How many knew of the Queen's imminent danger is not certain. Probably she kept it from her most intimate friends. Her strength was equal even to that. Nor is it known how much Ralegh knew of his mistress's danger; it is not likely that he was entirely ignorant of it, for to him was given the whole of Babington's estates, which were large and remunerative. It is certainly a last proof of Queen Elizabeth's amazing vitality, that in the midst of this dangerous turmoil of plot and counterplot which surrounded her, she was able to find occasion for the display of love and affection. For it was during these last desperate endeavours of the Catholic party that she first drew Ralegh to herself. She had seen to his advancement, and taken care that he was provided with the wealth that he needed for his position at Court and that his personal taste for magnificence desired. She had given him the Farm of Wines, which, even allowing for the money that one Richard Browne tricked him out of, brought him in a good income; and, in 1585, he succeeded Francis, Earl of Bedford, as Lord Warden of the Stannaries, and shortly afterwards became Lieutenant of the county of Cornwall, and Vice-Admiral of the counties of Cornwall and Devon. The Queen had need of staunch friends around her. And it is not due only to a woman's whim, at which many have mocked, that she kept these men, her favourites, at Court even sometimes against their will, as when she prevented Sidney, in 1585, from heading the Virginian colonists, and, a year or two later, sent Sir Robert Carey to fetch back the Earl of Essex. Their presence became a necessity to her, because their presence helped to vouch for her personal safety. It gave her an assurance of security to see such men by her side, though doubtless their presence flattered her vanity as well. Moreover, there seems to be something exhilarating in a woman who could go in perpetual danger and known danger of murder, and yet keep to the end her woman's desire for admiration, which is the producer of many graces, and not at all in itself a proof of pettiness. It depends upon what she considers to be admirable.
The Babington conspiracy by which Ralegh was ultimately enriched brought about a crisis between the loyal and disaffected. The result of the ingenuity of Walsingham and Elizabeth in contriving the plan by which Mary, Queen of Scots betrayed herself, placed her intentions beyond all question. It was clear that she intended to stop at nothing; that she was anxious for Elizabeth's murder. It was certainly the easiest solution to her difficulties, and she was the protectress of the true religion, the head of which had sanctioned the murder. She was that most dangerous of enemies, a sincerely religious woman of great cleverness and no principles. Without discussing the ethics of murder and execution, it is easy to understand Mary's position; and it is not easy to understand Elizabeth's conduct. Mary was found guilty of high treason, and the law of the land assessed the penalty for high treason at death. But Elizabeth could not bring herself to sign the death warrant. It is difficult to understand why. She was supported by the authority of the kingdom, but she tried to avoid this last responsibility. Her conduct illustrates the peculiar blend of craft and sensitiveness which circumstances had developed in her character, and which, be it noted, were conspicuous traits of many other great characters of the time—conspicuously, for example, of Bacon and of Ralegh. She tried to make Walsingham incur the responsibility and the odium of the deed. She abused him when he demurred at her proposal. And finally, when she had given her signature, she swore that it had been by a mistake, and Walsingham, for ever impoverished by her displeasure, retired indignant to his house at Barnelms. He became hateful to her, and nothing could reinstate him in her favour. It was as though he were a tool which she had cut herself in using, which she flung from her in anger and without compunction.
But at length the day of Mary's death came. That was pre-eminently the time of pageant and display—the display of gorgeous life in the great Court functions; the display of dreadful death in the public executions. Both were combined in dramatic intensity at this last scene of Mary's life. Hers was a Queen's death.
In November of the year 1586 her sentence was passed. For three months Europe was agitated by uncertainty whether the sentence would be carried out, and what would be the result of her death, if it were. For three months she held her ground as the martyr of her religion, an unassailable position. For three months she decked her tragedy with the robes of majesty and of pathetic grace. When Paulet tore down the regal hangings from her room, saying that they no longer became a traitress, she hung the crucifix in their place and pointed to it in silence when he came to her again.
MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
The day of her execution was the second Wednesday in February, 1587. Three hundred knights were assembled in the hall of Fotheringay Castle. When the Provost-Marshal and the Sheriff came to fetch her from her room, they found her no longer dressed in the customary grey cloth, but clothed in a robe of black satin. Her hand on the arm of one of the guard, she passed tall and erect down the broad oak staircase to the hall. At the end of the hall loomed the scaffold swathed in black; the dancing flames of a great crackling wood fire moved light shadows across its blackness, and flickered on the bright steel of the axe which was leaning against the block. By the block stood the executioners, masked and in black. She who was cousin to the Queen of England, who was a married Queen of France and anointed Queen of Scotland, passed up the hall, followed by her six friends. Her waiting women tried and tried vainly to keep back their sobs—Elizabeth Kennedy and Barbara Mowbray. She ascended the black scaffold and sat down—smiling. Beale read aloud the sentence.
"Madam," said Lord Shrewsbury, "you hear what we are commanded to do." "You will do your duty," was her reply. Then the Dean of Peterborough endeavoured to play his accorded part, but three times he broke down in addressing her. When he at length began to pray, Mary too prayed in Latin, and at length her voice alone sounded through the hall. No longer she prayed in Latin as she had prayed at first, she prayed in English without a falter in her voice. With sublime audacity she prayed that God might forgive and bless her son, James VI. of Scotland, and her cousin, Elizabeth of England, and that He might avert His wrath from Elizabeth's country. She finished; the black mutes stepped forward. The scaffold creaked under their movement. They asked her forgiveness for what they were going to do, according to the custom; and forgiveness was granted them. "I forgive you," she said, "because now I hope that you will end all my troubles." Her ladies, Elizabeth Kennedy and Barbara Mowbray, mounted the steps of the black scaffold in order that they might help her to make ready. They lifted the lawn veil carefully, not to disarrange her hair. Swiftly they removed the black robe; swiftly they took her arms from out the black jacket, slashed with velvet, and set the jacket on one side. Dazzling in crimson satin she stood on the black scaffold, revealed in red satin between the black mutes, as she drew over her white arms crimson sleeves, which her ladies, now trembling, handed to her. But she drew them on as a lady her gloves, without haste. "Ne criez-vous, j'ai promis pour vous," she turned to them and said. She knelt and laid her head on the block: it was hard to her soft neck, so she put her hand underneath, murmuring the Psalm "In Te, Domine, confido." But the headsman moved her hand away, fearing its softness might hinder his business. Then he struck, but the blow fell lightly, and fell on the knot of the hand-kerchief with which her eyes were bound. He struck again, and had only to move the axe across the block to cut the last shred of skin. "So perish all the enemies of the Queen," called out the Dean of Peterborough, as the executioner held out the head at his arm's length. Only the strength of her vitality and her cleverness had kept beauty in her face. The head that was thus held up at arm's length was the head of an old and wrinkled woman. Death grinned.
As they set about stripping the body, a lap-dog, hidden in her clothes, howled and lay down crying out by the neck from which the blood was flowing. It was carried away.
Then all her things—dress, beads, Paternoster, hand-kerchief—were taken to the great wood fire which still burned merrily, and burned before all the people. No relics must be left.