September 1292. Dover, England.
The sun was high in the sky and the weather was good, neither too dry nor too damp, which indicated good omens for the trials ahead. Edmund took a sip of his water as he looked around himself, waiting for Edward’s arrival.
The Infanta was sitting under a golden canopy with her ladies, fanning herself as her blue eyes moved across the horizon, trying to see everything there was to see. She was dressed in a pink gown, with a white veil covering her head and neck, leaving only her face visible. Over her head, as the recognized child of an European monarch, there was a golden coronet, decorated with rubies. She was beautiful, standing clear even amongst the many women of her household.
“She is pretty,” he heard someone say. “Best hope she gets pregnant.” Edmund grimaced and moved away before he heard the listener’s response, not in the mood to admonish or lecture anyone.
It was a tense day. Even though the King had accepted the wedding, and seemed interested in the Infanta, Edmund knew that nothing was for certain until Edward consummated the marriage. And even then… He thought of the deceased Queen Ingeborg, some decades past, whose husband repudiated her only a day after they were wed.
But Edward wanted more children. He wanted more heirs for his throne and the Infanta Yolande could have them. She was only nine and ten, after all. Young and fertile, and beautiful. Not as well-educated as Eleanor was, but not many women were. Elegant, she could be a good hostess for the court. She could stand next to his brother as he received foreign dignitaries and to raise his children and be a mother to them.
Even if Edward was late. They had been expecting him for days, without word whether they should move on towards London or stay where they were, while his brother was forced to deal with the French ambassador that arrived in his land. Certainly, to try and mend the bonds of friendship after the King of England moved his eyes away from the Capets for a bride.
A rider appeared in the horizon, bearing the King’s standard. Edmund looked at the Infanta and nodded at her, to let her know that his brother was arriving. Just as the one rider came, another appeared, then three more until he saw a tall man riding on a black-furred mare. He had long greying hair, a stern face hidden under a full beard and clever eyes with a golden crown atop his head.
Edmund fell to one knee even before the trumpets rang and his brother stopped in front the camp, a servant coming with a small step for him to use as he dismounted. The King was a man of three and fifty, six years older than him, but his brother had his dignity to him still. He was strong, and healthy.
The man noticed that his nephew rode beside the King on a brown pony, dressed in red velvet with a silver circlet around his head. Édouard was eight and as golden-haired as his father was in his youth, with Eleanor’s eyes and smile. Edmund felt the corners of his mouth quirk up at the sight of his nephew. He hadn’t seen him since he was three, hiding behind the skirts of his wet nurse. Édouard accepted the help of a knight in his father’s service, adjusting his clothing as a herald shouted out, “His Grace, Edward, by the grace of God, King of England, Duke of Aquitaine and Lord of Ireland and his son, Edward, by the grace of God, Prince of Wales and King of Scots.”
Edward stopped before Edmund, who was still kneeling. “Brother,” he said. “Stand up.” Edmund did so and looked at his brother, who smiled as he moved his hand to cup his cheek. Edmund was slightly shorter than his older brother, standing at just six feet tall, though Edward did not need to bend his back to speak to him. “You look well. How is the Dowager Queen treating you?”
He spoke of Blanche, Dowager Queen of Navarre and Edmund’s wife. The King’s brother smiled. “She is treating me well,” he said. “Just recently, we were blessed with a daughter, named after the Holy Virgin.”
“Good, good,” Edward said. His eyes then moved to the infanta under her canopy, and back to Edmund. “Shall we?”
Edmund nodded. “Brother, allow me to present to you, the Infanta Yolande of Aragon,” he said, walking with his brother to the canopy. “Your bride.” The Infanta rose to stand up before quickly falling into a deep curtsy, her skirts flaring as she did so.
Edward approached her, extending a helping hand. “My lady,” he greeted.
Yolande kept her eyes on the ground even as he bid her to rise up and said, “I’m here to serve you, my lord.” Her words were in French, the language of romance and the official language of the English court, with a flawless accent, as if she had learn it alongside her mother tongue of Aragonese.
For a moment, no one spoke and then, Edward smiled. At the sight of that expression on his brother’s face, Edmund knew that all would be well.
Stirling Castle, Scotland.
Elsbeth Comyn was going to get married. Margaret thought there was nothing more exciting in the world, as her friend was the first of her ladies to be married, and she knew that weddings demanded feasts, and presents, and pageantry. Especially since her groom belonged to one of the leading clans of the realm.
His name was Robert and he was a member of the Bruce family, which, not too long ago, had been thought of as possible heirs to the crown. And he was an older brother to one of her companions, Mary. Elsbeth’s father and Robert’s grandfather were enemies, but the Bishop of Glasgow and the Bishop of St Andrews thought the wedding would unite the two families. Create peace in the land and Margaret saw it as the epitome of romance.
Elsbeth was only twelve and Lord Robert was eighteen, but Lady Egidia, Margaret’s governess, said the age difference would seem less as they grew older. And they wouldn’t have to live together until she was over six and ten, which meant she could continue living with Margaret and her friends. At least, until then.
And in the meantime, Elsbeth’s older brother, John, would marry Robert’s sister, Christina. She was fourteen and could already live with her husband, though not share his bed. Margaret had been invited to the wedding, which would be a double ceremony for Robert and Elsbeth and Christina and John. She had been so excited to go that she was counting down the days, already imagining the dresses she’d wear.
She was so excited, in fact, that just two days before they were to set out for Edinburgh for the wedding, Margaret woke up with a high fever, vomiting all the content there was in her stomach. Her skin was pale and she could scarcely keep down anything that they tried to feed her, to the great fear of her attendants.
If the Queen died, what would happen to Scotland? She was a child, just nine. Nowhere close to the age of bearing children for the succession, nowhere near her intended match of Édouard of Caernarfon. If this child of nine died, what would become of their proud land?
Egidia Stewart, the Queen’s governess, quickly decided to stay with Her Grace and to send the other girls for the wedding with their attendants, once it became clear that only the Queen was ill. Thankfully, the royal physician examined his queen and determined that the excitement had taken its toll on her health, sadly. While she’d recover, there was no hope for her to attend the wedding that had caused her illness. Her health needed her to rest, sipping at the nourishing broth that the cooks made for her.
Lady Egidia learned after three days that the Queen was able to eat bread that was dipped into warm broth, softened by the liquid. As the days passed and the governess nursed Her Grace back to health, Margaret became much disheartened to learn of what happened. In fact, she couldn’t stop crying.
“It’s alright, my lady,” said Egidia, rubbing the fine hairs on the Queen’s forehead. “It’s alright, I swear by St Andrew. There will be other weddings.”
Margaret rubbed a hand over her feverish eyes, tears sliding down her flushed cheeks. “I want to go,” she moaned, breath soured by her vomit. Egidia cleaned the edge of her mouth with a cold rag, sighing at the poor child.
“I know, my lady,” said the governess. “I’m so sorry that your health had to take priority.” Egidia took a breath and rubbed her head. “It’s alright, I swear. We will have great things to look forward to.” Margaret looked at her in disbelief and Egidia tried to smile a sweet and reassuring smile. “Until then, why don’t I tell you stories?”
“Stories?” the Queen asked.
Egidia nodded. “Yes, I shall tell you of your sainted namesake, Margaret of Wessex,” she began. “She was a great queen, who reformed the church and advised her children to be pious in all that they did. But you will be better than here, I swear it.”
“Tell me about her,” said the little girl and Egidia smiled.
“Queen Margaret was born in a faraway kingdom, daughter of an exiled prince and his lady wife…”
January 1293. Westminster Palace, England.
Édouard liked his uncle. He came bearing gifts and a new bride for his father, a woman that now sat high in the great hall, laughing as she observed the court’s fool juggle a set of balls. The Prince and his sisters were present too at the feast to celebrate a new peace treaty with France, which would last for at least ten years, and he observed the Queen. Or the King’s wife.
She hadn’t been crowned yet because there was no money, which meant he couldn’t exactly call her queen, but everyone did and she wore a golden coronet over the white veil covering all of her hair. When Édouard asked, his father said she had brown hair, but Édouard didn’t really know how his father knew that. Maybe, and just maybe, the Queen allowed him to see it, though Édouard doubted it. Women kept themselves covered to serve the Lord and his sister Elizabeth had just started wearing thicker veils as well, hiding her red hair from all.
“Do you like our new mother?” Édouard asked, turning to his sister. Elizabeth made a face.
“She is not our new mother,” she answered with a twist to her mouth. “Our mother is our only mother.”
“That is not what my guardian said,” Édouard complained.
“It’s what Eleanor said,” Elizabeth answered, talking about their older sister who had left for Aragon the past October. “Before she left. She said we could never love the Queen as we loved our lady mother.”
“Father said Eleanor is too proud for her own good,” Édouard responded.
“No, he didn’t,” Elizabeth said. “Father loves us.”
“He does, but I heard him,” the Prince said. “Last night. He was speaking to our uncle.” The Earl of Leicester remained in England, though his sons and wife were in France, with Queen Jeanne. “He says Eleanor and Joan can do no good but obey, which even then, they do rarely.” As he spoke, Édouard looked at his sister Joan, who was dancing with their uncle. Joan had just had a baby, another Eleanor, though Édouard had yet to meet his baby niece.
“Father says many things,” Elizabeth responded. “He says we marry whom he chooses, but he was allowed to bring that woman here and sit her on our mother’s seat.” She was still upset about her planned wedding to John of Holland, then. Édouard took her hand sympathetically and his sister looked at him with dark eyes. “You’re luckier than most. You’re going to marry a queen.”
“I don’t think I will,” said Édouard. “Father said she was supposed to come here as soon as she landed on the island, but it’s been two years.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “You’d be surprised,” she said with the wisdom of a girl well beyond her years. “The Scottish don’t want to upset Father, not after what he did with the Welsh. Sooner or later, the Maid will come here and you are going to marry her.”