Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  In such a case, a royal warrant was also required before the execution could be carried out. Elizabeth must put her signature and seal on the order.

  At length she signed an order that the Duke would be executed on Tower Hill on Monday, February tenth, in company with two other traitors, Berney and Mather.

  * * *

  Elizabeth was pacing in her chamber. It was late Sunday night, February ninth. Outside the wind was howling, louder than the crackling of the fire in her chamber. She had removed all her rings and was massaging her fingers. Her wig was off, and she would nervously run her hands through her hair every few minutes. Her hair was long and still thick and healthy, but she had a full wardrobe of wigs in elaborate styles. She never, however, wore hair of any colour but red.

  Tomorrow … tomorrow the Duke would die. And she must wait to hear of how his head had fallen, just as her father had waited … no, it was too dreadful.

  No beheadings until now. No treason in high ranks until now. My cousin’s blood. And they will say, She is her father’s daughter after all. Blood will out. Next it will be … whom?

  Elizabeth stood looking out the window. She was at Richmond, and she could see the river flowing past, dimly lighted by the half moon. The night was passing, Norfolk’s last upon earth. His last moonlight, his last bedtime … The river was flowing past the Tower, too, and he could see and hear it as well. This same water would be passing the Duke in an hour or so.

  Must it be so? Must he die? Once his head was off, there was no putting it back on.

  She could not help but smile at the idea. If only it were possible to reattach a head, to say, “Oh, we change our minds, pray live after all.” But the only time to do that was before the deed.

  She was trembling.

  As if I were the one being executed. And well I know what it is to wait in the Tower.

  Suddenly she called for a page, and directed him to bring Cecil to her immediately.

  * * *

  Cecil, still suffering the aftereffects of his latest debilitating attack of gout, made his way painfully into Elizabeth’s privy chamber. He was forced to lean on a stick, but his greatest concern and worry was what he would face with his Queen.

  He saw her standing in the middle of the room, her hands clasped demurely. Without her wig and makeup she looked very young, as she had when first she had come to the throne. “Madam,” he said, bowing as low as he could.

  “Thank you for coming at midnight, dear Cecil. I trust your wife was not too inconvenienced.”

  “She is accustomed to it, Madam.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “One of the disadvantages of your office. I trust becoming Lady Burghley will make up for it.” She whirled around, her mood changing in a second. “Oh, Cecil, I mislike this execution!”

  He had feared that was it. “It is most unfortunate,” he agreed.

  “He is my cousin! His grandfather and my grandmother were brother and sister!”

  “Yes, it is most unfortunate,” Cecil repeated. What did she expect him to say?

  “Remember the Bible—how Cain was punished for spilling the blood of Abel. ‘The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand.’ What if God punishes me? I can bear it of myself—but I am more than myself, and I fear he will punish the realm through me. And I—I, who have taken England for my husband and child as well—will not bring misfortune on my land.”

  Cecil sighed. “Cain slew Abel through anger and malice. This is an entirely different situation. Twenty-six peers of the realm—including myself—have examined the evidence and concluded that he is a traitor and dangerous to the realm. Far from bringing disaster on the land if you execute him, danger will result if you do not.”

  Elizabeth was scratching her arms, leaving long thin white marks on them. “But he is of my own blood!”

  “It is unfortunate,” Cecil could only repeat. He paused.

  “Justice must be done,” Elizabeth finally said. “He has been found guilty.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “To balk justice is injustice.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Yet mercy is a higher virtue than justice.”

  “In God, yes.”

  “Am I not God’s anointed on earth? Should I not look heavenward for a model of my behaviour, rather than to the peers of the realm?” she asked.

  “Madam, this looking heavenward can be a highway to tyranny. When a ruler begins to disregard the laws of his land in favour of heavenly guidance, he often tramples the most basic justice underfoot. Stick with the paths of the law, and you cannot be led astray into tyranny.”

  “You are right,” she said, sitting down abruptly in a chair. “And I am in danger from all these plots! My cousin did not hesitate to traffick with my sworn enemies! He regarded my life lightly, so it seems. His head wished to feel the weight of a crown. Well, it shall feel the edge of a sword instead!” She slapped the edge of her hand down on the chair arm.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Cecil bowed. Relief flooded him.

  “But not tomorrow,” she said. “Stay the execution. I promise it is merely postponed, not cancelled.”

  * * *

  The crowds were milling around the newly erected scaffold on Tower Hill, the mound just outside the walls of the Tower where public executions were held. There had been no executions in London in Elizabeth’s reign, and the old scaffold had rotted from disuse. The people had started coming at dawn, staking out a good position to see the killings. It promised to be a good show, as the blue-black clouds had parted and revealed a pallid sky behind them. There would be no rain or snow, the plague of a winter execution.

  On the new scaffold was the venerable block from the old one, hallowed by the chops that had severed the heads of Thomas More, Cromwell, Anne Boleyn’s lovers, and Henry Howard himself, the Duke’s own father. It had two depressions in it, for the shoulders on one side and the chin on the other, with a strait in between where the neck could lie flat and exposed to the axe.

  A thick mat of fresh straw was spread all over the platform, and cloths to cover the headless bodies were at the ready. Separate cloths were provided to catch the heads as they fell forward. The cloths matched so that when the parts were gathered up for burial, the correct head would accompany the body … that is, if the heads were not required to be displayed on London Bridge.

  The actual sentence was the one of hanging first, then disembowelling, drawing and quartering, followed by beheading. But doubtless the Duke would only be beheaded, while the other two would endure the entire sentence.

  The crowd cheered when Kenelm Berney, a young man who had plotted to kill Cecil, was brought out. He made the usual farewells and prayers, and was strung up and hanged until he was dead—thus being mercifully spared suffering when the rest of the sentence was carried out to the letter.

  Within fifteen minutes his remains had been removed, the straw changed, and his partner, Edmund Mather, led out. He, too, suffered a quick death.

  Now the crowd hushed, awaiting the Duke. This was what they had come for; the two ordinary traitors were just a prelude, an appetizer. The highest lord in the land was to have his head cut off! Why, it had been so long since such a sight—once common enough—had been available. Some children had never even seen it, and had to make do with their elders’ reminiscences: “The buzzards swooped down on Sir Francis Weston”; “More made a joke about his beard, begging the headsman not to cut it, for it had done no treason”; “Henry Howard had an unusual amount of blood in him; it kept flowing for ten minutes, and ruined the headsman’s shoes.” Now they would see it for themselves, and be able to tell their own children.

  Someone was coming forward, wearing the Queen’s livery. He was going to read off the sentence, and then the Duke would be brought out, wearing gorgeous apparel. The people got even more excited.

  “It is the wis
h of Her Majesty the Queen that the execution of the Duke of Norfolk not take place today,” the messenger announced.

  The crowd groaned. Some of them cursed.

  * * *

  The execution was moved to the last day of February, at six o’clock in the morning. At four o’clock, Elizabeth recalled the warrant.

  * * *

  Elizabeth lay in her bed, so ill she thought she was dreaming when the faces of Robert Dudley and Cecil appeared before her eyes. She had lain thus for several days, and the realm was paralyzed with fright. What if she died? What would happen to them? The Duke of Norfolk yet lived, as did the Queen of Scots. Would Spanish troops arrive to put Mary on the throne? There was no successor to the throne named. Without Elizabeth they were lost. All that stood between them and chaos was the life of an unmarried thirty-eight-year-old woman.

  “You must rally,” whispered Dudley. “I myself will feed you, like a father with his babe.”

  He and Cecil looked at each other. If she lived—provisions would have to be made. She could evade them no longer.

  * * *

  Elizabeth maintained that her life had never been in danger, that she had only suffered from tainted fish that she had eaten. True, she had had a fever and violent stomach pains and vomiting, but that was only normal in such cases. Her body was purging itself from the poison of the fish.

  The Council was adamant: she must call a Parliament to deal with the grave issues of the day. She could not continue to take all upon her own shoulders—her fragile shoulders.

  With grumbling acquiescence, she sent out writs for a new Parliament in late March.

  * * *

  In April, while the new members of Parliament were making ready to come to London, Elizabeth made a treaty with the French. Her erstwhile suitor Charles IX had now married elsewhere, but Elizabeth pretended to be interested in the next son, Henri, who was eighteen years younger than she.

  The negotiations for this treaty had been going on for some months, the French always insisting that Mary be included in any provisions. But on the day that the English envoy was taking leave of the French King, letters arrived from the French ambassador in London confirming Mary’s part in the Ridolfi Plot.

  Charles, the king, exploded with anger and disgust. “Ah, the poor fool will never cease until she loses her head. I meant to help, but if she will not be helped, I can do nothing more.” He waved his jewelled fingers. His spaniels trotted forward eagerly, expecting a sweet.

  “Yes, my love,” said Catherine de Médicis. “It is most sad.”

  Charles took a long sip of his sugar water from a stemmed Venetian goblet. He sighed. “Dear Mr. Ambassador, this treaty will doubtless be of great benefit to both our countries. Let us leave the Queen of Scots out of it entirely, and reword its provisions to be a defensive treaty between our two realms. If either of us is attacked—by anyone—we will come to one another’s aid.” He reached down and nuzzled the top of a dog’s head. The animal flung himself on his back and wiggled on the rug. Another dog whined.

  “Do you permit the Queen of Scots to receive gifts?” he asked the ambassador. “I could send her some puppies. Perhaps that would console her.”

  VII

  Mary opened the basket eagerly. She could hear the sounds of the puppies inside, and could feel the warmth from their little bodies. She peered in.

  Curled up in the warm lined basket were three black-and-tan puppies, toy spaniels. Just seeing them took her back to France, where the royal family had had so many of this type. Her brother-in-law, King Charles, had sent them.

  Carefully she lifted them out one by one and handed them to Mary Seton, Lady Livingston, and Anthony Babington. “Come see!” she called to Madame Rallay; the old woman put aside her sewing and shuffled over. She could hardly stand straight now.

  “Do you remember?” Mary asked softly. “These must be the grandchildren of the dogs that roamed our chambers at Chambord and Blois.”

  Madame Rallay, who was almost seventy now, smiled. “Oh, indeed. I think I see a bit of Sleepy in them.” Sleepy had been a lethargic but prolific bitch. “It was kind of Charles to send them. Now the birds will have company.”

  “My menagerie grows.” Mary took the letter from the French ambassador that had accompanied the puppies. She waited until she was at her desk to open it. Letters were a source of power to her now—her only power. Sitting at her desk, scribbling letter after letter to anyone she could think of—the Pope, Philip, Charles, Catherine de Médicis, the ambassadors, the Scottish Lords, Elizabeth, Cecil, Knollys—she felt less helpless and alone. The words, flowing off her pen, felt mighty. She did not want to imagine that once they left her hands they could be disregarded or ignored.

  The fine paper was a pleasure to open—so much better than the mean stuff she was forced to use. The French always had such beauty around themselves. And the seal—such a good quality of wax, brittle and shiny. She unfolded the page with pleasure.

  Her smile faded as she read the ambassador’s words. She reread them slowly.

  “The French have abandoned me,” she finally whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

  “What is it?” asked Willie Douglas.

  Wordlessly, she handed the letter to him.

  “So the French have made a treaty with the English, in which you and your rights are not even mentioned,” he finally said.

  “I have been discarded. My former country deems me and my troubles as something they wish to slough off,” she said in wonder.

  The French. Her adopted country, the country of her mother, of her favourite language, her sensibilities, her dress, her memories. Her mother’s kinsmen. All gone. No help from there.

  She felt as though she had been kicked. France, her treasured past and the place she had stated she wished to be buried, did not want her.

  What if I had gone there instead of England? For four years I have tormented myself with making the wrong decision, imagining that a safe haven awaited me there, she thought. But no—it is no safer than England.

  She began to weep stormily, putting her head down on her arms. Anthony and Madame Rallay tried to comfort her, but the truth allowed her no comfort. They left her in privacy.

  In the outer chamber, Willie shook his head and murmured to Mary Seton, “This is a heavy blow. She had always counted on France as a last resort. This, on top of the betrayal and defamation of Bishop Leslie, may break her spirit.”

  When Mary’s eyes cleared, she reread the letter. Only then did she note where the treaty had been signed: at the Château of Blois.

  She laughed bitterly. She had always loved the octagonal staircase there; she had dreamed of it often since leaving. Someday I will stand on it again, she had vowed.

  * * *

  Shrewsbury returned from his duty of presiding over Norfolk’s trial and announced that owing to Elizabeth’s extreme displeasure with her cousin the Queen of Scots, she was to reduce her suite of attendants immediately. She was to choose the ones to remain, and the rest must depart from Sheffield. Sorrowfully, Mary drew up the list. She could not be without Mary Seton, or Willie, or her priest, or Madame Rallay, or Bastian Pages and his wife, Margaret Carwood. Those serving her had been Scots, French, and local English people. The orders were that she should retain only sixteen of them.

  Shrewsbury had returned in a weakened condition. Mary guessed that he had been chided for allowing plots to flourish under his roof and not providing strict enough guard over her. Bess now shot her venomous looks, blaming her for her husband’s condition. The sewing ceased.

  But Mary’s secret channel of correspondence had not been detected, and she was able to continue writing letters. When she had first heard of Norfolk’s sentence, she had taken to her bed in grief and guilt. But when his execution was halted by royal reprieve twice, she began to wonder how Elizabeth thought. Why did she hesitate?

  After Elizabeth’s illness, another warrant was issued for Norfolk’s execution, and again it was halt
ed. Shrewsbury wordlessly gave Mary a copy of Elizabeth’s command.

  Methinks that I am more beholden to the hinder part of my head than will dare trust the forward side of the same, and therefore send the lieutenant the order to defer this execution till they hear further. The causes that move me to this are not now to be expressed, lest an irrevocable deed be in the meanwhile committed. Your most loving sovereign,

  Elizabeth R.

  It was endorsed by Cecil “11 April 1572, the Q. Majesty, with her own hand, for staying of the execution of the D.N. Received at 2 in the morning.”

  Did this mean that Elizabeth was incapable of proceeding with an execution? Mary suddenly realized this might be the case. And it would not be surprising.

  She was safe. Norfolk was safe. Nothing could touch them after all. Elizabeth was an impotent victor.

  * * *

  Mary’s spirits rose as spring came to Sheffield. Her rheumatism improved with the warmer weather, and it was impossible not to respond to the greening of the earth, the flowers that sprang up around all the paths. There was talk of transferring to Sheffield Manor so that the Castle could be cleaned. The manor, situated in the hunting park, was a welcome summer abode. And security was looser there; it was more difficult to guard.

  Anthony had proved adept at smuggling out letters; people did not suspect a boy, and one whose family had long been friends with the Shrewsburys. He amused himself devising new codes, and experimenting with hollowed-out corks and waterproof packets to be inserted in bottles. One of his triumphs was suggesting that black paper could be used to hide messages in a dark privy house; it was not a place where people were apt to linger or look closely.

  * * *

  Mary gathered her skirts and took her private book—hidden in a sewing basket—outside at Sheffield Manor to what she called the Bower. It was a sitting area with lilacs surrounding it, and a turf bench. She arranged her skirts and looked up at the tightly budded branches; the lilacs would not be out for another fortnight. But when they bloomed, what a fragrance!