The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots (31 page)

Week after week went by, and I heard nothing further from my warders, or my judges. Daily I hardened my courage to face the dread announcement that I would be brought to the block, to kneel before the executioner’s axe. And nightly I was thankful for yet another day’s reprieve.

My trial had been in October; by November I was beginning to imagine that I might after all be saved, either by the mighty Spanish fleet or by the half-sincere, half-reluctant clemency of the queen, who, it seemed, was staying Burghley’s hand. In my heightened state of nerves I could not help but become superstitious; I imagined that the gift Jamie sent me, a miniature of himself and Marie-Elizabeth, was a good luck charm, that as long as I wore it on a chain around my neck, I would continue to avoid death.

“She has a regard for you,” Margaret had said of the queen, and in my most optimistic hours I imagined that this was true. In my worst hours, however, a contrary logic tormented me. If King Philip was sending his Most Fortunate Fleet to invade England and Elizabeth knew it (for how could she not?), then would she not, in her dread, make certain of my death before the fleet arrived?

And if, out of regard for our common blood, she could not bring herself to give the order for my execution, then would she not do as I had read King Henry did when he flinched from ordering the death of his friend Thomas Becket and called for his servants to do the murderous work for him? Would I die a secret death, as Amy Dudley had, from eating poisoned food or touching poisoned letter paper, from drinking a cup of lethal wine that would put me to sleep forever, or from being taken in secret to a house where there was plague, and shut inside until I died?

While I wrestled with these anxious thoughts another month passed, and Christmastide arrived, and with it, a token from the queen: a ring bearing her seal.

When I showed the ring to Margaret she nodded solemnly. “You see, she wants to preserve you. Why else would she send you her very own signet? It is a message—a very hopeful message.”

Or could it be a trap? I was fearful of putting the ring on my finger. I had often heard that Italian poisoners hid deadly poisons in rings and other jewellery; when the wearer wore the jewel, they died.

Margaret snatched the signet ring from my hand and slipped it over her forefinger.

“No Margaret, don’t take the risk!”

But after several minutes she was still breathing, and I had to concede that the ring had not been devised to kill me. I wore it, allowing my hopes to rise a little more each day.

And each night I dreamed of the Most Fortunate Fleet, hundreds strong, great galleasses, their sails spread like wide wings, oared galleys and broad high hulks, swift pinnaces darting in and out from among the large ships, the entire fleet standing out to sea, close hauled to a northerly breeze, making for the shores of England.

My dreams were precious to me—and they almost came true. But alas! My cousin’s fears grew too strong, and she faltered and grew
faint, dreading the coming of the Spaniards and the terrifying ships. And at the last, she gave in to the men around her, that advised her ever more strongly to order my death.

In the end, she did as they bade her.

They came for me tonight, after I had supped and said my prayers and retired to bed, to tell me that I am to die tomorrow morning.

There were four of them, four men I had never before met or seen, sent by Baron Burghley to make their dire announcement.

They did their best to harden themselves to their task, and tried to keep their faces solemn, but I could see that they were all in tears, and it was not long before my servants too were weeping, overhearing what was being said to me, and even some of the guards.

I crossed myself and asked for a priest to be sent to me, but the men said no, the queen would not allow it.

“I want you to know,” one of the men said, “that the queen suggested that we ought to put an end to your life privily and in secret, sparing her the guilt and blame. We all refused.” They nodded.

I looked from one to the other, and saw that their faces were pinched and full of sadness.

“I thank you, my loyal subjects,” I said, allowing myself the luxury of saying what I so often thought, that in truth, I was their queen, and not that other, who had suggested that they murder me.

Hearing my words, they did not demur, but knelt.

“It is a good thing Baron Burghley is not here to see you now,” I said, with a smile.

“Baron Burghley can go to the devil,” one of the men said, and another responded, “Assuredly he will.”

“At what hour am I to die?”

“At the hour of eight.”

I sighed. There was much to think of, to prepare for. I went to my small desk and took out a paper that I had been keeping there for months.

“Here are my instructions for what is to be done with my body. I wish to be buried in France, in Saint-Denis, as a Catholic, and not in Scotland, with a Protestant service.”

“Condemned traitors are not given honorable burial,” said one of the men, as all four got to their feet. “But there is still time for you to repent, and to recant your Romish faith. If you do this, you can be buried as a member of the Church of England, though the burial will have to be in unconsecrated ground.”

“And do you think me likely to do that, after all that I have endured for the sake of the one true church?”

No answer was necessary.

I held up my hand, displaying the queen’s signet ring.

“Is there no hope of clemency?” I asked, already knowing what the answer must be.

“Her Majesty will be pleased to receive her ring, if you will be so good as to return it,” one of the men said, holding out his hand. “She told us that it had been lost, and that you might possess it.”

I took off the ring and dropped it into the outstretched hand. Then, after assuring me that they regretted their most irksome and sorrowful duty in informing me that I was to die, the four men bowed to me and took their leave.

My poor servants, I thought. Who will look after them or hire them after I am gone? I did what I could to find a gift for each one—a miniature, or a book, a small keepsake, a bit of embroidery or a
token from my small store of clothing. I blessed them and kissed and embraced each one, doing my best to smile and wipe away their tears, then asked them all to drink one final toast with me.

“May you all keep warm in your hearts the love I bear you,” I said, my voice trembling, “and may you find new lives of peace and hope after I am gone. Remember me in your prayers.” Then we recited the Lord’s Prayer together, and they filed out, weeping quietly, leaving me to my own solitary meditations, and to pondering how best to use my last hours.

Try as I might to keep my thoughts on heavenly things, to pray for those I love best and to be thankful for the joys I have known in this life, I find that I am distracted by the tramping of the soldiers’ boots outside my window. So loud a noise! So many men coming and going!

And I realize, when I look out through the high bars, that many more soldiers are being brought on to the castle grounds. Hundreds more. And not only soldiers, but carts and guns, bowmen and halberdiers.

All is becoming clear: the commander of Fotheringhay is preparing not only to fortify the castle, but to defend it. An attack must be expected. An effort to rescue me!

When will they come? At dawn? Has the Most Fortunate Fleet already landed, and are the Spaniards on their way here?

Perhaps the Catholics of England have risen in rebellion even now, and London has fallen to their overpowering numbers, and the queen has been captured and thrown into her deepest dungeon, her crown and her kingdom taken from her, her authority cast off.

Is it possible that I am already queen, only I don’t yet know it? Or are these the midnight ravings of an old woman condemned to die, and unable to accept her fate?

I cannot know, but I must keep a close watch on the courtyard below, so that I will be sure to see Jamie when he comes for me, shouting, as he used to do, “All for risk, Orange Blossom! Arise and away!”

Whatever the truth of this moment, I end my record here, as the bells chime the midnight, in hope of rescue, or, if not, in hope of the life eternal promised by our dear Saviour, wishing any who read these words the blessings and the mercies of God, for all your lives long.

Marye the Queen

Just a reminder that in this historical entertainment, authentic history and imaginative invention are blended, so that fictional events and circumstances, fictional characters and fictional alterations to the past intertwine. Fresh interpretations of past personalities and events are offered, and traditional ones laid aside.

As far as is known, Mary Stuart and the Earl of Bothwell never went together to the island of Mull, Mary never shared a mineral bath with Queen Elizabeth at Buxton spa, and the explanation offered here for how Lord Darnley died is an imagining. Readers eager to uncover the factual truth of the past, that ever elusive goal of historians, must look elsewhere than in these pages, where “thick-coming fancies” crowd out sober evidence and whimsy prevails.

Yet in whimsy, at times, is to be found a richer truth than in the tantalizingly fragmented, often untrustworthy historical record. And even though there is reason to believe that in actuality Lord Bothwell met his end in a Danish prison in 1578, and did not live to know of Mary Stuart’s ultimate fate, some have questioned the identity of the remains of that long-ago prisoner. Perhaps, just perhaps, the real Lord Bothwell escaped, and hid himself away, to live out his life in contented obscurity.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at Carolly Erickson’s new book

Rival to the Queen

Available in October 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Carolly Erickson

Flames crackled and rose into the heavy air as my father’s servants piled more bundles of brushwood on the fire. Smoke rose grey-black out of the flickering orange tongues, the heat from the rising fire making my younger brother Frank draw back, fearful that we too might be singed or burned, even as the stench of burning flesh made us put our hands over our noses and recoil from its acrid, noxious reek.

I did not step back, I held my ground even as I heard Jocelyn’s agonizing cries. I held my breath and shut my eyes and prayed, please God, make it rain. Please God, put the fire out.

It was a lowering and cold morning. The overcast sky was growing darker by the minute, and I had felt a few drops of rain. I thought, it wouldn’t take much rain to douse this fire. Please, let it come now!

A large strong hand clamped onto my shoulder—I could sense its roughness through the sleeve of my gown—and I felt myself pulled backwards.

“Get back, Lettie! Can’t you see the fire is spreading? Stand back there, beside your brother!”

“But father,” I pleaded, my voice nearly lost amid the roar of the flames and the sharp snapping of twigs and branches, “it’s Jocelyn. Our Jocelyn. I am praying that the Lord will send rain and save him!”

I looked up into my father’s anguished face and saw at once the ravages of pain on his stern features. His voice was hoarse as he bent down and whispered “I’m praying for him too. Now do as I tell you!”

The fire was growing hotter. I was sweating, my flushed face was burning though the day was cold and once again I felt a spatter of raindrops on one cheek. I moved back to join my brother, who was weeping, sniffling loudly, and took his hand. At first he had tried his best to be manly, to resist the strong tug of emotion that we all felt. But Jocelyn had been his tutor, our tutor. He taught us our letters, and our writing hand, and, later, gave us our lessons in Greek and Latin. I had studied with him for seven years, Frank for nearly six. We loved him.

And now we were being forced to watch him die.

He was being burned for heresy. For professing the Protestant faith, as we did. For refusing to obey Queen Mary’s command that all her subjects attend mass and revere the pope and renounce the church of Luther, the church her father Henry VIII and her late brother Edward VI had officially embraced, in sharp opposition to the age-old Roman belief.

Many felt as Jocelyn did, but most hid their convictions, and attended mass despite them. My father, who was always a practical man, did as Queen Mary ordered and told us to do the same.

“What we do outwardly does not matter,” he told us. “It’s what we believe in our hearts that makes us members of the
true faith. The Lord sees what is in our hearts, and protects and favors us.”

But Jocelyn, who was very brave, and very learned, a scholar from Magdalen College and a student of the ancient texts of the church, was not satisfied. To pretend allegiance to the pope and the mass was wrong, he said. To disguise the truth. And so he had spoken out against the queen and her Catholic mass, and had been seized and thrown into a dungeon. And now, on this day, he was condemned to die.

I had watched him, looking thin and gaunt, as they made him walk across the damp grass to where the reeds and split branches were being piled knee-deep. In the center of the pile was a three-legged stool, and he had been made to stand up on it. But before he did so he reached down to pick up some of the reeds and kissed them reverently.

“See how he blesses the reeds! See how he embraces his martyrdom!” I heard people in the crowd exclaim. “Surely he will be with the Lord in paradise!” But they kept their voices low, for they did not want to be put in prison or forced to submit to punishment, and we were all aware that there were guards and soldiers everywhere, listening for blasphemous words against the church of Rome.

Then the torch had been put to the twigs and branches, and the fire had blazed up, and Jocelyn, praying loudly for the queen who had condemned him and for my father and the servants who had built the fire, had at last been overcome by pain and began screaming.

I heard my father, in anguish, call out to Jocelyn, asking his forgiveness. But the only response was a loud wail of agony, and hearing it, I saw my proud, stern father shed tears.

Young as I was, only sixteen on the day Jocelyn was condemned to die, I realized that my father was being punished alongside
our tutor. Queen Mary was making him suffer. She knew well that he had been a faithful servant of the crown ever since he was a very young man, serving in King Henry’s privy chamber and, after the old king’s death, serving King Edward as an envoy and councilor. He was unwaveringly faithful to the monarchy—but he did not, in his heart, profess the old religion, and she resented him for this. She was vengeful, everyone said so. Now she was taking vengeance against my father by forcing him to carry out the sentence of death against the young man she knew he was fond of, Jocelyn Palmer.

All of a sudden a strong wind blew up, I felt it lift my skirts and draw its raw breath against my neck. I let go of Frank’s hand for a moment as he pulled away from me, escaping the glowing sparks that blew toward us.

The wind was putting the fire out. I dared to look at Jocelyn. His hair was burnt away as was most of his clothing, and the skin of his face was scorched and blackened, but his lips were moving.

He was singing, a hymn tune. His voice was scratchy but I recognized the tune. Others joined in the singing as the fire died to embers.

“Dear Jesus, Son of David, have mercy upon me,” Jocelyn cried out. “Let it end!”

Soldiers approached my father and spoke to him, standing so near to him that I could not hear what they were saying. I looked up at the darkening sky. Surely it would rain soon, a hard rain. The sign of God’s mercy.

Then my father was giving orders and fresh loads of brushwood and branches were being brought and the fire rekindled. But not before a burly guard had reached up to strap two swollen sheep’s bladders around Jocelyn’s waist.

“No,” I cried to my father. “Spare him! Let him live!”

Once again my father grasped my arm, bending down so that he could speak to me, and to me alone.

“I must do as the queen commands. Otherwise we all face Jocelyn’s peril. But there is one last mercy I can show him. The bladders are filled with gunpowder. When the fire reaches them, they will explode, and he will die. He will be spared much agony.”

Torches were put to the wood and the fire began to blaze up, though I could feel drops of rain falling now, the rain I had prayed for, and smoke rose with the fire, black, choking smoke that was blown into our faces, and with it, the stink of Jocelyn’s flesh. I thought then, I cannot bear this.

I felt my gorge rise. I doubled over. My legs felt heavy, and it was hard to breathe. Minutes passed. All around me I could hear people weeping and sighing and coughing from the thickening smoke. I glanced at Frank. He had closed his eyes and bowed his head. His fists were clenched at his sides.

With a bright flash and a loud crack the bladders of gunpowder exploded, but there was to be no mercy for Jocelyn. The blasts went outward, tearing away part of one of his arms but leaving his blackened torso intact.

How I found the courage to look at Jocelyn then, in his last extremity, I will never understand. His legs were burnt, blood seeped from the fingers of one arm and his eyes were charred sockets. Yet his swollen tongue moved within what was left of his gums, and I knew that he prayed.

“Lord Jesus,” I heard my father say in a broken voice, “receive his spirit!”

Then with another loud crack the skies opened and rain began to pour down in thick sheets, flooding the grass and quenching the fire and turning the ground to thick squelching mud underfoot.

It was the rain I had prayed for, but it came too late. What was left of Jocelyn’s body hung limp and lifeless, the flesh of his face—a face I had loved—so burned away that I could not have said whose face it was.

I felt Frank reach for my hand and we clung to each other, standing there in the drenching rain, until the crowd scattered and my father gave the order to wrap the body in a burial cloth and take it away.