The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean (читать книги онлайн бесплатно без сокращение бесплатно txt) 📗

“There,” he said, “I am ready now. Dressed as for a festival. Leave me for a while . . . that I may pray for the courage I may need.”

They left her and she went into her oratory, where she remained on her knees until the first light of that wintry morning was in the sky.

THE CLOCK WAS STRIKING EIGHT and Mary was with her faithful friends.

“I have finished with the world,” she had said. “Let us kneel and pray together for the last time.”

Thus they were when Shrewsbury, Kent, Paulet and some others came to take her to the hall of execution.

When these men entered her apartments her servants burst into wild weeping, but Paulet sternly admonished them and said there must be no more delay.

So the mournful procession, from the Queen’s apartment to the hall, began; and when they came to the outer door of the gallery, Paulet sternly told them that they must come no farther; such a storm of indignation met this edict that after some argument it was agreed that she might select two only of her women and four of her men servants to accompany her to the scaffold. So she chose Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle with Sir Andrew Melville, Bourgoigne her physician, Gourion her surgeon, and Gervais her apothecary.

Having made this selection she turned to the others and took her last farewell. It was a deeply affecting scene, for they threw themselves at her feet and the men wept with the women; and even when they had been separated from their mistress and the doors closed on them, the sound of their lamentation could be heard in the hall.

Melville was weeping silently as he walked beside her.

“Woe is me,” he said, “that it should be my hard hap to carry back such heavy tidings to Scotland.”

“Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant. Rather rejoice that you see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart. Know, my friend, that this world is but vanity and full of sorrows. I am Catholic, thou a Protestant; but as there is but one Christ I charge thee in His name to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotchwoman and true to France. Commend me to my dearest and most sweet son. Tell him, from my example never to rely too much on human aid, but to seek that which is above . . . .”

As Melville’s tears continued to flow she turned her face from him, for his grief unnerved her.

“May God forgive those who have thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brooks of water,” she murmured. “Oh, Melville, dry your eyes. Farewell, my good friend. Pray for thy Queen and mistress.”

So the procession made its way into the hall, led by the Sheriff and his men. Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Drue Drury came next, followed by the Earl of Kent and Robert Beale. The Earl Marshal of England, who was the Earl of Shrewsbury, walked before Mary whose train was carried by Melville, Jane and Elizabeth. The Queen’s physician, surgeon and apothecary came last.

In the hall a fire was burning in the great fireplace close to the platform which had been erected for the grisly purpose. This platform was twelve feet square and two and a half feet high, and a rail had been set up around it.

On the platform was the block and the axe.

Certain spectators—almost a hundred of them—had been allowed to take their stand in the hall.

It was difficult for Mary to mount the platform, so infirm had her limbs become, and it was Sir Amyas who stepped forward to help her.

She smiled at him. “I thank you, sir,” she said. “This is the last trouble I shall give you.”

She saw that a chair covered with black cloth had been placed on the platform, and here she sat while Beale read the death warrant.

When he had finished, she asked if her almoner might be brought that she could say a last prayer with him, but this was denied her, while the Dean of Peterborough, who had come forward, made futile efforts to induce her to change her religion.

To him she made answer; she would die in the faith in which she had lived.

The hour was at hand. She must now prepare herself for the block. Seeing this, the two executioners came forward and begged for her forgiveness.

“I forgive you and all the world with all mine heart,” she told them, “for I hope this death will give an end to all my troubles. Come, Jane. Come, Elizabeth.”

Shuddering the two women stood as though unable to move. Jane was shaking her head as though she had not until this moment realized that they could come to this.

“Nay, nay,” Mary scolded. “You should be ashamed to weep. See how happy I am to leave this world.”

They were trembling so much that they could not assist her, and she herself took off her pomander and rosary. “I should like the Countess of Arundel to have this in memory of me,” she murmured. But Bulle, the executioner, laid greedy hands on it. “Nay,” he insisted, “it is mine.” And he snatched it from her and put it in his shoe.

Jane Kennedy’s anger temporarily overcame her grief. “Give it to me,” she cried. “You heard Her Majesty’s wish.”

Bulle shook his head, and Mary interposed: “Let her have it. She will pay you more than it is worth.”

But the executioner still shook his head and grumbled that it was his and he would keep it.

“It is a small matter,” murmured Mary. “Come, help me remove my gown.”

Standing in her petticoat of crimson velvet and her plaid camisole, she looked toward Jane who held the handkerchief with its gold-fringed border with which she was to bind Mary’s eyes.

Jane’s hands were shaking so much that she could not fold it, and her tears fell onto the handkerchief as she bent over it.

“Weep no more, Jane. Rather pray for me. Come, I will fold the handkerchief.”

This she did, and Elizabeth and Jane placed it over her eyes.

She stood regal yet piteous, the handkerchief shutting out the sight of the block, the axe, and the faces distorted in anguish or alive with curiosity.

This is the end, she thought, for I shall never look on the world again.

Paulet signed for Elizabeth and Jane to leave the platform, and they were hustled away while Mary was led to the cushion on which she was to kneel.

The moment had come. The Earl of Shrewsbury lifted his baton, and his cheeks were wet with tears as he did so.

“In Thee, Lord, have I hope,” murmured the Queen. “Let me never be put to confusion. Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

There was a tense silence in the hall. The axe was raised, but then it was noticed that Mary was gripping the block with both hands beneath her chin. Bulle signed to the second executioner to move them. This he did, and the axe fell. The blow struck Mary’s head but did not sever it, and there was a deep groan throughout the hall. Bulle struck again, and again the blow was ineffective. For the third time the axe fell, and this time Mary’s head rolled away from her body.

With a cry of triumph Bulle seized the chestnut hair and, to the horror of all, the head, covered with short gray hair, rolled from his grasp, leaving him clutching the chestnut wig.

“God save Queen Elizabeth,” he said.

“So perish all her enemies!” cried the Dean of Peterborough.

There were few who could look unmoved on that scene. Bulle had stooped to take the Queen’s garters, which were, like the pomander, his perquisite, when from the red velvet petticoat there crept Mary’s little Skye terrier who was whimpering piteously as he ran and stopped to cower between his mistress’s head and her body.

Elizabeth and Jane came forward. “I pray you,” they said to Paulet, “allow us to take Her Majesty’s body. Do not allow it to remain here to be degraded by those who would snatch at her garments.”

The Earl of Kent told them to go away. They no longer had a mistress; they should regard her fate as a warning.

Weeping bitterly, Jane and Elizabeth were dragged away from their mistress, but the little dog could not be moved, and snarled at all who approached him.