April 1299. Windsor Castle, England.
Henry’s clothes were askew. Constance knew as soon as she looked at it and she knew even more that Lady Isabella would be upset. She sighed, shaking her head and knelt before her little brother to adjust his tunic, which sat rumpled all around his round body. Henry was plumper than her, but he smiled happily.
“You need to be more careful!” she said in the sight of his smile, her voice high-pitched and childlike. “Lady Isabella will be very upset if you look silly in front of our brother.” But he would look silly. He always did. Constance, at seven, had to fix him at every turn.
She stood up again. She didn’t mind fixing him, in truth. Even if she thought of it sometimes. Their parents left for so many years and only she and Lady Isabella stayed. Their governess took care of them all, but only Constance took care of Henry.
“I am careful,” said Henry. “I got dressed all by myself today.”
Even though she was also a child, Constance knew that was wrong. Her little brother had attendants that would dress him. He couldn’t just dress himself. It was not proper.
But before she could say anything, the door behind them both opened and their brother entered. Constance had to curtsy for him, because Édouard was the Prince of Wales and would be King someday, both of England and of Scots. But as soon as she rose again, her brother opened his arms and she and Henry ran to embrace him.
She had few memories of Édouard before the war began and he left, she was so little. But after he arrived, he visited her so often. Certainly, she saw him more than her lady mother and her kingly father, but he came nearly every week to play with her and Henry. He brought his friend, Piers Gaveston, quite frequently too, but he wasn’t there at that moment.
“Édouard!” Constance exclaimed, taking a step back. “Did you bring me a present?” He promised he was going to bring her a present last time, but as she looked at him, Constance saw that he wasn’t carrying anything.
“I didn’t, my sweet sister,” her older brother answered. “But it will come soon in a few days. Don’t worry.”
“Is it a horse?” she asked and Édouard smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I want a horse too!” Henry exclaimed.
“I can only give you a pony, brother,” Édouard responded. “You’re too young for a normal horse.” Henry pouted and left, angry. Constance and her older brother saw him go quietly, as the little boy ran off to cry in a nurse’s arms. They took him away and Constance looked at Édouard again.
“He is just upset,” she said. “He will feel better before you leave.”
“I suppose so,” said Édouard. “He must forgive me.” Constance frowned, not understanding his tone. He spoke with such finality, such anger.
“Why?” she asked.
Édouard smiled sadly. “I’m going to leave soon, little sister,” he said. “And I don’t know when I’m going to return to England.”
“Where are you going?” Constance asked. “Why are you leaving? Are we at war again?”
“I’m going to get married to the Queen of Scots,” he said. “Do you remember her?” Constance shook her head and Édouard smiled. “So I’ll be going to Scotland soon. That’s where she is.”
“Can’t she come here?” Constance asked.
“Not now,” Édouard responded. “Father wants me to be installed as King of Scots and stay there until the Queen comes of age and wrestles control of the country from the Guardians.”
“When will that be?” Constance asked, her lower lip trembling.
Édouard sighed. “Well, she is sixteen now, and she won’t have control of the government until she is twenty-one, so five years,” he said sadly. Tears filled her eyes and she couldn’t hold herself back from crying. Her brother’s face crumbled. “Oh, sister.” He pulled her into another embrace, tightly holding her to him. “I’ll send you letters, I promise you. And many gifts.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Constance whispered, her tears splashing against the shoulder of his clothes.
“I’ll go, but I’ll return,” said Édouard. “Queen Margaret will turn twenty-one before you turn twelve, so I’ll ride south to see you before you travel for your marriage.’ She stepped back, rubbing the side of her wrist over her leaking nose.
“Do you promise?” she asked and he nodded. “Do you promise you won’t love her more than me?” He was her older brother, hers, not Queen Margaret’s.
Édouard smiled. “I promise,” he said. “For both things. You will always be my favourite, little sister. My most beloved and precious girl.” He embraced her again and Constance clinged to him, not wanting to let go.