O Lord God, I must believe that I will continue to be a living soul even when the breath departs in two hours, she thought. I must—
“Here, my lady,” said Elizabeth, holding the crimson gown. It was all of satin, with a plain skirt and bodice cut low in the back to accommodate the stroke of the axe. Lace trimmed the scooped neck in front. There were detachable sleeves as well.
“Thank you.” Mary started to put it on, then had a wild thought. What if it did not fit? She had never tried it on.
But it did. It fit perfectly.
And then Jane brought her overdress of mourning black, satin with velvet trimmings and jet buttons. With tears in her eyes, she fastened the dress over the crimson one. Elizabeth brought Mary her finest wig and arranged it before putting on the headdress: a white cap with a peaked front, from which flowed a long, transparent white veil, edged in lace. It reached the ground, as had her bridal veil at her first marriage.
The women stepped back and looked at her. She already seemed remote, costumed for a far journey to a different land. The clothes had transformed her.
She picked up her two rosaries and fastened them about her waist, along with a cross; an Agnus Dei hung from her neck by a jewelled chain. Her movements were careful and dainty.
“I thank you,” she said. “I wish to ask you one … other thing. On the scaffold, after the execution”—her words rushed together—“I will be incapable of attending to this body as modesty decrees. Please cover me; do not let me lie exposed.”
The women nodded, silently.
“And now, let the rest of the household join us. I would speak to all of you one last time.”
When they were all together, Mary embraced the women and gave the men her hand to kiss. She had meant to tell them about the will, about what they were to do afterwards, but she found that words were unnecessary and awkward. Instead she put the will, along with her farewell letters, into an open box and merely indicated it.
She could see sunshine coming through her windows. The air smelt a bit like spring; probably, down by the banks of the River Nene, snowdrops were already blooming.
The eighth of February, she thought. This day, this very day, at its close will be twenty years since last I saw Darnley, and on the next he died. In my end is my beginning. For truly my deepest woe began on that day, and today it comes to fruition.
Then, after taking a little bread and wine that Bourgoing brought her for strength, she turned away from them and went to the oratory to pray.
She had imagined that she would have words and words and words to say, but instead, there were very few. Strengthen me. Thank You for this life. Beside her, Geddon, also at the end of his days but clinging to life, thumped his balding tail. It was that everyday sound, the summation of all the everyday things she was leaving, that brought tears to her eyes.
“What odd things I will miss most,” she whispered.
It was past eight o’clock when the High Sheriff knocked on the chamber door and was admitted. “Madam, the lords have sent me for you,” he said.
Mary rose and turned to him. “Yes. Let us go.”
Bourgoing suddenly rushed across the room to where her old ivory crucifix was hanging, and took it off the wall. “Carry it before her,” he said, handing it to one of the stewards. Mary smiled; how could she have forgotten it?
Together the company left the apartments and descended the great oak staircase, passing the wicket gate that had served as the outer boundaries of Mary’s world, beyond which she was never permitted to pass. Now she swept past it, supported by two of Paulet’s men.
At the foot of the stairs, the Earl of Kent stopped her attendants. “No farther! You are not to enter the Great Hall.” He glared at Mary. “You are to die alone, by the Queen’s orders.”
Mary’s people began to cry and protest. Jane flung herself on the floor and clutched at Mary’s gown.
Fingers clinging to my gown … Riccio! She disengaged Jane’s grip and turned to Kent.
“Pray, sir, let them witness my end. I wish them to see how I endure it.”
“No! They will doubtless weep and wail, and distract the headsman. And worse, they will dip their handkerchiefs in your blood, to make a holy relic of it. We know what your religion does with such trumperies!”
Mary shuddered. “My lord,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “I will give my word, although I will be dead, that they will do none of these things.” She turned to the Earl of Shrewsbury, who had hidden himself in the back. “I know the Queen has not given you such orders. She, a maiden Queen, would certainly allow me the dignity of being attended by my own women at my death.”
Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet, and Drury conferred, and at length told her she might select six persons to accompany her.
“Then I must have Jane and Elizabeth. Andrew Melville, my master of the household, and my physician, apothecary, and surgeon. Unless … you will permit my priest to come?”
“No priest!” bellowed the Earl of Kent.
“Very well,” said Mary.
Before they could proceed farther, Melville threw himself on his knees and cried, “Woe is me! that it should be my lot to carry back such heavy tidings to Scotland that my gracious Queen and mistress has been beheaded in England.”
“Weep not, Andrew, my good and faithful servant. I am Catholic, you Protestant; but as there is but one Christ, I charge you in His name to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotswoman and a true Frenchwoman. Commend me to my dearest and most sweet son. I give him my blessing on earth.” She made the sign of the cross in the air.
“The time is wearing away apace!” growled the Earl of Kent. “Come!”
The procession—headed by the Sheriff and his men, then Paulet and Drury, Shrewsbury, Kent, and Beale—made its way into the Great Hall. Mary followed, determined to walk unaided. She straightened her spine and held her head up, by sheer strength of will.
The chamber was very large, but all Mary could see was the execution platform. She had heard it abuilding; now she beheld it.
It was about twelve feet square, with railings. It was almost a yard high, too high for someone to mount without steps, and so a neat little pair of steps was provided. The platform was hung all around with black. There were objects on it: a chair, a table, a cushion, two stools … and the block.
She tried to keep her heart from racing. But there had been no preparation for this. In everything else, there was an analogy in normal life. But there had been no way of steeling herself for the very existence of this death-platform, no substitute to accustom herself to.
The crowd was staring at her, watching her to see if she trembled.
Another crowd, staring as she was brought back to Edinburgh. Lord Lindsay and Ruthven on either side, like Paulet and Drury …
Burn the whore!
Execute the traitor!
She looked straight ahead and focused on the black gathered hangings skirting the platform. She paused at the foot of the stairs. Paulet stood beside them and offered his hand.
“I thank you, sir,” she said. “This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.”
Shrewsbury, Kent, and Beale mounted the stairs; they indicated to her that she should be seated in the chair provided. She obeyed.
She became aware of two men dressed entirely in black. Then she saw the axe, lying on the floor. It was the kind used to chop wood! No sword for her. She gripped the arms of the chair.
Beale began to read the warrant for the execution to the room. Only then did Mary look out at the people. There were more than a hundred gathered, and they surrounded the platform on three sides.
“Now, Madam,” said the Earl of Shrewsbury in a faint voice, “you see what you have to do.”
“Do your duty,” said Mary. She felt a great peace flooding her; she smiled.
Just then a portly churchman, in full vestments, leaned over the platform. “I am the Dean of Peterborough!” he said in ringing tones. “It is not
too late to embrace the true faith! Yea, the Reformed Religion, which hath—”
Not this! She was taken aback; never had she expected this, at this time.
“Mr. Dean, trouble not yourself, nor me,” said Mary, “for know that I am settled in the ancient Catholic and Roman faith, in defence whereof, by God’s grace, I mind to spend my blood.”
“Have a care over your soul, soon to be departing from out of your body! Change your opinion, and repent you of your former wickedness!” he cried.
“Good Mr. Dean,” she said, “trouble not yourself anymore about this matter. I was born in this religion, have lived in this religion, and am resolved to die in this religion.”
“Madam, even now, Madam, doth God Almighty open a door unto you; shut not this door by the hardness of your heart—”
His voice faded and was replaced by John Knox’s: Conscience requires knowledge, and I fear that right knowledge you have not.…
Shrewsbury interrupted the Dean. “Madam, we will pray along with the Dean for you.”
Mary smiled at him. “If you will pray for me, I thank you. But I will not join with you in your manner of prayer; I cannot, as we are not of the same religion.”
Shrewsbury attempted to hush the Dean, but Kent urged him on. The Dean raised his arms and boomed out, “Open, we beseech thee, thine eyes of mercy, and behold this person appointed to death, whose eyes of understanding and spiritual light thou hast hitherto shut up—”
He was pronouncing a curse! Mary shut her ears to it and began to pray in Latin, letting the ancient words drown out his cruel pronouncements. She slid off the stool and onto her knees.
“Conserva me, Domine, quoniam speravi in Te.…”
Preserve me, O God, for in Thee have I put my trust.…
She prayed louder, until her words drowned out the Dean’s ranting in her own ears. She heard him no more; she was bathed once more in the radiant peace she had come near to losing.
She stood, gripping the crucifix, and, holding it aloft, cried, “As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended on the cross, even so receive me, and blot out all my sins with Thy most precious blood.” The crucifix seemed to shimmer, and behind it she could see the walls of the room at St.-Pierre. It was all one; time dissolved.
“Leave this trumpery!” The Earl of Kent attempted to wrest away the crucifix. But Mary folded it against her breast.
The Dean retreated; the two executioners now came forward and knelt in front of her. “Forgive us,” they said.
She looked down at their strong forearms, thicker than her neck. “I forgive you and all the world with all my heart,” she said. “For I hope this death will make an end to all my troubles.”
They rose. “Shall we help you make ready?” they asked politely.
“Nay, I am not accustomed to such grooms,” she answered, again with a smile. She turned and looked out at the crowd. “Nor to undressing before so great a company.” She motioned to Jane and Elizabeth, who were kneeling at the foot of the platform. “I have need of you,” she said.
The two women rose and mounted the platform, but as they approached, they burst into tears.
“Do not weep,” she said. “I am very happy to leave this world. You ought to rejoice to see me die in so good a cause. Are you not ashamed to weep? Nay, if you do not stop these lamentations, I must send you away, for you know I promised you would not behave so.”
As she spoke, she removed her crucifix and rosaries and handed them to Jane. The executioner tried to take them, but Mary reproved him.
Carefully, with trembling hands, Jane and Elizabeth unbuttoned the black gown and revealed the crimson one underneath. The crowd drew its breath. They brought her the sleeves and she attached them, so she was now a glare of crimson even down to her fingers. Jane removed her veil and headdress, setting them on the little stool.
Mary kissed her ivory crucifix good-bye, and laid it down alongside her other things on the stool, placing her book of hours with it. Then she took up the gold-bordered kerchief with which her eyes would be covered, and handed it silently to Jane.
Behind all the people she could see the leaping flames of the fire that burned in the fireplace in the cold room.
My last sight. Golden flames and black clothes. But there is no sight more worthy than any other, and none which completely satisfies the desire to continue looking.
Jane dissolved in tears and could not fasten the cloth.
Hurry, blank out the sight, do not prolong it!
But the shaking hands just trembled in front of Mary’s eyes.
“Hush,” said Mary. “I have promised for you. Weep not, but pray for me.”
Mary had to help her fasten it; it tied behind the head, and a portion of it covered her hair as well, so it was as if she wore a turban.
Now she could see nothing. She heard them breathing beside her, then the sound of them being led away and down the stairs.
Someone helped her to kneel on a cushion, which she knew was by the block. She settled herself on it and then stretched out her hands, groping for the block. She felt its hard edge underneath the cloth covering. She stretched her neck out and put her chin in the hollow meant for it.
Why was everything so real, so hard? It was supposed to be dreamy and soft and swallowed up in a blaze of ecstasy. Instead there was this nubbly feel of cloth, these aching knees, the feel of the kerchief knot that hurt the back of her head. She swallowed and waited, holding herself still.
“In Te Domino confido, non confundar in aeternum…” she murmured, in a private whisper. In Thee, O Lord have I put my trust, let me never be put to confusion.
Something was touching her. A fat wide hand was steadying her, pressing on her back. She felt the sweat passing through her garment and outlining itself against the hand.
“In manus tuas…” Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.
She could hear her own voice. Everything was achingly acute.
Nothing is ever as I expected. But always deeper, harder, wilder, sweeter, grander … I come, Lord, regardless … help me!
* * *
Shrewsbury, the Earl Marshal, lowered his baton as a signal. The headsman raised his axe high, and brought it down with a smash. He saw with horror that in his nervousness he had missed, and only gashed the side of her skull. She groaned and said in the smallest of whispers, “Sweet Jesus.” The spectators screamed. Quickly he raised the axe again and swung it with all his might. It bit through her neck, cutting her head almost free. Angry and ashamed, he used the edge of the axe like a saw to fray away the last ligaments. The head fell off and rolled away. The body flopped over on its back, the shoulders covered in blood, the neck still spurting.
“God save Queen Elizabeth!” cried the executioner, leaning down to pick up the head. He grabbed it by the kerchief and held it aloft. Suddenly part of it fell away; the head itself rolled away, and the executioner was left holding the wig and the kerchief.
The people gasped to see how grey Mary’s hair was. The head lay looking at them, the lips moving.
“So perish all the Queen’s enemies!” yelled Kent, straddling the fallen head.
“Yea! Such be the end of all the Gospel’s enemies!” cried the Dean.
Shrewsbury turned his head away and wept.
The executioner now tried to pull up Mary’s skirts to take her garters, which was his time-honoured prerogative. As his hands fumbled with the skirts, a mournful yelp arose, and from out of the crumpled material a little dog emerged. It was Geddon, who had followed his mistress out of her chambers and hidden himself within her voluminous skirts.
“What—” cried Bull, snatching his hand away.
Geddon rushed to the headless neck and circled it, confused. He sat down next to it and began to howl, a loud, drawn-out otherworldly howl. He rolled in the blood and guarded the body.
Jane and Elizabeth scrambled to the stairs. They had forgotten their vow to their mistress, and her body was being desecrated. But their way was blocke
d.
“No! You shall not go there!”
“We must attend upon her! We promised—”
“Your duties to her are at an end.”
The Dean leapt up on the platform and grabbed Geddon. He pushed the dog’s muzzle down into the pool of blood and tried to make him drink it. “Remember what Knox prophesied about the dogs drinking her blood!” he yelled. “Drink, you cur!”
But Geddon, with a howl, turned around and sank his teeth into the Dean’s wrist.
“Cursed beast!” he cried, letting him go.
Paulet had taken Mary’s head and displayed it on a velvet cushion before an open window for the people outside.
But nothing was as it should have been. The head no longer looked like Mary, but like an unfamiliar old woman. The Earl of Shrewsbury was weeping. Mary had not been afraid or broken on the scaffold, but serene and happy. And suddenly the task of telling Queen Elizabeth that her great enemy had perished was not an enviable one.
Nothing was ever as expected.
* * *
They took away her crucifix and her writing-book, her bloodstained clothes, the block itself, and anything else that she had touched, and burnt them to ashes in a bonfire in the castle courtyard. There were to be no relics, no mementos. The earthly presence of the Queen of Scots was to be utterly effaced.
Nothing was ever as expected.
* * *
There remained still the body of the Queen herself, which would not vanish; the witnesses at the execution, who would recite all the facts to wider and wider audiences; the mementos she had already given away. There were all the places she had lived, the people she had known, the child she had borne—all now elevated and enlarged by the death she had just died. The more thorough the government in scrubbing the scaffold and throwing her kerchief in the fire, the more treasured all the remaining relics became. As the fire consumed her crimson gown, somewhere in the castle the mouldering hangings with her motto, In My End Is My Beginning, took on a new life and began to stir.
XXXII
Adoro, imploro, / Ut liberes me.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 126
