The summer of 1586 was hot and dry. The sun beat down relentlessly like a ball of molten bronze from a sky of cloudless blue. A heat-haze danced over the palace of Nonesuch and a slumberous peace pervaded its many rooms and corridors.
In a small, cool chamber a man sat poring over a document, a smile of quiet satisfaction in his dark, deep-set eyes. After eighteen years of patient watchfulness Mr Secretary Walsingham finally had in his possession the proof that would once and for all condemn the Queen of Scots.
Sir Francis Walsingham was a dark, swarthy man. His dark hair receding from his high forehead. He had risen—like many of the new nobility—from humble but honest stock. His father had been a lawyer, highly respected in the City and had owned lands in the county of Kent. Francis had also been educated with a career at the Bar in mind but had risen to become one of the few trusted ministers of the Queen. A staunch protestant, he loathed everything that Mary Stuart stood for. He had never been able to comprehend why Elizabeth insisted upon harbouring that 'bosom serpent' as he called Mary but with the evidence he now had she could harbour the viper no longer!
He had for many years maintained (at his own expense) a spy system solely for the purpose of ensuring the safety of his Sovereign and the realm. His money had been well spent for the dividends were now to pay off.
He rose and taking the document with him went forth to find his associate, Lord Burghley and together they went in search of the Queen.
Elizabeth was resting upon a brocade couch for the heat was intense but upon being informed that the matter was of the utmost importance, she agreed to see the trusty pair.
“Madam, I have in my possession a document which I feel you should read and consider most carefully,” Walsingham informed her.
She held out her hand and he passed it to her.
She read it in silence but her mouth grew tighter and her eyes burnt with the flame of anger as she comprehended is contents.
“This is a true account?” she questioned sharply.
“Yes, madam. As you are aware the Queen of Scots is at present residing at Chartley. As there is no brew-house attached to Chartley the beer is supplied by a brewer from the town of Burton. This man is in my employ and all the forbidden correspondence to and from the Queen of Scots, which is concealed in the bottom of a cask, passes through my hands.”
Elizabeth rose wearily. “How long have you known of this conspiracy?”
“Almost from the moment of its conception. I have in my employ one Gilbert Gifford, a renegade Catholic. He has reported to me of the proposed plan by Anthony Babington and his associates to murder yourself and with the aid of the King of Spain, to enlist men to free the Queen of Scots and set her upon the throne.”
“That my own attendants should seek to strike me down! for the despatch of the usurper,” she whispered incredulously, quoting Babington’s words.
“This Babington is a fool,” Burghley intervened. “He has had the stupidity and arrogance to have his portrait painted with his fellow conspirators—no doubt for posterity!” he added scathingly.
Elizabeth did not reply. The words of that fateful letter danced before her eyes.
When all is ready, the six gentlemen must then be set to work and you will provide that on their design being accomplished, I may be myself rescued from this place and be in safe keeping till our friends arrive. I will do what I can to raise Scotland and Ireland. Beware of traitors!
Mary had written those words. Mary to whom she had given aid and comfort and whom she had defended against her enemies and who in return had repaid her with intrigue after intrigue.
“Madam, this time there can be no delay. No further proof is necessary. The Queen of Scots is a vicious woman!” Burghley interrupted her thoughts.
Elizabeth remained silent and the two men exchanged anxious looks.
“Madam, I implore you, strike lest thou be stricken!” Walsingham begged her.
“This Queen has given you naught but trouble since she first set foot in this realm. She has never ceased to plot against you. Norfolk, Throckmorton, Dr. Parry, the Duke of Guise, the King of Spain—the list is endless. She has ensnared half of Europe in plots which endangered your safety.”
“And never has she renounced her claim upon your crown,” Walsingham interposed.
Elizabeth put her hands to her head as if to fend off the words beating upon her ears.
“Madam, she is a traitor—she must die!” Walsingham’s words hammered into her brain.
Slowly she nodded. “Do what is necessary, Mr. Secretary, but leave me now.”
The two men left. Discussing the matter further, they agreed that the utmost caution must be maintained for they were determined that Mary Stuart should not escape her just desserts.
Doubt and suspicion tormented young Anthony Babington. It had seemed such a chivalrous plan. To free the tragic Queen of Scots from the powers of darkness. To cast out the usurper and bring back the old faith to England. He had gathered about him a circle of friends who heartily concurred with his plans. The idea had been suggested to him in the first place by John Ballard, a priest, who had assured him that the Pope and the King of Spain would applaud and aid him. He knew he must be cautious for Walsingham had agents everywhere and he had his doubts about Gilbert Gifford. In fact the more he thought about the matter the more his courage failed. He could feel the rope tighten about his neck and the cold steel tear at his insides—for the traitor’s death was the most awful death devised by man!
He suddenly made up his mind and on the 31st July, he intimated to Poley—a member of Walsingham’s household—that he had information concerning a plot and was prepared to reveal all he knew to his master. This information was duly passed to Walsingham and arrangements were made for them to meet. But Babington somehow got wind of the arrest of Ballard and took fright and fled with some of his friends to St. John’s Wood—a haunt of cut-throats and robbers. From there they made their way to a house in Harrow owned by another friend by the name of Bellamy and it was here that the Queen’s agents arrested them and they were consigned to the Tower.
When the news of the miraculous escape of their beloved Queen became known, her subjects were overjoyed. She no longer had cause or reason to shelter that evil woman, Mary of Scotland.
Babington and his Confederates were tried, found guilty of treason and conspiring to murder the Queen and were condemned to die the horrible death of traitors.
On a fine September morning Anthony Babington, John Ballard, John Savage Edward Abingdon, Edward Windsor and Charles Tilney were dragged on hurdles to Tyburn. There they were hanged but cut down before dead, their entrails were cut out from their bodies and burnt before their dying eyes and finally their mutilated bodies were cut into four quarters which were nailed to the gates of the City.
Elizabeth showed clemency to the remaining traitors and Edward Jones, Henry Donn, John Travers, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury and Chidioch Tichbourne were hanged by the neck until dead.
The Queen of Scots, unaware of the events taking place in the capital, was hunting in a park near Chartley when she was arrested and conducted to the house of Sir Walter Aston at Tixall. Chartley was searched and all her documents together with her secretaries, Curie and Nau, were sent under armed escort to London.
As Elizabeth absolutely refused to allow Mary to be imprisoned in the Tower she was conducted to the gloomy castle of Fotheringay.
Forty-six commissioners were appointed to try her and thirty-six of them arrived at Fotheringay on the 11th October. At first Mary refused to recognise the validity of the court. She was a Queen and therefore was answerable only to God, she declared. When shown the proof of her guilt she declared that it was a forgery, casting the blame upon Walsingham.
Walsingham was indignant. “I call God to witness that as a private person I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man!” he declared vehemently.
Mary still refused to come into court.
“We then will proceed tomorrow in the course, though you be absent and continue contumacious,” Burghley told her bluntly.
“Search your conscience. Look to your honour, God reward you and yours for your judgement against me!” Mary warned him but at last she agreed to attend.
The next day the members of the commission filed into the great Presence Chamber of Fotheringay. A Chair of State, above which hung a canopy, had been placed at the far end of the chamber to represent the Crown. Benches had been placed either side of this. Lord Burghley with Chancellor Bromley, nine earls and Viscount Montague took their places on the right. The Earls of Oxford, Kent, Derby, Warwick, Rutland, Pembroke and Worcester with six other barons seated themselves to the left.
Lower down sat the Privy Councillors, Hatton, Walsingham, Crofts, Sadler and Sir Amyas Paulet—Mary’s keeper. The two Chief Justices Anderson and Wray took their places in front of the Earls and beneath the Chair of State, seated at a small table, were the Attorney General Popham and the Solicitor General Edgerton.
One chair remained empty—the chair that had been set in the middle of the assembly for the Queen of Scots.
There was a faint murmur of voices and then silence as she entered. She surveyed her judges calmly, her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes betrayed no fear. The plain grey dress and her white, widow’s cap enhanced her dignity. Once she had been a radiantly beautiful woman but time had taken its toll upon her for her limbs were crippled with rheumatism and she walked slowly and painfully to her place.
The Chancellor rose. “Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, having been informed to her sorrow and pain that the Queen of Scots has conspired against her has no alternative but to instruct you to proceed against her and hear her defence,” he announced.
Slowly Mary got to her feet. “I came to my good sister of England for help when I was in fear of my life at the hands of rebellious subjects. I am not a subject but a Queen. I am not a criminal and therefore I am not answerable to any earthly court!”
“Madam any person who in this realm breaks the law is answerable to the law,” the Chancellor replied gravely.
The conspiracy of Babington was revealed but the Queen of Scots denied all knowledge of the plot. The letters of Babington and herself were then read out but she continued her denials.
On the second day of her trial she stated “My reputation is being blackened.”
“Madam, you are a prisoner accused of treason,” Burghley reminded her.
She turned on him. “You are my adversary!”
“I am adversary to Queen Elizabeth’s adversaries, madam!” he replied coldly.
During his speech she sat silent and scornful and when he had finished she rose painfully.
“I demand that my case be heard by Parliament!” she cried and without further ado left the chamber.
The case was adjourned and re-opened in the Star Chamber at Westminster on 25th October. Mary was not present to hear the verdict of guilty that was passed upon her.
On the 29th October Parliament met and confirmed the verdict stating that, “the Queen of Scots regards the Crown of England as belonging to herself and the members of this parliament demand a just condemnation be followed by as just an execution.”
On the 12th November a deputation arrived at the palace of Richmond. Elizabeth received them in her Presence Chamber. The Speaker of the House, Mr. Sergeant Puckering, spoke for them all.
“Your Majesty’s compliance with the petition will be most acceptable to God and your people expect nothing less of you,” he told her.
“My life has been dangerously shot at, nothing has grieved me more than that a person of my own sex, of the same rank and degree and nearly allied to me in blood, has fallen into so great a crime. I am in a cruel position. I am called upon to order the death of a kinswoman whose practices hath caused me deep distress,” Elizabeth replied sorrowfully.
Parliament was adjourned until February, 1587.
Indecision tormented Elizabeth’s days and sleepless nights. From all quarters she was harried and implored to execute her cousin of Scotland. Her people were ringing the church bells for joy now that Mary had been pronounced guilty.
Elizabeth shut herself away in her apartments in an agony of uncertainty.
“She is a Queen. She is God’s Anointed,” she argued with herself. “She is my cousin by blood, how can I condemn her to the axe?” But the arguments of her ministers reminded her that Mary was a traitor.
“She would have been joyful upon your death. She would have welcomed the forces of France and Spain when they came to over-run this land,” her conscience told her. “You have protected her from her enemies all these years. You have refused to believe that she was personally implicated in the intrigues which have fomented throughout the realm since her arrival.”
“She is a Queen! She is my cousin!” Elizabeth cried in vain. Her head ached and her eyes burned from lack of sleep.
“Madam, strike lest thou be stricken!” Walsingham’s words echoed in her confused mind.
“She is a traitor, she must die!” her conscience relentlessly urged her.
Sick and heartsore she finally realised that she could hold out no longer against public opinion. Justice must prevail.
On the first day of February, the Lord High Admiral, her kinsman Charles Howard demanded an audience.
“Madam, I will speak plainly. The country can no longer be trifled with. You must come to a decision.”
The time had come and her heart felt like lead. She nodded. “Send William Davidson to me and tell him to bring with him the… document,” she whispered.
Lord Howard left and returned with Davidson who held in his hand the death warrant which he placed on the table before her.
She did not read it but without a word picked up her quill and affixed her signature: Elizabeth R.
She left it where it lay and stumbled towards the door to her privy chamber, half blinded by tears.
Davidson picked up the warrant and left to take it immediately to the Lord Chancellor in order that the Great Seal of England could be affixed.
At last the deed was done. Fearing that Elizabeth would change her mind, Burghley took it upon himself to ensure that the warrant was executed speedily and without her knowledge.
On the 8th February, 1587 in the Great Hall of Fotheringay Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, Queen Dowager of France, laid her head upon the block and the ‘bosom serpent' was removed forever from the heart of England
In the late afternoon the news reached the City of London. Instantly the air was filled with the joyous pealing of bells. The citizens came pouring from their homes shouting the news to each other and thanking God for the Queen’s deliverance from that daughter of Satan. Huge bonfires were lit and the wine and ale flowed freely.
Elizabeth sat alone staring remorsefully into space. There was no need for her to be informed of the reason for the rejoicings—she knew. The warrant had been carried out.
She rose and crossed to the window. Already the gloom of the February afternoon was giving way to the light of the jubilant flames. Her strength seemed to ebb from her and she caught a heavy brocade curtain for support. She shut her eyes to blot out the light from the bonfires. The bells pealed loudly, making her head ache with their clamour.
“What have I become?” she asked herself. “Is this what the Crown of England has made of me?” For the second time in her life the word “Murderess” beat upon her ears.
Her father had never been tormented by such remorse. Except perhaps once at the end of his life when, she had heard it said, in his dying agony he had called out her mother’s name. She was cursed for she knew that as long as she lived the death of Mary Stuart would hang like a millstone around her neck.
Her ladies found her clutching the brocade drapery with her eyes still closed but from beneath her eyelashes, silent tears slid down her cheeks.
At length they persuaded her to try to rest and she lay for a long time in the dark, little world encompassed by the curtains of her bed until at last she fell into a restless sleep. Dreams crowded into her mind. The ghosts of people long dead came back to her, their eyes reproaching her. Her father, her sister Mary, the Duke of Norfolk; but search these visions though she may, the one whose countenance she looked for was not amongst them. Anne did not reproach her.
Through the mists a horrible spectre appeared. Unrecognisable at first but slowly becoming clearer. Its chestnut lair was matted with blood and its long, almond-shaped eyes stared blindly from glazed sockets. She shrank from it in terror, running she knew not where but it pursued her. On and on she ran but there was no escape. She felt the cold, slimy stones of a wall in front of her. She was trapped! She beat upon the stones with her hands, tearing at them but they did not move. The spectre closed upon her. From its bloody mouth emitted a bitter, mocking laugh. “In my end is my beginning,” the ghost whispered. “In my end is your death.”
Shaking with terror Elizabeth cried out. “No! No! In the Name of God, have pity!” but her cries were strangled as the ghostly hands closed around her throat.
She was screaming hysterically when Lady Nottingham woke her. She clutched Lady Nottingham’s arm in panic, the sweat cold and clammy upon her body.
“Madam, madam, what is it?” Lady Nottingham begged.
Elizabeth looked around her. The spectre had gone and her terror receded for Mary Stuart had faded into oblivion.
“’Tis nothing.” she answered shakily. “I have had the ill fortune to ride the nightmare.”