Elizabeth: The Golden Age

by Tasha Alexander

  “He signed the Treaty of Berwick, did he not? He’s your ally.”

  “If I kill his mother, he might be less inclined to view himself as such. Although I do give him a generous pension.” She sighed. “And what of the French? Mary’s first husband was their king for a year before he died and they still consider her their queen. By executing her, I hand them a perfect excuse to join Spain against me.”

  “Possibly,” he said. She smiled, shook her head. “And Philip would undoubtedly be bent on revenge.”

  “Yet if you let her live...”

  “I will always be in danger. I am not so void of judgment that I do not see my own peril.”

  “The country is rife with rumor,” he said, admiring the brave confidence creeping into her eyes. “Just today I’ve heard stories of the Spanish already landing at Milford, the northern counties in revolt, and that London—contrary to all available evidence—is burning.”

  “Burning?”

  “Yes. And Mary’s escaped and heading north.”

  “I cannot allow this to continue. Yet what will people say when, for the safety of her life, a maiden queen could be content to spill the blood even of her own kinswoman?”

  “Perhaps they will say that she preserved the peace of her country.” He recognized the resolve in her eyes. “You’ve already decided to do it, haven’t you?”

  “Another plot has been uncovered, this one started by the French, on Mary’s behalf, of course. They meant to poison me, though apparently argued over how, precisely, to do it. So, yes, I must sign the warrant. So why have I not?”

  “It’s that fear—that fear of being so mortal,” he said.

  “You understand me well.”

  “I’ve always tried.”

  “It means more to me than you can ever know.” Their eyes met, level and calm, full of love.

  “We mortals have many weaknesses,” he said. “We feel too much. Hurt too much. And all too soon, we die. But we do have the chance of love.”

  She closed her eyes. “Who taught you to say such things to me?”

  “You did.” He wished, despite his love for Bess—a love that filled his heart and was with him at every moment— that he could have Elizabeth. To win her love, to be hers, to be free to adore her—how could he not want that?

  She nodded, eyes still closed. “Leave me now. What I must do, I must do alone.”

  Chapter 16

  Mary’s room was cold, but the complaint was a trivial one. They had brought her supper, but she’d long ago lost the desire to eat, and fed tidbits from the table to Geddon while she prayed, silently, to herself. She’d spent nearly three months consumed with uncertain anguish, knowing that she would die but not when. She’d written to Elizabeth, begging that her execution be expedited, but Paulet would not deliver the letter.

  This was too long to prepare for death.

  But tonight, when the door opened and she saw her jailer—drawn, gray, tired—relief swept through her body as she realized her waiting was over. “Your face tells me. It’s decided.”

  “Tomorrow morning. At eight.” Sir Amyas did her the courtesy of looking into her eyes as he spoke. She took a deep breath, trying to identify the feelings inside her. Relief, of course, but what else? She could not tell. She expected to be scared, but terror had not yet come, perhaps because her heart did not yet believe the waiting was over.

  “I thank you for bringing such welcome news,” she said. She looked at him and, for the first time since she’d met him, had no need to pretend to flirt or to feign piety. “I am very glad to leave a world in which I am not welcome.”

  “I’m— I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Do not apologize. There’s nothing else left for me. I’ve known that for far too long. You were kind to me until you learned of my secret correspondence, and I can hardly fault you for being angry at me then.”

  “I will pray for your soul,” he said, then bowed to her and left the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Annette fell to the floor, wailing and sobbing. But her mistress stood perfectly still, showing no sign of distress, maintaining her regal bearing. “Don’t cry,” Mary said. “I mean to die in such a way that our cause will live forever.” This would be her legacy, would bring her immortality. Nothing in her life would approach the vital importance of her death. And when it was over, there would be no more prisons, no more lies. She would have no task but to bathe in the glory of God.

  

  She spent her last night putting things in order, glad for the occupation. Sleep was impossible, not only because of anxiety that could not be kept at bay but because it seemed a terrible waste. She did not want to miss a single moment of consciousness now that there were so few left for her. She had already begun labeling everything: her last sunset, her last exchange with a previously unnoticed servant, the last time she would brush her hair. It all took on more significance than she felt it deserved, but she could not help herself.

  Sitting at her table, she wrote a final letter to Elizabeth, holding the pen too tightly at first and breaking the quill. She sharpened another one and began again, the words coming quickly as she gave pardon to all her accusers and begged the queen to let her be buried in France. But at the end, she had harsh words for her cousin:

  Accuse me not of presumption if, leaving this world and preparing myself for a better, I remind you will one day to give account of your charge in like manner as those who preceded you in it, and that my blood and the misery of my country will be remembered, wherefore from the earliest dawn of your comprehension we ought to dispose our minds to make things temporal yield to those of eternity.

  Satisfied, she signed the paper: “Your sister and cousin and wrongfully a prisoner.” Her hand was shaking with anger at this woman who had refused to give her even the simple courtesy of a personal meeting, who had callously condemned her to death. She did not want to squander any of this night on hatred, but it was difficult to feel no ire when she thought of the English queen, smug in her palace, surrounded by sycophants. She sighed and prayed, prayed for the grace to forgive her, grace that would bring her peace on this final night of her life.

  Next she set about dividing her few possessions among her loyal ladies and servants. There was little left to give, and as she tried to disperse it fairly, she found continual distraction in a single thought: she would not be alive at this time tomorrow. She would not be alive. Now she began to feel scared, terror creeping through every inch of her body. Did it matter who would wind up with her rosary? Who would get her prayer book? Her gold crucifix? Her embroidery? She told herself that it did, that it had to, and she wrote careful directions that she would leave behind, all the while knowing this was trivial when compared to the remainder of what was consuming her mind.

  More letters came next, farewells to her friends—the few who remained—and then she set herself to the most painful task before her. The letter to her son, James. She broke down and wept thinking of him. She would forever picture him as the ten-month-old child she’d last seen at Stirling Castle in Scotland after she’d been forced to abdicate her throne. She remembered him, his head covered with fuzzy auburn hair, trying to pull himself to standing, his little hands clutching the side of a table. The polished wood was too slippery. He lost his grip and fell, crying as his head hit the floor. Mary had swooped him up in her arms and soothed him. She could still smell the warm, clean scent of him, feel his plump hands, hear his breath slow as she’d calmed him.

  But that was twenty years ago, and she’d not been allowed to see him again. He had grown into a man without ever knowing his mother. She had no idea what he was like, what he’d been told about her, if he’d received any of the gifts she’d sent him when he was a child. Futile thoughts, especially now.

  She penned one final letter, to Henri, King of France, younger brother of her first husband. “Royal brother,” she began. “. . . I scorn death and vow that I meet it innocent of
any crime, even if I were their subject. The Catholic faith and the assertion of my God-given right to the English crown are the two issues on which I am condemned, and yet I am not allowed to say that it is for the Catholic religion that I die, but for fear of interference with theirs.”

  This would do. This would be her legacy. She would be remembered not as a conspirator but as a martyr. She continued on, telling him, as she’d told Elizabeth, of her desire to be buried in France, knowing all the while that the English queen would do with her body whatever she wanted. And that was unlikely to be anything that would give Mary satisfaction. She signed this, her last letter, at two o’clock in the morning. Six more hours to go.

  As she put down her pen, she tried not to think about the ax, not to wonder if she’d feel its strike, not to hope that her executioner would be quick. But to avoid such thoughts was impossible, and she began to feel as if she were drowning, and she welcomed it at the same time she abhorred it. Because to feel was to be alive—and any emotion, even a hideous one, was preferable to none. Still, she could not let herself come unhinged. So she prayed, and eventually the night that had seemed both interminable and far too brief ended.

  The sun fought its way through thick gray clouds, and she heard familiar sounds as the castle’s occupants started their ordinary routines. A stable door slammed sharply and horses neighed greetings to the boy bringing food to their stalls. Soft footsteps announced servants carrying water. Wheels crunched gravel on the drive. But today the wheels did not belong to merchants or other tradesmen. They carried coaches full of dignitaries arriving to witness the day’s spectacle, to see the Queen of Scots die.

  She watched at her window until her ladies came to help her dress. She did not admit them to the room at once, knowing that these were her last minutes alone. She gave herself a final gift: two minutes of absolute panic. She pictured the ax and its bloody work. She let desperation overwhelm her as she clutched her head, pulled her hair, screamed into her pillow. Her breath came with such rapid force that she grew dizzy, and she staggered, falling against the wall.

  And then she forced it all away—the last real emotions she’d ever show. It was more difficult than anything she’d done before, but somehow she managed to stop her limbs from shaking, her muscles from twitching. She went to her mirror and smoothed her hair, splashed last night’s water on her face, pressed a damp cloth against her eyes. She couldn’t quite yet bring herself to let them in. She sat on the bed. Went to the window. Paced the room three times, all the while silently saying Hail Mary’s. And then, when she knew she could delay no longer, she opened the door, revealing to her ladies a vision of pious composure.

  They did not give her the same. They wept, keened, begged her to find some way to escape.

  “You must stop,” she said, her voice perfectly even. “You must help me prepare.” Still crying—but silently now—they helped her dress in the simple black gown Mary had chosen for the occasion.

  Eight o’clock approached, and she heard heavy steps outside her door. It was time. They had come for her. No one spoke on the way to the great timbered hall of the castle, where a stage had been constructed in the center, surrounded by chairs, none of which was empty.

  “Please help me mount this,” she said to a servant as she approached the scaffold. “It is the last request I shall make of you.” She walked with grace, her black gown flowing around her, auburn hair tied in a bunch. Her ladies were still weeping, no longer trying to hide their distress, but the Queen of Scots kept her dignity, her eyes flashing with anger only when she was offered the services of a Protestant minister. They would not give her a Catholic one.

  The executioner stepped forward, prepared to remove her veil, but she moved away from him, not letting him touch her. Instead, her ladies came, took the veil, her jewelry, and unfastened her dress. As the gown fell to the ground, the spectators gasped. Underneath it, she wore a petticoat of dark red silk, the color of martyrdom.

  Now her executioner knelt before her. “Forgiveness, Your Grace.”

  “I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope, you will make an end of all my troubles.” One of her ladies, crying, fastened a handkerchief over Mary’s eyes. The former queen knelt, put her head on the block. “Into Your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

  She stretched out her arms as a signal, praying that they would remain steady, that the horrible terror consuming her would not be evident. She could hear the man beside her moving, the sleeves of his shirt brushing against his sides as he raised his ax. And then a silent pause. She realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to draw air, knowing it would be her last.

  The ax fell, but the blow was not enough to sever her head, so two more followed in rapid succession before the deed was done. The executioner bent to grab the bloody prize and hold it up for the crowd to see, but he did not realize he was gripping a wig. The head fell and rolled across the floor, revealing to all that Mary’s hair was as sparse and gray as that of someone twenty years her senior.

  It was a horrific sight and grew worse when people noticed the dead woman’s skirts moving. Out from them crept her little dog, Geddon, whimpering and confused at the sight of his mistress’s headless torso. He nudged the body with his nose and was soon covered in blood, whining. No one moved. At last, Annette stepped forward and took him in her arms, both of them crying at the loss of their lady.

  

  Philip’s ambassador sent word of the execution as soon as it had happened. Mary, Queen of Scotland and France, was with God, a glorious martyr. She’d gone in spectacular fashion, serving in death the faith she’d honored in life. If Philip’s own work on earth were not so urgent, so crucial, he might have envied her this holy end. Martyrdom would never be his, but he could free the souls of England, return them to the true word of God. And his daughter, the Infanta, would take her place on the throne.

  He squeezed Isabella’s hand as the sound of cheering crowds in the plaza outside the Escorial Palace jarred him from his meditation. Roaring voices united, chanting a single word, over and over: War. He had already prayed for Mary’s soul, had greeted his people. Now he came in from the balcony and stood before his assembled ministers.

  “All Christendom now knows I have just cause. Much as I hate war, it is now my sacred duty.” His eyes shined bright. He looked down at the Infanta, who was smoothing her doll’s red hair. She would help him finish God’s work. She would bring the souls of England to heaven.

  

  At Whitehall, Elizabeth could hardly bear the pain consuming her. She had brought this agony on herself, and despite it having been the right thing—the only thing—to do, she was not at peace. She’d raged when her request that Sir Amyas Paulet quietly take care of Mary—under the guise of the Act of Association—had been refused. His response infuriated her: “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.” She would have loved to have thrown him in the Tower.

  And now the bloody day had arrived, the last of her cousin’s life. Elizabeth had risen before the sun, tried to sit, pray, contemplate, but was too agitated. She paced. She threw things. She screamed. Finally, she could stand it no more. She charged into the Presence Chamber, where the entire court was waiting for her.

  “Stop it! Stop the execution! I demand it be done!” The courtiers had fallen silent as soon as she entered, and she could read the horror on their faces. It mattered not to her. They could think whatever they wanted. There was no controlling the emotions rioting in her.

  “What are you waiting for?” She yelled louder. “I am your queen! I order you to have this stopped!”

  No one stepped forward, no one was looking at her. They were staring at the floor, and she despised them all. She spun around.

  “You disobey me?” Her voice was shrill. “I will banish you all from court. I will—”

  She ha
d not noticed Raleigh was in the room until he came close and stood next to her. She fell quiet, turned, and buried her head in her hands, hiding the tears flowing from her eyes as she breathed in the smell of tobacco smoke clinging to his clothes. She was still—but not for long. At eight o’clock—the time the ax was scheduled to fall on her cousin’s neck—she cried out and sank to the ground, sobbing. Raleigh knelt on the floor and Bess came to her side, the two of them together supporting her in a single embrace.

  She hardly knew how she’d passed the rest of the day. But as it grew dark, she regained her control and was herself again—serene—when Walsingham found her, alone, in the Privy Chamber. Her moods passed as quickly as they descended upon her.

  “Forgive me,” he said, on his knees, abasing himself before the queen. “In my weakness and my vanity, I have failed you.”

  “How have you failed me? What am I to forgive you for?”

  “Philip of Spain is a God-fearing man. He cannot make war without just cause. He sent the Jesuit to kill a queen, but not you.”

  “Not me?” Confusion registered in her eyes.

  “The Jesuit’s mission was to draw Mary Stuart into the murder plot. He knew I was reading her every letter. He waited until she wrote the words that sealed her guilt.”

  “And I ordered her execution.” Elizabeth spoke slowly. “I murdered God’s anointed queen. And now God’s most dutiful son makes holy war to punish me.”

  “Forgive me, Majesty. Let me go.”

  “No, Francis. I am no fool. I considered this possibility when I made my decision. I knew the danger my actions courted.” Her voice was measured, steady, but began to reveal stronger emotion as anger filled her veins. “England has a God too,” she said. “Let Philip do his worst. We’ll see whose God is still standing at the end!”

  

  Colorful prisms of light danced on the wall, split by the leaded glass of Raleigh’s bedroom window. “I hate to think about the life we might have had together if our circumstances were different,” Bess said. She was spending far too many afternoons in his bed at Durham House.