For several days Mary wondered how she might take some revenge on Queen Elizabeth, while still captive in Fotheringay Castle.
And what can I do to her that would not preclude my going to Heaven?
She realized that she had run out of time, when she heard the sounds of hammering and sawing of wood from within Fotheringay. Her ladies confirmed that a gallows was being built.
Soon after, her ladies gathered at the windows. They told her that a crowd of a thousand people or more were gathering outside the castle gate. Mary could not summon the courage to look for herself. She thought, This crowd has come to witness my death.
Her ladies told her that some of the people in the mob were holding up signs, with drawings of a mermaid. Her ladies did not understand the symbolism. “You fools!” Mary yelled, “They mean to humiliate me, the Queen of Scots as nothing more than temptress or a prostitute.”
Mary reflexively touched her rosary, on her waist girdle, and then touched her necklace with a medallion with the figure of Jesus as the Lamb of God. She suddenly thought that she should immediately beg God to receive her as a sacrifice today.
She picked up a crucifix of ivory, and a Latin prayer book, and turned to see her ladies, who were all in tears. Mary went to the chapel, where she prayed much of the night. She did not cry at all. As she prayed, no matter how close she believed herself to be in Heaven, she had the sensation that the fiery flames of Hell were scalding her. No matter how much she believed that God was welcoming her home, where she would live for an eternity, she could not escape the fear of a demon in the shadows around her, who might take her to a perpetual torment in some underworld dungeon.
In the early hours of the morning, she had her feet washed, to further imitate Jesus. She told her ladies to watch her and pray around her. She asked for one of her servants to read aloud to her about the life of a saint. She could not think of a particular saint. She asked, “Find a saint to read to me, a saint who had been a great sinner first.”
Her lady read to her about the Good Thief, who was named Saint Dismas. Mary said, “In truth he was a great sinner, but not as sinful as I have been. I wish to take him for my patron for the time that remains to me. May my Savior, in memory of His passion, remember me and have mercy on me, as He had of him at the hour of His death.”
Mary hoped that her humility would guarantee her a place with Christ in Paradise, but there was part of her that thought, I do not think, as a woman and as a queen, that I am indeed as dismal as that wretched thief Dismas.
She was distracted by the thought that she would need something to cover her eyes, at the time of her execution. They decided on a white handkerchief, her very best Corpus Christi cloth, with gold embroidered on the edges. She then closed her eyes and prayed for several hours.
She laughed, softly to herself—almost giddy at the thought of her heavenly destination, but also at the absurdity of someone as sinful as herself being allowed entrance into such a divine realm.
As the time passed, she did not feel sad. A strange unfamiliar joyful anticipation seemed to carry her in these final moments. She even had some strength to walk without any assistance.
She still struggled to understand why Queen Elizabeth would have her executed at Fotheringay Castle. She thought, If I know Elizabeth at all, she did not choose this place for my death without a reason.
For a long time Mary did not believe that Elizabeth would actually murder her. But I should not be surprised really. I think she wanted me dead, from the moment I became her captive. She just did not have the will to murder me sooner. No, she preferred to strangle me slowly, so I would not notice her hands around my neck. She stabbed me so discreetly that I did not feel the blade slip into my flesh.
She moved me around from castle to castle—to make me weak, and to hasten my death. She knew that my health was always fragile—that is why she made sure to move me to Tutbury Castle, so I would be forced to smell the malevolent miasmic fumes that wafted my way from that nearby fen.
She even prevented me from hunting, which had long been my favorite way to stay physically healthy. She wanted me to get sick and die. She wanted me to waste away.
Over time I did waste. Time wasted me.
For several years, Mary had feared that Elizabeth would have her murdered in secret. If Henry Bolingbroke could depose King Richard the Second, and then have him murdered in Pontefract Castle, what was preventing Elizabeth from doing the same to me?
Mary chuckled to herself, I guess I should not be too unkind. I should be grateful to Elizabeth for not assassinating me in secret, and for having me executed in public, for the world to see.
Mary was escorted out of her chambers, and into a room where she saw the household staff, who had waited on her all this time. Many of the women cried, and even some of the men displayed emotion. Mary was surprised, since she had always distrusted and disliked every last one of them.
Mary reminded herself to appear calm, and she slowly repeated some phrases, in English, she had rehearsed the night before—“Fear God. Be obedient. Do not grieve for me. Rejoice for me. Pray for me.”
Some of the staff were moved and impressed by her courageous and positive demeanor.
Her ladies helped her down the stairs, because of her rheumatism, and towards the great hall of Fotheringay. With every step, she sensed an urgency to flee from any devils or demons in the shadows that lurked behind her.
She tried to distract her mind from such gloom. She took some satisfaction in the letters she had written, and arranged to have sent secretly, in the event that she was actually executed. She was so excited to have them delivered, and even more exhilarated by the idea of the effect they would have. She only wished that she could be alive to see how her son and how the King of Spain would respond to her death.
My dreadful cousin, Queen Elizabeth, will bitterly regret killing me. The revenge that God will take on her will be most fitting--and delightfully sweet. She might dismember me here and now, to disarm me—but this will only infuriate God, and bring His wrath down on England, against which no force of arms she assembles will withstand.
She thought of the letter she wrote to Elizabeth herself, which included her request to have her body buried in France. Scotland was where she was born, but she knew that France was where she belonged.
Despite her effort to stay mentally in the present moment, Mary’s mind was pulled backwards, to a time when there was love between her and Queen Elizabeth. She thought, This is what befalls anyone who gets close to Elizabeth. It was almost impossible to hate her. And even though I never met her, I was with her always. I was perhaps the only person she might have ever married.
Mary chuckled at how she and Elizabeth had exchanged very affectionate and flirtatious letters long ago. They even had exchanged love tokens—such as miniature portraits, jewelry, and poems. Mary blushed at how she once rejected offers of matrimony from royal suitors, and said that, “I will have no one else but Elizabeth!”
She coughed as she laughed, as she remembered the look of shock and bewilderment on the faces of the male suitors.
She thought, Those letters and gifts were as good as offers of matrimony—and they were not entirely in jest. It was not just idle flirtation with Elizabeth. I might have forsaken all men for her, and I think she would have renounced all men for me.
Her head became light as she considered how filled with wonder her life might have been, with Elizabeth. We would not have had any need for an exchange of vows. I would not have cared what they called such a marriage—or what they would have called me.
All men are such trouble—and even the best men should be kept at arm’s length.
The image of Bothwell’s face suddenly bubbled up from deep within the wellspring of her memory, and he thrust himself into her mind—the mere glimpse of his wild eyes and his ruddy face and the sound of his hoarse laugh and the coarseness of his beard against her lips and cheeks as he hungrily kissed her made her even more lightheaded.
Mary had to steady herself, and pause for a moment, until the storm of Bothwell’s spirit passed, like a sudden squall.
She sighed, and proceeded to walk. She remembered how she had longed to meet Elizabeth in person, and see her with her own eyes. However, Lord Burghley blocked any such visit. He used every excuse to prevent Elizabeth and me from having the opportunity to love each other. He preferred to have us distrust and hate each other. He is the most blameworthy man alive—if you can call him a man! He is more creature, a hoofed creature, than he is a man—
She suddenly sensed a stirring behind her, she sensed a rising and falling motion, as if something dark and malevolent was roiling and tumbling towards her, to consume her.
She pressed on, quickening her pace as much as she could. Mary remembered the last thing she received from Elizabeth—another painted portrait. Mary sighed, What a lively face she had! What has happened to that beautiful woman, who was so kind to share a likeness of herself with me? What has happened to the love that we could have shared and enjoyed together, as the tenderest of bosom-friends?
Mary wiped a tear from her eye, when she remembered how upset she was when she learned that her final attempt at meeting with Elizabeth was canceled. Mary locked herself away all day, and cried convulsively, until she had no more tears to cry. I should have known then, that no matter who I was and who Elizabeth was, we could never be happy together or apart. One of us was going to have to be sacrificed.
That was the first time when it dawned on Mary that Elizabeth might order her death. As long as she had Lord Burghley by her side, and as long as he had her ear, I did not stand a chance.
Mary entered the great hall. She heard the sound of a turbulent gust of air. Her whole body quaking with fear, she glanced backwards up the staircase, and cried aloud--“Evil itself follows me now. Evil is attending me.”
The people around her saw nothing or heard anything.
Buzzing erupted in a crowd in the great hall as soon as Mary arrived. The sight of so many people dazed her. Not since she had to flee to England—after her army’s defeat after the Battle of Langside—had she seen so many people together at once.
She fought the urge to cower and crumple before the crowd of over one hundred people. She saw lords and ladies push and shove their way to get closer to the scaffold, to see her death up close.
Musicians began to play a dirge-like piece they had been commanded to perform. But they were so distracted by the sight of Mary they played the piece haltingly. They did not want to miss any of this moment in history that was unfolding right now before their eyes.
Mary looked towards the open doors of the hall, and squinted at the bright light shining inside. She saw some birds immediately take wing and fly away. She hoped that they would spread the news of her death across the world.
Mary saw the scaffold, a crudely built wooden stage, two feet off the ground, and twelve feet square. It is the last stage on which I will stand, before Elizabeth removes me from this stage of history. It THERE was never a stage big enough to accommodate both of us. One of us had to go.
She instantly saw herself on that stage, and imagined what kind of performance she should give. She thought, I must burn like Dido on her blazing pyre. I must hold an asp to my breast, like Cleopatra. My name must be remembered with Zenobia, Boudicca, and so many others. I must make these people cry, and reduce them all to tears.
I don’t want them just to cry a few drops of water from their eyes—I want water to stream down their faces, and pour into an ever-widening river, that would blemish the landscape of these British Isles forever.
My death will be a final tribute to Elizabeth that becomes a tearful tributary—to which lost children and young women would find themselves drawn, into which they would be lured, and down to the bottom of which they would drown unto their death.
As pleased as these thoughts made Mary, she was flustered. She was dissatisfied by the play she had been now caught in, and forced to play.
The tale between us was once a love story. It was something like a romance between two women. We were more like loving and warm and affectionate and intimate sisters, than we were cold and distant cousins. This is not just a sad story, about dearly beloved blood relatives who have become mortal enemies. This is the saddest of stories. It has become the darkest and bloodiest of tragedies.
As one of history’s greatest tragedies, Mary knew that it was her duty to make her death one of the most memorable moments in all of history. She glanced at the great hall, the massive stones and the wooden beams, Here in these my final moments, before my head falls from my neck, I must literally bring this house down.
As I die—I must make England fall.
I must die like Artemisia—and this hall and the entire castle will crumble over me, to create my everlasting mausoleum. History must remember my short but eventful life and remember my too brutal murder. These British Isles must not forget who I was. The tale must be told. If it is not—and if it is not told accurately—then God will punish this land, and all people will be plunged into a wilderness of lies, deceit, and evil that will spread and flourish across the world into which they might never emerge.
Mary thought of how her trial for treason was a mockery of justice. She was not allowed to mount a legal defense—she was not permitted to have any witnesses, or even a lawyer to argue her case. It was her word against theirs. She seethed over the fact that it was not a fast or speedy trial. In her opinion, it was a hasty rush to judgment.
Thirteen weeks! I was tried and sentenced to death only thirteen weeks after the letter was intercepted, that letter that implicated me, for this so-called Babington Plot. Why such haste to murder me—a queen?
It reminded her of how the Roman Empress Agrippina the Younger accused the former Roman Empress Lollia Paulina of necromancy. Agrippina then condemned her without a trial, and forced her to kill herself.
History must remember Elizabeth as another Agrippina, and see her for who she really is—a queen who would gruesomely murder another queen, and her own cousin. Elizabeth is a monarch without a pinprick of conscience—whose grasp on her crown is so tight she does not grasp what it means to be a true monarch.
Mary remembered how Emperor Nero believed that Agrippina, his mother, haunted him after her death. If God is kind, He would permit me to haunt Elizabeth every night and every day for the rest of her life.
Mary looked at the faces of the people around her. She hoped that more people would be awakened to the evil that was possessing Elizabeth. People must examine their consciences and ask themselves what they should do, now that they know that their Queen is a tyrant. They should realize that if Elizabeth can murder another queen, then no one is safe.
How can any person ever obey her again, after what she has done to me? Every woman and man should ask themselves that question.
Mary hoped that her death would mark the beginning of the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign—Yes. People must rein in her power. They should force Parliament to limit her powers. They should force her to name an heir to the throne. They should even force her to abdicate. And if they can not tame her, then they must attempt to overthrow her.
Even Mary feared what it meant if Elizabeth were allowed to remain on the throne, and if her power went unchecked and unbridled. If Elizabeth gets away with my murder, then I do fear for the future. A a future where regicide is an acceptable and reasonable solution is not a future I want for any person, or any nation.
If Elizabeth is not punished for this most base sin—then all meaning is lost in this world, and nothing will have any value or truth to it. Good and evil will exchange places. High and low will be reversed. Love will appear like hate, and hate like love.
She shivered at the thought of such a world. She knew that there were some men who were eager for such a world. It is a world as Lord Burghley would make it.
She shook with fury at the thought of the man. In order to never lose his grip on power, or let a single penny fall from his hand—he would make the weakly embrace their weakliness, the poor relish their impoverishment, and make the blind mock those who see.
She looked at the lords and ladies who gawked at her. Do they not see? Are they so blind? Do they really think that murdering a queen is the end to their troubles and their fears? It is only the beginning of new and worse horrors and nightmares!
She peered at the people. In her judgment, there was not a real gentleman or a real lady among them. She did not consider their eyes worthy of the sight of her, and she thought they were not entitled to observe her death. She saw how they did not respect her majesty. Do they not remember that I am a queen? Do they not know how to behave in the presence of a monarch, anointed by God?
She wondered how they could serve and stay loyal to Queen Elizabeth. They debase themselves, in their slavish doglike obedience to her. Don’t they see? Elizabeth is the dog, she is not a human at all—their Queen is a she-dog!
Mary remembered Gunnar the Swede, who conquered Norway, and dishonored the country by placing a dog on its throne. He ordered all Norwegians to pay obeisance to their new Dog King, upon pain of death. That is what Elizabeth’s father wanted—he didn’t want a woman to be queen! He was a woman-hating beast, whose only interest in women was his insatiable appetite to devour them. With his absolute power, he tried to break the world, shatter reality, and tear apart all of existence.
If he had his way, with his arrogant and sacrilegious godlike self-importance, he would have un-created all women! He would have stripped every woman to her flesh, skinning them alive!
He wanted to disgrace and bring shame to England—by putting a spayed dog on the throne—to send England downward towards the very verge of disaster!
King Henry the Eighth was the worst kind of hound, like King Conomor the Cursed—the “Great Dog”—who murdered his wives, and concealed their corpses in a secret chamber.
Mary suddenly tried to think of something, anything else—for fear of thinking anymore of her great-uncle, King Henry VIII. Even though she knew that he was long dead, she feared his spirit. She thought it was dangerous even to think of him. She believed that he was hiding in every shadow everywhere across England.
Just as the ghosts of Conomor’s wives escaped that chamber and warned others about his true abominable nature—I just wish that the ghosts of Henry’s wives would haunt the nation to warn people about the true evil within the House of Tudor—an evil that began with his father, Henry of Richmond, who murdered the princes in the Tower.
She wanted to spit, to show her contempt for Henry of Richmond. Oh if only the whole world knew how much poorer it became when he was crowned King Henry the Seventh, and spawned that infernal son of his, Henry the Eighth!
She stopped at the stairs to the scaffold, and looked up at the masked executioner. She had been told earlier that his name was Bull, and that he was the very best headsman in England, in charge of beheadings at the Tower of London.
She chuckled to herself, Of course his name would be Bull! With my death, Elizabeth will prove to be just as diabolical as her father Henry—who lost all reason and self-control when he married Anne Bullen.
Ever since Elizabeth was born, England has increasingly become a land of wild and mindless and soulless and hot-blooded bulls!
If there was any doubt that Elizabeth would become as cruel and as bloody as her father, my death will remove all doubt.
If there was any trace of Christian mercy or love left in Elizabeth, she would not make me suffer the same fate as her own mother—but here I am, moments from losing my head!
As soon as I am murdered here today, Elizabeth proves that the curse of her grandfather and her father lives on in her, and she will not stop with murdering me—she will keep murdering because it is now her own nature!
When her father murdered her mother, Anne—he beheaded the first English crowned queen in history. Now his daughter beheads a crowned queen.
The evil that was within him is now within his daughter.
There were only two steps to the stage, but they seemed impossibly high for her to climb. She thought of the Gemonian Stairs in ancient Rome—a place of the most gruesome executions. If I am truly to be executed now, will they only behead me—or will they mutilate my body afterward, eviscerate me, or disembowel me?
She became dizzy, and time seemed to stand still, as she began to drown in her thoughts.
Will they cut my body in quarters and send them to the corners of these accursed Isles, as a warning against treason?
Will they display my body outside, to be pecked at by birds, and gnawed to pieces by dogs?
However, if even an emperor was publicly murdered, in such an undignified manner, at such a sordid place as the Gemonian Stairs, then I guess I should not mind being executed here.
Perhaps it is for the best.
My death—an insult to my Majesty and an offense to God—will curse this Castle forever. God will not be pleased, with my death, and He will demand more sacrifices to appease His wrath.
This will become a place where men, women, children—and even monarchs—will be put to death.
I should not even mind if they throw my corpse in a river—for I could then contaminate and corrupt every last drop of water of every single river and lake and sea, across the entirety of this land. I could choke to death every person who drinks from these waters.
I could lure wayward children to the watery verge, and drown them. I could sink ships of all sizes, and send men to the dark depths and the silty bottom.
The guards hoisted her up the stairs, and interrupted her thoughts. Only then did she notice that the stage was next to a fireplace in which a great pile of logs burned. The sizzling and crackling sound of the fire both excited her and terrified her.
For a moment she was not sure what she was seeing. She could not see if the fire was real—or if it was a vision of the mouth of Hell. She became so mesmerized by the sight and sound of the fire, it began to look like Satan in the form of a dragon, opening its cavernous gaping maw.
She wanted to believe that it was the mouth of a whale, like the one that swallowed Jonah, sent by God to take her, but such a comforting thought did not sufficiently allay her fears.
The heat from this entrance to Hell spread across her whole body, and made her sweat. She turned to face away from the fireplace, but then the executioner Bull offered her a stool to sit on. She scrutinized him and hoped that he was not young and inexperienced. I hope he is not like the young fool who butchered Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, by repeatedly chopping and savagely slashing at her head and shoulders as if he was blind.
A clerk of Queen Elizabeth’s Privy Council began to read aloud her execution warrant. Mary hated the sound of his voice, as he droned on. She looked out across the crowd. She wondered if she should say a prayer, to herself, or out loud so the gathered people could hear her, But why should I waste my breath on them? Why should I give them anything, or say anything that might please them? Why should my sacrifice smell sweet to them?
When Pope Paul the Fourth blessed the Golden Rose, and gave it to me, he said that I was a queen “who like a most fair rose among thorns diffuses far and wide the sweet odor of her faith and good works.”
I would rather have my death here today smell foul and fetid. I would only pray that this rotten stink would be diffused across the whole of these Isles, until its rankness so displeases God, that He would wipe this land away forever.
I would have these flourishing green Isles—this paradise as precious as emeralds—grow no more, thrive no more, and lie fallow until it is dark and sooty and as barren as ash.
She suddenly thought of Cecilia, a virgin girl in ancient Rome, who secretly practiced her Christian faith. She was forced to marry Valerian, a wealthy pagan member of the nobility, but she would not surrender her maidenhood to him. She told him that she was a Christian, and that there was an angel of the Lord watching over her who protected her. Rather than forcefully consummate their marriage, Valerian sought to be baptized and to be purged of his pagan sinfulness. He was successful, and with his own eyes he saw the angel.
Valerian and his brother were arrested by the Roman Prefect, Turcius Almachius, and ordered to renounce their newfound faith in Christ, or be executed. They chose to die rather than submit to the Roman authorities. When the executioners came, they themselves were miraculously converted to Christianity. Valerian and his brother, as Christians, still offered themselves to be executed. They were beheaded, but their deaths instantly converted even more of the pagan Romans to Christianity.
Almachius arrested Cecilia, tortured her, and ordered her beheading. But even after three blows with an axe, her head would not be cut from her body. For three days, Cecilia did not die. She even spoke, to preach about her Christian faith, until she finally ascended to Heaven. She was later declared to be a saint, and was commonly known as the “Lily of Heaven.”
Mary drew strength now from the story of Cecilia, I wonder if I might in fact survive this execution, for three or more days, to preach. Perhaps I might even convert these hypocrite Christians—these people here who pretend to be followers of Christ, but are in fact the worst kind of unbelievers. Or perhaps today I will die instantly, and my death will lead to the instant conversion of many people.
The idea appealed to her, even though she often doubted that such instant conversion was real. But she also remembered that the execution of others, like Saint Martina of Rome, had caused widespread and sudden conversions to Christianity.
But then Mary saw Lord Burghley, the Earl of Leicester, and Francis Walsingham, Each of them is as villainous and devoted to evil as that Roman Prefect, Turcius Almachius.
There is not a true Christian among these powerful men. They do not worship Almighty God—they worship some dark god of the barbarian pagan Turks.
She tried not to hate them now as much as she did. She wanted to leave this world without hate. She tried to find forgiveness in her heart for them. She imagined that her death might even convert them. She wanted to give them that benefit of the doubt. But I have grave doubts about giving them the benefit of the doubt! Why would I give them anything, when they have taken so much from me—and now demand to take my life, and send me to my grave? Would I have them be converted, and saved by my death?
She took a deep breath. She could not control her temper, as much as she tried to rein it in, No, no, no! A hundred times no! I would have them be damned forever, and live for many years stewing in their own sinfulness, suffering torment upon torment for having tortured and executed me.
She thought of Lord Burghley, whose name was William Cecil. She thought of how Cecil and Cecilia were both derived from a word which meant “blind.”
How ironic it is that Cecilia saw the angel so clearly! And this poor excuse for a man here, William Cecil, he is true to his name. This man is willfully blind to Almighty God. I would have him stay blind—I would have his eyes burned from their sockets—or gouged out—than permit him to enjoy the glorious sight that a true Christian possesses.
As the single most powerful man in England, I would have Burghley, this purblind goat of a man, lead this nation blindly towards its doom and utter annihilation—like a goatherd and his flock lost in a dense fog—until the whole nation knows nothing of the purity and perfection of Christ.
She quickly lost any desire, and did not feel any obligation, to pray now. It reminded her of the time, long ago, when she once stopped fearing God. The famous theologian and minister John Knox had just died. I feared Knox’s prayers—the prayers of my nemesis—more than I feared all the armies of Scotland. But I outlived Knox—and I will be remembered far more than that irksome and rebellious minister!
Mary thought of her legacy, and how she desperately wanted to believe that she would never be forgotten, But that is not enough! Elizabeth’s legacy as the Queen of England should be tarnished forever. Nothing should be written about her without writing about me—about what she did to her own cousin, a queen! Not one positive word can be written to praise Elizabeth and her reign, without ten words written to condemn her for murdering her own royal kin.
Whole books should be written about my woeful life, and my dishonorable death at the hands of Elizabeth. Untold thousands and hundreds of thousands of men and women must know my name, and know my tragic story, in the future.
Even though I now die, I must be reborn, over and over again, for centuries hence, and for as long as men and women seek knowledge, and search for the truth.
Women must know the truth, to keep them from becoming wounded victims. They should not put any trust in anyone, not any woman and not any man. They must know that there is no safety for them ever.
Men must know the truth, to prevent them from becoming malefactors and predators. They should not put any trust in their own selves. They must know that there is no hiding their crimes forever.
She imagined all of the books that would be written about her, in the following centuries. She could see them, stacked so high that she could not see the top. In her imagination, she then saw some of the greatest women from history all gathered together—Cleopatra, Penthesilea, Artemisia, Boudica, Olympias, Tomyris, Helen of Troy, Zenobia, Judith, Theodora, Joan of Arc, and many more.
She saw herself joining them, and being welcomed by them. If these women prove anything—they prove that there is no history without women. History is made, and and history is recorded, because of women. And since all women ought to know their history—all women should know my history.
John Knox intruded into her mind again. He then made her think of the University of Saint Andrews, where he had been a student. That made her think of the days she spent golfing at Saint Andrews—one of the most glorious places she had ever known. She missed it dearly. She loved the game of golf. Nothing else delighted her quite like seeing a ball take flight and soar into the sky.
Thinking back to those happier days, she suddenly forgot where she was—she became engulfed in the most pleasing memories. The green of the grass, the brisk and invigorating wind, the sound of striking the ball, the carefree laughter while playing—all of it swirled around in her mind and pulled her further downward into a deep pool of memory.
She saw herself golfing at Saint Andrews, and wished that she could stay there forever, frozen in time, and unchanged for eternity. She saw herself golfing at Musselburgh, with Bothwell, in 1567. They were laughing, exchanging kisses, and playing an energetic game together, And we knew freedom for the first time in our lives, free to be who were really were, and free to love each other without apology. We were free in the sight of God, in one of God’s most verdant earthly gardens—and we didn’t give a damn about anyone else, or what anyone else thought of us!
We were free, like we were joyfully and ecstatically dancing to a music that only we could hear—and we could care less if it looked to others like we were dancing on the grave of my husband!
She could see Bothwell now in her mind—with his ruddy cheeks, his bright and sharp teeth, how he laughed like a menacing animal. She could see how he grabbed her and tickled her to distract her from the game. She could see how angry he got every time she hit the ball farther and higher and better than he did. She could see how every time she laughed triumphantly in his face, it enraged him.
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Someone at Fotheringay coughed, breaking her vision. Mary looked down at the chopping block.
She struggled to believe that she was really about to be executed. She could not think of any historical precedent, The execution of a commoner is commonplace. The execution of a nobleman is not unheard of. Monarchs have been murdered out of the view of the public—King Edward the Second was no doubt murdered behind closed doors at Berkeley Castle on the orders of his son, Edward the Third. But the public execution of a queen—by another queen, her cousin, on the flimsiest of charges—this regicide is entirely unprecedented!
It took everything she had, to stiffen her spine, and to appear confident. Other monarchs have died in prison, or in battle, but no monarch has been escorted to a scaffold and murdered at the whim of another monarch—in plain view of a stinking mob!
For a brief moment, she had a perverse thought—I guess I should be flattered that my death will make such a historical precedent. I should be grateful that I will die in such a memorable and unforgettable manner. It makes it well-nigh impossible to erase this from history.
She imagined herself like a chest, aboard a ship, that contained the most priceless and the most damaging secrets about the whole history of the Plantagenet family and government. They can not unburden themselves of me. They can not dump me overboard from this ship of state. I am so permanently and securely fastened and tied down, that no one and nothing, not even the fiercest storm, can dislodge me.
But then, she turned and looked across at the crowd, of lords and ladies. She thought they looked like an audience at a theatre, gathered to see a comedy. But then she corrected herself, No. They have not come for a play. This is a bloody and gory bear-baiting match. And I am the bear, which has no hope of survival, and is destined to die, for their idle amusement.
She was flooded with thoughts of the many martyrs, like Saint Prisca and Saint Glyceria, who were sentenced to be executed publicly, by having wild beasts kill and devour them—which was known as “Damnatio ad bestias.” Her skin tingled and crawled, as if animals clawed and scraped and shredded and tore and ripped her to pieces.
She saw the forty-four men again—the Commissioners who had condemned her to death. She saw Burghley, Leicester, and Walsingham. Their eager unblinking gaze made her sick.
She noticed how one of Burghley’s men, a Clerk of the Privy Council, was quickly making a drawing of the event. She laughed, convinced that the drawing would end up in Queen Elizabeth’s hands, Or she might have it made into a tapestry to hang on the wall of her bedchamber, so she can look at it every night, to reassure herself that I am dead, in order to get a good night’s rest.
She also noticed George Talbot, the 6th Earl of Shrewsbury, one of Queen Elizabeth’s most dutiful lords. He had held Mary under house arrest the longest, for fifteen years. She scowled at him, hating him perhaps the most. But then she could not decide if she hated Burghley more, with his plump and almost feminine softness.
Burghley was so eager to witness her death, he was almost licking his lips. He hated the very sight of Mary. He was not fooled by her human appearance. He thought, She is not human. She can not be human, if there is not a single ounce of humanity in her. She might fool some, but she does not fool me. She is so devoted to evil, that the form and substance of her being, that woman’s body we see here and now today, it is the very stuff of evil.
He remembered how some lords had argued that Mary should have been banished back to Scotland. They said that it would have removed the threat she presented. Lord Burghley disagreed, No, it would not have been enough to return her to Scotland—to the boggy and infernal land from whence she came. Why should we have returned her to her people—those misbegotten misbehaving Highlands hobgoblins?
He was more excited than he had been in many years. He had daydreams, for many days, of himself as the greatest hero of Queen Elizabeth’s royal court, With Mary’s death, I will be known as great a man, and as brave a man as Beowulf, that bravest of all Geatish heroes. Beowulf came to the aid of the King of the Danes, Hrothgar, in his time of need. Beowulf slew Grendel, the terrible and unnatural troll-like bog-dwelling misbegotten monster who had been terrorizing King Hrothgar for twelve long years. And then Beowulf slew Grendel’s equally monstrous and vicious mother.
Burghley often thought that the same evil that possessed Grendel and his mother was the same evil that poisoned Mary and her son James, the King of Scotland. He considered them to be the greatest threat to England. He was convinced that they could have sparked a rebellion, or even launched an invasion by Catholic factions sympathetic to her. By executing Mary, he thought he was removing any such threats.
As satisfied as he was with Mary’s death, he wished he could do more. He thought of how Beowulf killed Grendel and Grendel’s mother in quick succession. Now that Mary was about to die, he was tempted to think, Perhaps I should have King James of Scotland murdered forthwith. These damnable Stuarts can be such trouble. They are far more trouble than they are worth. They are runts of the royal litter, and often the best thing to do with runty pups is to drown them.
He remembered once how he watched some strong men in a forest, as they dug up old and decayed tree stumps, known as runts. There is only one thing to do with tree runts, he thought, and it is to remove them.
He remembered how Beowulf defeated Grendel by ripping his arm off, and then defeated Grendel’s mother by chopping her head off. He thought, Today Mary’s head will be likewise cut off. That leaves James. If I do not take steps to have him murdered, I suppose the best thing to do to him is to cut off his arms. It would keep him weak and wounded, and without the ability to reach into England, to press his claim to the throne, and to challenge the Queen’s authority.
He imagined that Queen Elizabeth would be just as grateful to him as Hrothgar was to Beowulf. He could already imagine how pleased Queen Elizabeth would be, when she learned of Mary’s death. He expected that Elizabeth would reward him with land, licenses and titles. He even envisioned a splendid and grand banquet in his honor. He could already taste the fine food in his mouth. His mouth watered at the idea of succulent delicacies made just for him. He even dreamed that songs would be composed for him, for having delivered England from the terror that was Mary. He could not carry a tune, so he did not waste any time trying to think of a sequence of notes that would please him—he had enough musicians to figure that out for him. He preferred to think of plays that could be written for him, with narratives that could aggrandize him. He was a patron to musicians and playwrights, and he made a mental note to summon them as soon as possible. It is only February. There is more than enough time to create some plays, have them publicly staged, and then submit them for the Christmas celebrations.
That presented him with a problem. How many plays should I commission—and more importantly how much money am I willing to pay? He began to calculate the cost of the plays, and how much they might benefit him. Since Mary’s death was such an important moment in history, he decided that he should spare no expense, in order to increase his prestige and power at the royal court.
He suddenly thought of the manuscript he had read, in which the tale of Beowulf was written. He thought of the poem that followed it, regarding Judith and Holofernes. He did not believe the Judith story was true, but he knew Queen Elizabeth still enjoyed it. He remembered a stage play about Judith from 1562, and he remembered how much the Queen had enjoyed it.
He thought that such a play now would benefit him. He wondered if there was a way to make an entirely new play that could bear a resemblance to the Judith story, without being too overtly based on it, Queen Elizabeth would need to think of herself as Judith, slaying Queen Mary as the heathen drunkard Holofernes. And she would need to think of me as that “shining sword”—the instrument of God’s will, without which Judith would have been unable to slay the Assyrian General.
He could imagine it now, I want to depict the character of Holofernes on stage to resemble a soused and sottish Scotsman, wearing a kilt, with bright red hair, and with boorish beastly manners.
He became excited by the thought of such a play. He could already hear the Queen’s laughter, and see how much it might delight her to know that Mary’s execution was just as historically consequential as the decapitation of Holofernes.
He was becoming increasingly excited and how he might profit from the death of Mary. He became impatient, and wanted her beheaded instantly. Also, his legs were aching.
He looked at her as if she was already dead, and smiled.
On the scaffold, Mary saw the way Lord Burghley looked at her, and shivered. She thought of Saint Agnes again, who would not devote herself to any mortal man, but only to Almighty God. She thought, Look at them, look at these Englishmen, these so-called gentlemen, these so-called gentle and noble lords! They want me to submit to them—like those men wanted Agnes to submit to their lecherous desires!
Look at them, these so-called men, who delight in the death and degradation of women. If they had their way, they would have had me dragged naked to a brothel, to be raped over and over again.
They are like so many men, who have tried to make me submit, make me feel inferior, make me succumb and bow down. They are like so many men I have known in my lifetime, the common and crude kind of man who thinks he must punish and hurt a woman in order to make himself feel more like a man!
If they had their way, I would not be beheaded—I would be burned at the stake! They would like nothing more than to see the skin burn and melt from my body, and hear my screams of torment!
She stared at them, and struggled to think of what words to say to them, what her last words should be. She seethed, wanting them to be suddenly struck blind, like the Roman men were, when they tried to destroy Agnes. I want nothing more than for God to strike them down, and punish them for killing me—for having the fiendish arrogance to murder a queen!
She grew even more anxious—What can I say, to curse them in some way, to make them to feel what I feel, to make them feel the dread of death with every waking moment for the rest of their lives, to feel as if every moment of life is a death, and to live a life in death?
She wanted them to go to Purgatory, without hope of going to Heaven. Finally, she raised her voice, and cursed them with her motto, “My end is my beginning!”
The murmuring crowd fell silent, as if under her spell.
A clerk who was reading her execution warrant was confused, but he then continued to read on.
Burghley did not understand her. His hectic mind, already cluttered with so many thoughts, attempted to process what she said, or what she might have meant by her words. His face twisted in confusion, since he could not decipher her meaning.
Leicester did not seem to care what Mary said. He was just satisfied that this was the last he would ever see of her. The sight of her made him ill. He fumed, Why all of this trouble for her? This Queen of the Scots is as insignificant as a toad! I know what a real queen looks like—and this malignant swollen tumorous boil of a woman is no queen!
Walsingham was firmly determined that killing Mary was the right thing to do. He thought, Her mere existence is insufferable. Every second and every minute that she continues to live puts Queen Elizabeth, my master and my mistress, in danger.
Walsingham said a prayer to himself, that justice would be done, and that God would forgive him for what he was doing.
He saw Bishop Richard Fletcher walk onto the scaffold, with a Bible in his hand, as the clerk finished reading the warrant. Walsingham distrusted most Bishops, but Fletcher was an exception. Walsingham was not surprised that Fletcher, one of the Queen's favorite Bishops, was asked to give this speech—to admonish Mary as a Catholic and as a traitor, and then to lead the assembled audience in prayer.
What surprised Walsingham was that Fletcher agreed to give this speech. He knew him to be an uncommonly God-fearing man. He did not take him to be the kind of Bishop who would agree to attend the beheading of any person, especially when it was a divinely anointed Queen of the Scots.
Mary looked at Fletcher. She did not know him, but she did think he was handsome. She appreciated the fact that she did not have to share this stage, in her final moments, with an uncomely man.
Fletcher knew that this was the single most important moment in his entire life. He knew that he would never be forgotten by people, and never forgiven by some people, for invoking God for what he considered to be a complete travesty of justice. Despite his reservations about her trial and her execution, he knew that Mary was the exception to the rule. She had to be punished, even if she was a queen.
He tried to clear his throat, and speak loudly, but he could not help but stutter, “M-Madam,” he said to Mary, without looking at her. As he continued, his voice faded, almost to a whisper, “Her m-most excellent majesty, Queen Elizabeth.”
He could hear coughing from the audience, which prompted him to clear his throat again, and to speak louder, “Her most excellent majesty, Queen Elizabeth—”
Mary did not mind hearing a Bishop speak, even one who was not Catholic, but she had no intention of hearing Elizabeth’s name. She said, loudly, in English, “I will not hear you. You have nothing to do with me, nor I with you.”
Her attitude caused murmurs in the audience. Many people were mesmerized by this odd tension between Mary and the Bishop.
What she did not anticipate was that her anger roused Fletcher’s ire. He now looked at her differently. He thought that if he was going to have to answer to God, for participating in the execution of a queen, that would be a matter between him and God. Not with her. He spoke firmly, “I say nothing but that I will justify before the majesty of the mighty God.”
Mary liked his fighting spirit. She now almost enjoyed having someone on stage to spar with. She wanted to tease him, and warn him that she had something up her sleeve, “I am settled in the ancient Roman Catholic religion, and mind to spend my blood in defense of it.”
The audience was thrilled by this war of wills between a godly man and this most ungodly woman.
Fletcher was surprised by her defiance, and her willingness to die. He knew that she probably wanted to die a martyr. He did not want to give her that satisfaction. He offered her an opportunity to repent, “Madam, change your opinion, repent you of your former wickedness, and settle your faith only in Jesus Christ, by Him to be saved.”
She gasped, as if to suggest that he should not be so impertinent with a queen. She muttered at him, as if he was a servant under her command—“Silence.”
But her shock was artificial. Mary was actually troubled by how bold he was, to show her such mercy. She could tell that here was a man of real and bold piety, unlike so many preachers she had known. She did not want to have a real fight with perhaps the one man whom God would send to her, to provide her with an entrance into Heaven.
She could not think of what else to say.
He could not think of what to do.
She did not know how to win against Fletcher without losing her soul.
People in the audience could not help but whisper to each other excitedly.
Mary did not want to continue this duel with him. As soon as Fletcher began to speak, she began to pray loudly in Latin, with her eyes closed, and her crucifix held in her hands. It caused an uproar in the great hall—Mary could not see them, but her ladies all fell to their knees and prayed loudly with her, as the lords and ladies in the audience protested the disruption.
Mary prayed even louder, and was pleased to know that she had taken command of the moment. Suddenly, she lost her balance and slipped off the stool. She quickly knelt, despite the pain in her legs, and prayed even louder. Her mind began to race, as she thought about the letters she had written in the last few days, and how she was sure that they would give her the revenge that she wanted, and still allow her to enter the gates of Heaven.
She had written to her son, James, the King of Scotland. She wrote that she wanted him to be converted to Catholicism, and to forswear his Protestant faith. If anyone intercepted the letter, they would not be surprised by such a message to her son. But my real message to James was that he should convert to Catholicism in order to make an alliance with King Philip of Spain and the Pope—so they could then invade and conquer England, and topple Elizabeth from her throne!
When she wrote the secret letter to James, she daydreamed about Ragnar Lodbrok, the great Norseman. She enjoyed reading about him and his sons, who were brave enough to travel to Scotland and conquer land there, who were even brave enough to travel to the Hellespont, and who attempted to conquer England with only two ships. It made her sad to think of how King Ælla of Northumbria killed Ragnar, by having him thrown in a pit of snakes. But it pleased her to know that Ragnar’s sons immediately swore to avenge their father’s murder.
She especially admired Ragnar’s son who was born with a mark in his eye in the shape of a snake—and whose name was Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye.
When she wrote the letter, she thought, My son James, may you find such courage, may my death inspire revenge in you, and may God permit you to avenge my death, as His weapon. My dearest James, may you find such a snake in your eye—and discover the strength of such Norsemen, who feared no man nor monarch.
She took pleasure in imagining that James might do to Elizabeth what Sigurd and his brothers did to King Ælla, when they captured him in battle. They executed him by “Blood Eagle”—his body was cut open, and his organs were pulled through his ribcage to resemble wings.
The thoughts of such bloody revenge made Mary’s cheeks red with excitement. Mary spoke aloud, her voice trembling with a youthful excitement, “I pray for the Church in Rome. I pray for my son, James of Scotland that he might be converted to the true Catholic faith.”
The audience was stunned, and fell silent. Many of them were just beginning to put away their fears of Mary, and now they began to fear her son, James.
Lord Burghley, Leicester and Walsingham were all very aware of the fact that she might threaten England after her death, especially if her son were to convert to Catholicism.
The silence only emboldened Mary. She wanted to say something directly to God, so He would know that she was free from any personal and selfish desire for revenge, “I pray that Queen Elizabeth might prosper and long continue to reign, serving God aright.”
Some of the people snickered at her. Leicester could not help but scoff at her hollow piety.
She defiantly looked people in the eye, as if it was not up to them whether she was saved, “I confess that I hope to be saved by, and in the blood of, Christ—at the foot of whose crucifix I would willingly shed my blood.”
People shook their heads at her.
She had to stifle a smile, she was so eager to unveil the surprise she had in store for them today, concealed beneath her cloak. She said, “I petition the saints to pray for my soul, and that God would in His great mercy and goodness avert His plagues from this, this, this…”
The whole audience was silent, as Mary paused, to great effect. She enjoyed turning her head in every direction, because she wanted to see all of the people. And as she gazed at them, she silently and fervently hoped that all of them would soon meet a sudden death.
Finally, she said, with a laugh that was a little too loud and too spiteful—“…this silly island.”
People in the audience gasped. They had never seen anything like this. They were bearing witness to a perverse woman who could speak holy things, only then to speak unholy things. They had never seen so much good and evil at war in one woman at one time.
The Earl of Kent was offended by her grotesque display of playacted piety. He said, “Madam! Settle Christ Jesus in your heart—and leave those trumperies!”
She heard him, and immediately assumed a more serene appearance. She solemnly kissed her crucifix and made the sign of the cross in the Catholic manner. She did not want anyone watching to think that she had ever been anything but the most devoutly pious and religiously observant Catholic. Even though she knew that was not true, she wanted God to believe that she was worthy of His love, in order to be welcomed in His heavenly kingdom.
Many in the audience were silent, as they watched her questionable display of devotion.
Bull, the headsman, could not control his emotions. Timidly, he knelt to her and begged her forgiveness, “Please forgive me, Your Majesty…”
As if she were suddenly granted the authority from the Pope himself, she touched his hooded head and smiled, as if she had the power to convert sinners. Her touch gave him great relief—he could feel a peace in his heart.
She said loudly, for all to hear, “I forgive you with all my heart, for now, I hope, you shall make an end of all my troubles.”
Very few people in the audience believed that she was as forgiving as she wanted to appear.
She knew that she had little time left. Her heart beat faster as she thought of the secret letter she had written to Pope Sixtus V, for his assistance in offering her rights to the throne of England to King Philip of Spain. It does not matter that my own right is in doubt. All that matters is that I have conferred it to Philip—which would justify his pressing a claim for the throne, and to challenge Elizabeth’s flimsy claim. No one is going to care who said what, or what was written, to whom and when. What matters is that Philip uses my letter to launch an invasion of England—and soon!
Sixtus is a coward, but he has money enough to finance a fleet of King Philip of Spain’s finest warships. Philip himself was once King of England. He should return to England and reclaim what is his by right. The sooner Philip returns, the sooner England can be restored as it once was, and as it should always be—a true Catholic nation wholly bound to, and forever one with, the one true Catholic Church of Rome.
She thought of the secret letter she had written to King Philip of Spain, to offer him the throne of England, and to spur him to action. She thought, If I know Philip at all, he will be outraged by my murder. It will be the predicate he needs to invade England—to liberate it from Elizabeth and the vile councillors of her government, and to set free the Catholic Englishmen whom they keep imprisoned.
She thought about her treason trial. She was accused of conspiring to have Spain, together with the forces of the Catholic League, to launch an invasion against England. The accusation pleased Mary, because it made clear what Elizabeth and her government feared the most.
It was why Mary wrote the incendiary letters that she did. She laughed now, Even if they intercept one or all of my letters, it will only give them more to fear, it will only cause them to suffer even worse nightmares.
The Pope and King Philip do not need any letters from me. Even if they never receive my letters, they will know what must be done. They will know what the proper response should be. It must be a war—a war for religious freedom, a war of independence against Elizabeth to set England free!
Mary smiled to herself. As much as she did not want to die, she knew that her death was a sacrifice that she had to make. In killing her, Elizabeth had given Mary something she never had before, a cause worth dying for. Mary chuckled with joy, at the thought that her death would soon make England free.
An assistant to the headsman bowed to her meekly, and with the assistance of one of her ladies, they helped Mary take off her cloak, and outer garments. She did not show it, but Mary grew even more excited, as they got down to her petticoat and then her bodice. She could not wait to reveal her big surprise.
Suddenly people gasped when they saw her red undergarments—the color of martyrs. Mary’s eyes darted, to look at as many people as possible. She relished the shock on their faces.
Some people were struck with fear and doubt—afraid that witnessing her execution might put their own souls in jeopardy.
Mary giggled to herself, proud that she could still surprise people, and that she could cause such alarm. She lifted her head proudly—Yes, I am indeed a martyr. My death here today is my martyrdom. Elizabeth may have wanted to dispose of me, by chopping off my head, cutting out my tongue, and cutting off my hands. She may have wanted to take my voice away and prevent me from ever speaking or writing again. But my death here is my victory over her. As I die, my cry of the heart will reach upward to Heaven where Almighty God will hear me—and He will echo my voice and speak my name forward, into the future, where it will reverberate forever and ever and ever. I will die here today not as a woman, not as a queen, but as a martyr—and my death will destroy Elizabeth!
Mary turned to look right at Lord Burghley, the Earl of Leicester and Walsingham. She was challenging them. She was testing them, to see if they would actually murder her, as a martyr.
All of them were concerned by the uproar in the audience. This is not how they had planned this execution. Each of the men was worried that Queen Elizabeth would punish them for their failure to prevent Mary from dying as a martyr.
Mary smiled like an angel at them, to mock them. SHE THPUGHT, I have been a witness, for God, to the evil of Elizabeth’s reign, and I have seen the evil that these men do. I know the evil in their hearts. My death today would be a testament to the evil in England. But they have a choice now. If they murder me, as they seem so intent on doing, then I become a Red Martyr—my blood will be shed, my heart will ignite in flames with the love of the most merciful God, and my path to Heaven is assured.
She was sure they would murder her. But she had to allow them the choice. If they do not murder me now, then I would be entirely satisfied as a White Martyr—persecuted for my faith, without the shedding of my blood. I would forever after live a life boldly for Christ.
Mary herself was sanguine. She wanted to live, but was more than prepared to die.
Burghley looked at Leicester for any suggestions. Leicester looked at Walsingham, who was very adept at traveling into the darkest corners of the human mind. He also could often see into the future when others could not.
He summoned his full powers of foresight. He thought, If we destroy Mary, then Mary has destroyed us.
Walsingham was the only one who had the courage to speak, “Yes, we hoist ourselves on our own petard. Yes, we are handing her a rod to beat our own backs. It is a terrible choice, to kill Mary—but there are only terrible choices when it comes to Mary.”
Burghley and Leicester both glanced at each other, unable to think straight.
Walsingham was not surprised that the two most powerful men in England had lost their nerve at this critical moment. Walsingham held up his hand to the headsman, but glanced at Leicester and Burghley. They did not nod in approval. They did not shake their heads and disapprove. They could not decide what to do at this most important moment of decision.
Walsingham signaled to the headsman to make haste.
Mary saw his signal. She forced herself to smile, satisfied to now be the Red Martyr she had expected to become. She kissed her gentlewomen, who began to cry uncontrollably. Mary comforted them, and whispered in French for them not to cry, “Peace, peace, do not cry. Rejoice.”
Bull gestured to a cushion, and helped Mary kneel on it. One of her ladies covered her eyes with the handkerchief.
Time seemed to slow down almost to a standstill.
Mary wondered what would be done with her head, after her beheading. She feared it would be buried in a cold tomb, and be forgotten under a heavy stone. She smiled at the idea that it might be seized by some Catholics, and venerated as a holy relic.
Mary had once possessed the head of Saint Margaret of Scotland. In order to become pregnant, and to aid her when she delivered her son, Mary had often prayed to the head and to Margaret’s memory—as the “Pearl of Scotland.”
She could not help but be disappointed in her son, King James of Scotland. But that son of mine was not worth my great effort to produce him. He has never made an effort to repay the debt he owes me, as his mother. If my skull becomes a holy relic, I pray that it poisons all who touch it, all who kiss it, and causes them to cry. May they cry tears that drown the whole nation in a poisonous and incurable and invisible potion that causes melancholy and infertility and death.
Mary thought of Saint Winifred, a Welsh nobleman’s daughter, who was a devout Christian. She became a nun, rather than marry her suitor, Caradog. He took his revenge by drawing his sword and cutting her head off—but her head rolled down a hill and miraculously transformed into a wellspring, whose waters had healing properties. When Winifred’s uncle appealed to Heaven, Caradog was swallowed up by the ground under his feet and died. Her uncle was able to reattach her head, giving her many more years to live the pious life of a nun.
Mary looked at the people around her. She thought, All of them as evil and as sinful and as beastly as Caradog—that cruel and uncaring churlish cur of a man.
She hoped that the whole of Fotheringay Castle, and everyone assembled, would be swallowed by the ground beneath them, into a vast and hellish nothingness.
She fought this dark vision, and struggled to find something good and godly out of this bloody moment. She suddenly thought that her execution might benefit people, England is not as godly as it should be, and people speak too often against God. Perhaps my death will save the souls of these people here—please, Lord, make good use of my death now.
But then she imagined something far darker—Perhaps my head will tumble to the ground here, and create a wellspring. And if it does, it might not make anyone well. The water from my head might create a bog that becomes as putrid and as fetid and as rotten as that marsh near Tutbury. And from that fen, the most offensive malevolent noxious fumes might be emitted, to poison my cousin, Elizabeth.
How marvelous would it be to become a venom borne in the air which could bite people as if by a invisible snake.
Mary then thought, But what if the water from my head, and the tears from my eyes could summon storm clouds? And from these clouds the teardrops of all the girls and women, the daughters and mothers and wives, who have ever been abused and seduced and murdered here, and elsewhere, would fall. Such showers of sorrowful tears might serve to avenge every last one of them, creating a surging and vast ocean flowing and raging and rising until it sweeps across this entire nation, washing it away, flooding the whole of these isles and beyond, overwhelming and overpowering every person with towering crashing waves making their pitiful cries and last prayers inaudible to God, pulling every person in its path to the very sea bed, to sleep forevermore in death.
Mary winced, as she had a blinding vision of her head cut from her body, and then re-attached, by some mysterious loving force, and by some divine hands that cared for her. It moved her, and for a moment she experienced a peace inside her that was unfamiliar—a serene calmness that she had never before believed possible.
What if my head is restored to my body, and what if I in fact live after death—what if my death is not the end, but only the beginning—what if I can live on and be heard and be seen and communicate to people beyond this time?
What would I do and what would I say? Would anyone hear my words and believe my story? Is anyone going to pay heed to me—when what I offer is freely given?
Who is brave and blameless enough to look me in the face and see me for who I am—as God sees me—and not mistake me for anyone else?
Is there anyone right this instant who can hear me?
Is anyone there…?
Mary sensed a warm and comforting presence near her, and she thought it might be the spirit of Mary Magdalene.
Mary thought of how Jesus saved the woman whom the crowd wished to stone to death for her alleged adultery.
Mary thought, Who is there—among all the people of the world, now, and in the future—who is without sin enough to throw a stone at me?
Please do not hate me…
Her eyes rose, and she looked upward, to Heaven.
She suddenly realized that her execution was a good thing, and a wave of emotion rushed through her body. I am the fortunate one—they all are the unfortunate ones. I die and suffer no more—they will suffer from now and forever as they live. They will never live without the crippling weight of my death on their consciences. My life and my death will weigh on every monarch in the future, and they will be haunted by me.
Every prince and princess and king and queen in the future will never know true happiness because of this tragedy today.
They will never know pleasure without my name to bring them pain.
She remembered a story she read many years ago—Chaitivel also known as The Four Sorrows. She thought it was a perfect expression of how unfortunate every future ruler would be. She thought, For every one joy they have, they will have three sorrows.
The sorrows that will spring forth from this moment, and from my death here today, will sap them of their strength, and drain them of their majesty. My death will be so potent and powerful that it will render them impotent and impoverished—until there is only barrenness and nothingness.
Mary remembered how, in the Chaitivel story, the lady had a tomb built for three knights who had died, while competing for her affection. Mary thought, My death is a magical curse against Elizabeth—she will invite her lords to perform perilous feats to win her affection, which will actually only ever cause their downfall. She will send generals and soldiers to save England, which will only hasten its demise. She will command the love of all her subjects, which they can only prove to her with their prompt death.
All people everywhere will mistake her for a glorious Queen, a fairy-like princess, a damsel in distress—when in fact she is nothing but an demonic illusion. Her witchcraft makes her appear human—when in truth she is as cold and as hard and as dry as stone.
She will be as a tomb.
She will not be where life begins.
Life will not spring from her.
She will be forever where life ends.
Everything she touches will become nothing.
She will have no womb.
Mary saw a warm and ethereal light glowing increasingly bright around her head.
She quickly began to recite Psalm 11, in Latin—imploring God one last time to take her up to Him—“In the Lord I put my trust. How say ye then to my soul, Flee to your mountain as a bird?”
Bull the headsmen gently rested her head down to the block, as her voice turned to a whisper, and she trembled.
As soon as the skin of her neck touched the block, she suddenly worried that God’s angels were not yet above her, ready to take her. To summon them, she cried out, in Latin—“Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!”
She heard nothing, saw nothing, and sensed nothing—her body shook, as if her soul was hovering in a void between Heaven and Hell, and just about to go backwards and downwards into Hell.
Suddenly, Mary realized why Elizabeth had chosen Fotheringay Castle for her execution—Elizabeth and I are cousins, our common ancestors are King Henry the Seventh, the first Tudor king, and his wife, Elizabeth of York—and he gave this castle to her as a dowry for their wedding—shortly after he defeated Richard the Third, at the Battle of Bosworth, to end the Wars of the Roses, almost precisely one hundred years ago.
This castle is where the Tudor dynasty was consummated and conceived.
As far as anyone knows, this is the place where Henry and Elizabeth conceived Arthur, Prince of Wales.
Perhaps even Henry the Eighth was conceived in this very castle—which he would give to his first bride, Catherine of Aragon.
As far as anyone knows, Henry and Anne conceived Elizabeth herself in this very castle!
It stunned Mary to think that this place, that had such rich history, such personal meaning and significance for both her and Queen Elizabeth, was the place where she would die.
Elizabeth wants to destroy the place where the Tudor dynasty was born. She wants this place—from whence she came, and from whence I came—to be stained and soiled and cruelly shattered.
She wants to poison the well from which we sprang, blight the life that sprouted here, eradicate all that has grown from here—the weeds and the flowers—pulling all of it, root and branch, from the ground.
She wants to smash the past history of this castle, that has lasted for over seven hundred years—and give it no future.
She wants this proud and celebrated castle to become a ruins.
She wants me to die here—and leave no trace of anything or anyone.
She will likely raze this royal castle to the ground, and grind the stones to dust—to erase any evidence that history was made here, and born here—to eradicate all the evil that has flourished from here, especially from the time of that most baleful beast, Henry the Seventh.
She means to curse this place with my death, and never ever lift that curse.
Mary was gripped by a terrible fear of being erased by Elizabeth. A darkness billowed around her, suffocating her.
Suddenly—a bright light appeared in the darkness of her fear. Mary realized that she was looking at it the wrong way. She thought--No! Elizabeth thinks that she can erase all of this and all of us—and blot out the last century, and all that came before it—but she is grossly mistaken.
By murdering me, she reopens the wound that was closed at Bosworth—and she recommences the Wars of the Roses!
By killing me here, at Fotheringay—for many years a Yorkist stronghold—she thinks that she can hurl me to oblivion or to Hell and be forever forgotten.
But by killing me, she hurls down the gage at all those families who still proudly cling to their Yorkist lineage.
My execution here is the most obscene and odious insult to anyone who still bears any love for the House of York.
This will rekindle the wrath of anyone today with any affection for their Yorkist forebears.
They will have no choice but to pledge themselves to Elizabeth’s destruction—they will engage themselves in overt or covert plots to destroy her!
Mary almost squealed with glee when she realized that her death would reignite the Wars of the Roses.
She instantly thought, Please Lord let me not die in vain—please let my rose-red blood sprinkled here today feed a blossoming, a rebirth, of the Wars of the Roses.
She even had a vision of endless fields of roses, and suddenly enormous dark shadows swept across the flowers—from two impossibly large dragons that flew around each other in a desperate battle. Aha! Yes—perhaps my death will awaken the red and white dragons that have been asleep all these years in Britain. May the whole of the British Isles quake as they fight!
Instead of roses, she suddenly had visions of marigolds, everywhere around her, Please Lord let me grow like these flowers—please allow me to come back and blossom every first day of every month forever and ever, across this land.
Mary repeated the words over and over—“Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit! Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit! Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!”
As Bull lifted the axe—Mary took a sharp breath.
Her body felt weightless, I feel abundant life now in the moment of my death—as my Creator bestows a Crown of Immortality on my head.
The axe swiftly fell.
Mary heard laughter.
She saw Bothwell laughing.
They stood in a field, at Saint Andrews.
Everywhere around them pearlwort blossomed forever.
The axe missed her neck—hitting the back of her head—with a crunching sound.
Some people in the crowd gasped in horror.
Some people wept—tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of revulsion.
Bull the headsman lifted the axe and swung it as quickly as he could again, to make a cleaner cut—but he did not strike hard enough—he chopped into her neck, but not all the way through. He swiftly grabbed the back of the axe, leaned into it, and cleaved through her neck—as steaming blood sprayed all over his hands, and poured over the stage.
Groans of disgust and outrage made Bull upset, so he quickly wanted to show the people that he was in fact done. He took Mary’s head by the hair, and raised it aloft.
Mary’s lips started moving.
The crowd recoiled in shock—most of them could not watch. Others couldn’t turn away, forcing themselves to watch this gruesome and peculiar sight.
Bull did not know what to do, so he followed procedure. He proclaimed with a dull voice, “God save Queen Elizabeth!”
Suddenly—Mary’s head slipped from his hand.
He looked at her wig in his hand, as her bald head tumbled across the stage.
Some people in the crowd couldn’t contain themselves—they laughed.
Bishop Fletcher was horrified, especially since he thought that Mary was still cursing them all, as her lips continued to move noiselessly. He tried to calm the crowd, with his voice raised, “So perish all the Queen's enemies! Such be the end of all the Queen’s—and the gospel’s—enemies!”
It didn’t calm them. Most of the people still looked afraid of Mary, as if she was speaking from beyond the grave.
Bull stepped forward to retrieve her head—but clumsily kicked it. The head bounced across the stage. He rushed to pick it up—but kicked it again. Some in the crowd laughed at this grim comedy.
Suddenly, Mary’s slumped headless body moved. Some women screamed in horror. Many lords and ladies tripped over themselves to get away from Mary, as if she was coming to life again—as if she was going to chase them down and kill them.
But it was only Mary’s dog, her Skye Terrier, hidden beneath her dress, trying to get out from under her.
Some people laughed at this hideous show.
Leicester watched without emotion. Walsingham was satisfied, now that she was dead. Burghley couldn’t watch any longer. He was furious at the bungled and amateurish execution. He marched towards Mary’s ladies, who were inconsolably sad. Very reluctantly, they gave him a handsome wooden box. He opened it and quickly assessed the gems and jewelry inside. He did not care so much about the rubies, diamonds, and other stones. His primary concern was the 6 long rows of pearls, and the 25 individual pearls, some as big as a robin’s egg. And most important of all, he confirmed that the box contained Prince Edward’s ruby.
Satisfied that all of the precious items were accounted for, he turned and marched away. He couldn’t move very fast, not with his gout, and not with the box in his hands, which he would not trust anyone else to carry.
Burghley fretted about the execution. He knew the poorly performed beheading was going to upset the Queen.
His only satisfaction was thinking that Mary’s spirit would be, like Holofernes—“damned and detained in hell-fire after death.”
✧ ✧ ✧
At the end of the same day, in Stratford, Shakespeare was just closing the shutters to the glove workshop. He heard a massive rustling hum in the distance outside—a strange powerful percussive beating sound in the sky above.
He went outside and looked towards the heavens, and strained to see in the dimming twilight sky. He saw what appeared to be a colossal black cloud roiling over the land.
He suddenly realized that it was not a cloud—it was a flock of so many birds flying with and against and past each other that they created some sort of enormous and mysterious nocturnal and nightmarish creature.
It sent a chill down his spine.
He often thought to himself that he loved living in Stratford, because he was never so busy that he could not take a moment here and there to admire the beauty of Creation.
He often thought, If we never stop to admire what the Creator has given us, and be grateful for the sky, trees, clouds, wind, and the creatures all around us—then how can we expect God to give us anything more? If we take all of this for granted, then God might not reward us with anything else.
In fact he often thought that God revealed Himself—His eternal power and His divine nature—in Creation, and that he had only to look at his surroundings in order to find the Lord.
But the flock of birds in the sky now alarmed him. He could not help but think that these birds were trespassing, and storming across Creation to mar and muddy what the Lord had made.
Shakespeare hurried inside and fastened the door closed, and hoped that storm of birds would blow over and depart as quickly as they had come.