EDWARD OF CAERNARVON
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It is 1306 in the year of our Lord.
Edward, the first English Prince of Wales, lay stretched out on his belly trying unsuccessfully to involve himself in a book. Never truly one for reading, he knew a King ought to be well-read, and so periodically skimmed through the classics. Propping himself up on one elbow, he wordlessly repeated the text before him.
"While I am still not mad I here declare,
To all that love me, and confess, that I
Have slain my mother."
The words were ancient even by Prince Edward's time; the name of the text was "Libation Bearers", and had been written by a Greek named Aeschylus. The words he had placed in the mouth of the mythological Orestes, who had just committed the gravest sin possible: the murder of the one that gave him life.
Edward wrinkled his nose and closed the book, suddenly aware of how dark it was in his bedchambers. Reading the Greek Tragedies always made him feel gloomy, and today was too wet and cold to be in a black mood. Placing "Libation Bearers" on top of a small shelf, he wrapped a coat around him and shuffled out the door. Cold and hungry, Edward planned on finding out if Elfwina, his Saxon maidservant, had saved him some bread and cheese from the midday meal.
Shivering, his mind kept returning to the words from that book. Orestes had slaughtered his mother Clytemnestra in retribution for the death of his father; Clytemnestra herself had murdered her husband Agamemnon in vengeance for his sacrifice of their daughter. Crying, "But slew his daughter -- slew her for a charm agaisnt the Thracian winds", she and her lover had stabbed Agamemnon in his bath. Violence begat violence; their's was a family destined to crack open, until their foul deeds were exposed to all the world.
Fathers and sons and mothers, thought Edward gloomily. Orestes didn't know the half of it. Edward thought he would be quite happy to exchange his living father for his dead mother, were he presented with the option. Sinful though it might be, the two Edwards held no love in their hearts for one another. Having already witnessed the deaths of his other three sons, the elder Edward sunk deeper each day into the belief that his one remaining son was not worthy to succeed him. The younger Edward was only too aware that the only thing that had saved his life on several occasions was that he was the child of the beloved Queen Leonor.
The Spanish Princess turned Queen of England had died early, before her only surviving boy-child had time to form a clear memory of her he could cherish. Worse yet was Prince Edward's conviction that her death was utterly the fault of his father, who had insisted with dragging her across half of Europe even when she was far gone with child. Had Longshanks left her behind, she might still be alive today. The fact he had been denied a true mother's love was something young Edward could never forgive.
Edward popped his head into the kitchen, and was greeted by Elfwina's brillant smile. The plump and motherly woman held great affection for him, and always squirreled away a bite of this or a mouthful of that for him. She was especially useful when Longshanks was whipped into one of his rages and confined Edward to his chambers without food. Elfwina always found a way to slip him something to eat.
"Hungry again, milord?" she asked him with a wink, handing him an apple.
Edward took the apple and favored her with a kind smile. "I've been inside my chambers all day, studying. My eyes hurt and my stomach grumbles. And yet my Elfwina comes through for me yet again!" He bit deeply into the apple's flesh.
"The King has you reading those terrible books again?" Elfwina's eyes grew wide in horror. Good-hearted though uneducated, she had been stricken the one time Edward had read some passages from "Antigone" out loud to her. "I beg your pardon, milord, but it's not godly!" she had cried, "All those people marrying their mothers and being buried alive. No good Christian could ever put such horrible things on paper. I shudder to think of those pagan Greeks!" Ever since then, she had held the firm conviction that such books were utter horrid, regardless of content.
"Quite a terrible one," Edward agreed, finishing off his apple, "one with husbands being murdered by their wives, and sons running their mothers through with swords. Terrible, indeed."
Elfwina let out a squeak, and shook her head violently. "It's not godly." she murmured under her breath. Edward chuckled and bade her good day as he left. He enjoyed Elfwina's company but feared getting too comfortable with the servants. His father had glowered darkly at him whenever he caught him chatting up some friendly stablehand or compassionate kitchenmaid.
Well, it's not my fault I'm lonely, Edward thought passionately. He keeps me locked away here like some shameful secret that can't be exposed to the light of day. Won't allow me to find a companion among my own class, and sends away the few I do befriend. I might as well be Andromeda, awaiting the sea-serpant while strapped to a rock, for all the power I have over my own life.
Suddenly, the thought of being a beautiful maiden tied nude to a rock seemed terribly amusing, and he let out a sharp bark of laughter. Andromeda, indeed! He was reading entirely too much Greek poetry.
Hearing the soft murmur of human voices, he entered a snug courtyard. There he found no less a personage than his French stepmother, Marguerite, and his two little half-brothers.
"Dearest Edward," Marguerite greeted him warmly, "what a pleasure to see you today." She was tactful enough to ignore that the reason she had not seen him yesterday was because Longshanks had locked him in his chambers over some minor dispute.
"Always a pleasure, milady," he responded, giving her hand a chaste kiss. Though she had been married to his father for seven years, they still treated each other with all the polite coldness of strangers.
Not that there was anything truly to dislike about Marguerite of France; she was sister of the French King, and her marriage to his father had stablized an often fragile peace between the kingdoms. Though not as vivacious or beautiful as her elder sister Blanche, Marguerite was very sweet and compassionate, and was utterly devoted to his father. Though her nose was a mite too long for real beauty, her eyes were large and bright, and Longshanks had come to be contented with his little child-bride. Indeed, Marguerite's only crime was that she was a poor substitute for Edward's true mother.
It was odd having a stepmother younger yet than some of your sisters; yet Marguerite was only a few years Edward's senior, and his eldest sisters were quite some years older than her.
It was some small mercy to Edward that after the death of his mother, Longshanks had refused to see his remaining daughters married off to faraway lands. Wanting to keep them at home and within his sights, their father had married them to the powerful barons of his own kingdom. This allowed Edward to be in their company often, which he relished. Though they could not replace his mother, his sisters doted on him shamelessly, and he loved their company.
His eldest sister had been Eleanor, perhaps the most unfortunate of them all. Married by proxy to the King of Aragon, she never even got to consumate that union as Alfonso died less than a year later. She then married the Count of Bar and bore him three children before dying of consumption. Her daughters were the barren and embittered Ladies of Bar, and her only son the feckless Edouard. Edward had fewer memories of this sister than he did of their mother.
His other sister, Joan, was luckier. Sloe-eyed and engaging, Joan was a force to be reckoned with by anyone's measure. Before she was thirty she had gone through three husbands and eight children, and was now the very rich and powerful Countess of Gloucester and Hertford. She might have been Countess of Savoy too had she married her suitor Amadeus, but instead Joan had wed an anonymous knight in her father's household named Ralph de Monthermer. This had earned her both her father's animosity and her own true happiness. Longshanks had been enraged at first, until he found his new son-in-law to be an intelligent and capable man. Now the pair were inseperable, and Joan had her way as always; she couldn't make a mistake. Edward knew his father must wish bitterly that daughter had been born a boy.
His other sister Margaret he saw rarely. She was married to the compliant and peaceful Duke of Brabant and seemed content enough with her lot. Mary had become a Nun at Amesbury, where she passed her time in pious holiness. Elizabeth, after a childless marriage to the Count of Holland, had remarried to the Earl of Essex and now had so many children she could barely remember their names from one day to the next.
As for Edward, he knew what his destiny was: King Edward II of England had a grand sound to it. Though he never confided this secret to anyone, he sometimes whispered those words to his reflection in the smooth oval mirror he had tucked away in his room. When he was king, he would be free. No more screaming matchs, no more long cold nights locked within his chambers. No one would dare to cross him. He would be untouchable. As part of the same pact that had brought Marguerite to England, he was bethrothed to the little Princess Isabella, his stepmother's own niece. He wondered briefly if that should be considered incestous...
"Edward?"
Knocked from his thoughts, he looked down into the eyes of his little half-brother. Edmund stood before him shyly, a toy in hand. "The wheels came off," the five-year-old explained, "can you put it back together?"
Edward almost snapped out that Edmund ought not to bother him with such nonsense, that he should take his stupid toy and throw it in the moat. But Edmund's blue eyes held no animosity, and Edward relented. Reaching down, he took the toy into his hands. It was a small horse made of black wood, modeled from the famous Trojan Horse. Gently, he popped the wheels back into place and handed it to his younger sibling. On impulse, he even reached out and patted his brother on the head. No, Edmund was just a child. When he was his age, he'd wanted an older brother that would fix his toys more than anything. Why should he deny Edmund that? After all, it was only a plaything.
Edmund's face lit up as he clutched his toy tightly. Edward was never cruel, to be sure, but Edmund always got the feeling his elder brother purposely ignored him, or even worse, barely tolerated his presence. For Edward to fix his horse and pat him on the head affectionately was almost more than the little child-prince could bear. Grinning brilliantly, he skipped away, forgetting in his delight to properly thank his brother.
Edward brushed several blond curls from his face as he watched the little boy. An expression of sheer elation glowed on Edmund's face, one that made Edward smile despite himself. How simple it was to please his younger brothers, just fix a toy and they're content. His own elder brothers had been frail little things that had died young, and so Edward had never forged any kind of brotherly bond with any of them. He would sooner have thought of cuddling up with a lion before asking his father to play with him. No, Edmund and Thomas were lucky. So very lucky.
At the thought of his father, Edward unconsciously rubbed a sore bruise on his neck. One of many such keepsakes Longshanks had bestowed on his body over the years, he knew it would not be the last. Still, he was more fortunate than many who crossed his father.
Yes indeed, though Edward's heart held no affection for his sire, he was not so spoilt as to think he was maltreated in comparison with others. Others like Simon de Montfort, Longshanks' own uncle, cut down on Evesham field for starting up a rebellion. Others like every Jew in England, expelled for not conforming to the Mother Holy Church. Others like Princess Gwenllian of Wales, last scion of the native Welsh princes, confined to a nunnery for all the rest of her days just for carrying the wrong blood.
No, Edward did not envy them.
He was the first English prince of Wales, that title bestowed upon him after the death of Llewelyn ap Gruffudd. Edward had been born at Caernarvon Castle in Wales, and had surprised everyone by being a stout, vigorous baby, unlike the other delicate sons his mother had borne. No, this Edward grasped life by the throat, held on tightly. The unfortunate three that came before him -- John, Henry, and Alfonso -- had to be coaxed to live. Not Edward. Edward had a stranglehold on life no-one had managed to break.
He had heard the story a hundred times; whether it was true or not only Longshanks knew, and he'd be damned before asking that man. The story went that soon after his birth, Welsh noblemen had arrived at Caernarvon Castle seeking an audience with Longshanks. After the death of their last prince, they wanted to ask Longshanks for a new one, with certain stipulations. He must be a countryman, they said, no English-born. He must speak Welsh, and his character must be unblemished. Longshanks had listened to them intently, all the while hatching his plots.
Standing up, he had gone upstairs to the nursery where infant Edward slept, and taking the babe in his arms, presented him to the lords. "Here is a native of your country," Longshanks was supposed to have said, "His character is beyond reproach. And if it pleases you, his first word shall be Welsh. He will be your prince."
Realizing they'd been trapped, the lords could only bow and swear homage to the new Prince Edward. And so he had gained the title that would be passed onto his descendants: Edward, Prince of Wales.
He stood up, adjusting his rich robes. Fine clothes to cover the bruises and cuts, to smooth over what lay beneath. Always a slave to his love of grandeur, Edward insisted on only the best adornments. As he strolled towards the inner courtyard, he caught a glimpse of his cheerful stepmother. Marguerite kissed her eldest son Thomas on the head, and tucked a flower he had given her behind her ear. Chuckling over some childish wit he whispered to her, she responded with soft words in her gliding tongue. Marguerite and Thomas, hand-in-hand, walked off towards the orchard, laughing over some shared secret.
Edward watched them go, silent. A line from Sophocles came unbidden to his mind:
"We are blameless, but confess"
That the Gods are pitiless.
Children they begat, and claim
Worship in a father's name
Yet with apathetic eye
Look upon such agony."
He shook his head sharpely, disturbed. What had that line to do with anything. In a flash he dismissed it as quickly as it had come. It meant nothing, of course.
Nothing at all.
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Author's Note:
The characters portrayed herein are historical, and I have taken great pains to keep my information accurate. Unlike what the movie "Braveheart" shows (or rather, hints at) Longshanks did have a French wife name Marguerite, daughter of King Philippe III. She remained devoted to him for all the rest of his life, and refused to remarry after his death, writing, "When Edward died, all men died for me." Their sons became Thomas, Duke of Norfolk and Edmund, Earl of Kent. Edmund, who had a brief cameo in my story, grew up to become a vain and fickle man, who had the same love of magnificence as his elder brother Edward. He is best known for campaigning for the release of his brother after Edward II was made prisoner by his wife and her lover, Roger Mortimer. Edmund was arrested, and convicted of treason. He was beheaded on March 19th, 1329.
Longshanks' uncle Simon de Montfort did die at Evesham; his wife was the beautiful Eleanor Plantagenet, an aunt of Longshanks. Their daughter, also named Eleanor, became wife of the last native prince of Wales, Llewelyn ap Gruffudd. Eleanor and Llewelyn's daughter was the unfortunate Princess Gwenllian, who Longshanks had whisked away to a nunnery and kept ignorant of her parentage. She lived out her whole life there, because her own blood cousin Longshanks could not risk her release. She died at Sempringham in 1337.
As for Edward himself, he became king upon the death of his father. He was known as a man of limited capacity and easily led, for being cruel and extravagant. However, he is probably best known for being gay. His preference for his male lovers Piers Gaveston and Hugh le Despencer alienated his wife, who took a lover and had him desposed. He died in September of 1327.
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It is 1306 in the year of our Lord.
Edward, the first English Prince of Wales, lay stretched out on his belly trying unsuccessfully to involve himself in a book. Never truly one for reading, he knew a King ought to be well-read, and so periodically skimmed through the classics. Propping himself up on one elbow, he wordlessly repeated the text before him.
"While I am still not mad I here declare,
To all that love me, and confess, that I
Have slain my mother."
The words were ancient even by Prince Edward's time; the name of the text was "Libation Bearers", and had been written by a Greek named Aeschylus. The words he had placed in the mouth of the mythological Orestes, who had just committed the gravest sin possible: the murder of the one that gave him life.
Edward wrinkled his nose and closed the book, suddenly aware of how dark it was in his bedchambers. Reading the Greek Tragedies always made him feel gloomy, and today was too wet and cold to be in a black mood. Placing "Libation Bearers" on top of a small shelf, he wrapped a coat around him and shuffled out the door. Cold and hungry, Edward planned on finding out if Elfwina, his Saxon maidservant, had saved him some bread and cheese from the midday meal.
Shivering, his mind kept returning to the words from that book. Orestes had slaughtered his mother Clytemnestra in retribution for the death of his father; Clytemnestra herself had murdered her husband Agamemnon in vengeance for his sacrifice of their daughter. Crying, "But slew his daughter -- slew her for a charm agaisnt the Thracian winds", she and her lover had stabbed Agamemnon in his bath. Violence begat violence; their's was a family destined to crack open, until their foul deeds were exposed to all the world.
Fathers and sons and mothers, thought Edward gloomily. Orestes didn't know the half of it. Edward thought he would be quite happy to exchange his living father for his dead mother, were he presented with the option. Sinful though it might be, the two Edwards held no love in their hearts for one another. Having already witnessed the deaths of his other three sons, the elder Edward sunk deeper each day into the belief that his one remaining son was not worthy to succeed him. The younger Edward was only too aware that the only thing that had saved his life on several occasions was that he was the child of the beloved Queen Leonor.
The Spanish Princess turned Queen of England had died early, before her only surviving boy-child had time to form a clear memory of her he could cherish. Worse yet was Prince Edward's conviction that her death was utterly the fault of his father, who had insisted with dragging her across half of Europe even when she was far gone with child. Had Longshanks left her behind, she might still be alive today. The fact he had been denied a true mother's love was something young Edward could never forgive.
Edward popped his head into the kitchen, and was greeted by Elfwina's brillant smile. The plump and motherly woman held great affection for him, and always squirreled away a bite of this or a mouthful of that for him. She was especially useful when Longshanks was whipped into one of his rages and confined Edward to his chambers without food. Elfwina always found a way to slip him something to eat.
"Hungry again, milord?" she asked him with a wink, handing him an apple.
Edward took the apple and favored her with a kind smile. "I've been inside my chambers all day, studying. My eyes hurt and my stomach grumbles. And yet my Elfwina comes through for me yet again!" He bit deeply into the apple's flesh.
"The King has you reading those terrible books again?" Elfwina's eyes grew wide in horror. Good-hearted though uneducated, she had been stricken the one time Edward had read some passages from "Antigone" out loud to her. "I beg your pardon, milord, but it's not godly!" she had cried, "All those people marrying their mothers and being buried alive. No good Christian could ever put such horrible things on paper. I shudder to think of those pagan Greeks!" Ever since then, she had held the firm conviction that such books were utter horrid, regardless of content.
"Quite a terrible one," Edward agreed, finishing off his apple, "one with husbands being murdered by their wives, and sons running their mothers through with swords. Terrible, indeed."
Elfwina let out a squeak, and shook her head violently. "It's not godly." she murmured under her breath. Edward chuckled and bade her good day as he left. He enjoyed Elfwina's company but feared getting too comfortable with the servants. His father had glowered darkly at him whenever he caught him chatting up some friendly stablehand or compassionate kitchenmaid.
Well, it's not my fault I'm lonely, Edward thought passionately. He keeps me locked away here like some shameful secret that can't be exposed to the light of day. Won't allow me to find a companion among my own class, and sends away the few I do befriend. I might as well be Andromeda, awaiting the sea-serpant while strapped to a rock, for all the power I have over my own life.
Suddenly, the thought of being a beautiful maiden tied nude to a rock seemed terribly amusing, and he let out a sharp bark of laughter. Andromeda, indeed! He was reading entirely too much Greek poetry.
Hearing the soft murmur of human voices, he entered a snug courtyard. There he found no less a personage than his French stepmother, Marguerite, and his two little half-brothers.
"Dearest Edward," Marguerite greeted him warmly, "what a pleasure to see you today." She was tactful enough to ignore that the reason she had not seen him yesterday was because Longshanks had locked him in his chambers over some minor dispute.
"Always a pleasure, milady," he responded, giving her hand a chaste kiss. Though she had been married to his father for seven years, they still treated each other with all the polite coldness of strangers.
Not that there was anything truly to dislike about Marguerite of France; she was sister of the French King, and her marriage to his father had stablized an often fragile peace between the kingdoms. Though not as vivacious or beautiful as her elder sister Blanche, Marguerite was very sweet and compassionate, and was utterly devoted to his father. Though her nose was a mite too long for real beauty, her eyes were large and bright, and Longshanks had come to be contented with his little child-bride. Indeed, Marguerite's only crime was that she was a poor substitute for Edward's true mother.
It was odd having a stepmother younger yet than some of your sisters; yet Marguerite was only a few years Edward's senior, and his eldest sisters were quite some years older than her.
It was some small mercy to Edward that after the death of his mother, Longshanks had refused to see his remaining daughters married off to faraway lands. Wanting to keep them at home and within his sights, their father had married them to the powerful barons of his own kingdom. This allowed Edward to be in their company often, which he relished. Though they could not replace his mother, his sisters doted on him shamelessly, and he loved their company.
His eldest sister had been Eleanor, perhaps the most unfortunate of them all. Married by proxy to the King of Aragon, she never even got to consumate that union as Alfonso died less than a year later. She then married the Count of Bar and bore him three children before dying of consumption. Her daughters were the barren and embittered Ladies of Bar, and her only son the feckless Edouard. Edward had fewer memories of this sister than he did of their mother.
His other sister, Joan, was luckier. Sloe-eyed and engaging, Joan was a force to be reckoned with by anyone's measure. Before she was thirty she had gone through three husbands and eight children, and was now the very rich and powerful Countess of Gloucester and Hertford. She might have been Countess of Savoy too had she married her suitor Amadeus, but instead Joan had wed an anonymous knight in her father's household named Ralph de Monthermer. This had earned her both her father's animosity and her own true happiness. Longshanks had been enraged at first, until he found his new son-in-law to be an intelligent and capable man. Now the pair were inseperable, and Joan had her way as always; she couldn't make a mistake. Edward knew his father must wish bitterly that daughter had been born a boy.
His other sister Margaret he saw rarely. She was married to the compliant and peaceful Duke of Brabant and seemed content enough with her lot. Mary had become a Nun at Amesbury, where she passed her time in pious holiness. Elizabeth, after a childless marriage to the Count of Holland, had remarried to the Earl of Essex and now had so many children she could barely remember their names from one day to the next.
As for Edward, he knew what his destiny was: King Edward II of England had a grand sound to it. Though he never confided this secret to anyone, he sometimes whispered those words to his reflection in the smooth oval mirror he had tucked away in his room. When he was king, he would be free. No more screaming matchs, no more long cold nights locked within his chambers. No one would dare to cross him. He would be untouchable. As part of the same pact that had brought Marguerite to England, he was bethrothed to the little Princess Isabella, his stepmother's own niece. He wondered briefly if that should be considered incestous...
"Edward?"
Knocked from his thoughts, he looked down into the eyes of his little half-brother. Edmund stood before him shyly, a toy in hand. "The wheels came off," the five-year-old explained, "can you put it back together?"
Edward almost snapped out that Edmund ought not to bother him with such nonsense, that he should take his stupid toy and throw it in the moat. But Edmund's blue eyes held no animosity, and Edward relented. Reaching down, he took the toy into his hands. It was a small horse made of black wood, modeled from the famous Trojan Horse. Gently, he popped the wheels back into place and handed it to his younger sibling. On impulse, he even reached out and patted his brother on the head. No, Edmund was just a child. When he was his age, he'd wanted an older brother that would fix his toys more than anything. Why should he deny Edmund that? After all, it was only a plaything.
Edmund's face lit up as he clutched his toy tightly. Edward was never cruel, to be sure, but Edmund always got the feeling his elder brother purposely ignored him, or even worse, barely tolerated his presence. For Edward to fix his horse and pat him on the head affectionately was almost more than the little child-prince could bear. Grinning brilliantly, he skipped away, forgetting in his delight to properly thank his brother.
Edward brushed several blond curls from his face as he watched the little boy. An expression of sheer elation glowed on Edmund's face, one that made Edward smile despite himself. How simple it was to please his younger brothers, just fix a toy and they're content. His own elder brothers had been frail little things that had died young, and so Edward had never forged any kind of brotherly bond with any of them. He would sooner have thought of cuddling up with a lion before asking his father to play with him. No, Edmund and Thomas were lucky. So very lucky.
At the thought of his father, Edward unconsciously rubbed a sore bruise on his neck. One of many such keepsakes Longshanks had bestowed on his body over the years, he knew it would not be the last. Still, he was more fortunate than many who crossed his father.
Yes indeed, though Edward's heart held no affection for his sire, he was not so spoilt as to think he was maltreated in comparison with others. Others like Simon de Montfort, Longshanks' own uncle, cut down on Evesham field for starting up a rebellion. Others like every Jew in England, expelled for not conforming to the Mother Holy Church. Others like Princess Gwenllian of Wales, last scion of the native Welsh princes, confined to a nunnery for all the rest of her days just for carrying the wrong blood.
No, Edward did not envy them.
He was the first English prince of Wales, that title bestowed upon him after the death of Llewelyn ap Gruffudd. Edward had been born at Caernarvon Castle in Wales, and had surprised everyone by being a stout, vigorous baby, unlike the other delicate sons his mother had borne. No, this Edward grasped life by the throat, held on tightly. The unfortunate three that came before him -- John, Henry, and Alfonso -- had to be coaxed to live. Not Edward. Edward had a stranglehold on life no-one had managed to break.
He had heard the story a hundred times; whether it was true or not only Longshanks knew, and he'd be damned before asking that man. The story went that soon after his birth, Welsh noblemen had arrived at Caernarvon Castle seeking an audience with Longshanks. After the death of their last prince, they wanted to ask Longshanks for a new one, with certain stipulations. He must be a countryman, they said, no English-born. He must speak Welsh, and his character must be unblemished. Longshanks had listened to them intently, all the while hatching his plots.
Standing up, he had gone upstairs to the nursery where infant Edward slept, and taking the babe in his arms, presented him to the lords. "Here is a native of your country," Longshanks was supposed to have said, "His character is beyond reproach. And if it pleases you, his first word shall be Welsh. He will be your prince."
Realizing they'd been trapped, the lords could only bow and swear homage to the new Prince Edward. And so he had gained the title that would be passed onto his descendants: Edward, Prince of Wales.
He stood up, adjusting his rich robes. Fine clothes to cover the bruises and cuts, to smooth over what lay beneath. Always a slave to his love of grandeur, Edward insisted on only the best adornments. As he strolled towards the inner courtyard, he caught a glimpse of his cheerful stepmother. Marguerite kissed her eldest son Thomas on the head, and tucked a flower he had given her behind her ear. Chuckling over some childish wit he whispered to her, she responded with soft words in her gliding tongue. Marguerite and Thomas, hand-in-hand, walked off towards the orchard, laughing over some shared secret.
Edward watched them go, silent. A line from Sophocles came unbidden to his mind:
"We are blameless, but confess"
That the Gods are pitiless.
Children they begat, and claim
Worship in a father's name
Yet with apathetic eye
Look upon such agony."
He shook his head sharpely, disturbed. What had that line to do with anything. In a flash he dismissed it as quickly as it had come. It meant nothing, of course.
Nothing at all.
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Author's Note:
The characters portrayed herein are historical, and I have taken great pains to keep my information accurate. Unlike what the movie "Braveheart" shows (or rather, hints at) Longshanks did have a French wife name Marguerite, daughter of King Philippe III. She remained devoted to him for all the rest of his life, and refused to remarry after his death, writing, "When Edward died, all men died for me." Their sons became Thomas, Duke of Norfolk and Edmund, Earl of Kent. Edmund, who had a brief cameo in my story, grew up to become a vain and fickle man, who had the same love of magnificence as his elder brother Edward. He is best known for campaigning for the release of his brother after Edward II was made prisoner by his wife and her lover, Roger Mortimer. Edmund was arrested, and convicted of treason. He was beheaded on March 19th, 1329.
Longshanks' uncle Simon de Montfort did die at Evesham; his wife was the beautiful Eleanor Plantagenet, an aunt of Longshanks. Their daughter, also named Eleanor, became wife of the last native prince of Wales, Llewelyn ap Gruffudd. Eleanor and Llewelyn's daughter was the unfortunate Princess Gwenllian, who Longshanks had whisked away to a nunnery and kept ignorant of her parentage. She lived out her whole life there, because her own blood cousin Longshanks could not risk her release. She died at Sempringham in 1337.
As for Edward himself, he became king upon the death of his father. He was known as a man of limited capacity and easily led, for being cruel and extravagant. However, he is probably best known for being gay. His preference for his male lovers Piers Gaveston and Hugh le Despencer alienated his wife, who took a lover and had him desposed. He died in September of 1327.