March 1293. Westminster Palace, England.
Édouard ran his hands down the parchment, clicking his tongue. “Domō, domāre, domuī, domirum.” The final word had hardly left his lips when a heavy thump echoed against the back of his head, his father’s book hitting him. He groaned, rubbing the lump that had started to grow after the third thwack and twisted his mouth.
“Domitum,” the King said, correcting him. “Do it again.”
“Domō, domāre, domuī, domitum,” said Édouard. “Maneō, manēre, mānsī, mānsum.” The lesson continued without any major errors from the Prince, and his father left him soon afterwards. Édouard rubbed the back of his head mournfully as his geography tutor arrived at his rooms, setting down his books and documents.
They were studying the old treaty of York, which determined the Anglo-Scottish border and Édoaurd didn’t really know why. It would all become moot once he had a son by the Scottish queen anyway, and their child inherited the two kingdoms. He thought to ask his tutor about it, but he didn’t want the man to think him stupid, so he remained quiet, taking down notes as the man prattled on about the works of his father and grandfather to maintain peace with Scotland while still trying to conquer the country.
There were some who said the King of England was the overlord of Scotland and Édouard imagined his father saw his betrothal to the Queen as his greatest accomplishment. Their son would rule the two kingdoms in peace.
A question came to him. “What would happen if I didn't have any sons with the Queen of Scots?” he asked, looking up at his tutor. “If we only have daughters.”
“I suppose it would depend on which one of you dies first, my lord,” the tutor said. “If the Queen were to die, then your eldest daughter would inherit her throne, as Scotland is clearly favourable to female inheritance, whilst you’d be free to remarry a woman who’d give you sons, but if you were to die first, then either a son by Queen Yolande or your uncle Edmund would inherit the throne.” Édouard nodded. He supposed that made sense.
“Do you think my father will have a son?” They had been married for some months now, though the Queen hadn’t fallen pregnant yet. Or so Édouard thought. No one ever talked about it and he didn’t think his father would gleefully tell him about his new sibling.
“Maybe,” the tutor said. “It’s not up to us to decide, but for the Lord above, though. And if the Lord wishes for Queen Yolande to have a son by your father, then she will.”
“I would like to have a brother,” said Édouard. He only had sisters, as all of his older brothers had died though the last one to do so was Alphonse, who died some months after he was born. Even though he would be at least ten years older than his little brother, he imagined they would be close and play together to the best of their capabilities. Although, if he truly thought about it, Édouard would realise that a new brother would cause his father to relax in his overprotectiveness of his sole heir, something the little prince had been enjoying, as his father never paid much attention to him before.
“We all would like for the Queen to produce a spare, my lord,” said the tutor. “Sooner or later, we will see if she is fertile. She is only twenty and has been here for less than a year, so we ought not to worry.”
Édouard nodded and returned his eyes to his book.
Edward could not hide his happiness at the document in his hands, the words by the guardian detailing the household that would travel with young Margaret to England. At long last, the little queen would come to his land. At long last, his son would have his bride. The key to Scotland would be in his pocket and he would finally unite Britannia under a single ruler, his grandson.
Soft hands squeezed his shoulders behind him and he smiled, feeling the kiss that Yolande pressed to his temple a second later. He was visiting his wife’s chambers for a conjugal visit when the messenger arrived from Scotland and, dressed in a dressing gown, he sat by the hearth to read it.
“What have you been so engrossed in, my lord?” Yolande asked with a charming Aragonese accent to her French. Edward shook his head and folded the parchment back to its original state.
“The little queen of Scotland will soon be on her way,” he responded. “The guardians promised to have her sent by Summer.”
“Ah!” Yolande exclaimed. He looked behind him for just a moment to catch her twisting her lips disappointedly and he frowned.
“What is it?” he asked, taking her hand in his.
“Nothing,” she answered. But he shook his head.
“No, tell me,” he said. Edward squeezed her hand and Yolande looked at him with soft blue eyes which seemed to pierce him into the deepest depths of his soul, her dark hair tumbling down her back.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted. At the look on his face, Yolande took his hand and brought it to her stomach, pressing it just below her navel. “It’s merely the baby, who has been affecting my humours.”
For a moment, Edward said nothing. And then he smiled as wide as possible.
