My little love-Ben Chilwell
After six years together, four years of fun and chaos and two years of blissful marriage you and Ben had decided to start trying for a baby, you both felt ready and couldn’t wait to have a little Chilwell running around the place, but most importantly you couldn’t wait to start the next chapter in your lives together, going through the trials and tribulations of parenthood, watching your little one grow and both of you agreeing a little family together would be your biggest achievement.
You’re trying, every spare moment you get you’re undressing each other and having what’s felt like the best sex of your relationship, each time is amazing and special because it means more when you’re trying for a baby. Soft touches and sweet nothings whispered as you lie in bed together, “That was the one,” Ben whispers hand softly on your bare tummy, “You think?” You turn to face him and his cheeks are a little rosey, “I do, definitely put a baby in you then,” he kisses you and you smile into it, “I hope so,”
Of course he was right, three weeks exactly after that day you’re feeling awful, tired and achey, nauseous and dizzy. He’s out all day at training and you’re texting him to pick up a few tests on the way home. “I got five,” he’s rushing through the door and you can see how excited he is, “Good,” you giggle and he’s ushering you into the bathroom, “Hurry up and pee on the stick babe,” he takes a second to realise what he’s said before he laughs, “Never thought I’d say that but here we are,” you smile too and do everything the test says, “Three minutes,” you sigh and he’s pulling you into him. “Three minutes till we find out you’re pregnant,” he’s kissing your cheek over and over and you pull away from him, “If I’m not though it’s okay, we can keep trying,” you don’t want to get his hopes up too much. “I know but I’ve just got this feeling.” The timer goes off and you breathing quickens, “You look at it,” is all you say before he picks up the test.
“Positive, three weeks pregnant,” you’ve never seen his smile so wide and he’s scooping you up into his arms, your hand covering your mouth as you cry, “W-we’re having a baby,” you stutter and he laughs but you can tell he’s crying too, “A baby,” you put your hands on the side of his head and rest your forehead on his, “A little Chilwell,” you say, he sighs in relief, both of you finally getting what you’ve always wanted, “Our own little love,”
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November 28th 1489 saw the birth of Margaret Tudor, the sister of Henry VIII of England.
Maybe Margaret was destined to be Queen of Scotland, she was baptised on November 30th 1489, St Andrews day.
From an early age, Margaret was part of Henry VII’s negotiations for important marriages for his children and her betrothal to James IV of Scotland was made official by a treaty in 1502 even though discussions had been underway since 1496. Part of the delay was the wait for a papal dispensation because James’ great-grandmother was Joan Beaufort, sister of John Beaufort, who was the great-grandfather of Margaret Tudor. That made James IV and Margaret Tudor fourth cousins, which was within the prohibited degree. Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, acted as a proxy for James IV of Scotland for his betrothal to Margaret Tudor at Richmond in January 1502 before the couple was married in person in August 1503.
The Tudor writer Richard Grafton escorted Margaret to Scotland and it’s seems he wasn’t too taken with us, he later wrote….“Then this lady was taken to the town of Edinburgh, and there the day after King James IV in the presence of all his nobility married the said princess, and feasted the English lords, and showed them jousts and other pastimes, very honourably, after the fashion of this rude country. When all things were done and finished according to their commission the earl of Surrey with all the English lords and ladies returned to their country, giving more praise to the manhood than to the good manner and nature of Scotland.”
It’s amazing we survived as a race, let alone as Scots, given the mortality rate, even in cases where the mothers well better off, as in Margaret’s case, she had a horrible time trying to provide James IV with an heir. Her first pregnancy was in 1506 and she gave birth to a son, James, in February 1507 who lived about a year. Margaret next gave birth to a daughter in July 1508 who only survived for a few hours. In 1509, Margaret’s father died and her brother was now Henry VIII, the new king of England. Early in that year Margaret became pregnant once again and gave birth to another son, this one named Arthur, in October. However, this child also died at a young age, only nine months old.
Margaret’s next child was born on April 11, 1512 at Linlithgow and named James. This child, unlike all those before him, lived to adulthood and at little over a year old he was to succeed his father as James V. The Queen became pregnant yet again shortly afterwards and gave birth to another daughter, who died a few hours later.
It was during Margaret’s final pregnancy that James IV and the Flower of Scotland s, died on the battlefield at Flodden.
Margaret had thoughts of becoming regent for James V, but it was unheard of for women to rule, so needed a husband, unfortunately for her she chose a man seen by his counterparts as a fool. Her second husband was the powerful Scottish lord Archibald Douglas, 6th Earl of Angus. And so it was that John Stuart, Duke of Albany (a cousin to the king, and next in line to the throne after little Alexander’s death), was invited by the Scottish lords to be Regent. Albany had been living in France with his mother’s relatives and served three French kings - Charles VIII, Louis XII and Francis I. Albany arrived in Scotland in May 1515.
By this time Margaret was pregnant, yes again!. As an English woman among Scots she felt ill at ease and fled to England, James V had by this time been seized from her by the Lords. She gave birth to a daughter, Margaret Douglas in October. Margaret fell very ill after her daughter’s birth and nearly died, her Douglas abandoned his wife about this time and returned to Scotland. Margaret stayed in England for about a year before returning to Scotland under promise of safe conduct in June 1517.
The marriage of Margaret and Angus turned out to be disastrous. While he was in Scotland and she was in England, Angus had taken a mistress and was living off of Margaret’s Scottish revenues. The next few years were terrible for Margaret, with a horrible marriage, no money, no power and very little contact with her son James.
In 1524 Margaret, in alliance with the Earl of Arran, overthrew Albany’s regency and her son was invested with his full royal authority. James V was still only 12, so Margaret was finally able to guide her son’s government, but only for a short time as her husband, Angus took control of the young King. Margaret was finally able to attain an annulment of her marriage to Angus from Pope Clement VII and by the next April she had married her third husband, Henry Stewart, who had previously been her treasurer.
Things got serious for a time when her second hubbie, arranged for the third hubbie to be arrested as no permission had been granted by the Lords for this marriage, it was all resolved by 1528, whe James V was able to rule for himself, being 16. He appointed Henry Stewart as Lord Methven and proclaimed the Douglas’s as traitors, Angus fled to England.
Margaret’s relationship with her son was relatively good, although she pushed for closer relations with England, where James preferred an alliance with France. In this, James won out and was married to Princess Madeleine, daughter of the King of France, in January 1537. Madeleine was a poorly woman and died in July she is buried at Holyrood Abbey.
After his first wife’s death, James sought another bride from France, this time taking Marie de Guise.
By this same time, Margaret’s own marriage had followed a path similar to her second one when Methven took a mistress and lived off his wife’s money.
On October 18th, 1541, Margaret Tudor died in Methven Castle in Scotland, probably from a stroke. She was buried at the Carthusian Abbey of St. John’s in Perth.
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