“MADAM, IT IS my task to inform you that your trial will commence at eight o’clock tomorrow morning in the Great Hall. Your presence is required by the commissioners to answer the charges brought against you.”
Mary didn’t look up from her prayer book for several minutes, leaving Sir Amyas standing at the door. She had expected this from the moment of her removal to Fotheringay, even though she had denied herself the knowledge. At last she looked up and across at him. “I will defend myself of all charges, sir. Am I to be permitted counsel to speak in my defense?”
“No, madam. In treason trials no defense counsel is permitted.”
“Then I must conduct my own defense.” Mary was calm, composed, almost serene. She rose and went into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her. She knelt at the prie-dieu, praying to her God who would be her strength. If they would martyr her, it would be God’s will. But they would hear no admission of guilt from her lips.
Rosamund, despite her relief that that burdensome secret was no longer hers to carry, knew that her real work was to begin now. Her mind was busy in search of a way to appear to do the work expected of her, while somehow circumventing it. They would execute Mary Stuart for treason, whether Rosamund’s testimony added to her guilt or not. So, somehow she must find a way to relieve her conscience of a spy’s burden while satisfying Master Secretary.
She wrote her journal for Sir Francis that night as she sat up beside the sleeping queen in the softly firelit bedchamber. Nothing she had to say of today’s events would incriminate the Scots queen, so she could be open and honest, and save deception for when it was needed. She described Mary’s calm demeanor as she had listened to Sir Amyas, and how she had prayed. How she had passed the rest of the evening in talk, prayer, and backgammon, and how she was now sleeping peacefully, seemingly untroubled by the prospect of her trial in the morning. When Rosamund had finished, she went into the bedchamber and slipped the sheet under her pillow, before returning to Mary’s bedside.
The queen continued to sleep and Rosamund sat drowsily by the fire, her mind returning as it so often did these days to the chevalier and Agathe. She cringed when she thought of how easily she had been led. Would Arnaud have hurt her as an act of revenge against Thomas? On the one hand it seemed fanciful; on another, when she conjured his image, the flicker of his mouth, the strange light in his eyes, utterly believable. It was much pleasanter to think of Will, and there she allowed her mind and imagination free rein. She would see him again, it was impossible that she wouldn’t. He would be working somewhere within her cousin’s net, it would be easy for him to discover where she was, what she was doing, and he would seek her out when this nightmare was finished.
The queen awoke with a start and a cry of “Grâce de Dieu.”
Rosamund jumped up and went to the bed. “Can I get you anything, madam?”
Mary struggled up against the pillows. “A little wine, Rosamund, please, and bring me my Psalter.”
Rosamund did both and returned to her low stool by the fire, while Mary read silently for an hour, before letting her head fall back on the pillows and sleeping again, the Psalter lying open on the covers. Rosamund picked it up and put it on the table beside the bed. Her own eyes were drooping and she let herself drift in the warmth of the quiet room.
Mary awoke before dawn and Rosamund started awake at the sound of her name. “Oh, forgive me, madam, I must have slept a little.”
Mary smiled. “And so you should, my dear. I feel guilty keeping my ladies awake all night, but indeed your presence is a comfort. Without it, I doubt I would sleep.”
“Will I fetch your night-robe, madam?” Rosamund went to the armoire for the furred robe, bringing it to the bed.
Mary slipped to the floor in her thin linen shift and hastily wrapped herself in the warm robe. She went to her prie-dieu for her morning prayers and Rosamund went into the main apartment to summon a servant to bring water, and breakfast.
Just before eight o’clock, Sir Amyas came to escort Mary to the Great Hall. She was dressed as always in black, with a small silver lace ruff at her throat. A black French hood concealed her hair, and her rosary hung at her waist.
“I am ready, Sir Amyas. My ladies are permitted to accompany me, I trust?”
“Yes, madam. They will attend you.”
And so the little party proceeded down the corridor, down the stairs, and into the Great Hall, where on the dais at the far end the commissioners were ranged in two rows. A seat for Mary was set in front of them, a bench for her ladies to one side.
“Mary Stuart, you are brought before this court to answer charges of treason. How answer you?”
Mary rose to her feet. “My lords, I have suffered eighteen years of unjust imprisonment, and as a sovereign anointed prince and thus not subject to common law, I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of this court.” She sat down.
“Madam, your guilt is already well established. We have signed affidavits from your secretary, Monsieur Claude de Nau, we have the signed confessions of those with whom you planned the assassination of our most sovereign majesty, and we have a letter written in your own hand to the conspirator Anthony Babington, giving your consent and encouragement for the assassination of Queen Elizabeth. What say you?”
Mary stood still and straight, facing her accusers. She spoke quietly. “Sirs, I would never make shipwreck of my soul by compassing the death of my dearest sister. I deny all knowledge of any conspiracy, I have had no correspondence with one Anthony Babington, and I question the truth of confessions wrung from those on the rack.”
Rosamund, sketching the scene for Sir Francis, was filled with admiration. Mary was every inch a queen as she faced her accusers. She must know that nothing she could say would alter the judgment, or the inevitable sentence, but she seemed so confident in the rightness of her cause. It was hard to imagine how much courage it took to maintain such composure and confidence, surrounded as she was by her enemies. Yet Mary seemed almost transfigured, as if lit from within by some spiritual light that gave her strength. It was hard to capture that on paper, but she tried. It seemed somehow important that Sir Francis should see Mary’s inner strength, her calm dignity in the face of everything they did to break her.
The court ended its day without pronouncing judgment, and Mary and her ladies were escorted back to their apartments. Mary went immediately to her prie-dieu.
The next morning they were preparing to return to the Great Hall, when a servant brought Mary a message from Sir Amyas. Mary slit the wafer and opened the sheet. She read it, then handed it to Charlotte, who read aloud, “The commission has been prorogued by her majesty for ten days. They are returned to London.”
“What does that mean?” Rosamund asked, puzzled.
“I think it means that my dear sister is reluctant to have judgment pronounced on a queen regnant,” Mary said serenely. “It is a dangerous thing she contemplates, and my cousin Guise will not sit idly by, neither will my son. If France and Scotland rise up in arms against England in my defense, it will put my cousin in an invidious position.”
Rosamund made due note of Mary’s understanding of Elizabeth’s difficulties. So far Rosamund felt she had not been obliged to conceal anything from her journal. On the contrary, Mary’s behavior was so admirable, she wanted Sir Francis to realize it.
Mary was walking in the inner court, her furred cloak wrapped tightly around her against the October cold. The sky was leaden and made the cheerless court even more so. Rosamund walked briskly, swinging her arms. They would all prefer to be inside warm by the fire, but Mary insisted that they take the air for this one precious hour a day, and so they walked round and around the walls of the court, talking little. Mary prayed her rosary as she walked, her little dog trotting at her heels.
The unexpected arrival of Sir Amyas in the court sent a deeper chill through the prisoners. Nothing good could ever come from a visit from Paulet, and he had not made an appearance for two weeks. Mary paused in her prayers and waited for him to reach her. Her ladies gathered around her.
Paulet looked if possible even more stern and austere than usual in his severe black garments, relieved only by a modest white ruff. He held himself rigid as he declared, “Madam, it is my duty to inform you that the Star Chamber has found you guilty of treason. I am charged to say that if you confess your treason before sentencing, her majesty may see fit to commute a sentence of death to one of continued imprisonment.”
“Sir Amyas, you may tell my dear queen-sister that since I have nothing to confess, I cannot in all conscience do so.” Mary’s smile was almost pitying. “Now, if you please, I believe my time for exercise is not yet over.” She resumed her walking, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer as her gloved fingers moved over her rosary.
Paulet had no choice but to accept his dismissal. He turned on his heel and departed.
Rosamund felt a surge of savage satisfaction. He just didn’t know how to react to his prisoner, and Mary knew exactly how to discompose her guardian. Small satisfaction in the circumstances, but to be treasured nevertheless.
The days inched by. October became November without any further proclamations from London. Mary had been allowed her personal confessor throughout her long imprisonment and began now to talk of celebrating a Christmas mass in the castle chapel. As the days passed without further dread proclamations, a sense of purpose, of possibility, crept back into the lives of the imprisoned women.
Sir Francis read Rosamund’s journals and studied her sketches as they arrived on his desk. He sensed Rosamund’s admiration for Mary, indeed it came through as clearly as Sir Amyas’s unadorned statements that Mary appeared to have no fear of judgment, no apprehension of death. Sir Amyas had decided that the Queen of Scots’ fearless composure arose because she believed that her cousin would not dare to order her execution. Rosamund, on the other hand, believed that Mary was ready to die, was indeed eager for a martyr’s death. And Sir Francis concluded that Rosamund had the right of it.
On a cold, clear December morning, Sir Amyas arrived in Mary’s apartments with a paper. “Madam, this has not yet been published, but it has been ratified by Parliament and you can expect its publication within days.” He presented the paper to her.
Mary read it without expression, then said calmly, “So be it.” She handed it back to her guardian, who took it without a word and departed.
“What is it, madam?” Charlotte asked anxiously.
“Parliament is to publish a sentence of death. Come now, ladies, let us see if we can finish this tapestry. I dislike leaving things undone.” She drew her chair closer to the frame where the vast tapestry was stretched. She and her ladies had been working on it for months and only a corner remained unfinished.
Christmas came and went. Sentence was proclaimed and the country rejoiced. London was illuminated with myriad lamps in celebration, but Elizabeth could still not bring herself to sign the death warrant. Finally, pushed to it by rumors of a plot to assassinate her emanating from the French embassy and a second rumor that flew through the country like wildfire that the Spaniards had landed on the coast, she signed, but then would not part with the warrant, until her councilors took matters into their own hands.
It was the night of February 7 when Mary received her visitors. She embraced her old friend Shrewsbury. “Ah, it is so good to see you again, my friend. What brings you to this wretched place?”
Shrewsbury, tears running down his face, knelt before her. “Madam, you must prepare to die in the Great Hall at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t weep, my friend.” Mary took his hand, drawing him to his feet. “Indeed, I am so wearied I will be pleased to lay down the burdens of this earthly travail. I go to my death joyfully. You must not weep for me.”
Rosamund turned aside, her own tears flowing freely.