Linlithgow Palace, March 1512
The baby wasn’t breathing. Margaret Tudor, Queen of Scots listened desperately for the sound of her son’s first cry after he was born but only silence greeted her ears. From her birthing chair she watched helplessly as her midwife, a woman named Ellen, and her two assistants tried frantically to stimulate the little prince. The boy who should’ve been Duke of Rothesay and, God willing, his father’s heir as King of Scotland.
“Please,” Margaret murmured, “Please God let my son live. Preserve him. Let him grow old and happy.”
Ellen and her assistants continued their efforts, no one else in the chamber daring to do much as blink until the prince finally took his first breath. But some ten minutes passed, and not a sound had emerged from the infant’s still, blue form.
At last Ellen gestured for a swaddling blanket. With a solemn expression, she draped the blanket around Margaret’s son. A lump formed in Margaret’s throat as she watched. She had lost three children now - two sons and a daughter - and this fourth time was no easier than any of the previous three. Still the unbearable feelings of grief and the reminder that she had failed once more to give her husband a legitimate son and heir.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” Ellen said softly, placing Margaret’s bundled son in her arms, “He is gone.”
Tears filled Margaret’s eyes as she slowly moved the soft linen blanket to get a look at her son. His features were so perfectly formed...how was it that he had not lived? She gently stroked the soft pink hair on his head, showing perhaps that he would’ve been a redhead like Margaret herself. Margaret choked back a sob and pressed a kiss to his temple. Her boy. And he would never even know how much she loved him.
Greenwich Palace, April 1512
Henry studied the contents of the paper in front of him - England’s latest declaration of war against France - and nodded approvingly, “It is well. Make sure it is sent out tomorrow.”
“Of course, sire,” Thomas Wolsey, his father’s former chaplain and now Henry’s almoner, said, giving a stiff bow and turning to leave. Henry had been unsure about Wolsey at first, as the man had initially seemed to be against any English expansion in France, but now it looked as though he was coming around to Henry’s plans and making himself indispensable in the process.
“The Lord Marquess of Dorset,” Henry’s herald announced then, and into Henry’s audience chamber stepped Thomas Grey, 2nd Marquess of Dorset, a tall and fair haired man who was a distant cousin of Henry’s.
Henry couldn’t help but smile in greeting, “My lord Dorset.”
“Your Majesty,” Dorset said, bowing, “I must thank you for summoning me - it has been too long.”
“Indeed it has,” Henry mused, “And I would very much like the pleasure of your company in the tillyard later. But for now I have a request for you. As you have no doubt heard, this past autumn our kingdom signed an alliance with King Ferdinand of Aragon. Now we have joined him in declaring war on the French, as His Holiness himself has requested. I am planning an expedition to retake Gascony, the territory of my ancestors, and I would like for you to command it.”
Dorset’s eyes widened, “I would be honored to do so, Your Majesty. I am most grateful for the opportunity and I shall not disappoint you in this endeavor.”
“Good,” Henry replied with a nod, “You may speak with Master Wolsey regarding the procurement of troops and provisions, but I have already sent out calls for men and will be in touch with you about further details.” Perhaps it was his imagination but Henry could’ve sworn that a look of distaste passed over Dorset’s face at the mention of Wolsey.
“I will, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Dorset said, giving another bow and then turning to leave.
Henry couldn’t help but feel a bit of elation as Dorset left. He had a very good feeling about this expedition in Gascony. Perhaps he would soon have his place in history alongside his many times great-grandsire Edward III, or the great Lancastrian King Henry V. Perhaps he would even dwarf them both…