January 8, Anno Domini 1587. Yes, I can bear it. I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. But God, I want more than just to endure. I want to offer You a gift by my death. I want to die in a way glorifying You, to atone for all the ways in which I have not glorified You by my life.
Reveal Your presence
And let the vision of Your beauty kill me
Behold, the malady
Of love is incurable
Except in Your presence and before Your face.
That is what my fellow sufferer John of the Cross writes. O, to have the gift of such words! But I must not covet what You choose to give others.…
All is quiet here, nothing happens. Elizabeth has quite forgotten me, leaving me to wait … and wait. My bodily infirmities, that I had neglected—for why patch the roof of a building that is to be demolished?—will soon have to be attended to once again. Bourgoing needs to procure certain herbs for treatment.
O, I hate these small indignities! I should have no more need of herbs!
But forgive my rebellion, Lord.
XXX
Elizabeth hated the New Year’s celebration, with the usual exchange of gifts. Not that she did not receive some costly and unusual gifts—gold saltcellars made in the shape of galleons, jewelled beasts, emerald collars. But she did not want to see the year change from 1586 to 1587. Parliament was reconvening early in the year, and that meant she had less and less time to find a solution to the vexing problem of Mary Queen of Scots. She had to have solved it before facing Parliament.
January did nothing to help her resolve the dilemma. Everything that would nudge her toward executing Mary seemed to occur: there was another assassination plot, this time involving the French embassy. The people were daily becoming agitated as one sensational rumour after another swept the land, all having to do with the Spanish invading, or Mary escaping. Some said that London was on fire, and that the north had erupted in armed rebellion. There had even been some riots in London, with the people demanding that justice to the “Monstrous Dragon” be carried out.
But once done, it can never be undone, she muttered, pacing her room. And such a thing has never before been carried out: the judicial murder of an anointed sovereign. What will it open the door to? The people are forcing me to do it. Today they force me to execute Mary; tomorrow they may just execute a monarch directly on their own authority. They will not even need to persuade some other ruler to do it.
She shuddered, as a world where mob rule was the law of the land suddenly presented itself to her mind.
It will not happen tomorrow, or even the day after, she thought, but it will happen, and I will have caused it to happen.
Yet Robert is also right—what happens when the people have spoken, have acted in accordance with law and procedure, only to be ignored? Might their frustration lead them to the same place, and quicker?
In a flash, she felt a sudden burst of strength. Quickly she called for William Davison, the Secretary of State, and asked him to bring her the death warrant.
As she waited for him to return, she realized that this opportunity would never come again. The French were penned up in their embassy in disgrace, following the discovery of the plot, and could not intercede for Mary. The Scots had abandoned their pleas for her, and no rescuers had come forward. The special Scots envoy, far from pleading for their erstwhile queen, had whispered that “a dead woman biteth not.” It was the season of foul weather, and the Spanish would never send a fleet north at this time. It was now; the time was now, it was fleeting, and such a constellation of events would never repeat themselves.
“Strike or be struck,” Elizabeth repeated to herself over and over like a litany. “Aut fer aut feri, ne feriare, feri. I am a rogue and unfit for my office if I do not press forward.”
Davison appeared promptly, with the death warrant—which had been drawn up several weeks earlier, when the sentence had first been proclaimed—in his hands. He placed it reverently in hers.
She read it slowly, while Davison stood before her.
Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland & c.
To our trusty and well-beloved cousins, George, Earl of Shewsbury, Henry, Earl of Kent, Henry, Earl of Derby, George, Earl of Cumberland, and Henry, Earl of Pembroke, greeting, & c.
Whereas, since the sentence given by you, and others of our Council, against the Queen of Scots, Mary, daughter of James the Fifth, is well known, all Parliament did not only allow and approve the same sentence as just and honourable, but also with all humbleness require, solicit, and press us to direct such further execution against her Person, as they did adjudge her to have duly deserved. They added thereunto that the forbearing thereof was daily certain and undoubted danger, not only unto our own life, but also unto themselves, their posterity, and the public estate of this realm. Whereupon we did publish the sentence by our Proclamation, yet hitherto have forborn to give further satisfaction of said sentence.
And now, we do daily understand how the wisest, greatest, and best-loved of all subjects of inferior degrees, how greatly and deeply, from the bottom of their hearts, they are grieved and afflicted, with daily, yea, hourly fears of our life, if we should forbear the further final execution, as it is deserved, and neglect their general and continual requests, prayers, counsels, and advices, and thereupon, contrary to our natural disposition, being overcome with the evident weight of their counsels, and their daily intercessions, we have condescended to suffer justice to take place, and for the execution thereof to proceed.
We do will, and by Warrant hereby do authorize you, to repair to our castle of Fotheringhay, where the said Queen of Scots is in custody of our right trusty and faithful servant and councillor, Sir Amyas Paulet. Then, taking her into your charge, cause by your commandment execution to be done upon her person, in the presence of yourselves, and the aforesaid Sir Amyas Paulet, and of such other officers of justice as you shall command to attend upon you; and the same to be done in such manner and form, and at such time and place, and by such persons, as you think by your discretion convenient.
And these our Letters Patents, sealed with our Great Seal of England, shall be to you, and to all persons that shall be present, a full sufficient Warrant and discharge forever.
In witness whereof, we have caused these our Letters to be made Patents. Given at our manor of Greenwich, the first day of February, in the twenty-ninth year of our reign.
Elizabeth laid it on her desk and quickly signed it with her bold signature:
Elizabeth R.
Davison was staring at her.
“Well?” she snapped. “Take it to the Lord Chancellor Bromley for the Great Seal. Keep the matter secret. But you might be so kind as to stop at Sir Walsingham’s home, where he lies sick abed. The grief of seeing this will go near to killing him outright.”
But she did not smile as she said it, and Davison did not dare to, either.
She handed him the warrant, still with a stony face. “The execution should be kept as secret as possible, and take place at Fotheringhay.” She paused, then said angrily, “Others who loved me might have spared me this burden! To have been brought to this pass before all the world! I would that some might take it upon themselves to prove their love and loyalty and save me from the censure of the world!”
“Dearest Queen, I—”
“Pray, join Walsingham in writing to Paulet. Urge him to find some way to shorten the life of that Queen, other than—” She pointed at the warrant.
Shaking with fear and excitement, Davison took the precious warrant and rushed to Walsingham’s London house. He found him in bed, his swollen leg propped up on a pillow. But when the warrant was unrolled before his eyes, he sat up like a man seeing a holy vision.
“At last! Can it be?” He read it over and over.
“There is—something else,” murmured Davison. “Her Majesty is loath to carry it out. She wishes to be relieved of the burden. In short, she wants Paulet to
murder the Queen before she can reach the block.”
Walsingham groaned. “Oh, no!”
“And we are commanded to write this ‘suggestion’ to Paulet.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes.”
“So she herself is stooping to that for which the Queen of Scots is condemned to die!” cried Walsingham. “Oh, I am sick indeed!”
When Davison left Walsingham’s house, he carried with him a second paper, addressed to Sir Amyas Paulet.
After our hearty commendations, we find by speech lately uttered by Her Majesty that she doth note in you both a lack of that care and zeal of her service that she looketh for at your hands, in that you have not in all this time found some way to shorten the life of that Queen of Scots, considering the great peril Queen Elizabeth is subject to hourly as long as the Queen of Scots shall live.
And therefore she taketh it most unkindly towards her, that men professing that love towards her that you do, should, for lack of the discharge of your duties, cast the burden on her, knowing as you do her indisposition to shed blood, especially of one of that sex and quality, and so near to her in blood as the said Queen is.
Davison hurried through the night to the Lord Chancellor Bromley’s home, where he obtained the Great Seal of yellow wax. Then together they sought out Cecil, after dispatching the private letter to Fotheringhay.
The next morning, Cecil gathered with the rest of the Privy Councillors, still clutching the precious warrant. Davison described what the Queen had said; he had been called back to her side just that morning.
“She swore a great oath and said she wished to hear no more about it until it was done,” he said. “She had told me to delay a bit having the Great Seal affixed. Then, in the next breath, she said she would it were over and done with.” He shook his head in confusion.
“I know her well,” said Cecil. “We must carry through the order. We must take it upon ourselves. If we all act in unison, the punishment cannot fall on one individual alone. But we must hurry, before she changes her mind! Beale, prepare yourself to leave London immediately for Fotheringhay!”
“Walsingham will procure the executioner,” said Davison. “He considers it his duty.”
The next morning, with Beale safely on his way, accompanied by the earls of Shrewsbury and Kent, Davison found himself called back yet again to Greenwich and Queen Elizabeth’s side.
“Ah! My dear Davison!” she said sweetly. “I had the most peculiar and disturbing dream about you last night!”
“Yes?”
“I dreamed I was forced to run you through with a sword, for having caused the death of the Queen of Scots.” She did not let her voice play with the words, but just said them straight.
“Madam, most gracious Queen—is it your will that the execution proceed?” he said faintly. He wondered where Beale was at that moment.
“God’s breath and liver, yes!” she cried. “Yes, it is my will! I would that it were done!” Then she rounded him and said, “Is there any reply from Paulet?”
“Yes. I just received this as I was leaving.”
She snatched the letter from him and tore it open. Her eyes took in the entire contents at a glance and she flung it to the floor. “Oh, these over-conscientious fools!” She stamped her foot. “God’s angels in Hell! Read this!” She shoved it at him.
Sirs, Walsingham and Davison:
Your letter of yesterday coming to my hands this present day at five in the afternoon, I would not fail according to your directions to return my answer with all possible speed, which I shall deliver unto you with great grief and bitterness of mind. I am so unhappy to have lived to see this unhappy day, in which I am directed by my most gracious sovereign to do an act which God and the law forbids. My good livings and life are at Her Majesty’s disposal, and I am ready so to lose them tomorrow if it shall so please her, acknowledging that I hold them as of her mere and most gracious favour, and do not desire to enjoy them, but with her Highness’ good liking. But God forbid that I should make so foul a shipwreck of my conscience, or leave so great a blot to my poor posterity, to shed blood without law or warrant.
“Oh, these tender fellows, who swore in the Bond to perform great deeds to protect me, but all they perform is words!” cried Elizabeth.
“Madam—I am sure that Paulet loves and honours you,” said Davison.
“Oh, go!” she snapped. “It is time the matter were dispatched! Jesu! It is a shame it is not already done, seeing that I have done all that law and reason can require of me!”
* * *
Three carriages were bumping along the road to Fotheringhay: in one rode Beale, carrying the warrant with the Seal. He reached Fotheringhay in the evening of Sunday, February fifth, two days after he had left London, and only a few hours after Elizabeth had dismissed Davison for the last time. He went straight to the castle and sought out Paulet.
Close on his heels was a closed carriage in which a man dressed all in black velvet sat, a box discreetly tucked under his feet. This was a Mr. Simon Bull, professional executioner, and he carried his axe with him in the box. Walsingham’s servant Digby accompanied him. When they arrived at Fotheringhay, they lodged in an inn, and waited for the summons. No neighbouring nobleman wanted to house them.
Farther back, a third carriage transported the Earl of Shrewsbury and the Earl of Kent to Fotheringhay. Their mission had been disguised under another commission to hear legal cases in Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire. The Queen’s wishes that the execution should take place swiftly and secretly were to be carried out. Shrewsbury looked forlornly at the passing countryside and wished with all the force in his being that he were not involved in this grisly, tragic mission.
The Queen of Scots changed my life, he thought. Keeping her in custody for fourteen years steered my fortunes both at court and in my marriage.… I would it had never happened. But would I have been content never to have known her? Oh—had I not known her, yes. But now, never …
He felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He was going to have to tell her what was to happen, and then he would have to witness it. He did not know if he could bear it.
XXXI
“What is all that howling?” asked Jane Kennedy. Outside the tower, voices were rising.
Mary gestured to her to look out the window. She herself found that movement was so painful that she tried to ration herself to only the most urgent tasks.
Jane pulled open the shutters and gave a gasp.
“It’s a—a bright light in the heavens—” she cried. “No—a flame!” she shrieked, and drew back. “At the window!”
As Mary watched, flames seemed to encircle the window frame; little darts of fire shot into the room. Alarmed, she jumped up and went to the window.
The flames had withdrawn, seemingly sucked up into the air. Outside, on the ground, the guards were moaning and rubbing their eyes. The light had blinded them.
Then, suddenly, the flames struck again, withdrew, struck again, before finally fading away.
Mary clung to the windowsill, gasping for breath.
“It is here,” she said. “This is a portent.”
Below, people were milling. She heard the guards say, “Nowhere else—just here, under her windows…” They looked up, fear in their eyes. “It’s her.”
Mary closed the shutters, her hands shaking.
* * *
She lay on her bed, stiff and aching. Her body seemed to have undergone a rebellion: it did not want to rise.
When it was reasonably light, she called Bourgoing to her side. “Do you remember the herbs that helped me when I was so rigid in my knees? Do you think it is possible to get any more? I must regain my mobility. For when the summons for my death comes, I would not wish to be unable to rise from my bed. It might be construed as reluctance or fear!” Her voice was firm.
“I will ask Paulet, Madam,” he said. “In the meantime, have your ladies massage your limbs, and put hot wet cloths on them.”
&nb
sp; * * *
After the midday meal, Bourgoing approached Paulet and confided to him their desperate state. “She can hardly bend her limbs. There are certain herbs that can help. Would it be possible—could you allow me to go into the fields to collect them?”
Paulet looked uncomfortable, and less sure of himself than usual. “Write down the names of the plants you require, and I will send someone out for them,” he finally said.
“Gladly would I, but I know not the English names.” Seeing Paulet’s frown, he added, “I am not trying to be difficult. It is the truth, God help me.”
Paulet wrinkled his face and bit his lips. “I will consult with Sir Drue Drury, my new associate here, and if he agrees, tomorrow you may go out with the apothecary.”
“Outside the castle?” Bourgoing was surprised.
“Yes. Ask me again tomorrow, on Monday. Remind me, lest I forget.”
* * *
When Bourgoing reported this back to Mary, she was puzzled. “No one has been allowed beyond the castle walls since we arrived,” she said. “And to think, it is no ruse. Perhaps this proves that it is always best to be truthful.” She laughed.
That evening, as the last prayers were being said, Willie Douglas waited and then whispered to her, “Someone has arived from the outside.”
She continued with her prayers, but indicated to him to wait. When the few remaining servants were dismissed, she drew Willie aside.
“Ah, Willie, what did you see? Your eyes remain as sharp as ever.”
“Someone whose arrival has created a great stir. Paulet and Drury met him in the courtyard, and whisked him in quickly, looking up continually to see if anyone was watching.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. I have never seen him before.”
* * *
The next afternoon, Bourgoing sought out Paulet about the herbs.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 124