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.