The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean. Страница 117

This sly method was characteristic of the way in which she had so successfully carried her country from one danger to another.

They could try it.

DAVISON LAID THE DOCUMENTS before the Queen. She noticed he was trembling, and she knew that there was something of importance among those documents. Moreover she guessed what it was, because she knew what matter was at this time uppermost in the minds of all her ministers.

She chatted with him as she took up the documents. “You are looking pale, William. You do not take enough exercise. You should take more for your health’s sake.”

Calmly her pen sped over the papers. Davison held his breath. She did not appear to be looking. And there was the warrant. He saw the firm strokes of her pen. It was done.

She looked up and saw Davison staring at the paper before her. An idea had come to her as she looked down at it.

“Why,” she said, “I see now what this is.”

Davison bowed his head as though preparing for her abuse. But it did not come.

“So,” she murmured, “it is done at last. I have long delayed it because it grieves me so. All my friends know how it grieves me. It is an astonishing thing to me that those who guard her should have so little regard for me to make me suffer so. How easy it would be for them to do this for me.”

She sighed and handed Davison the warrant.

Stumbling from the room he went with all speed to Walsingham and told him what had happened.

“Write to Paulet,” commanded Walsingham.

So together they compiled the letter which complained that the Queen was not satisfied with Paulet’s service to her, since he had not discovered some means of shortening the life of the Queen of Scots, a task which was imperative for the preservation of their religion and the peace and prosperity of the country. Elizabeth thought ill of those who sought to throw the burden of her cousin’s execution on her shoulders, knowing her natural reluctance to shed the blood of a kinswoman and a Queen.

“Let that be dispatched to him with all speed,” said Walsingham.

WHEN SIR AMYAS received that letter he was deeply shocked. He looked upon Mary as an enemy, but he was a Puritan and a stern Protestant.

He immediately sat down to reply.

“It grieves me that I am required, by direction of my most gracious Sovereign, to do an act which God and the law forbiddeth. God forbid that I should make so foul a shipwreck of my conscience or leave so great a blot to my poor posterity as to shed blood without law or warrant.”

He called to Sir Drue Drury, whom the Queen had sent as joint guardian to the Queen of Scots since her coming to Fotheringay, and Sir Drue added a postscript to this letter, saying that he subscribed in heart to the opinion of his fellow jailor.

When Davison and Walsingham received this letter they were alarmed, and wrote with all speed asking Paulet to burn their previous letter.

The fate of Mary had been decided.

The warrant was signed. It only remained to perform the last act.

ON THE 7TH FEBRUARY, the Earl of Shrewsbury arrived at Fotheringay with the Earl of Kent. It was their unpleasant duty to read the warrant to Mary, and it was a task which was particularly repugnant to Shrewsbury.

They asked to be taken to Mary’s apartment without delay, where she received them, guessing why they had come. Shrewsbury met her eyes apologetically, but Kent was arrogant and truculent. With them came Robert Beale, the Clerk of the Council, Paulet and Drury.

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.