“Philip, the Pope, the king of France, and Mary’s own son James. They are a powerful company.”
“Are they? Philip is really almost at war with us now, but it is not in Mary’s interest. The Pope cares nothing about putting a Catholic woman of forty-four on the throne when in a few years she will be succeeded by a Protestant son. The king of France can do nothing for her but plead, for if he strikes one blow at England, it is a blow in favor of Spain.”
“Her own son——”
“Has made a treaty with Elizabeth. He will do anything to make sure of the English throne, and indeed, can he be blamed for lack of affection when he knows that his mother planned to leave her claim not to him but to Philip?”
Elizabeth was most unwilling that Mary should be put to death. Her ministers were eager for the execution, for it was their business to secure the peace of England and the welfare of their queen. They believed that only Mary’s death would bring this about. Then, too, as Elizabeth had said jestingly, if Mary were once on the throne, she would “make their heads fly.” Surely they had a right to care for their own safety, they reasoned. Elizabeth could not bear the thought that a princess of the Tudor blood should die on the scaffold. She was always careless of her personal danger, and she knew that the death of Mary would be ascribed to her own fear or jealousy. It is no wonder that she hesitated.
“What shall we do,” queried the ministers. “Elizabeth must be induced to sign the death warrant, of course, but who will order it carried out?”
“The queen will never do such a thing,” said one.
“We must do it ourselves,” said another. “There are ten of us, and ten cannot well be made to suffer for carrying out a written order of the queen’s.”
For many weeks Elizabeth hesitated. She often sat buried in deep thought. “Shall I bear with her or smite her?” the ladies of the bedchamber heard her say to herself. At last she bade the secretary Davison bring her the warrant.
“What have you in your hand?” she asked as he entered the room.