ESSEX AT THE TIME OF HIS EXECUTION.
How terrible must have been the suspense of Essex, for, in spite of everything, he trusted the word of his sovereign. The day broke that was to see his execution. Still no sign of pardon or reprieve. Calmly he prepared for death, and dressed with his usual care and elegance. He wore a long black cloak of wrought velvet over a satin suit, which consisted of a doublet of brocade with ruffles of lace in the sleeves, a silken scarf confining it at the waist, short breeches of satin, silken hose, and leather buskins. Usually with this costume a jewelled sword was worn, and an immense ruff of lace around the neck. On this occasion both were omitted. His picture shows a well-turned head, with dark curling hair, straight nose, brown eyes, a mustache, and the pointed beard affected at that period.
Essex had begged as a last privilege that he might have a private execution. The poor petition was granted, and he was permitted to suffer death on Tower Hill. The Earl was then in his summer prime—only thirty-three years of age. Valor, beauty, fortune had been his from birth, but failed to avert his fate. The place of execution was hallowed by the best blood of England, and there two fair queens had laid their young heads on the block to satisfy the brutal rage of Elizabeth's father.
Ash-Wednesday, February 25, 1601, at 8 o'clock in the morning, he was led to the fatal block. As he knelt to place his head in position he showed no fear, and three strokes of the axe, the first one mortal, severed his head from his body. They were buried in the Tower Chapel, though some believed the Queen kept the skull in her own private room. Notwithstanding it was a cold gloomy day, one hundred gentlemen sat near the scaffold, and Sir Walter Raleigh secretly watched the execution from a window of the armory, little thinking that thirteen years later he would meet the same fate in the same place. During this tragedy Queen Elizabeth amused herself playing on the spinet. But there came an hour of repentance bitter as death.
About two years afterward the Countess of Nottingham was taken with an illness, which proved her last. She begged to see the Queen; she could not die in peace without it. Elizabeth came, and when the Countess confessed having kept the ring of Essex, the Queen wept, and then flew into a fury, and shook the dying woman in her bed, crying, "God may forgive you, but I never can!"
This disclosure affected her so she could neither sleep nor eat. The dreadful secret pressed on her soul, and the old love and longing came back with remorse for tenderness turned to hate.
Dreams of Devereux in his morning beauty kneeling at her feet must have risen to her sight. The hand whose touch had made her pulses quicken, that never drew sword except for England's glory, was laid low; the brilliant nobleman—a headless corpse—was buried among criminals in Tower Chapel, when a word from her would have saved him.
Who may tell her anguish when she lay on the palace floor ten days and nights, refusing to be comforted, haunted by memories of crime unpardonable, till death came to close the scene?