She noticed that all the men—with the exception of Shrewsbury—kept on their hats, and she felt grateful to the man who had been her jailor for so long, not only because of this gesture but because she read sympathy in his eyes and it was pleasant to find one who could feel a mild friendship for her, among so many enemies.
Shrewsbury began: “Madam, I would have desired greatly that another than I should announce to you such sad intelligence which I now bring on the part of the Queen of England. But my lord of Kent and I, being both faithful servants, could not but obey the commandment she gave us. It is to admonish you to prepare yourself to undergo the sentence of death pronounced against you.”
He signed to Robert Beale, who then began to read the death warrant.
Mary listened quietly and then said: “I am thankful for such welcome news. You do me great good in withdrawing me from this world out of which I am glad to go, on account of the miseries I see in it and of being myself in continual affliction. I have expected this for eighteen years. I am a Queen born and a Queen anointed, the near relation of the Queen of England and great granddaughter to King Henry VII; and I have had the honor to be Queen of France. Yet throughout my life I have experienced great misfortune and now I am glad that it has pleased God by means of you to take me away from so many troubles. I am ready and willing to shed my blood in the cause of God my Savior and Creator and the Catholic Church, for the maintenance of which I have always done everything within my power.”
She took up her Bible and swore on it. “I have never desired the death of the Queen of England, nor endeavored to bring it about, nor that of any other person.”
Kent looked scornfully at the Bible and said: “As that is a Popish Testament, an oath taken on it is worthless.”
“It is the true Testament in my opinion,” retorted Mary. “Would you prefer me to swear on your version in which I do not believe?”
The fanatical Kent warned her that as her death was imminent she should think of the preservation of her soul by turning to the true faith.
“I have long lived in the true faith, my lord,” she answered. “I shall not change now.” She turned to Shrewsbury: “When am I to die?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.” Shrewsbury lowered his eyes and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“There is little time left to me,” answered Mary.
IN FOTHERINGAY the clocks were striking six.
Mary called to Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle.
“I have but two hours to live,” she said. “Come, dress me as for a festival.”
So they dressed her in her kirtle of black satin and her petticoats of crimson velvet; her stockings were pale blue, clocked with silver; her shoes were of fine Spanish leather. The previous night they had made for her a camisole of fine Scotch plaid which would cover her from her waist to her throat. When they helped her into this she said: “My friends, do not desert me when I am dead. When I am no longer able to, see that my body is decently covered.”
Jane Kennedy could not answer her, but turned her head away.
Mary touched her shoulder. “Do not be distressed, Jane. This has been coming for a long time. Try to welcome it as I do. But I would not wish this poor body to be degraded in death. So cover it decently.”
Jane could only nod.
“Now my gown.”
They helped her into her widow’s gown of embroidered black satin and put the pomander chain and Agnus Dei about her neck, and the girdle with the cross about her waist.
Her little Skye terrier had leaped onto the table and stood looking at her with bewildered eyes. She turned to lay her hand on his head.
“You must care for him when I am gone. Poor little dog, he does not know yet that this is goodbye between us.”
Elizabeth Curle stammered: “Have no fear for him, Your Majesty. But I think he will doubtless die of sorrow . . . as I fear I may.”
“Nay, you must live and remember this: Your sorrow is greater than mine. So do not mourn for me. You will be released from your prison. Think of that.”
But neither Jane nor Elizabeth could trust themselves to speak. They turned away. Then Elizabeth brought the widow’s coif—made of lawn and bone lace—which they set on the chestnut hair, and over it placed the flowing veil of white gauze.
“There,” he said, “I am ready now. Dressed as for a festival. Leave me for a while . . . that I may pray for the courage I may need.”
They left her and she went into her oratory, where she remained on her knees until the first light of that wintry morning was in the sky.
THE CLOCK WAS STRIKING EIGHT and Mary was with her faithful friends.
“I have finished with the world,” she had said. “Let us kneel and pray together for the last time.”
Thus they were when Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet and some others came to take her to the hall of execution.
When these men entered her apartments her servants burst into wild weeping, but Paulet sternly admonished them and said there must be no more delay.
So the mournful procession, from the Queen’s apartment to the hall, began; and when they came to the outer door of the gallery, Paulet sternly told them that they must come no farther; such a storm of indignation met this edict that after some argument it was agreed that she might select two only of her women and four of her men servants to accompany her to the scaffold. So she chose Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle with Sir Andrew Melville, Bourgoigne her physician, Gourion her surgeon, and Gervais her apothecary.
Having made this selection she turned to the others and took her last farewell. It was a deeply affecting scene, for they threw themselves at her feet and the men wept with the women; and even when they had been separated from their mistress and the doors closed on them, the sound of their lamentation could be heard in the hall.
Melville was weeping silently as he walked beside her.
“Woe is me,” he said, “that it should be my hard hap to carry back such heavy tidings to Scotland.”
“Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant. Rather rejoice that you see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart. Know, my friend, that this world is but vanity and full of sorrows. I am Catholic, thou a Protestant; but as there is but one Christ I charge thee in His name to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotchwoman and true to France. Commend me to my dearest and most sweet son. Tell him, from my example never to rely too much on human aid, but to seek that which is above . . . .”
As Melville’s tears continued to flow she turned her face from him, for his grief unnerved her.
“May God forgive those who have thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brooks of water,” she murmured. “Oh, Melville, dry your eyes. Farewell, my good friend. Pray for thy Queen and mistress.”
So the procession made its way into the hall, led by the Sheriff and his men. Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Drue Drury came next, followed by the Earl of Kent and Robert Beale. The Earl Marshal of England, who was the Earl of Shrewsbury, walked before Mary whose train was carried by Melville, Jane and Elizabeth. The Queen’s physician, surgeon and apothecary came last.
In the hall a fire was burning in the great fireplace close to the platform which had been erected for the grisly purpose. This platform was twelve feet square and two and a half feet high, and a rail had been set up around it.
On the platform was the block and the axe.
Certain spectators—almost a hundred of them—had been allowed to take their stand in the hall.
It was difficult for Mary to mount the platform, so infirm had her limbs become, and it was Sir Amyas who stepped forward to help her.
She smiled at him. “I thank you, sir,” she said. “This is the last trouble I shall give you.”