5
“No, no!” Margaret Stuart, née Tudor, cried out, her heart shattering as the weight of her beloved mother’s death struck her like a cruel tempest. The news had arrived just moments after she had welcomed her own child into the world, a joyous occasion now tainted by profound sorrow. She had learned that her mother, Elizabeth of York, had given birth to another daughter after little Katherine, her darling sister whom she had only met once before leaving England for her new life in Scotland. As her eyes locked onto her newborn son, James—named in honor of her royal husband and the child’s father—she felt an intricate tapestry of joy interwoven with grief.
“My lady queen, would you like me to fetch you some warm milk?” one of the ladies from her household asked gently, her voice laced with concern as she noted the turmoil etched across Margaret’s youthful visage. Overwhelmed by the tide of emotions crashing inside her, Margaret could not bring herself to look up. She yearned to share the joyous news of her son, a living testament to her status as queen and devoted wife, reminiscent of how her mother had celebrated her own child’s arrival with unbridled joy. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Margaret summoned her strength, steeling her features into a mask of royal composure—the very demeanor her mother would have worn in such trying times.
“No, please send for the king, my lord husband,” Margaret replied slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her newborn son’s warm forehead. The comforting heat of his skin offered her a brief sanctuary amid the swirling storm of grief that enveloped her.
A few moments later, James entered the bedchamber, his presence commanding yet tender, softening the room with a protective aura. Margaret raised her gaze to meet his; he was older than she was—typical for royal unions—but that discrepancy brought her no discomfort. As a 15-year-old now thrust into the role of mother, she felt adrift without her own mother’s guidance to help her navigate the intricate dance of parenthood, just as Elizabeth of York had done for her brothers, Arthur and Henry.
"James," she whispered, her voice trembling with unrestrained emotion as she watched him take in the sight of his pretty and young wife, his expression a blend of sorrow and understanding. He too carried the scars of loss, having felt the absence of maternal love. With a soft sigh, he directed his attention to their little namesake, his gaze filled with pride and affection for their son, the future heir.
"We shall try for a daughter next; she shall be named Elizabeth, in honor of your lady mother," James whispered, his tone soothing and resolute. In this fragile moment, he wished to lighten the weight pressing on his lovely queen’s heart. Margaret nodded at his words, a small flicker of hope igniting within her as she found solace in his promise amidst the shadows of her grief.