Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “I have been informed that certain Scots nobles, including the ever-chivalrous George Douglas, have been urging him to invade England and free her.”

  “The Scots, who had to be prevented from executing her themselves—and by yourself at that—are hardly likely to hazard life and limb for her now. No, you are quite safe from that quarter.”

  “Oh, I would that it were over and done with!” she cried.

  “Then end it,” said Robert. “End it, most gracious Majesty.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth suspended Parliament, and called for it to reassemble on February fifteenth. Two days afterward, on December fourth, she allowed the publication of the sentence to the sound of trumpets: Mary was found guilty of “being not only accessory and privy to the conspiracy but also an imaginer and compasser of Her Majesty’s destruction.” Church bells rang in London for twenty-four hours, bonfires blazed, and people drank and danced in the streets with wild celebration.

  * * *

  Elizabeth asked Cecil to draw up the death warrant, and dispatched a deputation of councillors to announce the verdict and sentence to Mary at Fotheringhay. Then she shut herself in her chambers for two days.

  XXIX

  Mary had just finished her midday meal, served quietly in the largest chamber of the octagonal tower, when Paulet appeared in the door-way.

  “You have visitors,” he said cryptically.

  Before she had time to rise from the table or even wipe her lips with her napkin, a crowd of men stepped into the chamber. She did not recognize any of them; some of the faces looked familiar from the trial, but she did not know the names.

  “I am Robert Beale, clerk of her Majesty’s Privy Council,” one man stepped forward and said. He was a healthy-looking man, robust without being portly.

  Mary rose and left the table, with its remains of food and dirty dishes. She walked slowly to the other end of the chamber, where her throne would have been. Then she turned and faced them.

  “Madam, we are sent here to announce to you the sentence: you are found guilty of conspiring against the life of Queen Elizabeth, and are condemned by the Parliament of this country to die,” he said softly.

  Mary just looked at him and said nothing.

  Behind him the other men shifted from foot to foot.

  “These gentlemen, all leading members of the Privy Council, lawyers of the crown, and other officials, are witnesses that we have indeed communicated this to you. The sentence has been proclaimed by heralds and published throughout the realm,” Beale continued.

  “Ah,” said Mary.

  “Now is the time to confess and ask forgiveness!” said Paulet, who had joined them.

  “Confess? Ask forgiveness?” said Mary. “The trial and its sentence are illegal.” The men began to murmur, and she went on quickly, “But it is no matter. I know the real reason I am to die, and I am humbly grateful for it. It is for my religion. What a privilege has thus been bestowed on me!”

  “You may stop that right now!” said Beale. “It is a clever move to try to make yourself out to be a saint and a martyr, but the truth is you are neither, and are condemned to die for common plotting and treason against the Queen.”

  “I beseeched Him to accept the sorrows and persecutions I have suffered in both mind and body as some atonement for my sins, and I see He has answered my prayers!” Mary went on.

  “You see, gentlemen, what I have had to endure,” said Paulet. “Long, tedious speeches that have nothing to do with the matter at hand! It would be charitable to say her long imprisonment has robbed her of her good sense, but she has never had good common sense. She has indulged herself with fancies, surrounding herself with flatterers and foreigners even in Scotland, to the end that she has lived in her own little world all her life. So now she erects another little stage where she can act out a part: the sainted martyr, lifting her eyes to Heaven, clutching her rosary and mumbling Latin.”

  “Madam,” Beale persisted, “if you would but confess to the Queen—”

  “When is the sentence to be carried out?” Mary asked.

  “That is in the hands of the Queen’s Majesty,” answered Beale.

  “And it is to be a public execution?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You will not do me to death secretly, and rob me of that public death?” she asked Paulet.

  “Madam!” he almost shouted. “I am a man of honour and a gentleman, and I would never dishonour myself by exercising such cruelty, or conducting myself like a Turk!”

  “For which I am grateful,” said Mary.

  After the deputation left, Paulet reentered the chamber and went quickly upstairs to her bedchamber, carrying a bundle under his arm. She rose and followed him, but it took her some time to ascend the stairs. When she finally reached the upper room, her blood ran cold.

  Paulet was decking her bed with black hangings.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “This is to signify that you are, in the eyes of the law, already dead. These are your funeral trappings. The rest of the chamber will be hung with black as well.” He busily continued attaching them.

  “So my bed is to be my hearse,” she said. “I am to lie in state?”

  “As it were,” he answered. “And think upon your everlasting destination.” He stepped down off his stool and eyed his handiwork.

  “And your billiard table is to be taken away,” he said. “This is no time to waste in idle recreations.”

  “I have never used it since it has been there. I have had other occupations. Pray take it away and give us some more room.”

  He snorted with disdain and left.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Mary called together her people and made the announcement to them. She hoped no one would break out in lamentations or anger; that would make it all the harder.

  “My friends, today I have received the sentence,” she said. “We all know what that is. And Paulet has kindly decorated my chamber so that I will feel at all times as if I am in the valley of the shadow of death.”

  “When is it to be?” asked Jane Kennedy. Her eyes shone with tears, but her voice did not tremble. Mary was grateful for that.

  “I do not know. Therefore I must make preparations now. I will need paper, and certain lists to be drawn up of my remaining property. I must write my farewell letters, and make my will.”

  At that, Elizabeth Curie gave a cry, and Willie Douglas moaned.

  “I am happy, truly I am, for this will see an end to all my troubles,” she insisted. “If you love me, you will rejoice with me. The captive is to go free at last! And when I am free, then you will be, too. Only help me to part from this world easily and with grace. That is your task, that is all I ask of you. Help me disrobe from this mantle of sorrow, and put on my heavenly robes.”

  * * *

  Mary’s hand was aching. The rheumatism was especially bad in her writing hand, as if to plague her. But she had completed her letters: one to Archbishop Beaton, her envoy in Paris, one to Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador who had been expelled from England on her account for the Throckmorton Plot, and now was posted to Paris. One to the Pope, her spiritual father. And one to Henri of Guise, the head of the Guise family now.

  To Guise she had allowed herself to speculate on her execution.

  I am now, by an unjust sentence, about to be put to such a death as no person of our family, much less of my rank, ever suffered. Yet I thank God for it, being useless to the world and to the cause of His church in my present state. And though executioner never yet dipped his hand in our blood, be not ashamed thereof, my friend.

  There was still the will to compose, and then the hardest letter of all—the obligatory one to Elizabeth.

  Although she had been in a curious state of exaltation all day, it was ebbing away and all she felt now was weariness.

  Do I have the strength to go on? she asked herself. I must; I may not be given the time to compose these later. And t
hey must be done.

  The will was only a listing of finances, trying to make provision for her servants, and requesting that she be buried in France, with her mother. She tried to remember all the small sums and holdings, but without her account books, she could not be sure. Nonetheless, she hoped that either the King of Spain, the King of France, or the Duc de Guise would, in charity, cover the small bequests.

  Now the letter to Queen Elizabeth. She shut her eyes and prayed for the words to come to her. Then she slowly began to write. At first the words were mere formalities. Then she came to the heart of the matter.

  Now having been informed, on your part, of the sentence passed in the last session of your Parliament, and admonished by Lord Beale to prepare myself for the end of my long and weary pilgrimage, I prayed them to return my thanks to you for such agreeable intelligence, and to ask you to grant some things for the relief of my conscience.

  I will not accuse any person, but sincerely pardon every one, as I desire others, and, above all, God, to pardon me. And since I know that your heart, more than that of any other, ought to be touched by the honour or dishonour of your own blood, and of a Queen, the daughter of a king, I require you, Madam, for the sake of Jesus, that after my enemies have satisfied their black thirst for my innocent blood, you will permit my poor disconsolate servants to remove my corpse, that it may be buried in holy ground, with my ancestors in France, especially the late Queen my mother, since in Scotland the remains of the Kings my predecessors have been outraged, and the churches torn down and profaned.

  As I shall suffer in this country, I shall not be allowed a place near your ancestors, who are also mine, and persons of my religion think much of being interred in consecrated earth. I trust you will not refuse this last request I have preferred to you, and allow, at least, free sepulture to this body when the soul shall be separated from it, which never could obtain, while united, liberty to dwell in peace.

  Dreading the secret tyranny of some of those to whom you have abandoned me, I entreat you to prevent me from being dispatched secretly, without your knowledge, not from fear of the pain, which I am ready to suffer, but on account of the reports they would circulate after my death. It is therefore that I desire my servants to remain the witnesses and attestators of my end, my faith in my Saviour, and obedience to His church. This I require of you in the name of Jesus Christ in respect to our consanguinity, for the sake of King Henry VII, your great-grandfather and mine, for the dignity we have both held, and for the sex to which we both belong.

  Her hand was trembling. She hated to think of Elizabeth holding the letter and reading it. At the same time she knew she would be bereft if she ever knew for certain that Elizabeth would never see it. She continued.

  I beseech the God of mercy and justice to enlighten you with His holy Spirit, and to give me the grace to die in perfect charity, as I endeavour to do, pardoning my death to all those who have either caused or cooperated in it; and this will be my prayer to the end.

  Accuse me not of presumption if, leaving this world and preparing myself for a better, I remind you that you will have 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 our comprehension we ought to dispose our minds to make things temporal yield to those of eternity.

  Your sister and cousin wrongfully a prisoner,

  Marie Royne

  There. It was done. Mary folded the paper and stood up. Her head was throbbing. She had written many, many pages. When she looked at the stack, she could scarcely believe it.

  At her little altar the candle was still flickering. The dim yellow light bathed the face of the Virgin painted on wood, which had served as her chief devotional object since she had removed her ivory crucifix and fastened it on the wall where her royal canopy should have been. When Paulet had uneasily admitted that he had no right to take it down, she had assured him that she preferred the crucifix in any case.

  Now, kneeling before the Virgin, she closed her eyes and felt herself flooded with a peace born of more than just completion of a task. She marvelled at how this could be, imagining having received the sentence of certain death at any other time or place in her life, when the blood ran strong and her attachment to the earth was fierce.

  In France, when all her senses were drowning in beauty; in Scotland, when her pride and ambition were engaged with the challenge of ruling, and then, later, when her courage had to confront the danger of treason; in the arms of Bothwell, when desire and love possessed her and made her exult in every aspect of her earthly being … no, at none of these times would she have wanted to be called away from this world. At first it was a garden to her, then an arena, and then a bed of pleasure, and she had drunk deeply of it. Now it was a draught that she put aside, never to taste again.

  Like a mystery, words were corning to her, words in Latin that she must write down, as if they had been given to her. She rose and returned to her writing desk.

  O Domine Deus,

  Speravi in Te;

  O care mi Jesu

  Nunc Libera me.

  In dura catena,

  In miser a poena,

  Desidero Te.

  Languendo, gemendo,

  Et genuflectendo,

  Adoro, imploro,

  Ut liberes me.

  O Lord God,

  I have hoped in Thee.

  Beloved Jesus,

  Now set me free.

  In cruel chains,

  In bitter pains,

  I have longed for Thee.

  Now languishing

  In sorrow sore,

  Upon my knees,

  I Thee implore

  That Thou wilt

  Grant me liberty.

  Liberty, liberty … loose my chains, she whispered to the still room.

  Everything was quiet. It was after midnight.

  It is now December eighth, she thought. My birthday. My forty-fourth, and my last upon earth. The knowledge of that is a precious gift.

  * * *

  The next morning she sent for Balthazzar to come to her in her chamber. The old man, bent halfway over, moved painfully across the room, having scarcely enough strength to lift his feet. As a result, they made soft swishing sounds on the stone floor.

  “My friend,” said Mary, “today is my birthday, and I am minded to employ you once again, as I have for so many years.”

  Balthazzar’s eyes were white and filmy. Yet he raised them to her and nodded. She could tell that he had wept during the night.

  “You made my dress for my first communion. And my wedding dress when I married François. And you made the gown I wore to James’s baptism. Now, do you think you could undertake the grandest gown of all?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot see so well, and my hands shake so I cannot cut material straight.”

  “But others can do those tasks. I wish you to design the gown. You can still visualize a finished garment, can you not?”

  “Yes. Better than ever.”

  “Then visualize this: I want a gown in which I become immortal. A gown in which I pass from nature into eternity. Can you see this?”

  “Yes, Madam.” He wiped his eyes. “In my mind, I see it.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “A red gown. Crimson. The colour of martyrdom. A low neck, and a full skirt. Yes, I see it.”

  “Then measure me for it, faithful servant. And make it ready for me. Tell no one, except your assistants. It will be our secret. Until the day.”

  Balthazzar put his head in his hands and wept.

  “Nay, my friend,” said Mary. “I rejoice to go; when I went to my weddings, and to my ceremonies, it was but a shadow of this, a passing taste of this joy beyond all joys. I tell you a secret: I feel it already. Eternity has already begun for me, and it is bliss and peace beyond all description.”

  * * *

  Mary’s forty-fourth birthday came and went;
Christmas came and went, a dreary little celebration. All except Mary were downcast and barely able to go through the motions of living, except for the few who were ragingly angry. Only Mary seemed to float in a protected world of her own, oblivious of the cold, the dark, the damp, the endless rumours that seeped even into the guarded tower. There were tales circulating all over the realm that Mary had escaped, that Spanish troops had landed in Wales, that there was a new northern uprising. There was even a new plot against Elizabeth, said to involve smearing her stirrups and saddle with poison.

  Daily, Mary made ready for the official to arrive with the death warrant. She thought of him as being in a race against the secret murderer who could strike at any moment, robbing her of a death with any meaning at all. She was sure that he was somewhere within Fotheringhay, that self-appointed executioner.

  But as the days passed and nothing happened, a dread began to take hold of her. It was possible that Elizabeth would decide to spare her, in her “mercy.” Elizabeth could delay signing the warrant as she delayed everything else, until she had her wish and people stopped hounding her about it—as they had quit hounding her to get married. She confided these fears to her writing-book.

  December 29, Anno Domini 1586. I could be kept like this for another twenty years! In that way Elizabeth would not be seen to shed my blood. Another twenty years of locked rooms, of no letters, of illness and isolation. And the obligatory plotting. The outsiders would continue plotting and I would have to become involved. More codes, more messengers—O my Saviour, spare me from that living death! Do not condemn me to it!

  January 1, New Year’s Day, Anno Domini 1587. Another year dawns. Paulet yesterday made a comment about wages for my servants. From his tone and statement, it sounded as if they would be employed for the foreseeable future. O God, O most tender and compassionate Holy Mother, do not draw me out longer on the rack here! I cannot bear it, cannot bear it, cannot bear it.…