Dawn had barely broken, and yet with the rooster's crow, Prince Edward had long since risen and dressed, all but ready for the beginning of England's Christmas Day celebrations. This year the Black Prince had travelled from his own Wallingford Castle to visit his parents in Windsor and attend services in Westiminster Abbey, where one day, if it was God's will, he would be coronated as his predecessors had been before him. While it was his father's duty to lead their country alongside the leaders of the church, he knew that it was he that held the hearts of his countrymen, and this day the eyes of London's people would be upon him more than any other, as if he was a shining beacon, the very embodiment of their hopes. It was a weighty thing to bear and yet something infinitely precious to him; as long as he graced this earth, he swore to do his utmost for every single soul who placed their faith in him.
The sound of footsteps echoing just outside of the drawing room came as a slight surprise, especially as he had already sent away the servants who had thought to hover at the sight of their crown prince up and walking. When he turned at the sound of the heavy doors pushing open, his eyes fell upon the sight of his mother, dressed in all but her cloak and finest jewels, and flanked by a serving girl carrying a tray with two goblets carefully balanced upon it.
"It is snowing today," she said with a smile as she swept across the floor and came to stop beside him.
He turned fully, and bowed his head in affirmation, offering her a smile in return. "I wonder whether it shall last the full day."
Philippa gestured for the serving girl to approach as she reached out to tenderly grasp Edward's face, and he leaned down for her so that she could press a kiss to his forehead with ease. As she pulled away, with a knowing light in her sky-blue eyes, she replied, “Whether or not it does, there will be a chill in the air.”
Though it went unspoken, they were both fully aware that as part of the mass procession, for the sake of the common people, Edward would linger on the journey.
Philippa turned, then, to take the pair of cups, and she pressed one into her son's hands. A glance at the contents was enough for Edward to have a decent idea of the contents, and as he drew it to his lips the warmth it radiated and the sharp smell of fruit and spices confirmed that the Queen Consort had indeed brought mulled wine with her.
However, instead of taking a sip, Edward lowered it again. He looked to Philippa, who had just finished dismissing the serving girl, and when the door audibly shut behind them, he moved over to the window to watch the snowfall. The faint sound of material shifting told him that Philippa had joined him, and he leaned ever-so-slightly towards her as she rested an elegant hand upon the sill.
“Merry Christmas, mother,” he said warmly, laying a hand over hers.
She spread her fingers, and their hands laced for a few moments. “Merry Christmas, my beloved son.”
For a number of minutes they stood together in a rare, companionable peace, free from the shadows of war with France, drinking their mulled wine, speaking softly. But all too soon the door creaked open, and as Edward looked over his shoulder, Philippa turned around, purposely touching the prince's forearm.
“Thine father shalt be waking shortly,” she announced as she took back the goblet, and regally, she inclined her head in farewell.
She stepped away, affection lacing her tone as she added, “The Thames is yet frozen. I wouldst warn poor John before ceremonies.”
The thought of last time they had skated upon the frozen river made Edward chuckle; his loyal knight perhaps deserved fair warning, especially since he had every intention not to let the occurrence go to waste.
“Verily, I shall,” he asserted, and he was alone again, left savouring the atmosphere of Christmas.