Where is my son?
Your pardon, my lord.
He asked me
to come in his stead.

I sent for him,
and he sends you.

Shall I leave, my lord?
If he wants his queen
to rule when I am gone,

then, by all means,
stay and learn how.

Nobles are the key
to the door of Scotland.

Grant our nobles
lands in the north,

give their nobles
estates here in England,

and make them too greedy
to oppose us.

But, sire, our nobles
will be reluctant to uproot.

New lands
mean new taxes,

and they're already taxed
for the war in France.

Are they?
Are they?
The trouble with Scotland
is that it's full of Scots.

Perhaps the time has come
to re-institute
an old custom.

Grant them prima noctes.
First night.
When any common girl inhabiting
their lands is married,

our nobles shall have
sexual rights to her

on the night
of her wedding.

If we can't get them out,
we'll breed them out.

That should fetch
just the kind of lords