September 1291. Lyons, France.
T
o my brother, the King of England,
I have had mixed results when it comes to arranging the marriage of his lordship with the French madame, Blanche of France. While I managed to have King Philip accept my fealty in your name, he doesn’t seem too willing to have his sister wed to yourself without the handover of Aquitaine or Gascony, which I know you are none too willing to see it through. Especially since Gascony was our beloved queen’s dowry. I’m sorry.
I did try, Edward. I did. I hope you know that.
With love,
Your brother, the Earl of Lancaster.
Edmund signed his letter with a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. He had hoped the birth of the King’s son, aptly named Philippe, would’ve made him more amenable to marrying Blanche to his brother, but he was sorely mistaken. Blanche was beautiful, Philip said, and she could do better than to be the second wife of the King of England, someone whose children might never even sit on the throne.
He ran a hand past his head and sighed, leaning back. He hoped Edward would forgive him for his errs, and perhaps send him somewhere else to arrange his marriage, but if he didn’t… Edmund did not even wish to know what might happen then. His own hold in Lancaster, Leicester and Derby depended on his brother being pleased and loving towards his person.
There were others his brother could marry, of course. Yolande of Aragon was one that came to mind and her sister was the Queen of Portugal. Isabella of Castile if he wished to maintain his ties to the Castilians… And there were the Anjous of Sicily, who stole the kingdom from him. Margaret of Anjou had just wed a brother of the King of France, but there were her younger sisters to be considered. Another Blanche who, though just ten, was sure to keep France happy with her familial ties to the throne. Not to mention the many German counts and dukes who would fall on their own spikes to tie themselves to such an illustrious realm.
He returned his eyes to the letter, the drying ink. Edmund decided to cross out his goodbyes and added the many names that came to his mind of suggestions to his brother. He was especially considerate of the Sicilian girls, even though it hurt him to recognize their relation as a king, in mind of their belonging to the Capetian dynasty. It was good enough that if his brother did marry one of them, then his spending most of the year in France with his wife would keep him from paying homage to the new queen for most of his life.
He could only hope his brother would see things his way.
Leeds Castle, England.
Édouard ran his hand down Nosewise’s black-furred back, smiling happily at the gentle hound, who was chewing thoughtfully on a bone. He wore black mourning garbs, as the court still mourned for Eleanor of Provence, who was his paternal grandmother, and played happily with the dog in his father’s chambers. The King had asked him to be with him lately, while he pondered and wrote important letters. Supposedly, it was to keep an eye on him and be certain that he was healthy and hale, but Édouard was sure that his father did it because he loved him.
“The French be damned,” he heard his father curse and Édouard raised his head. The King was with a counsellor, and reading a letter, though the boy was too far away to see what it was about. He turned his eyes back to Nosewise, who was now licking his paws, and smiled. The dog was good, and funny. He liked him well. “I shall not have Blanche or Margaret without giving up my Eleanor’s inheritance.”
“Perhaps the King ought to look elsewhere for a second wife,” the counsellor suggested. Édouard saw the way his father’s eyes raised, even the one that drooped, to stare menacingly at the advisor. He said nothing else, cowed by the look.
“My brother suggests Aragon,” his father said. “Or Sicily, even knowing what the Sicilians did to our family.” His father hissed and stood up, dragging his chair back. “Édouard, come here.” Obedient, Édouard rose to his feet and walked to his father, who now stood with his back turned to him. He was filling up a golden goblet with wine and when he turned, he towered over his son like a giant. His eyes were determined when they looked at his son, not loving. “The Scottish have your bride, the French have mine. What should be done about that?”
Édouard hesitated. No one ever asked him questions such as this one. He looked at the counsellor and back to his father, mulling over the question, over what he should say.
He looked at his father. “We attack them,” he said. “Declare war on them.”
His father shook his head and Édouard knew at once that his answer was wrong. “If the Christian kingdoms do nothing more than fight with each other, then the infidels in the Holy Land will grow wealthier and mightier,” he responded. “This can’t be solved by whacking your masters with a wooden sword, boy. It has to be done so diplomatically. If I want France to be friendly towards us, then I must be smarter than them. And think ahead.”
He looked at the counsellor and Édouard twisted his fingers at the edge of his blue tunic.
“I shall have an Aragonese bride,” he said, “And when she gives me a daughter, I will turn her into the future queen of France.”