Mary Queen of Scots

by Antonia Fraser

  Once more, however, the repose of the queen of Scots was destined to be disturbed. In 1867 a search was instituted by Dean Stanley within the royal tombs of Westminster Abbey for the body of James I, whose position was unrecorded. It was eventually discovered in the tomb of Henry VII, the first Tudor and the first Stuart monarch of England lying appropriately together with Elizabeth of York, the woman who had made the foundation of both dynasties possible. But in the course of the search, among the places it was thought he might have appropriately chosen for his own sepulchre was the tomb of his mother. An entry was made below the monument to Mary, and at the foot of an ample flight of steps marked WAY was found a large vault of brick, twelve feet long, six feet high and seven feet wide. A startling and harrowing sight greeted the gaze of the Victorian searchers: the queen of Scots was far from lying alone in her tomb. A vast pile of lead coffins rose upwards from the floor, some of them obviously of children, some so small as to be of mere babies, all heaped together in confusion, amid urns of many different shapes, which were scattered all through the vault.

  It was discovered that Mary shared her catacomb with numbers of her descendants, including her grandson Henry, Prince of Wales, who died before his prime, her granddaughter Elizabeth of Bohemia, the Winter Queen, and her great-grandson Prince Rupert of the Rhine, among the most romantic of all the offshoots of the Stuart dynasty. Most poignant of all were the endless tiny coffins of the royal children who had died in infancy: here were found the first ten children of James II, and one James Darnley, described as his natural son, as well as the eighteen pathetic babies born dead to Queen Anne, and her sole child to survive infancy, the young duke of Gloucester.

  Finally the coffin of the queen of Scots herself was found, against the north wall of the vault, lying below that of Arbella Stuart, that ill-fated scion of the royal house who had been the child-companion of Mary’s captivity. The coffin itself was of remarkable size, and it was easy to see why it had been too heavy to carry in procession at Peterborough Cathedral at the first burial. But so securely had the royal body been wrapped in lead at the orders of the English government on the afternoon of the execution that the casing had not given way in the slightest, even after nearly 300 years. The searchers felt profoundly moved even by this inanimate spectacle. No attempt was made to open it now. ‘The presence of the fatal coffin which had received the headless corpse at Fotheringhay,’ wrote Dean Stanley, ‘was sufficiently affecting without endeavouring to penetrate further into its mournful contents.’17 The vault was thus reverently tidied, the urns rearranged, and a list made of the contents. But the queen’s own coffin was left untouched, and the little children who surrounded her were not removed.

  Meanwhile in the opposite chapel, underneath the monument to Queen Elizabeth I also raised by James, were found together in one grave the two daughters of Henry VIII, Mary Tudor and Elizabeth. Barren in life, they had been left to lie alone together in death. Mary, however, lies amid her Stuart posterity, her face locked in the marble of repose on the monument above, and her hands clasped in prayer, her body in the vault below which harbours so many of her descendants. She who never reigned in England, who was born a queen of Scotland, and who died at the orders of an English queen, lies now in Westminster Abbey where every sovereign of Britain since her death has been crowned; from her every sovereign of Britain since her death has been directly descended, down to the present queen, who is in the thirteenth generation. As Mary herself embroidered so long ago at Sheffield on the royal cloth of state which was destined to hang over the head of a captive queen: In my end is my Beginning.

  * To be compared in eloquence with the famous passage of Edmund Burke on Marie-Antoinette as dauphiness, written over 200 years later.

  * It is thought that this effigy was modelled from a death mask taken shortly after the execution by the surgeons at Fotheringhay. The death mask from which this effigy was taken cannot, however, be identified with the Lennoxlove death mask, discovered at Holyrood Palace in the last century. This, although beautiful, is clearly the mask of a much smaller woman. It measures seven inches long and 4¾ inches across, to be compared with the Westminster Abbey monument which is nine inches by seven inches across. (Queen Elizabeth’s monument, also taken from a death mask, measures eight inches by eight inches and portraits confirm that she had a much broader face than Mary.) Nor can the Lennoxlove measurements be explained by wax shrinkage: Mr Wismark of Madame Tussaud’s told the author that a two-inch shrinkage would destroy portraiture altogether, ¼ inch being the maximum for which allowance could be made. In any case the Lennoxlove mask bears only a superficial resemblance to the Queen of Scots: the mouth and setting of the eyes are quite different; the nose is blunt at the end in profile, lacking any sort of aquiline finish, and in front view looks almost retroussé; the width of the jaw is remarkable in a small face, and quite unlike the bone structure shown in all Mary’s known portraits. The Lennoxlove face is also thin, lacking the fullness upon which every observer at Mary’s execution commented, and which is present, for example, in the face on the Westminster monument.

  * But Philip was allowing himself to be deluded. Although Mary had twice confided England conditionally to Philip, if James failed to become a Catholic – in her will of 1577 and in her letter to Mendoza of May 1586 – no such clause existed in the last testament which Mary made on the eve of her death at Fotheringhay, and no other will has ever been found supporting his claims.12 In any case, it is clear from the contemporary accounts that Mary went to her death serenely, rather than in the bitter mood which might have led to a last-minute official disinheritance of her son.

  * In 1913 two small notices were placed privately on the railings surrounding the block of masonry; one, at the instance of the Richard III Society, recorded his birth in the castle in 1452; the other, affixed by the Stuart History Society, commemorated Mary Queen of Scots’ death in 1587. More colourful were the visits of an eccentric Jacobite sympathizer, at the turn of the present century, who used to make an annual pilgrimage from Edinburgh to Northamptonshire on the anniversary of the queen’s death to lay a wreath at Fotheringhay. Unfortunately, in his enthusiasm for the cause of Mary Stuart, he used such violent language about the existing British royal family that his visits had to be discouraged by the then owners of the site.

  APPENDIX

  The English and Scottish Versions

  of the Long Casket Letter

  1. The contemporary English copy of the long (second) casket letter was made by the clerk at the Westminster Conference, December 1568. Calendar of Scottish Papers, Vol. 2, Appendix 2, pp. 722ff. An ellipsis of four dots represents a gap left in the original; an ellipsis of three dots represents words torn off or worn from the original.

  Being gon from the place where I had left my harte, it may be easily judged what my countenance was, consydering what the body may, without hart, which was cause that till dynner I had used lyttle talke, neyther wold any body advance him selfe therunto, thinking that it was not good so to doo. Fowre myles from thence a gentleman of the Erle of Lennox cam to made [sic] his commendacions and excuses unto me, that he cam not to meete me, because he durst not enterprise so to doo, consydering the sharp wordes that I had spoken to Conyngham, and that he desyred that I wold com to the inquisition of the facte which I did suspecte him of. This last was of his own head without commission, and I tolde him that be had no receipte against feare, and that he had no feare, if he did not feele him selfe faulty, and that I had also sharply aunsweared to the doubtes that he made in his lettres, as though ther had bene a meaning to poursue him. To be short: I have made him hold his peace; for the rest, it weare to long to tell you. Sir James Hamilton cam to meete me, who told me that at another tyme he went his waye when he hard of my comming; and that he sent unto him Houstoun, to tell him that he wold not have thought that he wold have followed and accompany him selfe with the Hamiltons. He aunsweared that he was not come but to see me, and that he wolde not follow Stuard nor Hamilton,
but by my commandement. He prayed him to go speake to him: he refused it. The Lard Lus, Houson, and the sonne of Caldwell, and about xl hors came to meete me, and he told me that he was sent to one day a lau from the father, which shuld be this daye, against the signing of his own hand which he hathe; and that knowing of my comming he hath delayed it, and hath prayed to go see him; which he hatt refused, and swearith that he will suffer nothing at his handes. Not one of the towne, is come to speake with me, which makith me to think that they be his, and then he speakith well of them, at leaste his sonne. The King sent for Joachim, and asked him why I did not lodge nighe to him? and that he wold ryse sooner, and why I cam, whither it wear for any good appoynment that he cam, and whither I had not take Paris and Guilbert to write, and that I sent Joseph. I wonder who hath told him so muche, evin of the marriage of Bastian. This bearer shall tell you more upon that. I asked him of his lettres, and where he did complayne of the crueltye of som of them, he saide that he did dreme, and that he was so glad to see me that he thought he should dye. Indeede that he had found faulte with me. … I went my waye to supper, this berer shall tell you of my arryv … praied me to com agayne, which I did, and he told me his grefe and that he would make no testament but leave all unto me, and that I was cause of his sicknes for the sorrow he had that I was so strange unto him, ‘And’ (said he) ‘you asked me what I ment in my lettre to speake of cruelty: it was of your cruelty who will not accepte my offres and repentance: I avowe that I have don amisse, but not that I have always disavowed: and so have many other of your subjectes don, and you have well perdonid them, I am yong. You will saye that you have also perdonid me many tymes, but that I returne to my faultes. Many not a man of my age for want of counsell, fayle twise or thrise, and mysse of promes, and at the last repent and rebuke him selfe by his experience? Yf I may obtayn this perdon, I protest I will never make faulte agayne, and I aske nothing but that we may be at bed and at table together as husband and wife. And if you will not, I will never rise from this bed. I pray you tell me your resolution heerof; God knowith that I am punished to have made my God of you, and had no other mynd but of you: and when I offende you som tyme, you are cause thereof, for if I thought whan any body doth any wrong to [me] that I might for my refuge make my mone therof unto you, I wold open it to no other. But whan I heare any thing, being not familiar with you, I must keepe it in my mynde, and that troublith my wittes for anger.’ I did still answear him, but that shall be to long. In the end I asked him why he wold go in the English shipp? He doth disavow it and swearith so, but confessith to have spoken to the men. Afterward I asked him of the inquisition of Hiegate? He denyed it till I tolde him the very woordes, and then he said that Minto sent him word that it was said that som of the counsayle had brought me a lettre to signe to putt him in prison, and to kill him if he did resiste, and that he asked this of Minto him selfe, who said unto him that he thought it was true. I will talke with him tomorrowe upon that poynte: the rest as Wille Hiegate hath confessed, but it was the next daye that he cam hither. In the end he desyred much that I shuld lodge in his lodging; I have refused it. I have told him that he must be pourged, and that could not be don heere. He said unto me, ‘I have hard saye that you have brought the lytter, but I would rather have gon with your self.’ I told him that so I wolde myselfe bring him to Cragmillar, that the phisicians and I also might cure him without being farre from my sonne. He said that he was ready when I wolde, so as I wolde assure him of his requeste. He hath no desyre to be seene, and waxeth angry whan I speake to him of Wallcar, and sayth that he will pluck his eares from his head, and that he lyeth: for I asked before of that and what cause he had to complayne of … the Lordes, and to threaten them? He denyeth it and sayth that he had already prayed them to think no such matter of him. As for myself: he wold rather lose his lyfe than doo me the leaste displeasour. And then used so many kindes of flatteryes so coldly and so wysely as you would marvayle at. I had forgotten that he sayde that he could not mistrust me for Hiegates wordes, for he could not beleve that his own flesh (which was my selfe) wold doo him any hurte (and in deede it was sayde that I refused to have him lett blud) but for the others he wold at leaste sell his lyfe deere ynoughe: but that he did suspecte no body, nor wolde, but wolde love all that I did love. He wolde not lett me go, but wold have me to watche with him. I made as though I thought all to be true, and that I would think upon it. And have excused my selfe from sytting up with him this night, for he sayth that he sleepith not. You never hard one speake better nor more humbly, and if I had not proofe of his hart to be as waxe and that myne weare not as a dyamant, no stroke but comming from your hand, could make me but to have pitie of him. But feare not, for the place shall contynue till death. Remembre also in recompense therof not to suffer yours to won by that fals race that wold doo no lesse to your selfe. I think they have bene at schoole togither, he hath allwais the teare in the eye. He saluteth every man evin to the meanest, and makith much of them, that they may take pitie of him. His father hath bled this daye at the nose and at the mouth: gesse what token that is! I have not seene him, he is in his chambre. The King is so desyrous that I shuld give him meate with my own handes, but trust you no more there where you are than I doo here. This is my first journay, I will end tomorrow. I write all, how little consequence so ever it be of, to the end that yau may take of the wholle that that shall be best for you to judge.* I doo here a work that I hate but only by muche flattering him and pr[essing?] him to laughe, to see me so trymly make a lye, at the leaste, dissemble? and to mingle truthe therwith? He hath almost told me all on the bisshops behalfe and of Suderland, without touching any word unto him of that which you had told me, but only by muche flattering him and pre[ssing?] him to assure him selfe of me, and by my complayning of the r … en the wormes out of his nose.*

  You have hard the rest. We have tyed to with two false races, the goodyeere untye us from them. God forgive me, and God knytt us togither for ever, for the most faythfull couple that ever he did knytt together. This is my fayth, I will dye in it. Excuse it, yf I write yll, you must gesse the one halfe, I can not doo with all, for I am yll at ease, and glad to write unto you when other folkes be asleepe, seeing that I cannot doo as they doo, according to my desyre, that is betwene your armes, my deere lyfe, whom I besech God to preserve from all yll, and send you good rest as I go to seeke myne till tomorrow in the morning, that I will end my bible. But it greevith me that it shuld lett me from wryting unto you of newes of myselfe, so much I have to write. Send me word what you have determinid heerupon, that we may know the one the others mynde for marryng of any thing. I am weary and am asleepe, and yet I cannot forbeare scribling, as long as ther is any paper. Cursed be this pocky fellow that troublith me thus muche, for I had a pleasanter matter to discourse unto you, but for him. He is not muche the worse, but he is yll arayde. I thought I shuld have bene kylled with his breth, for it is worse than your uncles breth, and yet I was sett no neerer to him than in a chayre by his bolster, and he lyeth at the furder syd of the bed.

  The message of the father by the waye:–

  The talke of Sir James Hamilton of the ambassade–

  That that the Lard a Luss hathe tolde me of the delaye.

  The questions that he asked of Jochim of my state, of my companye, and of the cause of my coming, and of Joseph.

  The talke that he and I have had, and of his desyre to please me, of his repentance, and of th’interpretation of his lettre of Will Hiegates doinges and of his departure, and of the L. of Levinston.

  I had forgotten of the L. of Levinston, that at supper he sayd softly to the Lady Rivees [Reres] that he dronk to the persons that I knew [if] I wold pledge them. And after supper he said softly … I was leaning upon him and warming myselfe – ‘You may well go and see sick folkes, yet can you not be so wellcom unto them, as you have this daye left som body in payne, who shall never be meary till he have seene you agayne.’ I asked him who it was? he tooke me about the body, and said ‘One of his folkes that hath
left you this daye.’ Gesse you the rest.

  This daye I have wrought till two of the clock upon this bracelet to putt the keye in the clyfte of it, which is tyed with two laces. I have had so lyttle tyme that it is very yll, but I will make a fayrer, and in the meane tyme take heed that none of those that he heere doo see it, for all the world wold know it, for I have made it in haste in theyr presence. I go to my tedious talke; you make me dissemble so muche, that I am afrayde thereof with horrour, and you make me almost to playe the parte of a traytour. Remembre that if it were not for obeyeng you, I had rather be dead; my hart bleedith for yt. To be shorte: he will not com but with condition that I shall promise to be with him as heeretofore at bed and borde, and that I shall forsake him no more, and upon my worde he will doo whatsoever I will, and will com, but he hath prayed me to tarry till after tomorrow. He hath spoken at the fyrst more stoutly, as this bearer shall tell you, upon the mater of his Englishmen, and of his departure; but in the end he commith to his gentlenes agayne. He hath told me among other tak, that he knew well that my brother had told me at Sterling that which he had said there, whereof he denyed the halfe, and specially that he was in his chambre. But now to make him trust me, I must fayne something unto him: and therfore when he desyred me to promise that when he shuld be wholle, we shuld make but one bed, I told him (fayning to beleve his faire promesses … did not change his mynde betwene this tyme and that, I was contented, so as he wold saye nothing therof: for (to tell it betwene us two) the Lordis wisshed no yll to him, but did feare, leste (consydering the threateninges which he made in case we did agree togither) he wolde make them feele the small accompte they have maid of him, and that he wold persuade me to poursue som of them; and for this respecte shuld be in jelousy if at one instant* without their knowledge, I did breake a game made to the contrary in their presence. And he said unto me very pleasant and meary, ‘Think you that they doo the more esteeme you therfore? but I am glad that you talke to me of the lordis. I here that you desyre now that we shall lyve a happy lyfe, for if it weare otherwise, it could not be but greater inconvenience shuld happen to us both than you think: but I will doo now whatsoever you will have me doo, and will love all those that you shall love, so as you make them to love me allso. For so as they seeke not my life, I love them all egally.’ Therupon I have willed this bearer to tell you many prety thinges, far I have to muche to write, and it is late, and I trust him upon your worde. To be short, he will goe any where upon my worde; alas! and I never deceavid any body, but I remitt myself wholly to your will: and send me word what I shall doe, and whatever happen to me, I will obey you. Think also yf you will not fynde som invention more secret by phisick, for he is to take phisick at Cragmillar, and the bathes also, and shall not com fourth of long tyme. To be short, for that that I may learne, he hath greate suspicion, and yet nevertheles trustith upon my worde, but not to tell me as yet anything. Howbeit if you will that I shall avowe him, I will know all of him, but I shall never be willing to beguile one that puttith his trust in me. Nevertheles you may doo all, and doo not estyme me the lesse therfore, for you are the cause ther of; for, for my own revenge, I wold not doo it. He givith me certain charges (and those strong) of that that I feare evin to saye, that his faultes be published, but there be that committ some secret faultes and feare not to have them spoken of so lowdely, and that ther is speeche of greate and small. And evin touching the Lady Rires, he saide, ‘God graunte that she serve you to your honour,’ and that men may not think nor he neyther, that myne owne powre was not in my selfe, seeing I did refuse his offres. To conclude, for a surety he mistrustith us of that that you know, and for his lyfe. But in the end, after I had spoken two or three good wordes to him, he was very meary and glad. I have not seene him this night, for ending your bracelet, but I can fynde no claspes for yt: it is ready therunto, and yet I feare least it shuld bring you yll happ, or that it shuld be knowen if you were hurte. Send me worde whither you will have it, and more monney, and whan I shal returne, and how farre I may speake. Now as farre as I perceave, I may do much with you:* gesse you whither I shall not be suspected. As for the rest: he is wood when he hearith of Ledinton, and of you and of your brother he sayth nothing, but of the Erle of Arguile he doth. I am afraide of him to heare him talke, at the leaste he assurith him selfe that he hath no yll opinion of him. He speakith nothing of those abrode, nether good nor yll, but avoydith speaking of them His father keepith his chamber; I have not seene him. All the Hamiltons be heere, who accompany me very honestly. All the frendes of the other doo com allwais when I goe to visitt him. He hath sent to me and prayeth me to see him ryse to morrow in the morning early. To be short, this bearer shall declare unto you the rest, and if I shall learne any thing, I will make every night a memoriall therof. He shall tell you the cause of my stay. Burne this lettre, for it is to dangerous, neyther is ther anything well said in it, for I think upon nothing but upon greefe if you be at Edinboroughe. Now if to please you my deere lyfe, I spare nether honour, conscience, nor hazard, nor greatnes, take it in good parte, and not according to the interpretacion of your false brother in lawe, to whom I pray you give no credit, against the most faythfull lover that ever you had or shall have. See not also her whose faynid teares you ought not more to regarde than the true travails which I endure to deserve her place, for obtayning of which against my own nature, I doo betraye those that could lett me. God forgive me, and give you my only friend the good luck and prosperitie that your humble and faythfull lover doth wisshe unto you; who hopith shortly to be an other thing unto you, for the reward of my paynes. I have not made one worde, and it is very late, althoughe I shuld never be weary in wryting to you, yet will I end, after kyssing of your handes. Excuse my evill wryting, and reade it over twise – excuse also that … for I had yesternight no paper, wher I tooke the paper of a [memoriall] … Remembre your frende and wryte unto her and often. Love me all [wais] …