But she had allowed her thoughts to wander. That would never do. With reluctant eyes, she gazed down upon the parchment once again and regarded the writings on it. It looked no different from any other warrant. And yet this one had the power not only to destroy her peace of mind, but to bring war to England. For before her lay the death warrant of Mary Stuart. This was the day she had dreaded for nigh on twenty years.
James had played the dutiful son and sent threatening letters to England warning of dire consequences should his mother be executed; but she knew that it was only so much bluster. James coveted her throne every bit as much as Mary ever had, and would not jeopardize his chances for a mother he had never even met. Henri had also made a half-hearted attempt to sway matters, but his feeble protests had no bite. In the end, she knew that the king of France would do nothing. The real threat was Philip, her old adversary. But his intentions towards England were well known. He would not make his move until he was ready. And when he did, by all that was holy, England would be ready for him.
Once again she lifted the parchment, but her hand refused to take up the quill. She tossed the document aside in frustration. She still could not bring herself to sign it. She eyed the inkpot and quill. She knew a sudden urge to sweep it all, warrant, inkpot, quill, blotter, and sand, to the floor. She fought the impulse; had she not just chided Mary in her mind for her impetuous behavior?
She looked up to see Blanche Parry standing before her; she had the silent stealth of the Welshwoman.
“Sir William Cecil and Sir Christopher Hatton crave a word, Your Grace,” she said in her musical voice.
Elizabeth snorted inelegantly. “More than one, I trow,” she replied. “Send them in.”
###
She steeled herself for the onslaught that had become a daily occurrence ever since the news of Mary’s guilt had been made known. Walsingham, Cecil and Hatton had become an unholy trinity sent by the Council and the Parliament to harangue her into agreeing to kill her cousin. Of the four of them, Walsingham, surprisingly, had been the first to succumb to the strain of it all; he was sick abed.
Cecil and Hatton eyed the warrant in the queen’s hands. They exchanged glances. This was progress!
Without hesitation, Cecil said, “Your Grace, the extreme punishment that has been visited upon Babington and his followers is meaningless, is made mockery of, unless the Queen of Scots is also made to pay for her crimes. This daughter of sedition, this handmaid of iniquity, must be brought to account. Why do you hesitate to despatch the cause of so much mischief?”
Before she could answer, Hatton took up the cudgels. “Forget you the jubilation of the people when the verdict of guilty was read out to them?” he asked earnestly. “The rejoicing was genuine, madam, the relief of the people palpable. What of the bonfires, the dancing in the streets, at the news? The church bells that tolled unceasing for an entire day and night? The will of the people is unmistakable. Your Grace’s duty is clear.”
Elizabeth looked up from the parchment and met Hatton’s eyes. He loved her; he wanted only what was best for her, and for England. This she knew well. She disliked disappointing anyone, but there was nothing for it.
“I have, in my time, pardoned many,” she said softly, almost to herself. “I grieve to be forced now to this proceeding, and against such a person as my own cousin, and fellow queen!” For no matter how many times she avoided the issue, the terrible reality always reappeared before her as if it were a tangible thing; she must now authorize, and take responsibility for, the death of a kinswoman and a sovereign queen. And was not Mary’s death warrant a tangible thing? It was the embodiment of all her fears.
“I am condemned already in Christendom as a monster of cruelty for holding the Queen of Scots against her will,” she said. “But I pray you to tell me, did not the Scots imprison her first? How can they, then, denounce me for doing the very same thing they have done? Humph!” she grunted. “Was Mary Stuart not fleeing from captivity in her own realm, her captors her own subjects, when she crossed the border into England without my royal leave? And the Scots got the better of the bargain, I trow! And so in addition to gaoler, now I must also be the instrument that ends her very life!”
She recalled early on in her reign when she had had occasion to say that princes are set on stages in the sight and view of all the world, and duly observed. She felt the eyes of many upon her now, both in England and abroad. If she agreed to the judicial murder of an anointed queen, she would be guilty of doing to Mary exactly the same thing her father had done to her mother. How would she be judged for it?
The men were silent; for what could they say? All that the queen said in her lamentations was true.
“And yet, how can I preserve her life?” cried Elizabeth, with a catch in her throat. “I know full well that to do so would be to cherish a sword with which to cut mine own throat!” Her very soul cried out; was there no other way?
“Your Grace,” said Hatton. “None knows better than we what a tender conscience Your Grace possesses, despite your bluster or what others may believe. But in the end, there is only one truth; you must do your duty.”
Elizabeth regarded Hatton tenderly, with tears in her eyes. She allowed herself a wistful smile; Hatton was her Lids, just as Cecil was her Spirit, and sweet Robin, her very Eyes. She reached out a hand and cupped his cheek, but she said nothing. Dear Christopher! He was right, of course. No matter how uneasy she felt, no matter how long she delayed, in the end, there was only one course of action open to her.
With a sigh, she said, “Call Sir William, if you please.” Many had been baffled by her request to have Sir William Davison recalled from Robert’s service in the Netherlands. But there was something engaging about the man. And she had treated him poorly. To make amends, but never explaining herself in any manner, she had appointed him Under Secretary of State. Walsingham was exhausted from the great ordeal he had been through; her spymaster might put forth a façade of invulnerability, but who knew better than she how trying it was to shoulder such burdens as did they, day after day? Sir Francis had collapsed after the verdict of guilty and the sentence of death had been decided against her cousin. He would doubtless recover, but in the meantime, the business of the country must be seen to.
Sir William Davison entered the room and immediately his heart began to pound in his chest. It was like this whenever he was called into the presence of the queen. He simply could not put out of his mind the berating Her Grace had given him on behalf of the Earl of Leicester, regarding his master’s ill-fated decision to accept the high place offered him in the Netherlands by the Dutch. The same familiar feeling of weightlessness followed by blackness of vision and dancing white spots overcame him. Was the queen speaking? He must attend…
Finally, he mustered the courage to lift his eyes. The queen sat as if frozen, the quill in her hand, poised over the parchment. A movement caught his eye; a drop of ink had fallen from the nib, but it made no sound.
The splash of the ink on the vellum had also caught Elizabeth’s eye. She must sign. She knew she must sign. And then a thought struck her; had their positions been reversed, would Mary have been going through such disturbance of mind? She thought not. She believed in her heart that her cousin would not have hesitated for one moment to sign her death warrant. So what to do? There were only two choices. Bear with her or smite her.
She drew back her sleeve and dipped the nib into the inkpot. The only sound in the room was the scratching of the quill as the Queen of England signed the death warrant of the Queen of Scotland.
Sir William swayed on his feet and struggled for calm as he heard the thud of the blotter and the rasping sound the sand made on the parchment as Her Grace sifted it across the wet ink. After a few moments, Elizabeth arose, scrolled the thick vellum, and handed it to him.
“Have this sealed,” she said blandly. “And hark thee. The Queen of Scots is not to be brought to London to be executed. She shall be beheaded on a block in the Great Hall of
Fotheringay Castle, and not outside in the courtyard, mind you. I shall draw up a list of those who must attend; no one else is to be permitted.”
She allowed herself a sly smile. “And bring the news to Sir Francis, if you please. I trow the shock of it is likely to kill him outright! Now get you to Fotheringay.”
She was silent for a few moments and then she engaged the eyes of all three men. “I want,” she said softly, “to hear no more of this matter.”
Sir William had an ear for dismissal; he was already backing out of the room when Elizabeth cried, “Forsooth, is there no other way? The Bond of Association provides that anyone found guilty of conspiring my death shall be hunted down and killed. Why must we have this formal procedure? Sir Amyas is the keeper of the Queen of Scots; did he not once vow that he would rather forego the joys of Heaven than fail in his duty to his queen? I see now that his bold words were naught but boast and bluster! When was his duty ever more evident?”
Cecil was taken aback by the suggestion that Paulet kill the Queen of Scots in his capacity as a private citizen; he knew in his heart that Sir Amyas would never consent to do such a thing. He recalled in that moment something that Sir Francis had told him; it was that Sir Amyas had once said that should anyone attempt to storm the castle and free the Scottish Queen, he would ensure that she died before Her Grace and her superstitious popery could be unleashed upon England. But the queen was right; these were only words; what man would consent to make such a shipwreck of his soul?
“Know you not what is at stake, my lords?” cried Elizabeth. She stopped; she dared not give the terrible thing substance by saying it. What was at stake was the future of the monarchy in England. For once let the divine right of kings be so trampled upon, there was no going back. She would have ceded to her subjects the justification for regicide, and some measure of the prerogative of sovereign royalty would be compromised. Damn Mary Stuart!
Sir William stood motionless halfway between where Elizabeth stood with her back to them and the door; he was very pale and his eyes were as wide as if he had been poleaxed from chin to chine. No one spoke.
Finally, Cecil nodded curtly to him and he retreated on silent feet from the room, the warrant clutched in his hand.
###
When Elizabeth finally turned from the window, she was alone in the room. The sun was low in the sky. How long had she stood there? She took a step towards the sideboard, thinking to ease her lot with a sup of ale. She was temperate when it came to drink, but at that moment she felt a very strong urge to perform some familiar, needful act.
And then something extraordinary happened. Her step was so light that she thought she might float away. In that moment, she realized that a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. It was a load that had weighed her down so heavily, and for so long, that she had felt, just moments before, as if she could not have taken a single step to save herself, not even if the Castle had been on fire.
But now, seemingly in an instant, all was changed. For now she knew that at some unspecified moment, on a day not very far in the future, after almost twenty years of constant danger, agonizing guilt, anxiety and fear, the Queen of Scotland would, at last, depart her realm forever.
EPILOGUE
“In my end is my beginning.”
- Mary Stuart’s motto
M ary sat at her looking glass, while Janet fixed to her headpiece the long white veil she was to wear that morning. It was to be her last public appearance; she must look her best. When a gentle knock sounded upon the door, Janet’s arm stopped in mid-air and remained motionless, the ivory comb clutched in her hand. Their eyes locked in the mirror. She could see in Janet’s haunted expression that she was afraid, but strangely, she herself, who was to die, was not. Not many are vouchsafed the knowledge of the exact hour of their own death; but she knew, and the knowledge had brought an odd calm upon her.
Lord George and Sir Amyas had come the night before, after she had retired, asking to speak with her. She thought perhaps there was a letter from Elizabeth, or that they had come to ask her if she had a letter for the queen. Elizabeth had offered to receive any letter she cared to send, but she knew what Elizabeth wanted; her confession of guilt, in exchange for her life. Her cousin craved justification. But she would not provide it to her. Once, early on, she had found herself hoping for some sort of reprieve. But no. She would not be cheated of her martyr’s death, which now her mind was much set upon. She had written to Elizabeth on the day she was informed of her sentence of death; she thanked her cousin for the happy tidings that soon, her long and weary pilgrimage would be put to an end.
But Lord George and Sir Amyas had not come about letters. Paulet had simply stepped forward and announced, most unceremoniously, that she was to die on the morrow at eight of the clock. As the representative of the queen, Lord George was required to read the death warrant to her, and while he did so, Sir Amyas strode up to her canopy of estate and ripped it down. She understood; as a condemned traitor, she was being stripped of her royalty. But she could not but marvel at the small-mindedness of a man who could take delight in such petty revenge.
Janet and her serving maid began to weep and lament. How could the Queen be so cruel as to inform Mary of her execution on such short notice, they cried?
Mary laughed; it was a strange sound amongst the serving maid’s tears, Janet’s lamentations, Lord George’s thick-throated reading of the royal warrant, and the sound of cloth ripping as Sir Amyas downed the last of her canopy.
“Do not grieve for it,” said Mary. “It is a mercy. I shall have only a small time to wait.” This was, strictly speaking, not true; she had been tried in October, the verdict of guilt and the manner of her death had been told to her in November, and now it was February. She had waited a long time to die, and was not only willing, but most eager, to see an end to her travail. She had made it abundantly clear to all that she believed that she was being persecuted for her faith; that the charges against her had been trumped up; and that she had been entrapped by Walsingham and his henchmen. And for whom did that merry band of outlaws work? Why, for her cousin, the queen, forsooth! Had anyone, including herself, really expected any other outcome?
“I shall need to see my chaplain,” she said.
“There will be no popish displays here, Madam,” said Sir Amyas.
Mary’s eyes sought Lord George’s. He had always been able to smooth her path; and this path led to her grave. Surely there was something he could do?
“Leave us,” Lord George had said. Sir Amyas shot her a last evil look and then he shepherded the women out the door.
“I am sorry,” said Lord George. “It is the queen’s express command. I cannot go against it.”
“Do not fret,” she said. As always, her smile affected him in a manner that he was at a loss to explain. It was inconceivable to him that tomorrow at this time, those eyes would be closed forever, those lips would never curve again in their enigmatic smile. “And I pray you, do not grieve for me. You must believe me when I say to you that I thank you for bringing me such welcome news. You will do me a great good in withdrawing me from this world, out of which I am very glad to go. I am resigned to death.”
“Oh, my lady!” cried Lord George.
There was nothing more to say. Mary stood up and held her hand out to him; he had brushed it with his lips and was gone.
“Janet,” she said softly. “See who is at the door, if you please.” At this Janet lost her look of the hunted rabbit and remembered her duty. She laid the comb aside and strode to the door.
The words she had used were the habit of a lifetime; it could be no one at the door this morning save Sir James Melville, the Master of her Household, come to escort her to the Great Hall.
Sir James’s eyes were red and swollen; it was evident that he had been weeping. She was very lame; she would need his arm to walk the great distance from her rooms to the Presence Chamber, and down the stairs to the Great Hall. Without hesitation, she laid
her hand on his arm and together they set forth. Both stared straight ahead as they walked. Janet carried her heavy train.
The Presence Chamber was empty now; Elizabeth’s throne and canopy were gone. Mary wondered if they had been removed to the Great Hall.
Without looking at him, she said to Sir James, “Will you do something for me, my lord?”
“If it be within my power, Your Grace,” Sir James replied. “Of a certainty.”
“I beg you to tell all that I died constant in my faith and firm in my fidelity and affection for Scotland and France.”
“If that is Your Grace’s wish,” he said softly.
At the entrance to the Great Hall, she paused to catch her breath. A great fire burned in a hearth large enough for a man to stand up in, but it seemed to make no difference; the great room was very cold. All eyes were upon her. In the dim entranceway, in her black gown, all that could be seen was her head with its long, white veil. Many of the men shuddered at the uncanny vision.
It was difficult to believe that there were hundreds of people in the room. It was so quiet that one would have thought the room empty. Three hundred knights and peers of the realm had been called upon to witness the execution of a reigning queen.
This room also had been stripped of its furniture; there was only the scaffold in the center of the great expanse. It was railed and draped in black cloth. In the center of the scaffold was a chair with a black cushion. The stout wooden block was also draped in black; that might have been mistaken for delicacy had not the mighty axe been left leaning against the railing, its blade gleaming and reflecting as red as blood in the dancing firelight.
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