It had been incumbent on the assembled nobles to utter the verdict and pass sentence. The verdict had been “guilty”, and the sentence one of death. Elizabeth, however, the Queen of England, was the incorporation of the highest powers in the realm, and could exercise the humane, the generous right of clemency. With her it ultimately rested whether the death sentence should be carried out or should be annulled. Once more a choice she hated was forced upon her. What would she do? Again Elizabeth was marshalled against Elizabeth. As in the tragedies of the ancient Greek playwrights the chorus was ranged to right and to left of a conscience-stricken principal, uttering strophe and antistrophe, so now did Elizabeth hear voices both within and without, some urging her to be inflexible, and others imploring her to be forgiving. Above them all looked down unseen the supreme judge of human actions, History, whose voice is silent while the actors still live, and who utters the verdict only when the curtain has fallen on them for ever. The right wing of the chorus was loud and inexorable in clamouring—“Death, death, death.” The Lord High Treasurer, the Privy Council, Elizabeth’s closest friends (such as Leicester), the lords and the commons—one and all considered that the execution of Mary Stuart was the only way of securing tranquillity for the realm and peace of mind and safety for its Queen. Both Houses of Parliament adopted an address to the Queen’s most Gracious Majesty praying that sentence of death be executed forthwith against Mary. “We cannot find that there is any possible means to provide for Your Majesty’s safety but by the just and speedy execution of the said Queen, the neglecting whereof may procure the heavy displeasure and punishment of Almighty God.”
To Elizabeth this insistence was welcome. She wanted the world at large to know that she personally had no desire to make an end of Mary Stuart, but that the English nation urged upon her the necessity of carrying out the sentence. The louder, the plainer the condemnatory voices, the better. Then she would be given a chance of performing a great aria of clemency and humaneness upon the world stage and, ever a play-actress, she made the most of her opportunity. She fervently acknowledged receipt of the exhortation of parliament, humbly thanking Almighty God that by His will she had been delivered from deadly peril. Thereafter, speaking in louder tones, she addressed the wider world and the tribunal of history, wishing to disclaim responsibility for Mary Stuart’s fate.
“Although mine own life hath been in such deadly peril, I avow that nothing hath distressed me more than that one of mine own sex, of equal rank and birth, and so nearly akin to me by blood, should have been guilty of so great a crime. So far am I from being moved by malice that, immediately after the disclosure of certain traitorous proceedings against myself, I wrote to her privately to the effect that if she would make avowal of her guilt to me in a private letter everything could be settled quietly. I did not write to her this-wise in order to lure her into a trap, since I already was fully informed as to anything she could admit to me. But now, when matters have gone so far, even now, if she would openly admit her penitence, and if no one any longer were in her name to push her cause against me, I would willingly pardon her, were no more at stake than my own life, and not the safety and welfare of my realm. It is for your sake and that of my people that I wish to go on living.” Then comes a frank admission that her hesitation is determined by her dread of the verdict of history. “For we princes stand, as it were, upon a stage, exposed to the prying glances of the world. The slightest speck upon our raiment is noticed, any weakness of ours is quickly recorded, so that we must be sedulous more than others that our actions shall always be just and honourable.” For this reason she begged parliament to excuse her for not coming to an immediate decision, seeing that “it is my wont, even in matters of far less moment, to deliberate long before coming to a final decision.”
Was this rigmarole truth or falsehood? Both; for, to repeat, Elizabeth was bipolar. She wanted to be freed from her adversary, but at the same time desired to pose before the world as magnanimous and clement. Twelve days later she sent to Cecil to enquire whether it would not be possible to spare Mary Stuart’s life while safeguarding her own. Once more the Privy Council and parliament assured Queen Elizabeth that there was no other way out of the difficulty than Queen Mary’s execution. Now let us hear Elizabeth once more. This time her words have the unmistakable ring of truth. “I am this day more in conflict with myself than ever before in my life, as to whether I shall speak or be silent. Were I to speak and to complain, I should play the hypocrite; were I to remain silent, all your pains would have been lost. It may seem strange to you that I should complain, but I must avow it hath always been my innermost wish to find some other way of achieving your safety and mine own welfare than the one that is proposed … Since, however, it hath now been determined that my safety cannot be secured in any other way than by her death, I am profoundly mournful that I, who have pardoned so many rebels and have passed over so many acts of treason in silence, should be compelled to show cruelty towards so highly placed a princess.” Reading between the lines, we can see that she is only asking to be over-persuaded. But, ambiguous as ever, she cannot utter a clear Yes or a plain No, for she concludes with the words: “I beg you to content yourselves for the nonce with an answer which is no answer. I do not withstand your opinion, I understand your reason and I beg you to accept my gratitude, to excuse my inward doubts and not to take it amiss that I send you an answer which is no answer.”
The voices on the right have spoken. They have clamoured Death, Death, Death. But the voices on the left, the voices accordant with the best promptings of her heart, were also speaking loudly. The King of France sent a special envoy to talk of the common interests of monarchs. He reminded Elizabeth that by defending Mary’s inviolability she would be defending her own; he exhorted her not to forget that the first rule for one who wished to reign well and happily must be to avoid bloodshed. He reminded her that the right of hospitality was sacred among all nations. Elizabeth must not sin against God by touching the head of an anointed queen. Since Elizabeth, playing the game of shilly-shally as usual, would reply only with half-assurances and ambiguous utterances, the tone of the foreign envoys grew louder. What had at first been no more than request became imperious warnings, and then open threats. Elizabeth, however, trained by nearly three decades on the throne in the intricacies of political life, had fine hearing. When addressed in this emotional way, she listened for only one thing, to learn whether, in the folds of their togas, the diplomatists had hidden commissions to break off relations and declare war. She was quick to perceive that behind the loud and blustering words there was no clash of arms, that neither Henry III nor Philip II was prepared to draw the sword and to let slip the dogs of war as soon as the axe fell upon Mary Stuart’s neck.
Thus she was content to shrug her shoulders at the diplomatic stage thunder of France and Spain. She had, doubtless, to show more caution in thrusting aside another objection, that of Scotland. For if any one on earth should regard it as a sacred duty to prevent the execution of a queen of Scotland in a strange land, it was James VI, since the blood which was to be shed ran in his own veins, since the woman whose life was to be taken was she who had given him life, his mother. Not that James was likely to be stirred by filial affection. Having become Elizabeth’s pensioner and ally, it seemed to him that the mother who denied his royal title, who had invoked maledictions upon him, and had tried to sell his heritage to foreign monarchs was nothing but an obstacle in his path. Directly he heard of the discovery of the Babington conspiracy, he sent congratulations to Queen Elizabeth; and when the French ambassador, seeking him out engaged in his favourite occupation of the chase, begged him to use his influence on his mother’s behalf, young James replied angrily “qu’il fallait qu’elle but la boisson qu’elle avait brassée”—that she must drink the potion she had brewed. He declared that he recked little “how closely she might be imprisoned, and whether all her base servants were hanged.” The best thing would be that in future she should confine her atte
ntion to praying to God. It was no affair of his, and, in actual fact, the hard-hearted son refused for some time even to send an embassy to London. Not until his mother had been condemned to death, and nationalist feeling blazed up over Scotland because the Queen of a foreign land was about to slay their own anointed monarch, did the young man realise how poor a figure he would cut if he remained inactive. For form’s sake, at least, he must do something. He would not, indeed, go so far as the Scottish parliament demanded, and declare his intention to make war on England should the execution take place. Still, he sat down at his writing desk, penned energetic, menacing dispatches to Walsingham and sent an embassy to London.
Of course Elizabeth had expected this protest. Here, likewise, she did not take it at its face value, but listened for the fundamental tone. The deputies of James VI consisted of two groups. The official ones, those who stood in the public eye, made reiterated and loud demands for the annulment of the death sentence. They rattled their swords, breathed threatenings and slaughter, and those among them who were Scottish nobles displayed the fervour of genuine patriotism. They did not suspect that, while they were voicing these menaces in the royal reception room, behind the scenes another agent, a confidential representative of James VI, had been admitted to Queen Elizabeth’s private apartments, to negotiate with her, on the quiet, about a very different matter, which was far more important to the King of Scotland than his mother’s life, namely his recognition as heir to the English throne. We learn from the French ambassador, who was well informed as to what was going on, that this secret envoy of James VI had been commissioned to tell Elizabeth that, if James was uttering loud threats, this was done only “for his honour and reputation”. Elizabeth should not take his violence “in ill part”. Thus Elizabeth was plainly told what was probably no news to her, namely that James VI, far from being outraged at the prospect of his mother’s execution, was prepared “to digest it” if only there were held out to him the enticement of a pledge or a half-pledge of his succession to the throne. The negotiations that now went on were of a most unsavoury character. Mary Stuart’s chief enemy and her only son drew near together, being both moved by the same dark purpose, for both secretly wished Mary Stuart to be swept out of their path, provided only that the world should not know with what feelings they were animated. They wanted her dead, but had, before the public eye, to behave as if their most heartfelt wish were to protect her. In reality Elizabeth was not trying to preserve her “sister’s” life, nor James VI his mother’s, each of them being only concerned to keep up a good appearance “on the world stage”. James had long since shown plainly enough that he would make no difficulties for Elizabeth though the worst should happen, thus giving her a free hand for the execution of his mother. Before Elizabeth sent Mary to her death, Mary’s son had sacrificed her.
Elizabeth now knew that neither France nor Spain nor Scotland, nor anyone else in the wide world, would trouble her in earnest should she decide that “the matter must come to an end.” There was only one person who, perhaps, might still save Mary Stuart—Mary Stuart herself. She need merely sue for pardon, and it is probable that Elizabeth would have been satisfied with this triumph. At the bottom of her heart she was waiting for such an appeal, which would salve her sore conscience. Everything possible was done during these last weeks to break Mary’s pride. As soon as sentence had been passed, Elizabeth told Sir Amyas Paulet to inform the prisoner of what had happened, whereupon this arid and sober-minded official, who was all the more repulsive for his impeccability, took the opportunity of affronting the condemned, who for him was nothing more, now, than “une femme morte sans nulle dignité”—a dead woman without any dignity. He clapped his hat on his head and sat down in her presence, showing the stupid malevolence of one who takes delight in another’s misfortune; he ordered his servants to tear down her canopy of state which was decorated with the arms of Scotland. Her attendants refused to obey the jailer’s orders, and when Paulet made his own menials do the dirty work, Mary hung up a crucifix where the arms of Scotland had been, in order to show that a higher power than Scotland was watching over her. To every dictatorial affront she was ready to reply with a moving gesture. “They threatened to slay me if I do not ask for pardon,” she wrote to her friends, “but I reply that if they have already determined upon my death, they may consummate their injustice when they please.” Let Elizabeth murder her; so much the worse for Elizabeth! Better a death which would humble her adversary before the tribunal of history, than acceptance of a feigned clemency which would invest Elizabeth with the halo of magnanimity. Instead of protesting against the death sentence or begging for grace, as a sincere Christian she meekly thanked God for all His mercies. But to Elizabeth she replied proudly as one queen to another:
Now since I have been on your part informed of the sentence of your last meeting of parliament, Lord Buckhurst and Master Robert Beale having admonished me to prepare for the end of my long and weary pilgrimage, I beg to return you thanks on my part for these happy tidings, and to entreat you to vouchsafe to me certain points for the discharge of my corpse … As a last request, which I have thought for many reasons I ought to ask of you alone, I beg that you will accord this ultimate grace for which I should not like to be indebted to any other, since I have no hope of finding aught but cruelty from the puritans, who are at this time, God knows wherefore! the first in authority and the most bitter against me …
Then, madam, for the sake of that Jesus to whose name all powers bow, I require you to ordain, that when my enemies have slaked their black thirst for my innocent blood, you will permit my poor desolated servants altogether to carry away my corpse, to bury it in holy ground, with the other queens of France, my predecessors, especially near the late Queen, my mother … Refuse me not this my last request, that you will permit free sepulchre to this body when the soul is separated, which when united could never obtain liberty to live in repose, such as you would procure for yourself—against which repose, before God I speak, I never aimed a blow; but God will let you see the truth of all after my death.
And because I dread the tyranny of these to whose power you have abandoned me, I entreat you not to permit that execution to be done on me without your own knowledge, not for fear of the torments, which I am most ready to suffer, but on account of the reports which will be raised concerning my death unprotected, and without other witnesses than those who would inflict it, who, I am persuaded, would be of very different quality from those parties whom I require (being my servants) to stay spectators and witnesses of my end, in the face of our Sacrament, of my Saviour, and in obedience to His Church. And after all is over, that they together may carry away my poor corpse (as secretly as you please), and speedily withdraw, without taking with them any of my goods, except those which in dying I may leave to them, which are little enough for their long and good services.
I ask these things, in the name of Jesus Christ, and in respect of our consanguinity, and for the sake of King Henry VII, your grandfather and mine, and by the honour of the dignity we both have held, and of our sex common. Therefore do I implore you to grant these my requests …
Your sister and cousin,
Prisoner wrongfully, Marie (Royne).
Strangely, and contrary to all expectations, were the roles reversed during the last days of this long-enduring struggle. After Mary Stuart was informed of the death sentence, her self-confidence returned. Her heart pulsed unperturbed; but Elizabeth’s hand trembled when she signed the death warrant. Mary Stuart was less afraid to die than Elizabeth Tudor was to kill. Mary had long been tired of her earthly pilgrimage, and yearned for eternal rest. She spent her hours in serious preparation for the end. She made her will, dividing her worldly goods among her domestic staff; she wrote letters to her colleagues, or those who had been her colleagues when she was still on the throne; no longer to incite them into sending armies and equipping for war, but in order to assure them that she was ready to die in the Catholic faith and for the Ca
tholic faith. This restless heart had at length found peace. Fear and hope, “the worst enemies of man”, as Goethe calls them, could no longer trouble her spirit. Like her sister in misfortune, Marie Antoinette, it was under the shadow of imminent death that Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles realised her true task. The sense of historical responsibility completely dispelled her previous indifference. She gave no thought to the possibilities of pardon, but wanted only to die an impressive death, to triumph in the last moment. She knew that nothing but a dramatic and heroic end could make the world forgive the tragic errors of her life, and that nothing more could be vouchsafed to her than a worthy exit.