Like a mystery, words were coming to her, words in Latin that she must
write down, as if they had been given to her. She rose and returned to
her writing desk.
O Domine Dews, Speravi in Te; O care mi Jesu Nunc Libera me. In dura
catena, In misera poena, Desidero Te. Languendo, gemendo, Et
genuflectendo, Adoro, implaro, Ut Uberes me.
O Lord God,
I have hoped in Thee.
Beloved Jesus,
Now set me free.
In cruel chains,
In bitter pains,
I have longed for Thee.
Now languishing
In sorrow sore,
Upon my knees,
I Thee implore
That Thou wilt
Grant me liberty.
Liberty, liberty .. . loose my chains, she whispered to the still room.
Everything was quiet. It was after midnight.
It is now December eighth, she thought. My birthday. My forty-fourth,
and my last upon earth. The knowledge of that is a precious gift.
The next morning she sent for Balthazzar to come to her in her chamber.
The old man, bent halfway over, moved painfully across the room, having
scarcely enough strength to lift his feet. As a result, they made soft
swishing sounds on the stone floor.
"My friend," said Mary, "today is my birthday, and I am minded to
employ you once again, as I have for so many years."
Balthazzar's eyes were white and filmy. Yet he raised them to her and
nodded. She could tell that he had wept during the night.
"You made my dress for my first communion. And my wedding dress when I
married Francois. And you made the gown I wore to James's baptism.
Now, do you think you could undertake the grandest gown of all?"
He shook his head. "I cannot see so well, and my hands shake so I
cannot cut material straight."
"But others can do those tasks. I wish you to design the gown. You
can still visualize a finished garment, can you not?"
"Yes. Better than ever."
"Then visualize this: I want a gown in which I become immortal. A gown
in which I pass from nature into eternity. Can you see this?"
"Yes, Madam." He wiped his eyes. "In my mind, I see it."
"And what do you see?"
"A red gown. Crimson. The colour of martyrdom. A low neck, and a
full skirt. Yes, I see it."
"Then measure me for it, faithful servant. And make it ready for me.
Tell no one, except your assistants. It will be our secret. Until the
day."
Balthazzar put his head in his hands and wept.
"Nay, my friend," said Mary. "I rejoice to go; when I went to my
weddings, and to my ceremonies, it was but a shadow of this, a passing
taste of this joy beyond all joys. I tell you a secret: I feel it
already. Eternity has already begun for me, and it is bliss and peace
beyond all description."
Mary's forty-fourth birthday came and went; Christmas came and went, a
dreary little celebration. All except Mary were downcast and barely
able to go through the motions of living, except for the few who were
ragingly angry. Only Mary seemed to float in a protected world of her
own, oblivious of the cold, the dark, the damp, the endless rumours
that seeped even into the guarded tower. There were tales circulating
all over the realm that Mary had escaped, that Spanish troops had
landed in Wales, that there was a new northern uprising. There was
even a new plot against Elizabeth, said to involve smearing her
stirrups and saddle with poison.
Daily, Mary made ready for the official to arrive with the death
warrant. She thought of him as being in a race against the secret
murderer who could strike at any moment, robbing her of a death with
any meaning at all. She was sure that he was somewhere within
Fotheringhay, that self-appointed executioner.
But as the days passed and nothing happened, a dread began to take hold
of her. It was possible that Elizabeth would decide to spare her, in
her "mercy." Elizabeth could delay signing the warrant as she delayed
everything else, until she had her wish and people stopped hounding her
about it as they had quit hounding her to get married. She confided
these fears to her writing-book.
December 29, Anno Domini 1586. I could be kept like this for another
twenty years! In that way Elizabeth would not be seen to shed my
blood. Another twenty years of locked rooms, of no letters, of illness
and isolation. And the obligatory plotting. The outsiders would
continue plotting and I would have to become involved. More codes,
more messengers O my Saviour, spare me from that living death! Do not
condemn me to it!
January 1, New Year's Day, Anno Domini 1587. Another year dawns.
Paulet yesterday made a comment about wages for my servants. From his
tone and statement, it sounded as if they would be employed for the
foreseeable future. O God, O most tender and compassionate Holy
Mother, do not draw me out longer on the rack here! I cannot bear it,
cannot bear it, cannot bear it.... January 8, Anno Domini 1587. Yes, I
can bear it. I can do all things through Christ which strengthtncth
me. But God, I want more than just to endure. I want to offer You a
gift by my death. I want to die in a way glorifying You, to atone for
all the ways in which I have not glorified You by my life.
Reveal Your presence
And let the vision of Your beauty kill me
Behold, the malady
Of love is incurable
Except in Your presence and before Your face.
That is what my fellow sufferer John of the Cross writes. O, to have
the gift of such words! But I must not covet what You choose to give
others.. ..
All is quiet here, nothing happens. Elizabeth has quite forgotten me,
leaving me to wait .. . and wait. My bodily infirmities, that I had
neglected for why patch the roof of a building that is to be
demolished? will soon have to be attended to once again. Bourgoing
needs to procure certain herbs for treatment.
O, I hate these small indignities! I should have no more need of
herbs!
But forgive my rebellion, Lord.
THIRTY
Elizabeth hated the New Year's celebration, with the usual exchange of
gifts. Not that she did not receive some costly and unusual gifts gold
saltcellars made in the shape of galleons, jewelled beasts, emerald
collars. But she did not want to see the year change from 1586 to
1587. Parliament was reconvening early in the year, and that meant she
had less and less time to find a solution to the vexing problem of Mary
Queen of Scots. She had to have solved it before facing Parliament.
January did nothing to help her resolve the dilemma. Everything that
would nudge her toward executing Mary seemed to occur: there was
another assassination plot, this time involving the French embassy. The
people were daily becoming agitated as one sensational rumour after
another swept the land, all having to do with the Spanish invading, or
Mary escaping. Some said that London was on fire, and that the north
had erupted in armed rebellion. There had even been some riots in
London, with the people demanding that justice to the "Monstrous
Dragon" be carried out.
But once done, it can never be undone, she muttered, pacing her room.
And such a thing has never before been carried out: the judicial murder
of an anointed sovereign. What will it open the door to? The people
are forcing me to do it. Today they force me to execute Mary; tomorrow
they may just execute a monarch directly on their own authority. They
will not even need to persuade some other ruler to do it.
She shuddered, as a world where mob rule was the law of the land
suddenly presented itself to her mind.
It will not happen tomorrow, or even the day after, she thought, but it
will happen, and I will have caused it to happen.
Yet Robert is also right what happens when the people have spoken, have
acted in accordance with law and procedure, only to be ignored? Might
their frustration lead them to the same place, and quicker?
In a flash, she felt a sudden burst of strength. Quickly she called
for William Davison, the Secretary of State, and asked him to bring her
the death warrant.
As she waited for him to return, she realized that this opportunity
would never come again. The French were penned up in their embassy in
disgrace, following the discovery of the plot, and could not intercede
for Mary. The Scots had abandoned their pleas for her, and no rescuers
had come forward. The special Scots envoy, far from pleading for their
erstwhile queen, had whispered that "a dead woman bite th not." It was
the season of foul weather, and the Spanish would never send a fleet
north at this time. It was now; the time was now, it was fleeting, and
such a constellation of events would never repeat themselves.
"Strike or be struck," Elizabeth repeated to herself over and over like
a litany. "Aut fer out feri, ne feria re feri. I am a rogue and unfit
for my office if I do not press forward."
Davison appeared promptly, with the death warrant which had been drawn
up several weeks earlier, when the sentence had first been proclaimed
in his hands. He placed it reverently in hers.
She read it slowly, while Davison stood before her.
Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of Entfand, France, and Ireland &
c. To our trusty and well-beloved cousins, George, Earl of Shewsbury,
Henry, Earl of Kent, Henry, Earl of Derby, George, Earl of Cumberland,
and Henry, Earl of Pembroke, greeting, &. c.
Whereas, since the sentence given by you, and others of our Council
against the Queen of Scots, Mary, daughter of James the Fifth, is well
known, all Parliament did not only allow and approve the same sentence
as just and honourable, but also with all humbleness require, solicit,
and press us to direct such further execution against her Person, as
they did adjudge her to have duly deserved. They added thereunto that
the forbearing thereof was daily certain and undoubted danger, not only
unto our own life, but also unto themselves, their posterity, and the
public estate of this realm. Whereupon we did publish the sentence by
our Proclamation, yet hitherto have for born to give further
satisfaction of said sentence.
And now, we do daily understand how the wisest, greatest, and
best-loved of all subjects of inferior degrees, how greatly and deeply,
from the bottom of their hearts, they are grieved and afflicted, with
daily, yea, hourly fears of our life, if we should forbear the further
final execution, as it is deserved, and neglect their general and
continual requests, prayers, counsels, and ad vices and thereupon,
contrary to our natural disposition, being overcome with the evident
weight of their counsels, and their daily intercessions, we have
condescended to suffer justice to take place, and for the execution
thereof to proceed.
We do will, and by Warrant hereby do authorize you, to repair to our
castle of Fotheringhay, where the said Queen of Scots is in custody of
our right trusty and faithful servant and councillor, Sir Amyas Paulet.
Then, taking her into your charge, cause by your commandment execution
to be done upon her person, in the presence of yourselves, and the
aforesaid Sir Amyas Paulet, and of such other officers of justice as
you shall command to attend upon you; and the same to be done in such
manner and form, and at such time and place, and by such persons, as
you think by your discretion convenient.