Dear Valan,

I do not know how much you have traveled in your short life or whether time
has afforded such to you. I expect in Edward's company, Time will make
itself available...

Ian and I are sailing on The Middle Sea, feeling spring slowly turning summer. April through June... this are the jewels of the year to me. The waters are already warm...

Of our first stop... Monte Carlo... I can say nothing that would better
explain it than the gift I have enclosed in the inside envelope -- and
certainly nothing that would be better entertainment than the word that
shall, no doubt, travel faster than we. I have always been more interesting
after the filter of Rampant Fiction. Enjoy...

As you can see by the stamp, we are now affectionately within the arms of
Spain. Such a long history I have with her. I forget most of it, until I see her again. It is that way sometimes between old friends. I remember next to
nothing of my first journey. I do not think I was much beyond sixteen and
flush with my first military victory. I recall only sunlight and heat. Even
the young girls of the village have slipped into the obscurity of a long
life. I am certain they were brown and warm and lovely. I remember one other
journey from Poitou, where I was comte by birth, traveling south from
Poitiers to acquire new horses. It was where I met my comrade in war, the
finest war charger I have ever seen.

But what I most associate with Spain is Edward. It will always be recalled
as the place where I met the only man I have ever envied. You must tell him
this -- and take a picture of the look you get. I have enclosed enough
envelopes and instructions for any replies you might wish to send...

(Yes, Edward, I said envy. Read on...)

When I met him at the Spanish court -- and by that I do not mean the court
of royal Spain but his own Infanta's -- he was young, younger than me by a
couple of centuries and already so accomplished. He was from Blois, always a
rival territory with my Anjou and Poitou. And they had cleaned him, polished
him like a rough stone until he turned into a gem. I do not remember how
long he had been among Us, but far shorter than I. And the Infanta's court
was like my mother's own, with her southern European sensuality. I had
missed that, living in England all those years. For even though I was an
heir to the English and French throne, I only went to England for my
campaigns in Wales. Other than that, like my brother Richard, I was never
there, and certainly never English.

He was an amazing sight and we, who had some things in common, managed to
strike up not only conversation, but friendship. And I was the one who was
bettered for it. He will doubt this. Sometime later, maybe you will
understand why I am seldom believed. For years, I thought it was just my
face...

Back to Edward...

I doubt he has told you much about his past, for he so seldom talks about himself that a man might know him for lifetimes and never truly know him. You should ask him about wine... about sunshine... about dancing. About scholarly studies he does not admit to. Ask him, some evening, of his fondest memory of this country. For I have told you mine...

I leave you then, ami, with the image of Mallorca and Ibiza. In an accompanying envelope you will find postcards of my own design. A view for you to remember. Warm surf. Twilight pink and red upon the sea until it turns to violet. Lastly indigo before the black of evening. And so many stars that even one who is 845 years old can only stand in wonder. For God and this creation is mightier than us all.

Give Edward my love and write to me. Send me a picture of yourself... in fact, send me your three favorite...