“Have I your permission to go, sir?” he asked brightly.
Paulet refused to meet his eyes. “Not at this time,” he replied. “Peradventure the Queen will not need them.”
* * *
“… and so I am not allowed to go,” said Bourgoing bitterly.
“I see, then, that I will have no need of the herbs. You may cease your searching for them,” said Mary.
It was Monday, February sixth. Outside of the exchange between Paulet and Bourgoing, nothing unusual happened. Had the summons indeed come? Mary wondered. Perhaps the mysterious man was just on routine business. Fotheringhay was a building, and a building had many needs, especially in winter. There were leaking roofs, plugged-up chimneys, flooded stables. All these things have nothing to do with me, she told herself.
I will bide here forever, so it seems, she thought, lying on her bed, feigning sleep. Each day will melt into the next, and finally weeds and briars will smother the entire castle and we will be utterly forgotten … forever and ever.
Jesus saith unto him, If I will that he tarry til I come, what is that to thee?
If You wish me to wait and wait and wait, why, then, I must obey, she thought wearily.
* * *
The next day was gloomy, with swirling mists on the ground and a sun that showed only as a fuzzy grey light. With great difficulty, Mary rose and took her breakfast, then read quietly until time for the midday meal. It was a meagre one, as little was available this time of year: some limp carrots, musty cabbage, and dried fish. But she had little appetite.
I must lie down, she thought. I hate to give in to it, but I need to stretch out.
Slowly she rose and, and bracing the small of her back, felt the bumps of her backbone. They were tender and aching.
“Madam, there is someone here,” said Willie, coming from the outer chamber. “Someone you know well.”
“Who?” A sudden stab of fear gripped her.
“It is the Earl of Shrewsbury. He would fain speak with you.”
“I was going to take my rest. I must lie down, I fear. But allow me to settle myself, and then admit him to my bedside.”
Shrewsbury! What was he doing here? Surely not—no, Elizabeth would not require that of him—of either of them!
She arranged a coverlet over her swollen feet, and pushed a large pillow behind her head. “Pray, admit the Earl,” she told Jane, and lay back and waited for the door to open.
Shrewsbury came in hesitantly. Behind him were two other men, as well as Paulet and Drury.
“Welcome, friend,” she said. She was surprised at how very good it was to see him; she had missed him without being consciously aware of it.
He looked stricken; his eyes were puffy and streaked with dark rings.
“It grieves me to have come on this mission,” he finally mumbled, “although it gives me great joy to see you.”
Robert Beale now stepped up to the bed. “As you know, I am clerk of Her Majesty’s Privy Council,” he said softly. “I bring—” he opened a velvet pouch and extracted a square piece of parchment with the yellow Great Seal dangling from it.
There it was. The warrant. Mary had never imagined how it would actually feel to see it. It looked enormous, deadly. For an instant her courage drained away. This was real, not a story.
“The warrant for my execution,” she said in a faint voice. “Fear not to read it to me. That soul is not worthy of the joys of Heaven forever, whose body cannot endure for a moment the stroke of the executioner.”
Beale read the warrant, word for word.
Mary listened attentively. Also with all humbleness require, solicit, and press us to direct such further execution against her Person … taking her into your charge, cause by your commandment execution to be done upon her person … as you think by your discretion convenient.…
She bowed her head. “In the name of God, these tidings are welcome, and I bless and praise Him that the end to all my bitter sufferings is at hand.” Her knee was throbbing. Now it was of no moment; soon it would be stopped forever. “When is it to be?” she asked.
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock,” said Shrewsbury, his voice unsteady.
“Eight o’clock? This time tomorrow, I shall have been dead four hours already?” she cried. “That is not enough time to prepare!”
“Madam, it is two months since you were read the sentence,” said Paulet. “You should have prepared already.”
“I have no power to prolong the time. You must die tomorrow at the time we have named,” said Shrewsbury apologetically.
“I will have to—there are my servants to be provided for, they who have sacrificed everything for my sake, and who, in losing me, will lose everything; my will to be written—I could not do it until the very last minute, as I knew not from day to day what money or possessions I would retain,” she said. “I will need my papers and account books.”
“That is not possible. They are still in London, whence they were taken from Chartley,” said Paulet.
“Pray, restore my dear chaplain, Father de Préau. You have separated us for the last few weeks. Now I need him to help me in the preparations my church deems necessary before death.”
“No, that cannot be allowed. It is against the law of the land, and our consciences. However, we will permit a Protestant chaplain to attend you,” said Paulet.
“Nay, that avails me nothing!” she said. “I must die in the religion in which I have been baptized.”
“Madam, your life would be the death of our religion, and your death will be its preservation!” burst out the Earl of Kent.
She smiled, as if he had given her a great gift. “Ah! I did not flatter myself that I was worthy of such a death, and I humbly receive it as a token that I am one of God’s chosen servants at the last.” Her joy transformed her face.
The men made ready to leave her bedside.
“Has the Queen sent any reply to my requests?” asked Mary. “Am I to be buried in France?”
“We do not know,” said Shrewsbury. His voice quavered, and Paulet shot a look at him.
“Oh, sir!” cried Bourgoing, tears streaming down his face. “The humblest individual, nay, the greatest criminal, would have been granted a longer time to prepare for death! If you have no pity on this noble Queen, at least have some on us, her servants, who will be rendered destitute if she has no means of providing for us!”
“I have no power to prolong the time!” said Shrewsbury, leaving the chamber. The door slammed shut.
Jane Kennedy fell weeping on the bed.
Mary looked around at all her grieving servants. Suddenly she was strong again; she had work to do.
She touched Jane’s head. “Up, Jane Kennedy!” she said in a loud voice. “Leave weeping, and be doing, for the time is short!”
She clapped her hands to get the attention of the others. “Did I not tell you, my children, that it would come to this? Blessed be God that it has come, and fear and sorrow are at an end. Weep not, neither lament, for it will avail nothing, but rejoice rather that you see me so near the end of my long troubles and afflictions!”
She swung herself out of bed and went to her desk, where she busied herself in dividing up her few remaining things, the little money she had left, and wrote the name of each recipient on little pieces of paper. She tried to account for every object, wishing she had more to give them than these trinkets.
“Bring supper early,” she told Bourgoing. “I wish to eat my last meal and then attend to the truly important things.”
The meal was served without ceremony, as her rod and her dais had been taken away, along with her priest. Everyone sat weeping, choking and unable to eat.
“Did you mark how they said I was to die for my religion?” said Mary. “Oh, glorious thought, that I should be chosen to die for such a cause!” She took a large cup and filled it with wine, and handed it to Bourgoing.
“Now I wish each of you to drink to me, and pledge to me for the last time,”
she said.
Bourgoing fell to his knees before her, and raising the cup, scarcely able to speak, he whispered, “God grant you peace.”
Jane Kennedy followed him, likewise kneeling. “I will follow you even to the block, and I will never be unfaithful, nor forget you,” she said. Her eyes were brimming, but she kept her voice steady. She passed the cup to Elizabeth Curie.
“I hereby swear to keep your name burnished bright before all men, and to carry on your cause until the end of my days,” she said.
“I helped you to escape from Lochleven,” said Willie Douglas, “and now I must stand by helplessly as you go to a worse fate you cannot escape.”
“Ah, Willie, you are indeed a faithful servant. But remember, I am escaping from my troubles. The Queen my cousin does me a great benefit.”
Old Balthazzar knelt, “I have it ready,” he said. “The dress. Would that I had some other gift to offer.”
“There is none I would so gladly accept,” she said.
After all had passed before her, she took the cup herself and drank to them. “Farewell, my good friends all. If I have done you any wrong, pray forgive me.”
The supper over, Mary took her place in a chair in the farther end of the room and asked Jane to bring her her few remaining jewels and treasures, so that she might assign them. One by one she held them up and examined them.
“These are the relics of my former splendour,” she said. “And they will go out as my envoys from this place.” She took a sapphire ring from her hand, having a large square-cut stone. “This is for my brave kinsman, Lord Claud Hamilton.”
Other jewels were to go to the King and Queen of France, to Catherine de Médicis, and to the Guises. Bourgoing was given her velvet-bound music book. “Pray remember all our winter evenings, singing,” she said.
“I will carry this gold rosary to the execution,” Mary said. “But on the scaffold I will give it to you, Jane. I wish it to be delivered after my death to Anne Dacres, the faithful Catholic daughter-in-law of the Duke of Norfolk.” She touched the diamond she still wore about her neck. “It is time this were taken off,” she said. “I promised him to wear it until death. And now it has come.” She handed it to Jane. “Likewise I will carry the Agnus Dei to the block, but afterwards I wish you to have it, Elizabeth. Do not let the—the executioner take it.”
Elizabeth burst out crying again.
* * *
It was now past nine o’clock. There was still the will to be done. She hunched over the writing table and tried, from memory, to account for all contingencies. She appointed the Duc de Guise, Archbishop Beaton, Bishop Leslie, and du Ruisseau, the chancellor of her dowry in France, to be her executors. There were arrangements to be made for requiem masses for her soul, charitable bequests for poor children and priests at Reims, a contribution to the seminarians. Her women were to be allowed to take her coach and horses to London and sell them for passage back to their home countries.
She finished it and rolled it up. Her hand was aching. But there were yet other letters to be done. Since she could not make a confession in person to de Préau, she must do it on paper. Wearily she took up the pen in her stiff hand and tried to think, imagining herself speaking. In the deep shadows in the corners of the room, she could picture death himself standing by and watching her, leaning, skeletal arms crossed, empty skull staring.
Dear Father in Christ,
I beg you to keep vigil and prayer with me this night, my last on earth. I freely confess my sins, knowing that they are many.…
The hour approached midnight. She waited, hushed, to hear any sound of a chime formally dividing the days of February seventh and eighth, but there was nothing.
She took out another sheet of paper and began her last letter, to Henri III, King of France.
8 Feb. 1587.
Royal brother, having by God’s will, for my sins I think, thrown myself into the power of the Queen my cousin, at whose hands I have suffered much for almost twenty years, I have finally been condemned to death by her Estates.…
I have not had time to give you a full account of everything that has happened, but if you will listen to my doctor and my other unfortunate servants, you will learn the truth and how, thanks be to God, I scorn death.…
She looked up uneasily, peering with all her power of sight into the dark corners. Did she really mean that? Best not to scorn him aforehand.…
She went on writing, pouring out her concerns to him about her servants and her burial. Would he help her in these things? She had to trust him. Finally she fumbled with a little velvet pouch and took out two unset jewels: one was an amethyst and the other a bloodstone.
I have taken the liberty of sending you two precious stones, talismans against illness, trusting that you will enjoy good health and a long and happy life. Accept them from your loving sister-in-law, who, as she dies, bears witness of her warm feelings for you.
Wednesday, at two in the morning.
Your most loving and most true sister,
Marie R.
To the Most Christian King, my brother and old ally.
Two o’clock in the morning! The night was slipping away.
But what of it? she asked herself. It is hardly to be expected that I would spend it sleeping. I will be sleeping soon enough.
Was it too late to have her customary reading with her ladies? Yes, of course it was. Stiffly she stood, and made her way over to her bed. It was too late now even to undress. She would not wake anyone up to do it, and her own fingers were too swollen to do it herself. She lay down on her bed fully dressed, and closed her eyes. O God, give me courage! Let me not fail at the moment of death! she prayed. I failed You at the last test, but in Your mercy You have granted me another. Help me now!
She heard a rustling beside her, and looked up to see both Jane and Elizabeth standing by the bedside. They were both already dressed in mourning black.
“You are ready early,” said Mary. But the sight of them attired for the event shook her deeply. “I am laggard. But even though it is late, I would like to end the day in the customary fashion. Jane, can you read aloud from my book of hours?”
“Indeed,” she said, fetching it.
“Choose the life of a great sinner,” said Mary.
Jane read over the table of contents. “Mary Magdalene?”
Mary shook her head.
“Saint Augustine?”
“No.”
“The penitent thief on the cross?”
Mary sighed. “Yes. He was a great sinner, but not so great a sinner as I am. May my blessed Saviour, in memory of His passion, have mercy on me in the hour of death, as He had on him.”
Mary lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes, waiting for the soothing voice of Jane to begin the story.
“‘The two thieves, condemned to be crucified beside Christ, mocked him. But at length one of them, moved by some divine grace, rebuked his companion. “Do you not fear God, seeing we are likewise condemned? We have deserved the death. But this man is innocent,” he said. Then, turning to Christ, he said, “Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Christ looked at him and said, “Verily, verily, this day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”’”
Today … paradise … Will I be there in only a few hours? Mary wondered. Can it be true?
A muffled banging reached her ears. The scaffold was being erected in the Great Hall, across the courtyard.
“‘Now this experience of the thieves condenses and foreshortens the whole of human existence,’” Jane continued, bending closer so that Mary could hear her without her raising her voice. “‘It shows us the bare essentials of life and death, when there is no more time left. But these men had one unique quality, one experience no one else has had or can have. They were dying beside Jesus, who was also dying.’”
But I die alone, thought Mary. I will have no fellows on the scaffold.
“‘This is both a unique opportunity and a unique challenge—to se
e God dying and yet believe. And what was their response? The first thief gave a doubting, hedged “prove it and then I will believe.” This is the normal human response; it is what the world trains us to do. It is a contemptible doctrine.’”
Yes, we all want proof, thought Mary. Does that make me so great a sinner if I doubt, even for a moment?
“‘The second thief said, “Lord,” not “if thou art Lord.” He had no time, and perhaps no ability, to understand intricacies of theology. He may not even have grasped what “paradise” meant. But the main thing was that he saw—and believed.
“‘Now what does this mean to us? Foreshortened and condensed though it be, the thieves and their few hours of life left on the cross are in essentials the same as you and I. We face the same death—slower, perhaps, but no less sure. We face the same eternal question. We face the same opportunity. We must ask ourselves, “Which thief am I?”’”
Jane closed the book softly. Mary’s mouth held a smile. The sound of the hammering continued relentlessly.
“Even in the hour of death, there can be salvation,” said Mary. “It is never too late.”
Outside the room there was suddenly the tramp of boots. The guards had been increased, lest the Queen make a last-minute escape.
The quiet time of the night was over; already it was filled with the sounds of the business at hand.
* * *
At six o’clock Mary gave up all pretence of rest. She rose from her bed, and instantly the women rose with her. No one had slept.
“I have two hours left of life,” she said in wonderment. “It is a curious thing, to have no mortal illness, no unclouded mind, and yet to know my end is nigh. I have no gift of second sight or prophecy, and yet I behold my accident to come.” She felt along her arm, so solid, so warm. Its immediate mortality was entirely artificial.
“Come, my women. Dress me as for a festival; ask Balthazzar for my special dress. For this is a celebratory ceremony to which I go.”
While they readied her apparel, Mary stood quietly, paying attention to her breathing. The very air seemed heavy and to be savoured; the act of breathing became conscious. The breath of life. To breathe is to live. And the Lord God breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 125