Earning the Love of a Princess-Chapter 232: Everything is not Enough

9 January, 1362. Westerhaven Palace, Islia.

William shuffled the papers on his desk into piles, trying to put the most urgent documents in one corner. Camilla was always teasing him about his messiness. Despite that, he always got done what he needed to do in time, so why did tidiness really matter?

As he folded up a report, his eye was drawn to an unfamiliar sheet of parchment. Glancing at the handwriting, William realised it was a letter from Camilla’s brother, the former Malcolm Stephenson. The letter was crammed with writing and notes along the margins, as if a simple sheet was never going to be enough to capture everything he wanted to tell her.

The siblings had been exchanging letters for months now, letters that always made Camilla smile and sometimes even laugh out loud.

William never read them himself and only knew the contents from the snippets of information Camilla occasionally mentioned. Now however, he was suddenly overcome with curiosity about what Malcolm had written. He picked up the letter and hesitated. What if the contents were private?

Well, if it were private then she wouldn’t have left it tossed so carelessly on my desk, would she, William reasoned? Curiosity finally getting the better of him, he began to read.

11 December, 1361

Dear Sister,

I hope this letter finds you well and that everything is content with you and your son. Please tell me the wiry Islian son of a bitch continues to treat you both with affection. It still boggles my mind that you married him and even more so that you married him in joy. You’ll have to tell me one day how that all came to be and why you decided you wanted him, of all men, as your husband.

Then again, it’s probably better not to know too much about it. The way he looked at you that night I spent in your rooms tells me all I need to know. There are some things that a man definitely shouldn’t have to hear from his sister.

At that, William laughed. He remembered long ago, Camilla admitting she’d learned what it meant to lie with a man, from an explanation a horrified Malcolm had been bullied into giving her. The man was probably still scarred from that conversation.

The three of us are well here, having been at our uncle’s residence for almost a month now. Afonso is a kind, merry man and from what I can see, is well liked by the people of his earldom. He remembers our mother fondly, even though many years separated them in age. He has two sons and three daughters of his own, as well as many grandchildren. The grandchildren are all a little older though, and quite boisterous creatures. So I think our uncle is charmed to have a baby under his roof again. We barely see Valerie these days, she’s always in the arms of some kinswoman, being played with and sung to. She’s going to grow up into a very pampered young lady at this rate.

She has learned to crawl recently and can already pull herself across the floor quite fast. It seems anywhere I move, the tiny maid is underfoot and trying to trip me. Lord help Maeve and I when she starts walking.

She’s pure joy though and makes me laugh harder that I thought possible. It breaks my heart to think that one day she’ll leave me to get married, even though that’s still years away. I’m always whispering to her that perhaps she’s better off never marrying. Where would she ever find another man who loves her more than her dear Papa?

Maeve bawls me out whenever she hears me speaking like that to Valerie, so I’ve got to be more subtle about it.

Speaking of Maeve, she’s well and happy. She likes the sunny weather of Al Biscay and has already made firm friends with our aunt and several of her ladies. Then again, everyone is drawn to Maeve because of her kindness and cheerful nature. I think you’ll like her very much when you meet her. She’s curious about you too, always saying that she could never picture me having a sister. She says you must have a lot of patience to have put up with me all our childhoods. I never know what she’s on about.

It’s a shame you won’t be able to visit us here for another year or so, but a new baby is a valid reason to not be able to travel. I’m glad for you and hope you’re being well cared for. Once you’ve recovered from giving birth, you’ll have to pay us a long visit and bring both of your little ones. Be warned though, once the ladies here sweep them up, you may have a hard time getting your children back.

If your baby is a boy, you should definitely name him Daniel. I can think of a certain wiry son of a bitch who will probably protest, so all the more reason for that to be the boy’s name. I also hope the new baby has at least some resemblance to our kin. Little Malcolm couldn’t look more like his father if he tried.

I’m glad we made the journey here. Al Biscay is a beautiful country, but I realise it’s more than that. The sense of peace I feel here is something I can’t really describe. It’s like finally being set free from within a terrible cage. You know I’ve always craved the simple pleasures the most. It’s probably the reason I was born the last son and not the first.

People here know that I’m some form of distant kin to Earl Afonso, but nothing beyond that. They don’t know I’m his sister’s child and that she was part of the Moraigthian royal family. They sure as hell don’t know that I’m now the male heir to that cursed throne. I intend to keep it that way.

Of course, I realise what that means and I know you do also. If I remain here as the humble merchant Malcolm Artur, then it is your Malcolm that becomes our uncle’s male heir. As your boy grows up, tell him to stay away from all that. Let him know there’s no happiness to be found across your northern borders.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how things would’ve been different, had our side won on the day. With Father as king, followed by Duncan. The four of us would likely still be together under one roof. I’d like to think Father would’ve made a better king (let’s be honest, it wouldn’t be hard, given our uncle set the bar very low). More just, more merciful, less bloodthirsty.

But what is a better king, really? He would’ve still needed to cut down traitors and rebels, would’ve still needed to lead battles and condone slaughter at times. No king is beloved by everyone, it’s simply impossible. Especially in a country like Moraigth, where conflict is used for profit by so many.

What kind of life is that to lead - knowing that every night when you lay your head upon your pillow, someone is thinking about strangling you? No matter how much you strive and suffer for your people?

I never got the chance to tell you, but Duncan and I got into a terrible quarrel the night before the sacking. I told him his cause was flawed. He accused me of lacking ambition. When I asked him what he expected me to want, he simply said "more." More of everything, even when our family already had plenty. I hated him in that moment.

Now of course, it gnaws at me. I’d give my right arm to not have been proven correct and to have us all together again. To not have those ugly words be the final ones I ever exchanged with our brother. All I can do now is focus on the many good memories I have, and cherish my life by living it in a way that makes me happy. Even if my version of happiness looks very different to Duncan and Father’s.

Then again, I truly don’t think Father had a happy moment since our mother died. Perhaps you were too young to remember but I saw how he changed. It was as if bitterness was eating away at him, a little more every day. Donning the crown wouldn’t have changed that.

I’ll end this letter before my memories take me too far down a path I’d rather not travel. Every day, I focus on the many blessings life has bestowed on me and I know I’m extremely lucky to be surrounded by so much good. Finding you again has been one of those good things.

I hope you realise how fortunate the two of us are. We’ve broken the curse of unhappiness that has hung over the Stephenson line for generations, and get to live the lives we truly want. We’re the very luckiest of souls.

Write to me soon.

All my love, M.

P.S. I still have the horse your husband gave me, Kabila. Magnificent animal. He’d better never even dream of asking for it back. I will literally start a war over that horse!