A sad little story theirs had been. Mary Seton had had one great love in her life and that was for her mistress and namesake. Of the four Marys Seton was the one who had loved the Queen best. Andrew Beaton had fallen in love with the quiet and gentle Seton and had spent seven years trying to persuade her to leave her mistress. Mary had watched them and had longed to see her faithful Seton happily married, as she knew she would have been with such a man as Andrew. Why should Seton spend her life in captivity because her mistress must?
Seton made excuses. She would not marry. She had solemnly vowed herself to celibacy. She would never leave her mistress.
But the Queen wished to see the love story brought to a happy conclusion against the grim background of her prison. It had been a pleasant occupation, during the long evenings, to plan for those two.
It was her idea that Andrew should go to Rome to have Seton’s vow nullified. Andrew had left, and what a sad day it had been for her as well as for Seton when the news had come of Andrew’s sickness and death.
So Seton’s vow was not broken and Seton remained with her mistress seven years after the death of Andrew; but by that time Seton herself was in danger of dying, for the cold and damp of the prisons she shared with the Queen had affected her health so severely that Mary had to command her to go away and save her life.
“I must bear these hardships,” Mary had said. “But there is no need for you to. I would rather have you living away from me, dearest Seton, than staying here a little longer to die.”
So Seton had at last been persuaded, but only when she was too sick for argument, to go to Mary’s aunt Renée at the Rheims convent. How overjoyed Mary would have been could she have accompanied her! But not for Mary was the seclusion of the nunnery; she must endure her damp prisons. She had come near to death through rheumatic fever and, after a miraculous recovery, was often attacked by such pains that she could not walk for days at a time.
And at last she had come to Fotheringhay. There were only a few more hours left to her in this last of her prisons before she passed on to another life.
The long weary years had gone; but many of them had been filled with hopes. There had been suitors for her hand. Norfolk was one, and he had lost his head because he had become involved with her. Did she bring bad luck to those who loved her? Don John of Austria was another. He was dead now—some said he died by poison.
There had been many plots which had filled her with temporary hopes; plots with Norfolk, the Ridolfi plot, and, last of all, the Babington plot.
IT WAS six o’clock on the morning of February 8, 1587.
Turning to her women, Mary said: “I have but two hours to live. Dry your eyes and dress me as for a festival, for at last I go to that for which I have longed.”
But she had to dress herself—her women’s fingers faltered so. They could not see her clearly for the tears which filled their eyes.
She put on her crimson velvet petticoat, her green silk garters and shoes of Spanish leather. She picked up her camisole of finest Scotch plaid which reached from her throat to her waist.
“For, my friends,” she said, “I shall have to remove my dress, and I would not appear naked before so many people who will come to see me die.”
She put on her dress of black velvet, spangled with gold, and her black satin pourpoint and kirtle; her pomander chain was about her neck, and at her girdle were her beads and cross. Over her head she wore white lawn trimmed with bone lace.
“Watch over this poor body in my last hour,” she said to her weeping women, “for I shall be incapable of bestowing any care upon it.”
Jane Kennedy flung herself on her knees and declared that she would be there to cover her dearest mistress’s body as it fell.
“Thank you, Jane,” said Mary. “Now I shall pray awhile.”
She knelt before the altar in her oratory and prayed for the forgiveness of her sins. “So many sins,” she murmured. “So many foolish sins….”
She prayed for poor Anthony Babington who had given his name to the plot which had finally brought her to this … a young man in her service who had loved her as so many had done. Poor Anthony! He had paid the price of his devotion. He had suffered horrible torment at Tyburn, that crudest of deaths which was accorded to traitors.
And now she herself faced death.
She took the consecrated wafer which the Pope had sent her, and administered the Eucharist herself—a special concession from the Pope which had never before been allowed a member of the laity.
Then she prayed again for courage to face her ordeal, and remained on her knees until morning dawned.
TOO SOON they came to take her to the hall of execution.
She rose from her knees but she found it difficult to walk without aid, so crippled with rheumatism were her limbs.
Her servants helped her but, when she reached the door of the gallery, they were stopped by the Earls of Shrewsbury and Kent and told that the Queen must proceed alone.
There was great lamentation among her servants, who declared they would not leave their mistress. Mary implored the Earls to grant her this last request.
“It is unmeet,” said the Earl of Kent, “troublesome to Your Grace and unpleasing to us. They would put into practice some superstitious trumpery, such as dipping their handkerchiefs into Your Graces blood.”
“My lord, you shall have my word that no such thing shall be done.”
Finally the two Earls gave her permission to take with her as escort, two of her women and four of her men. She took sir Andrew Melville, Master of her Household; Bourgoigne, her physician; Gourion, her surgeon; and Gervais, her apothecary for the four men; and the two women were her beloved Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curie.
As she was assisted slowly and painfully down the staircase to the hall, she saw that Andrew Melville was overcome by his grief.
“Weep not, Melville,” she said. “This world is full of vanities and full of sorrows. And fortunate I am to leave it. I am a Catholic, dear Melville, and you a Protestant; but remember this, there is one Christ. I die, firm in my religion, a true Scotswoman and true to France. Commend me to my sweet son. Tell him to appeal to God and not to human aid. Let him learn from his mothers sorrows. May God forgive all those who have long thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brooks of water. Farewell, good Melville. Pray for your Queen.”
Melville could not answer her. He could only turn away while the uncontrollable sobs shook his body.
Into the hall of death she went. Melville bore her train, and Jane and Elizabeth, who had put on mourning weeds, covered their faces with their hands so that only their shaking bodies betrayed their grief.
Mary saw that a platform had been set up at the end of the hall. A fire was burning in the grate. She saw the platform, covered with black cloth; she saw the ax and the block.
She reached the chair—also black-covered—which had been provided for her, but she could not, without aid, mount the two steps to reach it.
As she was helped to this, she said in a clear voice: “I thank you. This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.”
The death warrant was read to her. The Dean of Peterborough pleaded with her to turn from the Catholic Faith while there was yet time. To both she preserved a dignified indifference.
The moment of death was drawing near. The executioner was, in the traditional manner, asking her forgiveness.
“I forgive you with all my heart,” she cried.
Looking about her she prayed silently for courage. It was not her enemies who unnerved her. It was Jane Kennedy’s quivering body, Elizabeth Curie’s suppressed sobbing, Andrew Melville’s tears and the sad looks of the others which made her want to weep.
Her uncle, the great Balafré, had once told her that when her time came she would know well how to die, for she possessed the courage of the Guises.