March 1294. Whitehall Palace, England.
Little Constance of Windsor babbled in her governess’ arms as Hugues de Bourgogne, the French envoy, silently observed her. She was a child of seven months, with curly brown hair and dark blue eyes inherited from her mother, dressed in a magnificent gown of green velvet bordered by cloth-of-gold and a white wool bonnet over her head.
The governess knew that Hugues could see her good weight and health, as she rocked the child gently in her strong arms. Isabella de Beauchamp was an English heiress and a trusted servant of the King, who chose her to raise his youngest daughter. Her father was the Earl of Warwick, a powerful and wealthy man, and the added allowance of being governess allowed her a great deal of independence from him.
“She is pretty,” said Hugues. “How does she eat?”
“Lady Constance eats well, monsieur,” said Isabella. “We have just begun to introduce solids to her and she shows herself to be very strong, and eager to mature.” He nodded.
“And her health?” the ambassador asked.
“She is sturdy,” Isabella promised.
Hugues looked back at King Edward, who observed the situation silently. He stepped away from the governess, who curtsied respectfully to him and Yolande herself, who had been present, moved towards the noblewoman.
“Give me my baby,” she demanded in a soft bell-like voice. Isabella had seen the Queen only a handful of times before, most of them when she was still in Windsor recovering from the labour. She was still a soft and pretty young woman, with a slender and womanly figure even in the early months of her second pregnancy.
But she took Lady Constance expertly, perhaps knowing that the King's eyes were upon her and smiled at her. Although the Queen was a stranger to her child, the baby did not cry and instead, took hold of the golden crucifix in her mother's neck. Lady Constance immediately attempted to stuff it in her pink mouth and the Queen laughed at that, a high and singsong laugh.
“Come, sweet girl,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. “Let the men do their politicking while we see what cakes the kitchens have prepared.” Isabella watched her go for only a moment before she made to follow her, five steps behind the Queen and her charge.
As they went, Edward turned back to the ambassador. “My Yolande,” he murmured when the man arched his brow. “She clearly has no interest in politics, as you can see.” He gestured at the table spread with grants of land and money, as well as plenty of goblets and cups for them to quench their thirst. “Come. Let us begin.”
“Look at her,” Egidia said, as the little queen stopped before the window. Margaret was watching Queen Yolande ride into the castle, as the King came out to greet her after another long morning with her charities. The Queen of England smiled at her husband as he put his hands on her waist and removed her from the horse himself. “She has no care for the child in her womb.”
“Why do you say that?” Margaret asked. They had been in England for only a handful of months, but Egidia Stewart made it clear her distaste for the English Queen nearly every time they saw her.
“Why does she feel the need to ride out into the city every day, with only a handful of guards?” Egidia asked. “It’s because the King wants her to. He wants her to be charitable, to be loved and so she is. She performs to his desires, all the while pretending she has none of her own.” She stroked the back of Margaret’s head, which was uncovered by veils in the intimacy of her personal chambers. “Why do you need to walk behind her, when you’re a queen more powerful than she is? Is it because the King forces his so-called superiority over us, or is it because she asked him to?”
“Édouard is half in love with her,” Margaret murmured, a hint of jealousy behind her words. “I see the way he looks at her.”
Egidia made a face. “Well, she is his mother in the eyes of God, so nothing will come from that,” she said. “And when you two are grown, he will only have eyes for you, my lady. Don’t you fret.”
Margaret moved away from the window, as Yolande and her husband had already entered the castle and looked at Egidia. The governess was now picking up her sewing again, and Margaret sat by her feet, leaning her head over Egidia’s knees. That made her laugh and she stroked the little queen’s hair again, softly running her fingers through the golden locks.
“Don’t worry about the English queen, my lady,” said Egidia. “Yolande’s power comes from her husband and how much he loves her. Your power comes from yourself and one day, you’ll sit on the throne and she will be a simple widow, with nothing to speak for herself.”
Margaret smiled, but said nothing.
