How was I going to manage to get close to her? The courtyard was swarming with English guards. I suddenly felt as if old Achaius was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe and I felt the imaginary hands of the Tempter squeezing harder and harder around my neck. I cursed the apparition under my breath and pled for the strength of the Almighty to steady me. I stood for what seemed to be an interminable space of time, watching as the guards busied themselves about her. Finally, the executioner appeared, and a fury of frenzy broke out amongst the crowd.
As if on cue, Jane painfully began to disrobe Mary, removing her black cloak whose buttons carefully concealed the ivory neck I so unabashedly threw myself upon less than a sun’s cycle ago. But a shock of silence immediately overtook the courtyard, for removal of the cloak revealed Mary’s choice of execution garment: a red petticoat; the sign of a martyr. Suddenly, panic seized me, and I remembered the crucifix I held for her. I could not provide the comfort that she needed this final hour. What she needed was a strength that only one Man could give. I thrust my hand into my pocket, feeling for the lace handkerchief. From my other pocket I pulled two coins. I fished the crowd for a boy who could weasel his way through the crowd and get to Mary without being seen. I spied one, about seven or eight years old, and recognized the hand of Providence immediately. I grabbed the boy and shoved both coin and crucifix into his hand at once.
“Go, boy! You were predestined for this hour. Bring the Lady some comfort, and do it in haste!”
He looked down at the object and back to me and immediately a look of knowing entered his eye. I breathed a prayer of relief for the Almighty’s hand at guiding me to a boy who had some sense. I watched as he pushed his way past those vying for a glimpse of the queen. All the while I prayed. I prayed that no one would waylay the lad as he made his way in and out of the human maze. I prayed that Cecil, or one of the guards, would not hinder him. I prayed that the crucifix would work some magical power.
The agile lad slipped unnoticed to Mary’s side. Thrusting the handkerchief and its contents into her hand, he disappeared almost as quickly as he had appeared. I let out a long breath, not realizing that I had barely breathed since the lad departed from me. Mary looked at the handkerchief, and I saw her catch her breath. She looked feverishly around the crowd, and I knew she looked for me. I pushed forward, but too many bodies stood between us now. I yelled out to her, but by this time, the pitch in the courtyard had risen so high that she couldn’t hear me from where I stood. She touched the crucifix to her lips then clutched it tightly to her breast. I heard a foul-mouthed woman screaming at Mary and cursing her for her choice of clothing. Another female voice, that of a lass about ten years old followed up the barrage of hatred and ended it with “Long live Queen Elizabeth!”
At this point, the crowd had grown so unruly that the guards ushered Mary quickly to the top of the platform. I continued to push my way forward but felt as though some invisible force prevented my success. The scene before me unfolded slowly, and I stared as if I watched a tableau that had gone terribly wrong. A young man stepped forward that looked to be no older than a score and seven. He held a cloth, intended to blind Mary’s eyes, but his hands shook so uncontrollably that he dropped the cloth twice. Upon the third attempt Mary steadied his hand and guided the blind to fit securely over her eyes. Her lips moved as she spoke something to the boy. I could not hear her words, but I was sure she spoke to console him and ease his nerves. Grasping her gently under the forearm, he steadied her as he helped her kneel. Mary groped for the block, and without resistance, she laid her body down. Throughout the routine her lips moved but whether she spoke out loud or in prayer, I could not tell.
The boy stepped back, and the executioner took his place. I swallowed hard, not entirely sure that whatever sustenance I had taken the evening before would stay down. Louder, louder the crowd grew as some cried out in anguish and protest, and others cursed. Suddenly I found myself broken free from the throng and feeling as though I alone was beholding this terrible display.
The executioner lifted the blade above his head, and immediately, silence overtook the courtyard. The only sound that could be heard was the weeping of Jane and Elizabeth as they held Mary’s cloak. Finally, the blade was dropped, yet although striking the back of Mary’s neck, it did not complete its task. A low moan swept the crowd as the realization of the horrid mistake took root. He raised the blade again, and this time as if with exact precision, he swung with determination. From afar, the task appeared to be complete, but he was not satisfied. Finally, one last swing of the ax finished the job. Immediately, wailing women began to cry out while others cheered. The executioner reached for her head but jolted when the wig which Mary bore remained in his hand as her head fell to the ground. Laughter broke out amid the crowd, but fire and anger consumed me. Not only had she suffered the pain of a botched execution, but now they humiliated her by revealing that which she tried so desperately to conceal—her graying hair.
I screamed out my protest but felt as if I were in a terrible dream where you open your mouth, but no sound is heard. Harder I tried to force the sound from my throat, but my voice was drowned out by the jeering of the crowd. I felt for the neck of my robe, and grabbing a handful of cloth, with one swift and forceful motion, I rent it. Anguish filled my innermost parts, and I let the tears come. First slowly, then hard like the waves that beat upon the rocks in the summertime in the Firth of Forth. I sobbed uncontrollably. A wrench of my gut forced sounds from within me like I had never uttered before. The years of trying so hard to save her, then these final days and the events of the previous night all crushed down upon me, leaving my strength spent and me gasping for air.
Yes, I needed air. I tried to wipe away the hot tears that forced their way from my eyes in order that I might see to get out of the courtyard. I turned to push my way back through the sea of people, trying to spot William in the throng. I had not went far when suddenly I was accosted by a man that appeared to be of the English queen’s guard.
“Thomas Broune?”
I didn’t like the tone with which he addressed me, and I immediately sensed this wasn’t a friendly escort back to my apartment.
“You are wanted for questioning.”
“Questioning for what purpose?”
“Conspiring with the enemies of England.”
“Consp...?” I didn’t allow myself to finish the question. I knew where this was going. “Sir, might I the luxury of cleaning myself up first?”
“My orders are to bring you before the council immediately.”
***
The cell to which I was taken was a far cry from the friendly questioning I was promised. A bench of rough-hewn wood was my only provision. My guess was they wanted me to be so uncomfortable that I would be willing to tell them anything they wanted to hear in order to escape the uncomfortable surroundings. I sat alone for nearly three-quarters of an hour before I heard footsteps approaching. I counted the click of their heels hitting the cold stone floor before the sound stopped outside of my door.
One interrogator? What kind of jest was this? I didn’t turn to look but noted the slight pause taken before my visitor inserted the key into the lock. Slowly the key turned, creaking as if it hadn’t just been opened nearly an hour before. My visitor opened the door slowly yet did not enter the cell right away. I felt a piercing stare burning into my back, yet I refused to give in and turn around. Finally, I felt the presence enter in, but oddly they did not close the door behind them. When finally the visitor spoke, I started at the sound of a woman’s voice. She spoke in a riddle, and I listened intently with my back still turned.
“From near and far the nobles come, a thistle to behold.
Yet royal blood and presumption doth on her death unfold.
A flower from her youth, ‘twas told that she was grown,
Though beauty, charm and wisdom could not keep her from
A greedy heart, a throne not hers, a power not to be.
An obdur
ate nature none could deter, and no one could make see.
And now has come an end so dire, a fate so harsh and nether,
Yet knights shall sing, and children be in love with her forever.”
Silence hung between us, and I hesitated to ask the burning question. My courage got the better of me, and I spoke to her for the first time. “And does that bother you? That her praises will be sung from here until eternity?”
A slight laugh escaped her lips, and she wasted no time explaining herself. “No, it does not. I am not envious of her. I pity her. And I pity those who have attached themselves to her. For now they are left alone with no sunlight to keep them warm.”
“You speak riddles again. Yet this time I do not know your meaning.” I still had not turned to look upon her face, and I weighed the consequences of my actions. I found I did not care.
“Make haste to return to your homeland, Thomas Broune. Do not linger here, and there shall be no trouble for you. Stay and you might have to pay the piper.”
“That shall not be a problem. I have no desire to remain here any longer. I have seen enough of your England.” I spoke barely above a whisper, but the air in the cell was tight and motionless, and I was sure she heard me. I wondered if she could sense how much I despised conversing with her. Could she smell the putrid vermin gnawing at my stomach as we spoke?
She stood noiseless for some minutes. I sat dangerously with my back still turned toward her, yet I could feel her eyes on me. Finally, I heard her shift and step toward the door. Then again she paused and spoke one last thing to me. “I find there is no need for my council to question you. I shall send for your release shortly. But tell me one thing: did she love you? For the evidence shows that you loved her.”
I bristled at her question, or maybe the mere thought of the answer. I sat silent for a moment before answering her. I responded simply, “Yes.”
“Then you are a blessed man indeed. To be loved by such a woman. Too bad she chose such poor husbands. It appears that she was much better at choosing lovers.”
With her tossed attempt at a compliment she departed, closing the door behind her. The lock rattled, and I wondered if I would ever really see the light of day again. I considered that for a moment and realized that it mattered not. She would be keeping me from no joy. I had no happiness left in my life. If this was the end that was chosen for me, then I would certainly bless the Queen of England and gladly bow out, and she would never have to hear my name again.
I was released three hours later. When I emerged from my cell, it was apparent that the sun, which had refused to shine the whole of our journey to England, had finally decided to push itself through the clouds. Yet there was no warmth from its rays, and I doubted that there would be for a very long time to come.
I spotted William rushing toward me, his face red with anger. “What was that all about? Did Cecil have you arrested?”
“Who?” I asked, feeling confused. Now that the melee of my arrest was over, the shock of the morning’s events suddenly apprehended me.
“William Cecil, the queen’s advisor. Did he have you arrested?”
“Nay, it was her.”
“Her, who?” William asked. When I didn’t respond right away he tried again. “Father, who had you arrested?”
“Elizabeth. She came and spoke to me.” By this time, my legs were weak, and William had to help me to a bench to sit down.
“Queen Elizabeth came and spoke to you? You spoke to the queen? What did she say?”
“Nothing worth repeating,” I attempted to look at the sky. The sun was so blinding, that I had to shade my eyes. But where was the warmth? “William?”
“Yes, Father?”
“I want to go home now.” I began to shiver, and he removed his cloak and threw it over my shoulders. In my angst I had ripped my tunic and it now hung gaping, my flesh exposed.
“Of course, Father. There is nothing here now worth staying for. Let us go home.”
I rested for another moment, then stood to go. Pulling William’s cloak about me tighter, I contemplated the sunshine. I wondered if I would ever feel the warmth of the sun on my face again. Somehow I knew I would, but it would not be for an exceedingly long time.
~Epilogue~
October 1612
“Grandfather, will we see the queen as she passes by?” Little Mary strained at the hand that held her in place as she stretched her body to see the royal procession that was approaching.
“For the hundredth time, Mary, you won’t see her because she is dead. She’ll be wrapped in a shroud,” Henry tossed back at her. His face darkened into a scowl when William laid a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder to hush his chastisements toward his little sister.
“But I want to see the queen,” the five-year old began to fret. “Grandfather, I thought Papa said we were going to see the queen on her way to her final resting place today.”
“Yes, my child, we will see her.” Thomas soothed her, as he laid his shaking, withered hand upon the little girl’s head and petted her. She was the light of his life and he hated to see her upset, or worse, cry.
Mary pulled her hand from her mother’s and shyly sought the wrinkled hand of her grandfather. Finding it leaning upon his staff, she moved her head and instead grabbed the one that had momentarily rested there.
Twelve-year old Isobel spoke next, her wide curious eyes reflecting the grandmother whose name she bore but had never known. “Father, why are they moving the queen? What was wrong with the place where she was first buried?”
“There was nothing wrong with it, my little dove,” William offered. “But King James felt she deserved a place of honor, amongst the other great kings and queens of England, so he is bringing her here to Westminster Abbey.”
“I do not understand, Father.” This time it was fifteen-year-old Will that spoke, his ever-quizzical expression deepening into a confused look. “Queen Mary was Scotland’s queen, not England’s. Why does she need to be buried with the English monarchs?”
“She should have been England’s queen,” Thomas rasped, but only little Mary appeared to have heard him. She glanced up at him and noticed his trembling chin.
“Do not cry, Grandfather, they will put Queen Mary where she should be.” Then her chubby little hand squeezed his, and he felt his breath catch.
“Here Grandfather, I found a stool for you to sit upon and rest your legs while we wait.” William’s oldest son, Tom, approached the family, hulling a large chair in his arms. He sat the seat upright then helped Thomas into a seated position.
“Thank you, my dear boy.” The old almoner settled onto the stool, then pulled Mary onto his knee.
Thomas looked down at his youngest grandchild and considered her. All his other grandchildren had darker shades of hair like he and William, or golden curls like Isobel. But not little Mary. She bore copper-colored hair that shone strikingly in the bright, October sun. It was the shade that his own sweet mother had once had. It was also a lot like Queen Mary’s.
Thomas laid his lips upon the young child’s hair and softly kissed her head. He breathed in her flowery, childish scent. She bobbed excitedly on his knee as the royal procession drew closer. Mary clapped her chubby hands and squealed when the carriage bearing the queen came into view. She jumped down off his knee and pulled on his weathered hands.
“Come, Grandfather! Let’s move closer so we can see the queen as she goes by.” The child’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Thomas, too, felt an excitement bubbling inside of him and a desire to get closer to the carriage. They stepped up to the edge of the dirt road and stood waiting.
Flying banners unfurled in the chilly autumn air and trumpets heralding the procession blared around them, but Thomas did not hear. When his eyes locked onto the leaden box that sat on the carriage, he froze. The casket had been draped with a bright blue tapestry with the new coat of arms woven into it that King James had commissioned when he took the English throne after Elizabeth’s death. On th
e right was the Lion of England and on the left, draped in chains, was the white Unicorn of Scotland. Both wore crowns upon their heads. Thomas felt a tightening in his chest and suddenly found it difficult to breathe. It seemed as though time stood still, and he was locked into that single moment interminably.
It was because of this trance that Thomas did not realize the procession had suddenly come to a stop right in front of him. One of the horses had went lame, and it brought the whole progress to a halt. The horns continued to blow, and the crowd continued to cheer, but nothing moved forward.
The only thing that brought Thomas out of his daze was little Mary pulling free from his hand and running toward the carriage. Thomas tried to call for her, but she was intent on seeing the queen. Thomas lunged forward in an effort to catch the child, but it was no use. His aged legs couldn’t move as fast as the child’s, but he finally caught up to her just as she came to a stop behind the carriage.
“Look Grandfather, there is a pretty blue cloth lying on top of her. And look, Grandfather! It has the Unicorn of Scotland on it! Did the queen like pretty things, Grandfather?”
Thomas looked down at the casket, then laid a shaking hand upon the velvety cloth. A lump in his throat prevented him from answering the child’s question. Did she like pretty things? She liked music, and dancing, and poetry, and beautiful white horses, and wearing flowers in her hair, and dressing in beautiful gowns. He supposed she did like pretty things. He nodded his head in response to little Mary’s question, but he could not speak. Mary looked up at him again, and her grandfather’s emotion tore at her tender heart.
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