I shan't bother you with countless enquiries of how you are, but if you have a moment to post, I've included some paper. I don't know if you can get any there, so it will be useful for a map or a sketch anyway.
Things are going well here; we are all quite the team and work surprisingly well together. The harvest has come in a bit clumsily but altogether well. I'm really very happy about that because it's gotten rid of the few remaining beggars about the cities, and it means we'll be able to send some food your way in a few weeks.
Mother is doing quite well governing the kingdom, though I can't say I'm surprised. A few tales are reviving about how she held the throne in the old days (old days--before I was born) and she must have mellowed a lot since then because she has refrained, so far, from wearing her sword at mealtimes. She does practice a little more everyday, though. I think it is hard for her to be home when Father is gone.
We all wear plainer clothes about the palace now--not much lace, if any, and no jewels; you'd think it was funny. Yes, that includes shoes! I wear boots, now. Fiona says they make me look like a cow.
Thank you for continuing to support Father; he speaks very well of you in his letters to us. Somebody put the story about the broadsword to song and it is being played everywhere with a rousing chorus, as follows:
And he fought with a strength not his own,
When all hope for the battle was gone,
An' he strove through the night
With no succor in sight
By the light of his sword, all alone.
Not the best ballad we've heard, but no doubt there will be better ones when you all come back.
I must be off--I've taken up and left off this letter over the space of a fortnight and if I leave it any longer it won't be sent. Wish I could send greetings, but at least toast my Father at dinner, from me. That at least will be acceptable. I have already written him.
Take care of yourself. We are all proud of you. And I miss your company.