She was in urgent need of that courage now. Her two women had come forward to help her prepare herself. She kissed them and blessed them, but they could do little to help her remove her gown; their fingers trembled, but the Queens were steady. She stood calm and brave in her camisole and red velvet petticoat, while Jane Kennedy fumbled with the gold-edged handkerchief which she tied over her mistress’s eyes.
Now Mary was shut away from the hall of tragedy; she could no longer see the faces of those who loved her, distorted with grief; she was shut in with her own courage.
Jane had flung herself at her mistress’s feet and was kissing her petticoat. Mary felt the soft face and knew it was Jane.
“Weep not, dear Jane,” she said, “but pray for me.”
She knelt there on the cushion provided for her, murmuring: “In thee, Lord, have I hoped. Let me never be put to confusion.”
Groping, she felt for the block; the executioner guided her to it. She laid her head upon it saying: “Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”
Bulle, the executioner, hesitated. This was his trade; his victim had forgiven him, knowing this; yet never before had he been called upon to wield the ax for one who affected him so deeply with her grace and dignity.
Every eye in the hall was upon him. He faltered. He dealt a blow. There was a gasp from the watchers, for the ax had slipped and though the blood of Mary Stuart gushed forth, she was merely wounded.
Trembling, Bulle again raised his ax; but his nerve was affected. Again he struck, and again he failed to complete his work.
It was with the third stroke that he severed the Queen’s head from her body.
Then he grasped the beautiful chestnut hair, crying: “God save Queen Elizabeth! So perish all her enemies.”
But the head had rolled on to the bloodstained cloth which covered the scaffold, and it was a wig which the executioner held up before him.
There was silence in the hall as all eyes turned to the head with the cropped grey hair—the head of a woman grown old in captivity.
And as they watched, they saw a movement beneath the red velvet petticoat, and Mary little Skye terrier, who unnoticed had followed his mistress into the hall, ran to the head and crouched beside it, whimpering.
The silence was only broken by the sounds of sobbing.
The Queen of Scotland and the Isles had come to the end of her journey—from triumph and glory to captivity, from joy to sorrow, from the thrones of France and Scotland to the ax in the hall of Fotheringhay Castle—and to peace.
ABOUT THE BOOK
From the time she was a child, Mary Stuart knew she was Queen of Scotland—and would someday rule as such. But before she would take the throne, she would spend her childhood in the court—and on the throne—of France. There she would fall under the influence of power-hungry relatives, develop a taste for French luxury and courtly manners, challenge the formidable Queen of England and alienate the Queen-Mother of France, and begin to learn her own appeal as a woman and her role as a queen.
When she finally arrived back in Scotland, Mary’s beauty and regal bearing were even more remarkable than they had been when she left as the child-queen. Her charming manner and eagerness to love and be loved endeared her to many, but were in stark contrast to what she saw as the rough manners of the Scots. Her loyalty to Catholicism also separated her from her countrymen, many of whom were followers of the dynamic and bold Protestant preacher John Knox. Though she brought with her French furnishings and companions to make her apartments into a “Little France,” she would have to rely on the Scottish Court—a group comprised of her half brother, members of feuding Scottish clans, and English spies—to educate her in the ways of Scottish politics. However wise or corrupt her advisors, however, Mary often followed the dictates of her own heart—to her own peril.
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