She knew that James would be her heir, but she had not forgotten the long lines of greedy courtiers who had sought her when her sister Mary was near her end, and she refused to name him definitely as the one whom she wished to succeed her. This refusal made little difference, however, in the increasing devotion of those around her to the Scotch king, who would so soon be the ruler of England. One after another wearied of attendance; some made excuses to leave her, others left without excuse. The son of Burleigh, who had taken his father’s place, sent almost daily epistles to Scotland. Harington, who used to write her merry, jesting letters, signed “Your Majesty’s saucy godson,” had sent valuable gifts to the King of Scots, and a petition that he might not be forgotten when James should come into his kingdom. Her own councilors were sending messengers to James hoping to win his favor. Two of her relatives stood by her bedside, but their watchfulness arose not from affection but that they might be the first to tell James that the crown was his at last.
The queen became more and more feeble. She was sad and melancholy. Often she sat for hours alone in the dark weeping. She felt her loneliness most keenly. “Whom can I trust? Whom can I trust?” her attendants heard her murmur. A kinsman who went to see her said that she drew heavy sighs continually, “And I never knew her to sigh” he declared, “save at the death of the Queen of Scots.” She lay on cushions piled up on the floor.
“Madam,” urged the son of Burleigh, “will you not be moved to your bed?”
“If I go to my bed, I shall never leave it,” she answered.
“But you must in order to content your loving subjects,” he urged.
Then the queen showed once more her proud Tudor blood. “‘Must’ is no word to use to princes,” said she, “and, little man, if your father had lived, even he would not have dared to say so much.”
She passed away quietly in a gentle sleep. According to a strange custom of the times an image of her was made in wax, decked in the royal robes, and laid upon her coffin. She was buried in Westminster Abbey, and as the sad procession went through the streets, the early love of her subjects returned in full measure. An old chronicler says:—
“And when they beheld her statue, or effigy, lying on the coffin, set forth in royal robes, having a crown upon the head thereof, and a ball and sceptre in either hand, there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation for the death of their sovereign.”
Transcribers’ Note
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.