When the news of the miraculous escape of their beloved Queen became known, her subjects were overjoyed. She no longer had cause or reason to shelter that evil woman, Mary of Scotland.
Babington and his Confederates were tried, found guilty of treason and conspiring to murder the Queen and were condemned to die the horrible death of traitors.
On a fine September morning Anthony Babington, John Ballard, John Savage Edward Abingdon, Edward Windsor and Charles Tilney were dragged on hurdles to Tyburn. There they were hanged but cut down before dead, their entrails were cut out from their bodies and burnt before their dying eyes and finally their mutilated bodies were cut into four quarters which were nailed to the gates of the City.
Elizabeth showed clemency to the remaining traitors and Edward Jones, Henry Donn, John Travers, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury and Chidioch Tichbourne were hanged by the neck until dead.
The Queen of Scots, unaware of the events taking place in the capital, was hunting in a park near Chartley when she was arrested and conducted to the house of Sir Walter Aston at Tixall. Chartley was searched and all her documents together with her secretaries, Curie and Nau, were sent under armed escort to London.
As Elizabeth absolutely refused to allow Mary to be imprisoned in the Tower she was conducted to the gloomy castle of Fotheringay.
Forty-six commissioners were appointed to try her and thirty-six of them arrived at Fotheringay on the 11th October. At first Mary refused to recognise the validity of the court. She was a Queen and therefore was answerable only to God, she declared. When shown the proof of her guilt she declared that it was a forgery, casting the blame upon Walsingham.
Walsingham was indignant. “I call God to witness that as a private person I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man!” he declared vehemently.
Mary still refused to come into court.
“We then will proceed tomorrow in the course, though you be absent and continue contumacious,” Burghley told her bluntly.
“Search your conscience. Look to your honour, God reward you and yours for your judgement against me!” Mary warned him but at last she agreed to attend.
The next day the members of the commission filed into the great Presence Chamber of Fotheringay. A Chair of State, above which hung a canopy, had been placed at the far end of the chamber to represent the Crown. Benches had been placed either side of this. Lord Burghley with Chancellor Bromley, nine earls and Viscount Montague took their places on the right. The Earls of Oxford, Kent, Derby, Warwick, Rutland, Pembroke and Worcester with six other barons seated themselves to the left.
Lower down sat the Privy Councillors, Hatton, Walsingham, Crofts, Sadler and Sir Amyas Paulet—Mary’s keeper. The two Chief Justices Anderson and Wray took their places in front of the Earls and beneath the Chair of State, seated at a small table, were the Attorney General Popham and the Solicitor General Edgerton.
One chair remained empty—the chair that had been set in the middle of the assembly for the Queen of Scots.
There was a faint murmur of voices and then silence as she entered. She surveyed her judges calmly, her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes betrayed no fear. The plain grey dress and her white, widow’s cap enhanced her dignity. Once she had been a radiantly beautiful woman but time had taken its toll upon her for her limbs were crippled with rheumatism and she walked slowly and painfully to her place.
The Chancellor rose. “Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, having been informed to her sorrow and pain that the Queen of Scots has conspired against her has no alternative but to instruct you to proceed against her and hear her defence,” he announced.
Slowly Mary got to her feet. “I came to my good sister of England for help when I was in fear of my life at the hands of rebellious subjects. I am not a subject but a Queen. I am not a criminal and therefore I am not answerable to any earthly court!”
“Madam any person who in this realm breaks the law is answerable to the law,” the Chancellor replied gravely.
The conspiracy of Babington was revealed but the Queen of Scots denied all knowledge of the plot. The letters of Babington and herself were then read out but she continued her denials.
On the second day of her trial she stated “My reputation is being blackened.”
“Madam, you are a prisoner accused of treason,” Burghley reminded her.
She turned on him. “You are my adversary!”
“I am adversary to Queen Elizabeth’s adversaries, madam!” he replied coldly.
During his speech she sat silent and scornful and when he had finished she rose painfully.
“I demand that my case be heard by Parliament!” she cried and without further ado left the chamber.
The case was adjourned and re-opened in the Star Chamber at Westminster on 25th October. Mary was not present to hear the verdict of guilty that was passed upon her.
On the 29th October Parliament met and confirmed the verdict stating that, “the Queen of Scots regards the Crown of England as belonging to herself and the members of this parliament demand a just condemnation be followed by as just an execution.”
On the 12th November a deputation arrived at the palace of Richmond. Elizabeth received them in her Presence Chamber. The Speaker of the House, Mr. Sergeant Puckering, spoke for them all.
“Your Majesty’s compliance with the petition will be most acceptable to God and your people expect nothing less of you,” he told her.
“My life has been dangerously shot at, nothing has grieved me more than that a person of my own sex, of the same rank and degree and nearly allied to me in blood, has fallen into so great a crime. I am in a cruel position. I am called upon to order the death of a kinswoman whose practices hath caused me deep distress,” Elizabeth replied sorrowfully.
Parliament was adjourned until February, 1587.
Indecision tormented Elizabeth’s days and sleepless nights. From all quarters she was harried and implored to execute her cousin of Scotland. Her people were ringing the church bells for joy now that Mary had been pronounced guilty.
Elizabeth shut herself away in her apartments in an agony of uncertainty.
“She is a Queen. She is God’s Anointed,” she argued with herself. “She is my cousin by blood, how can I condemn her to the axe?” But the arguments of her ministers reminded her that Mary was a traitor.
“She would have been joyful upon your death. She would have welcomed the forces of France and Spain when they came to over-run this land,” her conscience told her. “You have protected her from her enemies all these years. You have refused to believe that she was personally implicated in the intrigues which have fomented throughout the realm since her arrival.”
“She is a Queen! She is my cousin!” Elizabeth cried in vain. Her head ached and her eyes burned from lack of sleep.
“Madam, strike lest thou be stricken!” Walsingham’s words echoed in her confused mind.
“She is a traitor, she must die!” her conscience relentlessly urged her.
Sick and heartsore she finally realised that she could hold out no longer against public opinion. Justice must prevail.
On the first day of February, the Lord High Admiral, her kinsman Charles Howard demanded an audience.
“Madam, I will speak plainly. The country can no longer be trifled with. You must come to a decision.”
The time had come and her heart felt like lead. She nodded. “Send William Davidson to me and tell him to bring with him the… document,” she whispered.
Lord Howard left and returned with Davidson who held in his hand the death warrant which he placed on the table before her.
She did not read it but without a word picked up her quill and affixed her signature: Elizabeth R.
She left it where it lay and stumbled towards the door to her privy chamber, half blinded by tears.
Davidson picked up the warrant and left to take it immediately to the Lord Chancellor in order that the Great Seal of England could be affixed.
At
last the deed was done. Fearing that Elizabeth would change her mind, Burghley took it upon himself to ensure that the warrant was executed speedily and without her knowledge.
On the 8th February, 1587 in the Great Hall of Fotheringay Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, Queen Dowager of France, laid her head upon the block and the ‘bosom serpent' was removed forever from the heart of England
In the late afternoon the news reached the City of London. Instantly the air was filled with the joyous pealing of bells. The citizens came pouring from their homes shouting the news to each other and thanking God for the Queen’s deliverance from that daughter of Satan. Huge bonfires were lit and the wine and ale flowed freely.
Elizabeth sat alone staring remorsefully into space. There was no need for her to be informed of the reason for the rejoicings—she knew. The warrant had been carried out.
She rose and crossed to the window. Already the gloom of the February afternoon was giving way to the light of the jubilant flames. Her strength seemed to ebb from her and she caught a heavy brocade curtain for support. She shut her eyes to blot out the light from the bonfires. The bells pealed loudly, making her head ache with their clamour.
“What have I become?” she asked herself. “Is this what the Crown of England has made of me?” For the second time in her life the word “Murderess” beat upon her ears.
Her father had never been tormented by such remorse. Except perhaps once at the end of his life when, she had heard it said, in his dying agony he had called out her mother’s name. She was cursed for she knew that as long as she lived the death of Mary Stuart would hang like a millstone around her neck.
Her ladies found her clutching the brocade drapery with her eyes still closed but from beneath her eyelashes, silent tears slid down her cheeks.
At length they persuaded her to try to rest and she lay for a long time in the dark, little world encompassed by the curtains of her bed until at last she fell into a restless sleep. Dreams crowded into her mind. The ghosts of people long dead came back to her, their eyes reproaching her. Her father, her sister Mary, the Duke of Norfolk; but search these visions though she may, the one whose countenance she looked for was not amongst them. Anne did not reproach her.
Through the mists a horrible spectre appeared. Unrecognisable at first but slowly becoming clearer. Its chestnut lair was matted with blood and its long, almond-shaped eyes stared blindly from glazed sockets. She shrank from it in terror, running she knew not where but it pursued her. On and on she ran but there was no escape. She felt the cold, slimy stones of a wall in front of her. She was trapped! She beat upon the stones with her hands, tearing at them but they did not move. The spectre closed upon her. From its bloody mouth emitted a bitter, mocking laugh. “In my end is my beginning,” the ghost whispered. “In my end is your death.”
Shaking with terror Elizabeth cried out. “No! No! In the Name of God, have pity!” but her cries were strangled as the ghostly hands closed around her throat.
She was screaming hysterically when Lady Nottingham woke her. She clutched Lady Nottingham’s arm in panic, the sweat cold and clammy upon her body.
“Madam, madam, what is it?” Lady Nottingham begged.
Elizabeth looked around her. The spectre had gone and her terror receded for Mary Stuart had faded into oblivion.
“’Tis nothing.” she answered shakily. “I have had the ill fortune to ride the nightmare.”
Ten
Whilst the death of Mary Stuart filled English hearts with relief, it caused the distant thunder of war to be heard over Spain and France.
Margaret Allgrave was unaware of the gathering storm as she lay barely conscious as the wild and stormy days of March passed. She had been ill for some months but passed it off as a sign of old age until at last she had been forced to admit to herself and her family that she was seriously ill. She lay in the great, curtained bed where she had first lain as a new bride and where she had borne her children, but now she felt the malignant presence tearing at her insides and most of the time she was in terrible agony. Her silver hair was damp and tangled and her once plump face was thin and drawn with pain.
The rain beat incessantly upon the windows and the wind howled around the house and found its way into the rooms through the cracks in the windows and doors. In spite of the huge fire which burnt continuously, the room was chilly and dismal and the unmistakable odour of death hung in the air.
Jane sat close to her mother-in-law, wiping the perspiration from her forehead. She was cold and exhausted for she had kept watch at the bedside for nearly three days and nights, watching as waves of pain racked the worn-out body of the woman she loved as a mother. Wearily she rose; her legs were cramped and stiff as she moved closer to the fire. She was so tired that she hardly knew what she was doing. Only one thing was clear to her—Margaret was dying. Margaret who had been her strength and comfort during those long years when Edward had been away. Margaret who had been her companion and friend since she had first come to this house.
She was unaware that Edward had come quietly into the room until he gently placed his hands upon her shoulders.
She jumped nervously.
“Jane, you must rest. You will make yourself ill. There is nothing more you can do for her.”
“She is dying, Edward,” she said tiredly. “She knows no one but calls for Isabelle and your father.”
“She does not know you are here, let someone else watch,” he begged.
She shook her head. “She may regain her senses and I want to be with her before…” She did not finish but swayed on her feet with exhaustion.
Edward caught her and held her close. His father had gone and his sister and now his mother, whom he loved dearly, was leaving this life. Jane was all that was left to him. He laid his wife gently upon a day-bed and took up her place by his mother’s side.
He looked down at his mother, remembering how she had looked when he was a child. Time and care had engraved deep lines upon her once beautiful face. “Thank God she does not know that England’s days of peace are over. The fate of our country will be no anxiety to her for she will be past her pain,” he thought. He had obtained special leave to come home but he knew that he would shortly be forced to join Drake’s squadron at Plymouth for the proposed raid on Cadiz.
He suddenly realised that his mother was searching his face with calm, blue eyes.
“Edward,” she whispered.
“Mother,” he replied, taking her wasted hand in his own. “The pain has gone. God be praised!”
“It has gone but it has sapped my strength. I am weary of life.”
“Hush, do not even say it,” he begged.
She fought feebly for breath. “Jane,” she whispered.
“She is here.” Edward crossed swiftly to his wife and shook her. Instantly Jane shot to her feet. For a brief moment she could not comprehend where she was and then she remembered.
“Has she…”
“No, but quickly!”
Jane sank down beside the bed, taking Margaret’s hand. Now that the final hour had come she felt that she could bear her sorrow. “God bless you, Mother,” she said.
Margaret’s voice was so low that Jane had to bend close to hear her words. “I have loved you, Jane. Look after my son.”
“I promise,” Jane replied.
The dying eyes turned to her son. “The children…”
Edward nodded. “Martin is with Drake, Mother. But Beth and Paul are here.”
Margaret seemed to make a final effort to raise herself. “Do not fear the King of Spain,” she gasped and Jane and Edward exchanged despairing glances thinking that she had once more slipped into delirium.
“He will not take what rightfully belongs to Bess Tudor.”
Beth and Paul came quietly into the room, having been hastily summoned by a servant, but it was too late. Margaret Allgrave had sunk back onto her pillows. The breath had left her body and her eyes were closed in eternal sleep.
&n
bsp; The day following his mother’s funeral, Edward took his leave of his wife to re-join his ship at Plymouth and to take the news to his eldest son that his grandmother was dead and buried. He had promised Jane to take the usual care of himself and the boy as his daughter came to bid him farewell.
Elizabeth Allgrave at eighteen was a strikingly beautiful girl and Edward had received numerous offers for her hand in marriage. She was tall and slim with a perfect oval face. Wide grey eyes fringed with thick lashes and hair the colour of summer moonlight.
“I cannot find Paul,” she said, agitation in her usually calm voice.
“He is sulking,” her mother replied, “because he is too young to go with your father and Martin.
Beth's brows were drawn together in a perplexed frown. She could not understand the wild spirit that drove her younger brother but she sympathised with him and had saved him from many a beating in the past.
She flung her arms around her father's neck. “Goodbye. Please take care, we all love you so much!”
Edward smoothed the shining hair. “Come now, Beth. 'Tis only a short trip, we will be back within a few weeks.” His eyes met those of his wife and in Jane’s clear, grey eyes he read a question he could not answer so easily.
How soon before you must go again and then will any of you come back?
“Look after your mother, Beth. She will need help with that young scoundrel,” he said, placing a last kiss upon Jane’s cheek.
They watched him go with anxiety in their hearts.
Within weeks the whole country was talking of the expedition. Using Drake’s own words, they delightedly recounted to each other the tale of the “singeing of the King of Spain’s beard”.
After listening to the tale for the fourth time young Paul Allgrave was consumed with envy and frustration. He was too young, they said, but Martin had been in the thick of it all. He had been with Drake when he had sailed into the harbour of Cadiz right under the cannons of the forts and galleons and had helped to destroy the mighty ships of Spain. Martin had seen for himself Cape St. Vincent which Drake took as a base. He had laughed in the face of the King of Spain as the English ships rode at anchor just outside the harbour at Lisbon. Martin had helped in the capture of the great East India galleon, the San Felipe.
The Tudor Heritage Page 8
