“Enough!” said Bromley, raising his hands. “It is not Queen Elizabeth who is on trial here today!”
“And, Madam,” said Cecil, “when the last treaty was being negotiated for your liberty—the Association with your son the King—what was your response? Parry was sent here by your pensioner, Morgan, to murder our Queen!”
“No!” cried Mary. “I knew nothing of this! If Morgan did this wicked thing, he acted without my knowledge.”
“Ha!” said Cecil. “We know you are in back of all these plots. Oh, you think to deceive us, but we know you for what you are! Daughter of sedition, indeed!”
Mary stared at him. “My lord,” she finally said, “you are my enemy.”
“Yea!” cried Cecil. “I am the enemy of all Queen Elizabeth’s enemies.”
She looked out at the faces of the men, flushed and agitated. Their spurs clinked as they shifted in their seats. Soon they would be out in the October air, riding south, laughing, stopping at taverns. They would imitate her and mock her, putting on little plays for the other patrons. Someone would wrap a black blanket around himself, drape a white veil over his head, and say, “I am an anointed Queen…” in a squeaky voice.
“I will speak only to a full Parliament, in the presence of the Queen and her Council,” she said. “For I see that it is extreme folly to stand for judgement here, where all are so evidently and notoriously prejudiced against me.” She stepped away from her chair. “I forgive you all,” she said to the whole assembly. “My lords and gentlemen, I place my cause in the hands of God.”
She turned and made her way slowly to the nearby door, the one through which she had entered. As she did so, she passed by a table of lawyers frantically taking notes. “May God keep me from having to do with you all again,” she said with a smile.
Then, before Cecil or Bromley could stop her, she disappeared through the door.
Cecil rose and called for order.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! You have heard all the proceedings. Our gracious Queen calls us to reassemble in London to pronounce sentence, ten days from now.” He held aloft the scribbled instructions from Elizabeth. “You are free now to go!”
With a burst of energy, the men leapt up from their chairs and benches.
From her window, Mary saw the courtyard swarming with men, their bright mantles making a rich pattern against the dull stones. Soon they would swirl away, carrying their news throughout the countryside.
She lay down and shut her eyes. When she arose and looked out again, the courtyard was empty.
XXVIII
Walsingham dragged his sore leg as he walked alongside Cecil, who was also limping, because of a riding injury. The two men made their way painfully from the boat landing to the path leading up to Walsingham’s country house, Barn Elms.
The weather had remained warm very late; although it was the end of November, neither man needed a mantle, and the sun was radiant on their shoulders. Behind them the Thames lapped at its banks, and there were still many boats plying the waters.
“My infirmity is caused by a fall,” said Cecil. “To think that in attempting to speed my journeys, I have only succeeded in laming myself.” His right leg was splinted and bandaged.
“Mine is caused by Her Majesty’s stubbornness,” said Walsingham. “Truly, I am at a loss as to how to proceed. My stomach churns, my knee swells, my leg bleeds.…” His voice rose in distress, and Cecil looked at him in alarm. Was he about to cry?
They passed the rows of tobacco plants that Walsingham had set out; they seemed to be thriving.
“She does not care!” Walsingham muttered. “She cares not for our hard work, our diligence, her own safety … it has all been for naught, Cecil, for naught! The Serpent will live.”
Cecil put his arm around him. “Nay, nay. Progress is being made. The Serpent has been pronounced guilty by the commission, and both houses of Parliament have petitioned the Queen to proceed to the execution.”
“But she refuses! She merely thanks them for their pains and says she cannot give an answer! She asks them to find some other way—she says that she would accept a personal apology from Mary—God knows, she cannot seem to do that which she needs to do for her own good!”
Cecil sighed. He looked over at a large boulder. “Come, let us sit here in the sunshine. It will do us good.” He settled himself with a sigh, extending his hurt leg. “You must understand that she is in a terrible position. She has an abhorrence of being seen to shed blood. Perhaps she wishes to efface the ghost of her father. Perhaps in some corner of her mind she equates Mary with her own mother, Anne Boleyn. Both were brought up in France, both were accused of indiscretions, both convicted of seeking the death of the monarch. Yet Elizabeth and many others can never be sure of Boleyn’s guilt; perhaps Elizabeth wishes to atone for it this way. Who can say?”
“Perhaps she is merely indecisive,” snorted Walsingham. “Or cowardly.”
“The Serpent used her trial as a showcase for her own eloquence and wit,” said Cecil. “So, they say, did Anne Boleyn. But it availed them nothing. And as for Mary, even her supporters were forced to admit that the evidence against her was overwhelming. Still”—his voice trailed off—“she was most impressive.”
“Now you sound as if you were in love with her!”
“Nay. I spoke true. I am the enemy of all Queen Elizabeth’s enemies.”
“I was disappointed in her. She was just a stout middle-aged woman mouthing pieties and platitudes, and oozing with self-pity.” Walsingham winced as he massaged his leg. “Like Katherine of Aragon. No wonder Henry VIII shut her up in a tower. Those tedious, artificial speeches…” He shook his head. “Instead of exciting pity, they had the opposite effect. Disgust!”
“The Earl of Leicester is returning,” said Cecil suddenly. “Perhaps the Queen will listen to him, when all else fails. He has been urging her to action, but letters are not so persuasive as a personal appeal.”
“Meanwhile the Scottish and French ambassadors have already begun their agitating on her behalf, further eroding Her Majesty’s resolve. And it does not help that the Serpent has embraced martyrdom and wants Elizabeth to have her publicly executed. In order to thwart her, Elizabeth may keep her alive! I think that filthy and wicked creature of Scotland has been ordained of God for our punishment! Oh, Cecil! What a thankless task we perform!”
Cecil shrugged. “Let her act out her pitiable martyrdom,” he said. “The most wicked criminals have God on their lips at all times, for God is the only one who can stomach them.”
“Oh, let Lord Leicester come soon!” Walsingham turned his sad eyes toward the heavens. “Work your magic on the Queen!”
* * *
Elizabeth stood before her mirror in the privacy of her chamber at Richmond. She was wearing only her chemise, and her bare feet stuck out from under its hem. Her wig was gone, and her natural hair had been released to fall over her shoulders. Shorn of all her earthly glorifications of jewellery, lace, brocades, padding, and cosmetics, she stared at what was left.
If she squinted, she could claim she had changed little since she first came to the throne: still slender, her natural hair still golden red, most of her teeth still with her. She was fifty-three now, and her childbearing years were over. Spared from motherhood, her body had retained its girlish lines and an unusual youthfulness. Yet she knew, too, that her last romance had passed with her fertility. There had been no more courtships after the one with the Frog.
I kept my virginity, and my virginity has kept me, she thought, gazing at herself. And I am thankful.
She drew her robe about her and twisted her hair up, fastening it with a silver clasp. She poured out a small portion of sweet Cyprus wine and took a sip. Her abstemiousness in eating and drinking had helped to preserve her health as well.
At my age, my father the King was marvellously fat, she thought. I remember someone said that three of the biggest men in the kingdom could fit into his doublet. I have now lived almost as long
as he did; he died when he was fifty-five, and he had long called himself “the old man.” But I do not feel like “the old woman”!
Death … I do not feel death near, not from natural causes, but …
She finished the wine and sat staring at the inlaid pattern of her desk. On the desk was a memento mori, a skull. And in her open prayer book was a page showing death grabbing innocent people: death as the artificer, whispering “No compass or art can cause me depart.” Another motto was engraved on the tomb of a recumbent knight: “No one device, no art, no toil, could make us give death the foil.” She shuddered and closed the book.
She ran her hands over her cheeks, feeling the pointed cheekbones just beneath the skin.
She had seldom felt so beset as in this, her fifty-third year. Her spinsterhood was now settled and unchangeable. Robert Dudley, her own Robert, Earl of Leicester, had now been remarried for seven years. For the past year his courtly presence had been denied her, as he had been away commanding the English forces in the Netherlands. She had been disappointed in his performance there, and in the revelation of the extent of his ambition. Yet she had missed him by her side in England.
The war in the Netherlands had been a ghastly mistake. The Treasury was beginning to run dry, in spite of her vigilant thrift. Little by little she was being drawn into the wider, all-out war of religion that she had so striven to avoid; relations with Spain were becoming more and more strained; soon open hostilities would break out. She was being forced into the role of universal champion of Protestantism—by circumstances.
And then there was the Queen of Scots business.
No one seemed to understand Elizabeth’s dilemma, her quandary. No one was sympathetic to her reluctance to execute her royal cousin. She was completely alone.
In spite of Parliament, in spite of devoted servants like Cecil and Walsingham, in spite of thousands of loyal subjects who proclaim themselves ready to die for me, only I have the power to act, she thought. It is I who must sign the death warrant, and it is I who must bear the entire blame. In the eyes of the world I stand alone.
That is the true burden of kingship: ultimately, I must decide alone and bear the consequences, she thought. Until now I have been able to share that burden with my councillors and people; we have acted together in all things. But although they urge me to this, it is my decision and mine alone.
Is Mary guilty? Indeed, yes. It is not justice that brings her to the block this time; if justice had been served, she would have gone years ago. It is long overdue.
She unwrapped a miniature of the Queen of Scots that she had kept for years. It showed her young, as the fair, lucky ruler just mounting her throne in Scotland. Then, in the same paper, she drew out the diamond ring that Mary had sent her upon her arrival in England as a fugitive, claiming that it entitled her to Elizabeth’s help. The little ring sparkled in the candlelight. Elizabeth turned it this way and that, as if she would see something in it this time that she had missed before.
This is just a toy, she thought. It is impossible to believe that this little thing has brought about such momentous results—that a queen may die because of this ring.
May die? Many have died already. It is neither dream nor toy, but a true memento mori.
* * *
The next morning, Elizabeth dressed in her most flattering colours—russet and gold—and fastened the black pearls of the Queen of Scots around her neck, to make her aware all day of Mary’s presence. The Lords had sold them to her long ago, when Mary had first been swept from her throne. Beautiful things—they were not truly black, but a deep, opalescent purplish grey, their surfaces gleaming like grapes still on the vine under a late autumn sun. So much had Mary lost … Elizabeth’s makeup was skilfully applied, to simulate the flush of youth, and her best wig, the one with the thickest, shiniest curls, was put on. Now the creature in the mirror was a heightened version of the pale, slight figure of the night before; now Gloriana shone forth in the sunlight in the dazzle of majesty.
Robert Dudley was coming, and she wanted to be as she always had been for him. Time must never intrude on them—nor wives, nor other courtiers. Lettice Knollys and Christopher Hatton and Walter Raleigh were only appendages to the two, forever one: Robert and Elizabeth.
She waited in her privy chamber. Outside there was attenuated sunshine, thin and cold. Now she heard the footfalls, and knew he was almost here.
“Robert!” She rose as he came into the room.
He was stout now, and red-faced, and losing his hair. But that was of no moment; it was not even seen; it was not really him, but just a jesting overlay. The real Robert was unchanging, as was the real Elizabeth, and they were always young and beautiful.
“My Queen!” He fell to his knees and kissed her hand. “Oh, now I am truly home!”
“Stand, my dear,” she said, drawing him up. “Now I am safe again!”
They stood looking at each other for several long moments. Then Elizabeth waved him to a seat, offering him a drink of heated wine.
“My most beloved majesty,” he said, “I fear you will not be safe until … you be moved to do what your people petition you to do.”
“Have they sent you?” she asked sharply. “Cecil, and Walsingham? To try to persuade me?”
“No, they have not,” he answered quietly. His brown eyes were full only of concern for her. “Walsingham lies sick in his home; he has spent himself in your service and now is grieved and fearful. But his part is over. However, Parliament has met and decided that you must proceed to carry out the sentence against the Queen of Scots.”
“Must? Must?” she cried. “Who is Parliament to tell me what I ‘must’ do? Who rules here? The crown or Parliament?”
“The crown,” he answered promptly. “Parliament has no power to carry out the sentence. If you do not publish the sentence, and put your signature to the death warrant, it cannot be carried out. She will live until you decide she must die. It is that simple.”
“I know that!” she snapped. “Why do you think I am so tortured?”
“But,” said Robert, “your genius as a ruler has rested in your being always in perfect accord and harmony with your people. You reflect them as still water does the clouds; together you have formed a seamless whole. You speak of being married to your people, and I above all, know how true that is. You are one flesh with them. And they are now certain, and resolved, that this danger to themselves and to you must be removed. If you disregard their wishes, you show that you take your safety and theirs lightly. They will not forgive that, nor forget it.”
“Oooh.” She crossed her arms over her stomach and bent over as if she had a pain. The pearls rubbed against her arms. “I know you are right,” she finally said.
“You have asked Parliament to find another way. They have searched and declared that there is no other way. You called them to help you bear the burden—”
“No! I called them because—because it would satisfy the world better, because I wish even my enemies to know that I was just, and so they could never accuse me of tyranny or hasty actions!”
Robert laughed. “Hasty actions! No, you are certainly not guilty of that, never, in any way! Why, if you had to select a symbol of your reign, you could choose the tortoise: wise, cautious, slow-moving, peace-loving.”
Elizabeth smiled now as well. She stroked the pearls, as if she would call forth some spirit to do her bidding. “And long-lived, I hope.” The skull flitted through her mind.
“Not if Mary and her partisans have their way,” said Robert. “And no man knows what tomorrow can bring.”
No one device, no art, no toil, could make us give death the foil.
“If she should outlive you,” continued Robert cautiously, “and sickly people sometimes live to a great age, then she might inherit your throne. Catholicism would be restored, and all your wisdom and compromise would be undone. You and your people are one, but she and those same people would be at odds, just as she and her people were in Sco
tland. And you know what happened there. Spare your people this possibility.”
“Do you remember, Robert, what I said long ago?” she suddenly asked. “I said I was their anointed Queen, and I would never be constrained to do anything by force. Yet that is what has happened—that is why I hate it so!”
“I know not what you mean.” His face was puzzled.
“First I was forced to allow Babington and the conspirators to be tried. Once they had been tried and found guilty, I was forced to have them executed. I hoped that that would satisfy the people, and spare Mary, as did the execution of Norfolk. But no! They made it clear that it was Mary’s head they wanted, not the conspirators’. They would not be satisfied! They blamed her for ensnaring these poor young men. So then I was forced to allow Mary to be tried. Once she was tried, I was forced to call Parliament to try to mollify the foreign powers. And once Parliament was involved, it pressed most diligently for her execution. I have been led step by step; I have been constrained by force!”
“There are some things that even you must obey,” said Robert. “Not Parliament itself, but the sentiment in back of it. The time for legal niceties and hesitation is past. The Queen of Scots must die.”
She clenched her fists and beat them helplessly against her sides.
“If you fail to carry through,” Robert went on, “then what becomes of the law of the land? It will be seen that no law has any force. We are a country of laws; we pride ourselves on our legal system. To evade it is to step back into barbarism.”
“But to execute a crowned queen!” she cried. “Such a thing has never been done. What will happen?”
“What will happen if you do not?” he asked. “Pray, do not put more stock in the opinion of foreign powers than in that of your own people.”
“What will France do? What will Scotland do?”
“The French will do nothing. They have long since ceased to care what happens to her. As for Scotland … James must, of necessity, make public noise about his mother. But in private, he will choose his own best interests, which are to remain on good terms with England. He enjoys his pension, and will not jeopardize the treaty he has just signed with you, with its implied understanding of his inheritance, for all the mothers in Christendom. And especially not that mother. You remember what he said when he was told she had been taken in the Babington Plot? ‘Now she must drink the ale she has brewed.’ No, he’ll sit quietly.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 122