Perhaps few would have ventured on that assertion except himself. Edmund of Lancaster was among the most handsome of our princes.
“Beshrew you both!” cried King Edward, unfraternally; “wherever will these fellows ramble with their tongues? Who said anything about beauty? I care not, I, if the maiden Margaret were the ugliest lass that ever tied a kerchief, so long as she is the heiress of Scotland. Ned has beauty enough and to spare; let him stare in the glass if he cannot look at his wife.”
The Queen looked up with an amused expression, and would, perhaps, have spoken, had not the tapestry been lifted by some person unseen, and a little boy of six years old bounded into the room.
No wonder that the fire in the King’s eyes died into instant softness. It would have been a wonder if the parents had not been proud of that boy, for he was one of the loveliest children on whom human eye ever rested. Did it ever cross the minds of that father and mother that the kindest deed they could have done to that darling child would have been to smother him in his cradle? Had the roll of his life been held up before them at that moment, they would have counted only thirty-seven years, written within and without in lamentation, and mourning, and woe.
King Edward lifted his little heir upon his knee.
“Look here, Ned,” said he. “Seest yonder parchment?”
The blue eyes opened a little, and the fair curls shook with a nod of affirmation.
“What is it, thinkest?”
A shake of the pretty little head was the reply.
“Thy Cousin Margaret is coming to dwell with thee. That parchment will bring her.”