June 1299. Edinburgh, Scotland.
The throne room was cavernous, though well-lit, with a thousand candles casting out the shadows that the sun could not reach. Tapestries hung from each well in the Castilian fashion, the same one his mother introduced to the English court, with great images of hunt, religion and mindless pleasures. They were embroidered with gold and silver threads that caught the light flickering across the room, streaming in from the stained glass windows. He supposed Margaret had brought the taste for them from England.
It was quite strange, Édouard realised. He always thought Scotland was a primitive and isolated country, but now, as he stood in the throne room of their greatest castle, he could see how wrong he was. The lords were clean-shaven and the ladies wore fine clothes. There were gold chains in men’s shoulders, gold necklaces in women’s throats. They had their own sense of style, to be sure, but it did not feel so differently from England. The sounds, the smells, it all reminded him of home.
He looked at the throne before him. Empty, for now. A single throne for the Queen. Carved out of wood, with elaborate crosses engraved deep into the oak. He had almost expected to see their stone present, but he supposed the tale of Scottish monarchs sitting their bums on a slab of stone instead of a throne was just that, a tale. Édouard wondered how many other things would turn out to be lies in the future.
He looked around himself, his heart thumping nervously at his throat. There were maybe a hundred people surrounding him, nobles of Scotland’s royal court, not to mention his own servants and members of his household. He could only recognize some; the Bruce brothers, the Countess of Carrick, Lady Stewart. Of those, he saw that they were much grown, older and more mature, the Countess especially. All that had come with the Queen to England and returned with her to Scotland had changed.
He only wondered if she had changed as well.
Queen Margaret was eleven the last time he saw her. He remembered how they waved goodbye to each other at the entrance to his father’s castle, when he left for war. They had been friends then, though both had failed to maintain the bonds of friendship since. In the years that followed, they had only exchanged letters and even those were not frequent.
He wondered how she might look now. Not too different, he hoped. Édouard tried to remember the finer details of her face, the shape of her nose and the light in her eyes, but found that he could not. He knew that she had light blonde hair, blue eyes and that everyone said she was beautiful, but beyond that, nothing came to him.
With Piers standing behind him, Édouard had to admit that he was nervous. Who knew what might happen? The agreement had been signed for years, a decade really, but what if she disliked him? What if he disliked her? Would they spend the rest of their lives disliking each other? He didn’t know. He could only hope it would not come to that.
In the past weeks, as they rose closer and closer to the border between the two countries, more tales came his way. Queen Margaret beggared her lands for gold and silver, she hated hunting and never ate meat, she attended mass thrice a day, she and her ladies had debauched feasts where they drank mulled wine and ate nothing so as to be drunk as possible. Édouard supposed none of the tales were true, but they were still frightening, somewhat. To know that so many people talked of her without the degree of respect afforded to royals.
He could only wonder what they talked of him in response.
A trumpet echoed in the room as a herald struck his staff twice against the floor, calling out in a booming voice, “Her Grace, Queen Margaret!” All of the Scots bowed and curtsied for their queen and Édouard did much of the same, bending at the waist out of respect.
He could hear the steady steps that came inside the room and the dragging of heavy skirts as she moved. He saw the ermine trim at the hem of a dress, with gold shoes peeping from underneath. His heart raced and Édouard attempted to find the words that he had spent so long practising before arriving.
“Your Grace,” he said at last, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you again after so many years.”
“Rise, my prince,” she answered in a soft tone. Édouard could tell that her tone had matured greatly in the years since they last saw each other, but all his thoughts vanished as he straightened up and saw her.
She wore a dress of light blue wool, trimmed with ermine and hanging sleeves lined with light-coloured fur. On her chest, over the linen shift she wore under her dress, Édouard could see a necklace of fine sapphires and pearls. Her hair and neck was covered by a barbette, fillet and a caul embroidered with gold thread, with more pearls sewn into the fabric. Over her head, there is a golden crown with rubies, sapphires, emeralds and so much more. It was opulent, but in truth, all of her jewels paled in comparison to the face beneath the crown.
She was beautiful, but he didn’t think such a word did her justice. She had a luminous glow to her skin, with the tone of a smooth pink and white seashell, and perfectly formed features. Her face had the shape of a cut diamond, with high cheekbones and bow-shaped pink lips. Her lashes were thick and dark, veiling eyes of deep unearthly blue, the same shade as the summer’s sky. She shone like a peal, making all other women seem as simple as kitchen wenches near her, and Édouard sucked in a breath.
She was like the marbled statues favoured by the ancient Romans, the ones that were so rare in England; perfect and unblemished, a pure white of great promise and virtue. When she looked at him, and their eyes met, the Queen smiled gently; it was a mischievous, but sweet smile that held great promises. It felt strange for such a woman to be the Queen of a land as poor and small as Scotland, when she should be queen of the world itself, or maybe of the heavens, because a face like that must have been personally crafted by the Lord Himself.
“Édouard,” she said. “It has been so long.”
He felt his heart stutter. For the first time in weeks, Édouard did not think himself capable of disliking her.
He realised that he should probably say something, but the words did not come to him. For a moment, Margaret continued to smile and then, as the seconds passed and he continued quietly staring at her, her face flinched. He shook his head at the sight of her insult, finally snapping out of his own stupidity.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said. “I was lost for words at your beauty.” She smiled again and he let out a relieved breath. “Forgive me for my callous behaviour. It seems even princes can fall prey for beautiful women.”
She giggled at that, the sound of ringing bells, and so did her noblewomen, pleased at the compliment he leveraged upon their queen.
“I have a gift for you,” she said. At her words, the greyhound bitch that he gave her when she first arrived in England padded to stand next to Margaret. “Oslo has always been my most faithful friend. I thought it only fair to give you the same chance for companionship.”
Lady Stewart stepped forward, holding a black-furred puppy with long ears and sorrowful eyes. Édouard felt his heart race.
He loved dogs, but his father never thought him responsible enough to have one of his own. He was doomed to wait until he was a king on his own right to have one, or to spend his life playing with his father’s hounds, but now he had a dog. A puppy of his own.
“It’s a boy,” Margaret murmured, though he barely heard her. Lady Stewart gave him the tiny puppy and he held it close to his heart, feeling it melt into a puddle of happiness.
He looked at the Queen of Scotland. In truth, it was now nearly impossible for him to ever dislike her.
He named the dog Brutus, after the Roman, and quickly found that, though the dog seemed shy and sweet in the throne room with Margaret, he was proving himself every moment to be a rascal little lad. Always biting Piers’ ankles, or trying to chew on Édouard’s things. Although many would find such behaviour unbecoming for a royal dog, the Prince thought that Brutus only lived up to his name and did little else beyond chastising him firmly. Which yielded little results.
He scratched the soft spot behind his dark ears, watching the way Brutus blinked his large brown eyes at him. They were sitting together by the hearth in his allocated rooms. It was the same rooms usually afforded to ladies when they arrived to marry the King of Scotland, which another might’ve seen as an insult, but Édouard had travelled too many miles on horseback to care. As far as he knew, though, Yolanda of Dreux was far away in Brittany and had no more need for them.
Édouard could hear Piers walking behind him. He had named him as one of his grooms and the young man now walked around, opening his chests and boxes in search of the garments they had chosen for him to wear at his wedding. The ceremony would only be held in three days, but it did not hurt to air them and prevent moths from biting at the fabric.
“What do you think of her?” Édouard asked, as if innocent and humble.
“What do I think of whom, my prince?” Piers questioned behind him.
“Queen Margaret,” said Édouard, rolling his eyes. Of whom else could he be talking about? Margaret was the light of the court, the light of the world. All eyes were on her.
But Piers clicked his tongue. “It was not my place to look at her, my prince,” he responded simply.
“Not your place?” Édouard repeated. He twisted around to look at his friend, seeing the way he ran the heel of his palm over the cloth-of-gold of his doublet for the next day with a degree of reverence for the fine material. Piers’ face was twisted in confusion, lips pursed and at once, the Prince understood everything. “Who were you looking at today?”
Piers looked at him sheepishly. “I do not know her name,” he said simply.
“Well,” Édouard said, moving on his seat to look at him, “Who is it? Describe her to me.”
Piers smiled.
“She had very dark hair, I could see it from her eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes.” The description did not match Christina Comyn and her little sister, Mary Bruce, who both had red hair and green eyes, nor did it match Elsbeth, who married the Earl of Carrick. Édouard did not know any other Scottish noblewomen by name, or by description, so he could not say who it was. “Quite slender too, but I don’t mind it. Slender women are just as capable as the more voluptuous ladies.”
“Do you think she cares whether you mind her body or not?” Édouard asked with a laugh. “You have to find her name sooner or later. How can you court a woman whose name you don't know?”
“I'll find out,” Piers said determinedly. “At the wedding, I might be able to ask her to dance if her scary mother allows it.”
“Scary mother?” There was only one person in the whole of Scotland that he thought deserved that appellation, but Édouard did not know if she had any daughters. Perhaps. “I think her mother should be pleased to see her daughter dance with the closest companion of the Prince of Wales.”
“Maybe,” said Piers. “I suppose we will see.”
“Do you know what I saw today?” Édouard asked. He twisted slightly to look better at Piers, still stroking the back of Brutus’ round head. Piers looked at him. “A lake in the gardens. Perfect for swimming.”
His friend smiled.
