The axe lay in a wooden box, cushioned, locked up in Mr Bull’s modest home. He had been long expecting to use it for this, the biggest job of his life – for he kept up with the news and the pamphlets and he knew what was afoot, as anyone would, no matter what the queen and Cecil said officially. He had polished the axe, tended it, ensured the blade was shining. Finally, Walsingham’s messenger came on his fine horse and Mr Bull saddled up his own, packed up his mask and cape, and tied the box containing the axe to his saddle. He sent a messenger to call for his assistants to accompany him. The three men rode quickly north. They stopped at taverns on the way but spoke to nobody, keeping away from the crowds and stowing the box in their rooms. Bull and his men had not been told for whom they and their axe were destined, but they could guess. They were nervous. They knew they would be expected to perform the job with speed and skill. No one forgot tales of executions that had taken ten or more blows. Nearly fifty years before, a fellow executioner had missed the neck of Margaret Pole when she knelt over the block and caught only her shoulder – it took eleven blows to kill her, during which she attempted to escape and was hauled back, screaming, to the block. Mr Bull knew he must kill in one blow. Particularly as it was a woman.
There was no room at the castle where the captive was held, too full of dignitaries who had come to observe. Bull and his men had been due to stay at the nearby home of Sir Walter Mildmay, but on arrival, they had been turned away, the man in charge of the household declaring it impossible. Mr Bull presumed Sir Walter had changed his mind about hosting an executioner and his axe; this was not uncommon. They took up at a local inn under extreme secrecy. No word could get out as to why they were there – in case she tried to escape or, worse, the queen heard of the matter and tried to put a stop to it. Already, it was risky that they had had to ride first to Sir Walter’s and then on to the inn – the place was crawling with spies and they had made themselves conspicuous. They tried to hide, keep close. Mr Bull and his assistants dined together and received a message from the castle that all was ready to proceed. The innkeeper had become used to strange people coming to stay, foreigners who looked like spies, wild-eyed young men, priests in disguise, men whispering in corners. The captive at the castle was good business for him and he did not ask questions.
The scaffold was erected overnight. On the early morning of 8 February 1587, Mr Bull and his assistants picked up the axe and put it upon his horse. Before the inhabitants of the town were even awake, they rode out to the castle, leaving the inn and the lives of ordinary Englishmen behind.
In her rooms, at the castle, Mary, Queen of Scots had been awake all night. Waiting.