The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots: A Novel

by Erickson, Carolly

I had not wanted to appear at my trial at all. I knew it would make no difference to the outcome whether I was present or not: I would be condemned either way. And yet, as I sat in my plain chair, looking into the solemn faces of the men appointed to condemn me, I was glad that I had agreed, after much coercion, to take part. At least by being present, I could refute the lies told about me. I could confront my accusers and accuse them, in turn, of lying.

  When the Lord Chancellor asserted that I had plotted to kill the queen I was able to say, as loudly as I could, that the court could not judge me because I am a queen and not a subject. I could shout (though my voice was no longer very loud, and broke whenever I strained it) that all the evidence brought against me was fraudulent, all the documents fabricated, all the witnesses coerced into telling lies. I said, again and again, that I had been betrayed by my cousin the queen, who had offered me her protection and given me long years of imprisonment instead.

  Not long into the trial my head began to ache with all the exertion I was making. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears, at times it was hard to breathe, and even harder to try to shout louder than my angry accusers. Dr. Bourgoing advised me that I was overstraining myself, that I ought to ask for time to rest. He brought me a restorative cup of wine and advised me to say my rosary quietly, fingering the gold beads I wore at my waist, as a way of calming myself. I did my best to follow his advice, yet I kept hearing the harsh words shouted out against me—“wicked Jezebel,” “traitorous woman,” “murderess,” “villainess”—a long litany of ugly words. The echoing voices rolling around the vast chamber made me dizzy, as if the words were bludgeons and I a struggling victim reeling under their blows.

  Gradually the many voices blurred into one strident accusing voice, and then, as if in a sudden explosion of sound, all at once there were many shouts, a chorus of shouts, all saying the same thing: Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

  I cowered, I pulled the white veil I wore over my face to hide my fear. I heard myself growl—yes, growl, like a cornered animal. I heard Dr. Bourgoing say, “It is enough! Can’t you see how you are wearying this poor aging woman!”

  At his words I seemed to find fresh energy, and managed to get up from my chair and stand before my accusers, drawing aside the veil so that my face could be clearly seen.

  “I forgive all those who have been coerced into giving false evidence against me,” I said. “I forgive the men who wrote false messages, and created false ciphers. I know you are all under sentence of royal displeasure, unless you do as you are told.”

  “Do you dare to impugn the veracity of the queen’s court?” demanded the Lord Chancellor in a voice so thunderous I feared it would pierce the high painted ceiling.

  “I forgive all my judges,” I went on, “and all those in exalted office”—here I looked directly at the Lord Chancellor, who flinched under my gaze—“and pardon you all here present, for presuming to judge one of higher birth and greater right than yourselves.”

  And with that, amid renewed shouting, I reached for Dr. Bourgoing’s arm and felt the reassuring grip of another arm on my other side, and began to make my slow way out of the room.

  I was dignified, I did not falter, nor did I look back with indignation at those who were shouting at me, though some of the words they used were gutter words, not fit for a highborn lady, much less a queen.

  But as I reached the door my legs felt weak, almost as though they would collapse under me. I tightened my grip on Dr. Bourgoing’s arm, and he murmured, “Courage!” which helped me, though I was trembling.

  The trembling in my hand that began that day has never gone away. It became difficult to keep my poor hand steady as I tried to write. The words I have written since that day have had an unsure, awkward look to them, with wide wriggles and tall spikes quite unlike my usual handwriting which, if I do note it myself, is exceptionally well formed and quite lovely. I hoped that after I slept my hand would stop shaking and I would be able to write in my usual fashion. But the change was permanent. The harm was done.

  I was condemned, as I knew I would be. I spent my days in prayer, and reading my Bible, shriving my conscience and preparing to die.

  But it did not happen. No one came to tell me that I was to be moved from Fotheringhay, or that the day of my execution had been determined. Nor was Margaret recalled to Richmond. Instead she was allowed to remain with me, a great comfort and support to me. And after several weeks she was allowed to receive a visitor: her husband Ned Hargatt.

  She spent several hours with him, and afterwards came to me, her thin face full of smiles.

  “Ned has seen your Jamie!” she said, handing me a small object wrapped in white silk. “He sends you a miniature, and much news. King Philip is gathering a great fleet, he calls it the Most Fortunate Fleet, to bring an army to invade England. Lord Bothwell is to be captain of one of the carracks, the San Marco, with fifty guns and three hundred men. The fleet gathers at Lisbon, they sail for Portsmouth and the south coast any day!”

  “Ah,” was all I could manage to say, at first. Then, “Ah, Lord, let them come soon! Give them fair winds and a following sea!”

  Margaret and I embraced, my heart leapt. When Don John died, I had lost my champion; now I had found him again, only this time it was my true champion, my dearest love, who would sail into battle to save me, and bring me safely back into his arms again.

  SIXTY

  Week after week went by, and I heard nothing further from my warders, or my judges. Daily I hardened my courage to face the dread announcement that I would be brought to the block, to kneel before the executioner’s axe. And nightly I was thankful for yet another day’s reprieve.

  My trial had been in October; by November I was beginning to imagine that I might after all be saved, either by the mighty Spanish fleet or by the half-sincere, half-reluctant clemency of the queen, who, it seemed, was staying Burghley’s hand. In my heightened state of nerves I could not help but become superstitious; I imagined that the gift Jamie sent me, a miniature of himself and Marie-Elizabeth, was a good luck charm, that as long as I wore it on a chain around my neck, I would continue to avoid death.

  “She has a regard for you,” Margaret had said of the queen, and in my most optimistic hours I imagined that this was true. In my worst hours, however, a contrary logic tormented me. If King Philip was sending his Most Fortunate Fleet to invade England and Elizabeth knew it (for how could she not?), then would she not, in her dread, make certain of my death before the fleet arrived?

  And if, out of regard for our common blood, she could not bring herself to give the order for my execution, then would she not do as I had read King Henry did when he flinched from ordering the death of his friend Thomas Becket and called for his servants to do the murderous work for him? Would I die a secret death, as Amy Dudley had, from eating poisoned food or touching poisoned letter paper, from drinking a cup of lethal wine that would put me to sleep forever, or from being taken in secret to a house where there was plague, and shut inside until I died?

  While I wrestled with these anxious thoughts another month passed, and Christmastide arrived, and with it, a token from the queen: a ring bearing her seal.

  When I showed the ring to Margaret she nodded solemnly. “You see, she wants to preserve you. Why else would she send you her very own signet? It is a message—a very hopeful message.”

  Or could it be a trap? I was fearful of putting the ring on my finger. I had often heard that Italian poisoners hid deadly poisons in rings and other jewellery; when the wearer wore the jewel, they died.

  Margaret snatched the signet ring from my hand and slipped it over her forefinger.

  “No Margaret, don’t take the risk!”

  But after several minutes she was still breathing, and I had to concede that the ring had not been devised to kill me. I wore it, allowing my hopes to rise a little more each day.

  And each night I dreamed of the Most Fortunate Fleet, hundreds strong, great galleasses, their sails spread l
ike wide wings, oared galleys and broad high hulks, swift pinnaces darting in and out from among the large ships, the entire fleet standing out to sea, close hauled to a northerly breeze, making for the shores of England.

  My dreams were precious to me—and they almost came true. But alas! My cousin’s fears grew too strong, and she faltered and grew faint, dreading the coming of the Spaniards and the terrifying ships. And at the last, she gave in to the men around her, that advised her ever more strongly to order my death.

  In the end, she did as they bade her.

  SIXTY-ONE

  They came for me tonight, after I had supped and said my prayers and retired to bed, to tell me that I am to die tomorrow morning.

  There were four of them, four men I had never before met or seen, sent by Baron Burghley to make their dire announcement.

  They did their best to harden themselves to their task, and tried to keep their faces solemn, but I could see that they were all in tears, and it was not long before my servants too were weeping, overhearing what was being said to me, and even some of the guards.

  I crossed myself and asked for a priest to be sent to me, but the men said no, the queen would not allow it.

  “I want you to know,” one of the men said, “that the queen suggested that we ought to put an end to your life privily and in secret, sparing her the guilt and blame. We all refused.” They nodded.

  I looked from one to the other, and saw that their faces were pinched and full of sadness.

  “I thank you, my loyal subjects,” I said, allowing myself the luxury of saying what I so often thought, that in truth, I was their queen, and not that other, who had suggested that they murder me.

  Hearing my words, they did not demur, but knelt.

  “It is a good thing Baron Burghley is not here to see you now,” I said, with a smile.

  “Baron Burghley can go to the devil,” one of the men said, and another responded, “Assuredly he will.”

  “At what hour am I to die?”

  “At the hour of eight.”

  I sighed. There was much to think of, to prepare for. I went to my small desk and took out a paper that I had been keeping there for months.

  “Here are my instructions for what is to be done with my body. I wish to be buried in France, in Saint-Denis, as a Catholic, and not in Scotland, with a Protestant service.”

  “Condemned traitors are not given honorable burial,” said one of the men, as all four got to their feet. “But there is still time for you to repent, and to recant your Romish faith. If you do this, you can be buried as a member of the Church of England, though the burial will have to be in unconsecrated ground.”

  “And do you think me likely to do that, after all that I have endured for the sake of the one true church?”

  No answer was necessary.

  I held up my hand, displaying the queen’s signet ring.

  “Is there no hope of clemency?” I asked, already knowing what the answer must be.

  “Her Majesty will be pleased to receive her ring, if you will be so good as to return it,” one of the men said, holding out his hand. “She told us that it had been lost, and that you might possess it.”

  I took off the ring and dropped it into the outstretched hand. Then, after assuring me that they regretted their most irksome and sorrowful duty in informing me that I was to die, the four men bowed to me and took their leave.

  My poor servants, I thought. Who will look after them or hire them after I am gone? I did what I could to find a gift for each one—a miniature, or a book, a small keepsake, a bit of embroidery or a token from my small store of clothing. I blessed them and kissed and embraced each one, doing my best to smile and wipe away their tears, then asked them all to drink one final toast with me.

  “May you all keep warm in your hearts the love I bear you,” I said, my voice trembling, “and may you find new lives of peace and hope after I am gone. Remember me in your prayers.” Then we recited the Lord’s Prayer together, and they filed out, weeping quietly, leaving me to my own solitary meditations, and to pondering how best to use my last hours.

  Try as I might to keep my thoughts on heavenly things, to pray for those I love best and to be thankful for the joys I have known in this life, I find that I am distracted by the tramping of the soldiers’ boots outside my window. So loud a noise! So many men coming and going!

  And I realize, when I look out through the high bars, that many more soldiers are being brought on to the castle grounds. Hundreds more. And not only soldiers, but carts and guns, bowmen and halberdiers.

  All is becoming clear: the commander of Fotheringhay is preparing not only to fortify the castle, but to defend it. An attack must be expected. An effort to rescue me!

  When will they come? At dawn? Has the Most Fortunate Fleet already landed, and are the Spaniards on their way here?

  Perhaps the Catholics of England have risen in rebellion even now, and London has fallen to their overpowering numbers, and the queen has been captured and thrown into her deepest dungeon, her crown and her kingdom taken from her, her authority cast off.

  Is it possible that I am already queen, only I don’t yet know it? Or are these the midnight ravings of an old woman condemned to die, and unable to accept her fate?

  I cannot know, but I must keep a close watch on the courtyard below, so that I will be sure to see Jamie when he comes for me, shouting, as he used to do, “All for risk, Orange Blossom! Arise and away!”

  Whatever the truth of this moment, I end my record here, as the bells chime the midnight, in hope of rescue, or, if not, in hope of the life eternal promised by our dear Saviour, wishing any who read these words the blessings and the mercies of God, for all your lives long.

  Marye the Queen

  NOTE TO THE READER

  Just a reminder that in this historical entertainment, authentic history and imaginative invention are blended, so that fictional events and circumstances, fictional characters and fictional alterations to the past intertwine. Fresh interpretations of past personalities and events are offered, and traditional ones laid aside.

  As far as is known, Mary Stuart and the Earl of Bothwell never went together to the island of Mull, Mary never shared a mineral bath with Queen Elizabeth at Buxton spa, and the explanation offered here for how Lord Darnley died is an imagining. Readers eager to uncover the factual truth of the past, that ever elusive goal of historians, must look elsewhere than in these pages, where “thick-coming fancies” crowd out sober evidence and whimsy prevails.

  Yet in whimsy, at times, is to be found a richer truth than in the tantalizingly fragmented, often untrustworthy historical record. And even though there is reason to believe that in actuality Lord Bothwell met his end in a Danish prison in 1578, and did not live to know of Mary Stuart’s ultimate fate, some have questioned the identity of the remains of that long-ago prisoner. Perhaps, just perhaps, the real Lord Bothwell escaped, and hid himself away, to live out his life in contented obscurity.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Carolly Erickson’s new book

  Rival to the Queen

  Available in October 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Carolly Erickson

  ONE

  Flames crackled and rose into the heavy air as my father’s servants piled more bundles of brushwood on the fire. Smoke rose grey-black out of the flickering orange tongues, the heat from the rising fire making my younger brother Frank draw back, fearful that we too might be singed or burned, even as the stench of burning flesh made us put our hands over our noses and recoil from its acrid, noxious reek.

  I did not step back, I held my ground even as I heard Jocelyn’s agonizing cries. I held my breath and shut my eyes and prayed, please God, make it rain. Please God, put the fire out.

  It was a lowering and cold morning. The overcast sky was growing darker by the minute, and I had felt a few drops of rain. I thought, it wouldn’t take much rain to douse this fire. Please, let it come now!

  A large strong
hand clamped onto my shoulder—I could sense its roughness through the sleeve of my gown—and I felt myself pulled backwards.

  “Get back, Lettie! Can’t you see the fire is spreading? Stand back there, beside your brother!”

  “But father,” I pleaded, my voice nearly lost amid the roar of the flames and the sharp snapping of twigs and branches, “it’s Jocelyn. Our Jocelyn. I am praying that the Lord will send rain and save him!”

  I looked up into my father’s anguished face and saw at once the ravages of pain on his stern features. His voice was hoarse as he bent down and whispered “I’m praying for him too. Now do as I tell you!”

  The fire was growing hotter. I was sweating, my flushed face was burning though the day was cold and once again I felt a spatter of raindrops on one cheek. I moved back to join my brother, who was weeping, sniffling loudly, and took his hand. At first he had tried his best to be manly, to resist the strong tug of emotion that we all felt. But Jocelyn had been his tutor, our tutor. He taught us our letters, and our writing hand, and, later, gave us our lessons in Greek and Latin. I had studied with him for seven years, Frank for nearly six. We loved him.

  And now we were being forced to watch him die.

  He was being burned for heresy. For professing the Protestant faith, as we did. For refusing to obey Queen Mary’s command that all her subjects attend mass and revere the pope and renounce the church of Luther, the church her father Henry VIII and her late brother Edward VI had officially embraced, in sharp opposition to the age-old Roman belief.

  Many felt as Jocelyn did, but most hid their convictions, and attended mass despite them. My father, who was always a practical man, did as Queen Mary ordered and told us to do the same.

  “What we do outwardly does not matter,” he told us. “It’s what we believe in our hearts that makes us members of the true faith. The Lord sees what is in our hearts, and protects and favors us.”