell me I look beautiful.”

“Why would I do that?” Édouard asked, blushing.

“Because I’m Queen Margaret.” Piers preened as he placed his hands at his sides, as if holding up the skirts of a dress, and curtsied softly. “Oh, Prince Édouard, what do you think of my new dress?”

“Ah.” Édouard didn’t know what to say. “You look beautiful, my lady.”

At once, Piers’ facial expression changed. He frowned, twisting his mouth in a stern pout. “Oh, is that so? Do you believe a woman can only be beautiful? Should I remind you I am queen? Or must I have my guards beat you until you acknowledge my title?”

“Where did that come from?” Édouard asked, baffled at the developments in their conversation.

“Queen Yolande said that to me today at mass,” Piers answered with a laugh. “Except for the threat. That was just me. I thought the narrative needed some drama.”

“Clearly,” said Édouard. “I don’t think Margaret will have her guards beat me if I happen to say the wrong thing.” He hoped not, at least. “Give me another chance.”

“Well,” Piers said. “What do you think of my hair?”

“Tricky,” Édouard answered. “Most women cover their hair.”

Piers smiled and bowed. “I have nothing left to teach you, my prince,” he said.

“You’re an idiot,” said Édouard with a smile. “I can only hope that when we leave for England, you won’t make such jokes in front of the Queen.”

Piers pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence and Édouard laughed again. His friend was too funny.

pandizzy · May 1, 2024

March 1299. Lusignan, Poitou.

The treaty was signed in the early hours of the afternoon, a fortnight after both parties arrived at the city. The King of France was represented by his younger brother, Louis, Count of Évreux and a statesman by the name of Guillaume de Nogaret, while his cousin the King of England was represented by his friend and confidant Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln.

The agreement was rather simple, despite everything.

It was signed that the marriage between Lady Constance of Windsor, presently seven and in the custody of her governess, would be married to King Philip’s eldest son and heir, Louis, at the age of twelve. She would not bring a dowry with her and the King of France was expected to allot lands of sufficient income to maintain a household worthy of her status in its stead. The betrothal between Henry, Earl of Kent and Lady Joanna of Flanders, six and five years of age respectively, was recognized and accepted by the King of France. The lands of Gascony would return to the King of England, who would pay a sum of 20,000 marks in reparation for the war. His son, Édouard, Prince of Wales, would perform homage to King Philip in Paris in the name of his father before the end of the year.

Once the King of France might have hoped to betroth his own daughter, four-year-old Mademoiselle Ysabeau, to Prince Édouard, but the match between him and Queen Margaret took precedence, despite the large offer of money for it to be broken. Not to mention, the age difference of eleven years between Ysabeau and the Prince, which meant that it would be over a decade before she could produce legitimate children, while Queen Margaret, at sixteen, was already of an age to be a mother.

There was, of course, the hope of a son born to the young Scottish queen now that peace reigned and her intended husband was to return to England. A son to marry Mademoiselle and bring the blood of King Philip to the House of Anjou, but such a possibility was distant. And no one truly expected it to come true.

More else, the betrothal between Louis of France and Mademoiselle Marguerite de Bourgogne, now broken, was to be considered the fault of the English king who would pay 500 marks to Duke Robert II in restitution. She was, however, betrothed to Monsieur Charles, third son of King Philip who was four years her junior and would be made Count of Champagne when either he came of age or his mother died. And her sister Jeanne de Bourgogne would wed Monsieur Philippe de Valois, eldest son of the Count of Valois. The Count of Valois would also be released from his imprisonment in Flanders, having been captured by the Earl of Carrick at the start of the war, and the King of France would pay a ransom of 50,000 marks to be divided between King Edward, Count Guy of Flanders and Robert Bruce.

Such was the agreement. Signed and sealed before a papal legate, sent there to oversee the negotiations.

Now, once again, peace reigned over Europe.

May 1299. Louvre Palace, France.

Philip, Fourth with that Name, King of France and Navarre brought a cup of wine to his mouth. The mood around him was merry, a feast to celebrate the end of the war and homage ceremony between himself and the Prince of Wales in the name of his father. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, but he didn’t feel it. At all.

He looked at the Prince. The boy had recently turned fifteen and there was still some youth and boyishness to him. But he was tall, golden-haired and broad-shouldered. The boy would be even taller than his father, Philip believed, and be more handsome than him. He was still young, of course, but if the war’s end would lead to anything, it would be to his return to England and the celebration of his marriage with the Queen of Scots.

When his eyes met Édouard’s, the boy averted his gaze to prevent him from seeing the grimace that spread across his face. The English royals still had some misunderstandings over Edmund of Lancaster’s death then. And the boy could hardly hide his hatred. It made Philip chuckle.

“He’s quite handsome,” Jeanne whispered beside him. “A pity you couldn’t get our daughter married to him. I’d love to have those curls in my bloodline.” The acid in her words was difficult to miss. She really was angry at the missed betrothal, then.

“Careful,” Philip said. “If you keep saying things like that, I might even get jealous.” He knew she was only being half-truthful though. What she wanted wasn’t the golden curls of Edward’s golden boy. It was Gascony in the hands of their grandchildren, either through the male or female line. It didn’t matter where. He smiled. “The English king would never have accepted it. The match with Scotland is more important, apparently.”

“Apparently,” Jeanne repeated. “I suppose we’ll have to accept Lady Constance of England being married to our son.”

“Yes,” said Philip. “Hopefully, she’ll be different from her mother.” The uncrowned Queen of England was a bold and outspoken woman, everyone said. Her actions and disagreements with her husband’s daughter had led to the woman’s banishment from court and her subsequent near-poverty upon her husband’s death. She only lived through the income of her dower lands in Gloucester. He didn’t want that sort of woman near his son.

“The girl spent many years away from her,” Jeanne said in response. “She is seven now, isn’t she? The formative years are nearly behind her. And we can send a trusted woman to be her governess. Edward won’t be able to deny it, if we claim it’s to give her the graces and manners necessary to be Queen of France, even if he disapproves.”

“Who, then?” The women of France were hardly his responsibility, especially the noble ones. He didn’t know who could perform such a task.

“I’ll think about it.” Jeanne looked at Prince Édouard again. “Do you know something I’ve been thinking of?” He shook his head. “No other family would have valued the Queen of Scots so much. They might have sent younger sons to marry her, but only England and her king would ever think to give their eldest heir to a half-Norwegian little girl.”

“England has long coveted Scotland,” said Philip. “I’m only surprised it took them this long.”

Jeanne hummed before she changed the subject, “We should marry our son Philippe to Jeanne de Bourgogne, daughter of my cousin Mahaut and Count Otto.” Jeanne would hold the county of Burgundy one day, after her brother’s death during the war, and her grandfather’s Artois someday too. The death of Mahaut’s brother and nephew had made it so.

“Make the arrangements,” Philip said in return.

pandizzy · May 3, 2024

April 1299. Windsor Castle, England.

Henry’s clothes were askew. Constance knew as soon as she looked at it and she knew even more that Lady Isabella would be upset. She sighed, shaking her head and knelt before her little brother to adjust his tunic, which sat rumpled all around his round body. Henry was plumper than her, but he smiled happily.

“You need to be more careful!” she said in the sight of his smile, her voice high-pitched and childlike. “Lady Isabella will be very upset if you look silly in front of our brother.” But he would look silly. He always did. Constance, at seven, had to fix him at every turn.

She stood up again. She didn’t mind fixing him, in truth. Even if she thought of it sometimes. Their parents left for so many years and only she and Lady Isabella stayed. Their governess took care of them all, but only Constance took care of Henry.

“I am careful,” said Henry. “I got dressed all by myself today.”

Even though she was also a child, Constance knew that was wrong. Her little brother had attendants that would dress him. He couldn’t just dress himself. It was not proper.

But before she could say anything, the door behind them both opened and their brother entered. Constance had to curtsy for him, because Édouard was the Prince of Wales and would be King someday, both of England and of Scots. But as soon as she rose again, her brother opened his arms and she and Henry ran to embrace him.

She had few memories of Édouard before the war began and he left, she was so little. But after he arrived, he visited her so often. Certainly, she saw him more than her lady mother and her kingly father, but he came nearly every week to play with her and Henry. He brought his friend, Piers Gaveston, quite frequently too, but he wasn’t there at that moment.

“Édouard!” Constance exclaimed, taking a step back. “Did you bring me a present?” He promised he was going to bring her a present last time, but as she looked at him, Constance saw that he wasn’t carrying anything.

“I didn’t, my sweet sister,” her older brother answered. “But it will come soon in a few days. Don’t worry.”

“Is it a horse?” she asked and Édouard smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

“I want a horse too!” Henry exclaimed.

“I can only give you a pony, brother,” Édouard responded. “You’re too young for a normal horse.” Henry pouted and left, angry. Constance and her older brother saw him go quietly, as the little boy ran off to cry in a nurse’s arms. They took him away and Constance looked at Édouard again.

“He is just upset,” she said. “He will feel better before you leave.”

“I suppose so,” said Édouard. “He must forgive me.” Constance frowned, not understanding his tone. He spoke with such finality, such anger.

“Why?” she asked.

Édouard smiled sadly. “I’m going to leave soon, little sister,” he said. “And I don’t know when I’m going to return to England.”

“Where are you going?” Constance asked. “Why are you leaving? Are we at war again?”

“I’m going to get married to the Queen of Scots,” he said. “Do you remember her?” Constance shook her head and Édouard smiled. “So I’ll be going to Scotland soon. That’s where she is.”

“Can’t she come here?” Constance asked.

“Not now,” Édouard responded. “Father wants me to be installed as King of Scots and stay there until the Queen comes of age and wrestles control of the country from the Guardians.”

“When will that be?” Constance asked, her lower lip trembling.

Édouard sighed. “Well, she is sixteen now, and she won’t have control of the government until she is twenty-one, so five years,” he said sadly. Tears filled her eyes and she couldn’t hold herself back from crying. Her brother’s face crumbled. “Oh, sister.” He pulled her into another embrace, tightly holding her to him. “I’ll send you letters, I promise you. And many gifts.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Constance whispered, her tears splashing against the shoulder of his clothes.

“I’ll go, but I’ll return,” said Édouard. “Queen Margaret will turn twenty-one before you turn twelve, so I’ll ride south to see you before you travel for your marriage.’ She stepped back, rubbing the side of her wrist over her leaking nose.

“Do you promise?” she asked and he nodded. “Do you promise you won’t love her more than me?” He was her older brother, hers, not Queen Margaret’s.

Édouard smiled. “I promise,” he said. “For both things. You will always be my favourite, little sister. My most beloved and precious girl.” He embraced her again and Constance clinged to him, not wanting to let go.

pandizzy · May 7, 2024

May 1299. Kings Langley Palace, England.

The entire family stood together, even the little children, at the steps of King Edward’s residence. The King, the uncrowned queen, her sisters Mary and Elizabeth, herself and her children. Seven-year-old Constance, the five-year-old Earl of Kent and little Lady Catherine, just two, holding the hand of her newest governess, Isabella Beauchamp. The only one missing was Margaret, married to the Duke of Brabant and living on the continent, but no one had truly thought of Margaret in quite a long time.

Joan looked at her little brother as he stepped before her. Even though he was twelve years younger than her, Édouard was taller and she had to tilt her chin up to look at him. The boy that had left for France had returned as a man, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Joan knew that her brother enjoyed trivial pursuits of swimming and rowing with his friend, Piers Gaveston, but she had not imagined it would have such an effect on him.

“Sister,” Édouard murmured. Joan offered him her hand and he bowed down to kiss it, rising again after a moment of silent respect. When he looked at her again, Joan smiled. “I hope you will miss me dearly and remember me in your prayers.”

“I pray for your every moment, dear brother,” she said and it was true. Édouard was her little brother, the last child that her mother produced before her courses ended. Why should she not pray for him and for his success as king, both in England and Scotland? It was ridiculous. “Please, don’t ever forget to treat your lady wife with respect. She is a queen already, after all.” Édouard laughed.

“I’ll miss you, Joan,” he whispered. “More than I missed you in France.” Joan smiled.

“I will come and visit you when you have your first child,” she promised.

Father had been talking of arranging a marriage for her with the Count of Savoy, but Joan convinced him to use her half-sister Catherine for the alliance instead. Count Amadeus had a son named Edward that was only two years younger than her namesake brother and he could wait another decade and a half for her to grow. There was no need for a marriage that would not even bring the blood of her father directly to the comital throne.

“Thank you,” Édouard murmured. He took her hand again and kissed it. “I’ll be waiting for you, sister.”

Joan smiled. He walked to the sister beside her, Mary, and embraced her. They exchanged whispered words, a secret promise between them. She watched her little brother as he moved down the line, saying his goodbyes and felt her heart stutter inside her chest.

Nearly nine years had passed since their mother died. Édouard had grown from a scared little boy to now a king, riding to meet his wife. Joan and her sisters cared for him. All of them, in their own way. They were all older than him, all of them that mattered and he was their little brother. The baby of the family. The corners of her mouth curled up. They cared for him and kept him safe until the day he was called to do his duty to England, and to Scotland.

Their mother would be proud.

pandizzy · Friday at 8:22 AM

May 1299. On the road to Scotland.

Normally, it was a queen who rode to her king, who left her home and came to her marriage. Very rarely did a man ride to his wife’s home, to take up the place of a lord there and not his own.

But it was the Guardians’ decision that Édouard come to Scotland, and not Margaret to him. It would’ve been awkward, and time-consuming, for their queen to travel south only to then return to her kingdom so he could learn the land and meet the highest nobles of Scotland.

Moreover, Margaret technically outranked him at that moment. He wasn’t the King of Scots yet, and certainly not of England. He was just the Prince of Wales, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, as his father had named him. Even if Scotland was poorer, and less populated than England, she was more important than him on a technicality. She was a queen. A crowned head, with an entire kingdom depending upon her good health and progeny.

Édouard had a younger brother. England had no need of him as Scotland had need of Margaret. There were no heirs after her, at least none that promised a smooth succession and transition of power. Which was probably why the Scottish wanted him to come to them, to ensure that he and Margaret would not waste their days travelling when they could instead work to produce heirs of their own. The thought of it made him flush.

“I hear she is very beautiful,” Piers murmured, riding by his side. Édouard looked at him. “Your betrothed. Everyone says she is the most beautiful queen in the world.”

“I wonder what the Queen of France thinks of that description,” Édouard answered. “It must certainly sting.”

What he remembered of Queen Jeanne was of a plump and plain woman, with auburn hair. He shook his head.

“She was pretty, but we were children when we last saw each other. I cannot say if I would think now that she was beautiful enough then to be worthy of the appellation.” He remembered her being taller than him with pale blonde hair and blue-green eyes. She was pretty, though. Back then. He had to admit it. “My father thinks we will have a good relationship, since we know each other from childhood.”

“It makes sense,” Piers said, the wind snapping at his cloak. “Not many future kings have the chance of knowing their brides from childhood. With this past behind you, perhaps both the Prince and the Queen may find common ground.”

“Common ground,” Édouard said, tasting the words in his mouth. He nodded. “Yes, I’d like that. I don’t want a troublesome relationship with my lady wife.” He looked at Piers, then at their escorts. Three hundred guards, standard-bearers, servants to fill his household. Wagons and more wagons with his things. “Do you know what was the agreement between my father and Queen Margaret’s councillors?”

Piers shaked his head. “What?”

“I’ll only be king once Margaret has a living child by me.” Boy or girl, the agreement said. Édouard wondered if it was to ensure he wouldn’t be able to claim the throne if Margaret died before they had any children. “Our eldest son will inherit both kingdoms, but Margaret is permitted to remarry and produce new sons if either I leave her a childless widow, or if I die while we only have daughters. England and Scotland will only be united in the form of our eldest son.” It was a testament to his father’s faith in both him and his unborn heir that he agreed to the demands.

But Piers frowned. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” he said. “Surely, there is something else.”

Édouard began to think. It had been around a month since his father explained the agreement to him, but he supposed he had forgotten the finer details.

“My household will not be maintained by the treasury.” He was thankful that his father had taken the trouble to allot him so many lands. Otherwise, he didn’t know how he would be able to maintain a life worthy of his title. “I shall have no rights to the succession if I were left a childless widower.”

But there were more agreements made on what would happen if they did have children, about the succession of their countries.

“The children can come with me to England, but not to France while they are underage.” That did make sense. France was still considered the enemy and even their lands in it were not considered safe. Best for their heirs to stay on the island while they were growing until they were old enough to care for themselves. “I cannot appoint public offices without either the Queen’s or the Guardians’ permission. I can’t take weapons out of the country. Or gold. Scotland is not legally obligated to join either my wars or my father’s wars, unless it is the Queen’s desire.” But they were obligated to join theirs, which Édouard felt was either unfair or extremely ironic, considering everything. “I’m not allowed to take Margaret out of Scotland during her minority, or if she is pregnant.” He made a face. “I guess when she comes of age, they expect her to choose if she wants to go or not.”

“That makes sense,” said Piers with a grin. “We best hope our lord King Edward lives long enough to see Queen Margaret reach her adulthood.” He moved his horse closer. “You must understand that they are only afraid of losing their autonomy, Your Grace.”

“I do understand,” Édouard retorted. “I’m just upset that they are so distrusting of me. They hardly know me!”

“And you’re oh, so charming,” Piers teased. Édouard rolled his eyes. “Don’t take it personally, my prince.”

“I’m not,” Édouard replied, even as he felt the lie in his words. “I understand how politics go.”

“It probably won’t take long for the Queen to have a child,” Piers said. “If the Prince does his duty.”

Édouard felt his face burn in embarrassment. “I know,” he answered. “I know what I must do.” He knew where his duty layed. In Scotland, under the royal sheets of the Queen's bed. That was where he would perform the most important duty of all.

Maid of Norway, Queen of Scotland: A Plantagenet Britain Timeline

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