When Babington's house was searched, many seditious Catholic tracts were found, as well as prophecies of the Queen's death. By now, fourteen men were in custody, charged with high treason. Examined in the Tower by Burghley, Hatton and Lord Chancellor Bromley on 18 August, Babington, fearful of torture and naively believing that cooperation would lead to a pardon, confessed that he had plotted to assassinate the Queen, and made the first of seven detailed statements describing the conspiracy, in which he made no attempt to protect Mary or any of his collaborators. Curie and Nau confirmed that Walsingham's copy of Mary's fateful letter was identical with the original.

The Council now demanded that the Queen summon Parliament to deal with the Queen of Scots. Elizabeth tried to stall, knowing that the 367.

Lords and Commons would insist on a trial and execution which she would have no choice but to sanction. Her advisers were implacable, pointing out that if the lesser conspirators, Babington and his friends, were to suffer the punishment the law demanded for their treason, then the chief conspirator, Mary, should not escape. On 9 September, with a heavy heart, Elizabeth capitulated and summoned Parliament.

On 13 September, Babington and his associates were put on trial. The verdict was a foregone conclusion, but the Queen insisted that the punishment usually meted out to traitors was insufficient in this case of 'horrible treason'. Burghley told Hatton, 'I told Her Majesty that, if the execution shall be duly and orderly executed by protracting the same both to the extremity of the pain and in the sight of the people, the manner of the death would be as terrible as any new device could be. But Her Majesty was not satisfied, but commanded me to declare it to the judge.'

The normal practice at such executions was for the executioner to ensure that the victims were dead before disembowelling them. In Burghley's opinion, ensuring that the lives - and agony - of Babington and the rest were prolonged for as long as possible would be a sufficiently awful punishment, and at length he won the Queen round to this view.

At his trial, although Babington admitted his guilt with 'a wonderful good grace', he insisted that it was Father Ballard who had been the instigator of the plot. Ballard, on the rack in the Tower, had admitted only that there had indeed been a conspiracy. The Queen had not wanted Mary Stuart's name mentioned during the trial, but when her commissioners pointed out to her that this would make nonsense of the evidence, she agreed that the references to Mary in the indictment and Babington's confessions could remain.

On 20 September, Babington, Ballard and five other conspirators were dragged on hurdles from Tower Hill to St Giles's Fields at Holborn, where a scaffold and a gallows 'of extraordinary height' had been set up. Here, in front of vast crowds, the condemned men suffered the full horrors of a traitor's death, Babington protesting to the end that he believed he had been engaged in 'a deed lawful and meritorious'. According to Camden, Ballard suffered first: he and the others 'hanged never a whit' before they were cut down and had 'their privities cut off and bowels taken out alive and seeing' before being beheaded and quartered. In extremis, In extremis, Babington cried out, 'Spare me, Lord Jesus!' The people, whose mood had been vindictive, were revolted by the savagery they had witnessed and expressed such unexpected sympathy for the victims that, when the remaining seven conspirators were delivered to the executioner the next day, the Queen gave orders that the prisoners Babington cried out, 'Spare me, Lord Jesus!' The people, whose mood had been vindictive, were revolted by the savagery they had witnessed and expressed such unexpected sympathy for the victims that, when the remaining seven conspirators were delivered to the executioner the next day, the Queen gave orders that the prisoners 368.

were to hang until they were dead before being disembowelled and quartered.

The executions gave rise to a flood of ballads and pamphlets, so that soon 'all England was acquainted with this horrible conspiracy' and not only the Council, but the people also were clamouring for Mary Stuart, the chief focus of the plot, to be tried and executed. Even now, however, Elizabeth wanted to spare Mary's life, if only because she could not countenance the execution of an anointed queen. She had hoped that the deaths of the conspirators would satisfy her subjects' thirst for blood and retribution, but, she realised, she was mistaken.

Her councillors pointed out that there were many good reasons for proceeding against Mary under the new statute. There was no doubt that Mary had plotted against her life, and evidence supporting this could be produced in court. James VI was unlikely to cause trouble, for he could only benefit from his mother's death. Mary's removal would clear the way for a Protestant heir who would be acceptable to the English people. It would also remove the chief focus for Catholic discontent and rebellion. The French had long since abandoned Mary, and King Philip could have no worse intentions towards Elizabeth than those he already cherished.

Above all, the Queen was urged to think of her people, who had become unsettled and fearful as a result of recent events and were now a prey to rumour-mongers, who were spreading alarming stories that Elizabeth had been killed, or that Parma had invaded Northumberland. To be on the safe side, the fleet was sent to patrol the coast, and people became more vigilant in hunting out papist priests.

The mounting sense of imminent catastrophe unsettled Paulet, who warned that he could not keep Mary secure at Chartley indefinitely, and urged that she be moved to another stronghold. The Council wanted her sent to the Tower, but the Queen was appalled at the prospect and flatly refused; she also raised objections to every other fortress they suggested, but at length, she was persuaded to agree to Mary being transferred to Fotheringhay, a medieval castle in Northamptonshire that had in the fifteenth century been the seat of the royal House of York. Mary was brought there on 25 September.

It was still by no means certain that Elizabeth would allow her cousin to be put on trial. While she conceded that there was every justification for it, she was aware that Mary's supporters would argue that the Queen of Scots was not only a foreigner who was not subject to English law, but an anointed sovereign, answerable to God alone for her actions. The question had already been put to a team of English lawyers, who had debated the matter in depth and now concluded that Elizabeth was within her rights to prosecute Mary under the statute of 1585.

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The Queen realised that there was nothing more she could do to prevent the trial from going ahead. Reluctantly, she agreed to the appointing of thirty-six commissioners - Privy Councillors, peers and justices - who would consider the evidence and act as judges, and at the end of September these men began arriving at Fotheringhay. Among them were Burghley, Walsingham, Hatton and Paulet, as well as two Catholic lords, Montague and Lumley, to ensure impartiality.

On 10 October, a very concerned Leicester urged the Queen from the Netherlands to allow the law to take its course. 'It is most certain', he wrote to Walsingham, 'if you would have Her Majesty safe, it must be done, for justice doth crave it besides policy.' It was frustrating for him to be out of England at such a time, and he longed to return and use his influence with the Queen to make her understand what she must do.

On 11 October, the court assembled, but Mary refused to acknowledge its competence to try her, declaring that she was a twice anointed queen and not subject to the ordinary laws of England, and refusing to attend. Burghley was aware that this would dangerously compromise the trial, and urged her to reconsider.

'In England, under Her Majesty's jurisdiction, a free prince offending is subject to her laws,' he told Mary.

'I am no subject, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than acknowledge myself to be one!' she flared. In that case, Burghley warned, she would be tried in her absence. Hatton urged her to take advantage of the public platform a trial would afford her and clear herself of the charges against her, while Elizabeth herself wrote coldly to Mary: 'You have in various ways and manners attempted to take my life and bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. It is my will that you answer the nobles and peers of the kingdom, as if I were myself present.'

At this, Mary capitulated, although she still refused to acknowledge the court's jurisdiction, and on 14 October, her trial began, the main charge being that she had entered into a treasonable conspiracy against the Queen's life.

Careful preparations had ensured that the proceedings would be conducted in a proper and lawful manner, but, as was usual in state trials of the period, Mary was permitted no counsel to aid her; instead, she conducted her own defence. Limping as a result of chronic rheumatism, she appeared before the commissioners, a tall, black-clad, 'big-made', middle-aged woman with a face 'full and fat, double-chinned and hazel- eyed', who confidently, passionately, even indignantly, denied all knowledge of the Babington Plot. Her crucial letter to Babington was, she claimed, a forgery; indeed, she had never received a single letter from him. As for sanctioning the murder of the Queen, 'I would never 370.

make shipwreck of my soul by compassing the death of my dearest sister,' she protested. All she had ever done during her captivity was to seek help to gain her freedom wherever it might be found.

Her eloquent defence was crushed, of course, by the weight of the evidence against her, which was irrefutable. Burghley concluded that her guilt was established beyond all doubt. The commissioners saw their duty clear, and were just about to pronounce Mary guilty when a messenger arrived with the Queen's command, issued in the middle of the night since Elizabeth had been unable to sleep, that the court be adjourned to London to reconvene in ten days' time.

The Lord Chancellor formally prorogued the court on to October, and the commissioners returned south. Mary was left to ponder her fate at Fotheringhay whilst they again examined the evidence in the Court of Star Chamber at Westminster, patiently enduring the Queen's constant interference. 'I would to God Her Majesty would be content to refer these things to them that can best judge of them, as other princes do,' fumed Walsingham. But the judges' conclusions remained the same as before and, with only one dissenting voice, they pronounced Mary guilty of being an accessory to the conspiracy and of imagining and compassing Her Majesty's destruction. Under the statute of 1585, these were offences punishable by death and disinheritance.

The court did not pronounce sentence; that would be a matter for the Queen and Parliament, which had to ratify the verdict.

The English had initially fought well in the Netherlands, earning even Parma's admiration. In September, they were victorious at the Battle of Zutphen, near Arnhem, at which Essex fought valiantly and was knighted by Leicester, and Sir Philip Sidney received a serious wound in the thigh, having lent his leg-armour to a friend who had none. Weak from loss of blood, he had ridden a mile to camp, 'not ceasing to speak of Her Majesty, being glad if his hurt and death might honour her'. Her Majesty, however, who since his return to court after his disgrace had been 'very apt upon every light occasion to find fault with him', considered that his wound could have been avoided, and that his chivalrous act had been misplaced. Her subjects, however, applauded it, and also loved to recount how, parched with thirst, Sidney refused the water that was offered him, insisting that it be given to a dying soldier nearby. 'Thy necessity is greater than mine,' he told the man.

At first, it was thought that Sidney would recover, and Elizabeth was moved to send him a heartening letter in her own hand. But his wound festered and he lingered in agony for twenty-six days before dying, a legend already at thirty-one years of age. It had been a tragic year for the Sidney family: Sir Henry Sidney had died that summer, followed by his 371.

wife, Elizabeth's old friend Lady Mary Sidney.

Court mourning was ordered for the dead hero and there were outpourings of grief, for Sidney had been popular and was regarded as the epitome of the chivalric ideal. His body was brought home in a ship with black sails, and given a state funeral in St Paul's Cathedral. The Queen, who was 'much afflicted with sorrow for the loss of her dear servant', did not attend.

After Zutphen, the tide had turned against Leicester's forces, not as a result of Spanish retaliation, but because of the Earl's ineptitude as a commander and his gift for antagonising both his allies and his men. Many of the latter deserted, and it became obvious that the venture was doomed to ignominious failure. Elizabeth wrote complaining of Leicester's shortcomings, to which he dejectedly replied, 'My trust is that the Lord hath not quite cast me out of your favour.' In fact, after a year apart, Elizabeth was sorely missing him, and was fearful that his health would be broken by a second winter of campaigning. Thus, when he asked for leave to come home, she willingly granted it.

Parliament assembled on 29 October, setting aside all other business to settle the fate of the Queen of Scots, 'a problem of great weight, great peril and dangerous consequence'. The Queen resolutely distanced herself from these proceedings and remained at Richmond, refusing to stay, as she usually did, at Whitehall. She told her courtiers that, 'being loath to hear so many foul and grievous matters revealed and ripped up, she had small pleasure to be there'.

Both Lords and Commons loudly demanded Mary's head, and unanimously ratified the commissioners' verdict on 'this daughter of sedition', resolving to petition the Queen that 'a just sentence might be followed by as just an execution'. This petition, which was presented to Elizabeth by a delegation of twenty peers and forty MPs at Richmond on 12 November, plunged her into an agony of indecision.

She stressed to them that, throughout the twenty-eight years of her reign, she had been free of malice towards Mary. 'I have had good experience and trial of this world,' she reminded them. 'I know what it is to be a subject, what to be a sovereign, what to have good neighbours, and sometimes meet evil willers. I have found treason in trust, seen great benefits little regarded.' She went on to say that she grieved that one of her own sex and kin should have plotted her death, and she had even written secretly to Mary promising that, if Mary confessed all, she would cover her shame and save her from reproach, but her cousin had continued to deny her guilt. Even now, though, if she truly repented, Elizabeth would be inclined to pardon her.

She desired to satisfy her people, yet it was plain to her audience that 372.

she might never bring herself to do so. 'I tell you that in this late Act of Parliament you have laid a hard hand on me, that I must give directions for her [Mary's] death, which cannot be but a most grievous and irksome burden to me. We princes are set on stages, in the sight and view of all the world. It behoveth us to be careful that our proceedings be just and honourable.' All she could say in conclusion was that she would pray and consider the matter, beseeching God to illuminate her understanding, for she knew delay was dangerous; however, she vowed 'inviolably' to do what was right and just. Her speech, according to Burghley, 'drew tears from many eyes'.

Two days later, she sent a message to Parliament by Hatton, asking if 'some other way' to deal with Mary could be found. But short of keeping Mary in solitary confinement for the rest of her life, to remain a focus for rebellion, there was no alternative but the death penalty.

Mary, meanwhile, appeared 'utterly void of all fear of harm', even when, on 16 November, Elizabeth sent a message warning her that she had been sentenced to death, that Parliament had petitioned to have the sentence carried out, and that she should prepare herself for her fate. Mary, officially informed of the sentence on the 19th, took the news courageously, showing neither fear nor repentance.

'I will confess nothing because I have nothing to confess,' she declared. Instead, she wrote to all her friends abroad, including the Pope and the Duke of Guise, proclaiming her innocence and declaring that she was about to die as a martyr for the Catholic faith. When Paulet tore down her canopy of estate, informing her that she was now a dead woman so far as the law was concerned, and therefore undeserving of the trappings of sovereignty, Mary simply hung a crucifix and pictures of Christ's passion in its place.

That same day, she wrote thanking Elizabeth for the 'happy tidings that I am to come to the end of my long and weary pilgrimage'. She asked only that her servants be present at her execution and that her body be buried in France. It was her wish to die in perfect charity with all persons, 'Yet, while abandoning this world and preparing myself for a better, I must remind you that one day you will have to answer for your charge, and for all those whom you doom, and I desire that my blood may be remembered in that time.'

Paulet, reading this letter, delayed sending it, fearing the effect it would have on Elizabeth. His fervent hope was that Mary would be executed before Christmas.

On 23 November, Leicester, accompanied by Essex, returned home. 'Never since I was born did I receive a more gracious welcome,' he wrote afterwards. Not only the Queen, but also Walsingham and Burghley expressed their pleasure at seeing him, for they all needed his 373.

help at this time. Although his influence on the Council had declined during his absence, Hatton and others having risen to political prominence, the Queen still valued his opinions highly, and needed his support more than ever now.

That evening, after a private supper with the Earl, Elizabeth sent a note to the Lord Chancellor stating she would publicly proclaim the sentence against the Queen of Scots. But the prospect deprived her of of sleep that night. sleep that night.

At this time, the French ambassador arrived to plead for clemency for Mary. Elizabeth told him that matters had gone too far for that. 'This justice was done on a bad woman protected by bad men,' she told him severely. If she herself was to live, Mary must die.

The Queen's plea for some other way to be found of dealing with Mary had been laid before Parliament without evoking a single response. The Lords were asked if the execution should go ahead, at which every peer 'answered that they could find none other way of safety for her Majesty and the realm'. Having unanimously reaffirmed its sentence of execution, Parliament, on 24 November, sent another deputation to Richmond to urge the Queen, with many 'invincible reasons', to have it carried out, for the preservation of religion, the kingdom and her own life. As before, in her reply she was distracted and undecided.

Since it is now resolved that my surety cannot be established without a princess's head, full grievous is the way that I, who have in my time pardoned so many rebels and winked at so many treasons, should now be forced to this proceeding against such a person. What, will my enemies not say, that for the safety of her life a maiden queen could be content to spill the blood even of her own kinswoman? I may therefore well complain that any man should think me given to cruelty, whereof I am so guiltless and innocent. Nay, I am so far from it that for mine own life I would not touch her. If other means might be found out, [I would take more pleasure] than in any other thing under the sun.

She concluded with a typically obscure statement: If I should say unto you that I mean not to grant your petition, by my faith I should say unto you more than perhaps I mean. And if I should say unto you I mean to grant your petition, I should then tell you more than is fit for you to know. I am not so void of judgement as not to see mine own peril, nor so careless as not to 374.

weigh that my life daily is in hazard. But since so many have both written and spoken against me, I pray you to accept my thankfulness, to excuse my doubtfulness, and to take in good part my answer answerless.

Burghley remarked scathingly that this parliament would be known as 'a parliament of words', not deeds.

That evening, the Queen, having tremulously drafted a formal proclamation of the sentence on Mary, commanded the Lord Chancellor to read it out to Parliament. Her scrawl was so illegible that Burghley had to decipher it for Bromley, yet before the Lord Chancellor could publish it, he received a message from Elizabeth commanding him to stay his hand and adjourn Parliament for a week.

On the following day, the commissioners reassembled in the Star Chamber and formally condemned Mary to death. After that, Leicester, Burghley and others used all their powers of persuasion to compel Elizabeth to do what her people would expect of her. If she did not, they pointed out, she would lose all credibility, and men would say that the weakness of her sex was clouding her judgement.

When Parliament reassembled on 2 December, the proclamation of the sentence had been redrafted by the Queen and Burghley, and its publication on 4 December prompted an outburst of great public rejoicing, London being lit up by torches and bonfires, and echoing to the sound of bells and psalms. Yet the Queen had yet to sign the warrant for the execution, which was drafted by Walsingham that same day, and had in fact prorogued Parliament until 15 February, in order to give herself ten weeks in which to steel herself to it. Throughout that period, her councillors would do their utmost to force the reluctant Queen to face the inevitable and sign.

She was torn two ways, for the French and Scottish ambassadors were to be equally vigorous in trying to persuade Elizabeth to show mercy to Mary, and she was anxious not to offend either of these friendly neighbours. James VI wrote reminding her that 'King Henry VIII's reputation was never prejudged but in the beheading of his bedfellow,' a reference to Anne Boleyn which greatly offended her daughter. However, James was more concerned about his future interest in the succession than in saving his mother's life; he had heard that Mary had bequeathed her claim to Philip of Spain, and was determined to circumvent this. In his opinion, his mother was fit 'to meddle with nothing but prayer and serving of God', although he told Leicester that 'Honour constrains me to insist for her life.'

Public opinion in Scotland had, however, been influenced by the publication of the death sentence on Mary, who was now viewed with 375.

rising nationalist sympathy as something of a heroine; some lords had even threatened to declare war on England if she was executed, and James could not afford to ignore them, although he was not prepared to go so far on his mother's behalf- too much was at stake for that. He therefore made token protests, while telling his envoy, Sir Robert Melville, to say privately to the Queen, 'There is no sting in this death.'

Elizabeth faced the most agonising decision of her life. If she signed the warrant, she would be setting a precedent for condemning an anointed queen to death, and would also be spilling the blood of her kinswoman. To do this would court the opprobrium of the whole world, and might provoke the Catholic powers to vengeful retribution. Yet if she showed mercy, Mary would remain the focus of Catholic plotting for the rest of her life, to the great peril of Elizabeth and her kingdom. Elizabeth knew where her duty lay, but she did not want to be responsible for Mary's death.

For weeks she existed under the most profound stress, which affected her judgement and brought her close to a breakdown. Her scruples isolated her from her advisers, and she made excuse after excuse to the Council, using her well-tried delaying tactics to avoid having to make any decision.

Paulet could not delay sending Mary's letter to Elizabeth indefinitely, and it is known to have reached the Queen by 23 December, when a worried Leicester confided to Hatton that 'It hath wrought tears, but I trust shall do no further harm.' After this, Paulet forbade Mary to communicate with Elizabeth again.

At Christmas, the court moved to Greenwich, where the Queen agreed that Burghley should prepare a formal warrant from Walsingham's draft. Once this was done, it was given to Sir William Davison, recently appointed joint Secretary of State with Walsingham, for safe-keeping.

On 6 January, Melville suggested to the Queen that there would be no need to execute Mary if she formally renounced her claim to the succession in favour of her son, who, as a Protestant, would not become a focus for Catholic plots against Elizabeth. But Elizabeth saw the flaws in this immediately, and her anger flared.

'By God's passion, that were to cut my own throat!' she cried. 'I will not have a worse in his mother's place. No, by God! Your master shall never be in that place.' This angered Melville, who was unaware of her fear of the consequences of naming any successor, but he controlled his annoyance and urged her to delay the execution, even for a mere week.

'Not'for an hour!' shouted the Queen in a passion, and stalked out of the room. She was also angered by a message from Henry III of France, who warned her he would deem it 'a personal affront' if she executed 376.

Mar)'. That, she retorted, was 'the shortest way to make me despatch the cause of so much mischief.

Nevertheless, her reluctance to sign the warrant was obvious to everyone. Her councillors had not yet worn her down, 'albeit indeed they are very extreme in this'. They even produced for her precedents from ancient Greece to justify the death of the person who had been at the centre of every conspiracy against her, and Burghley argued, 'Were it not more than time to remove that eyesore?' Davison feared Elizabeth would 'keep the course she held with the Duke of Norfolk, which is not to take her life unless extreme fear compel her'.

By January, the suspense had become intolerable; terrifying rumours, put about by the Council to harden the Queen's resolve, alleged that the Spaniards had invaded, London had been burned, and the Queen of Scots had escaped, causing such outbreaks of panic throughout the kingdom that many men were going about wearing armour, and guards were posted on major roads. It was at this time that the Council informed Elizabeth that they had arrested and questioned the French ambassador in connection with a suspected plot against her life. This may well have been an invention calculated to frighten her into signing the warrant - certainly no further action was taken against the ambassador - but true or not, it certainly swept away Elizabeth's scruples about provoking the French by executing Mary.

'Suffer or strike!' she declared in Latin, pacing restlessly up and down her apartments. 'In order not to be struck, strike!'

On February, Elizabeth suddenly sent for the very efficient and respected Sir William Davison, who was deputising for an indisposed Walsingham. Two contradictory accounts of what happened next survive. According to a statement made later by Davison, Elizabeth told him that she was disturbed by reports of an attempt to liberate the Queen of Scots, and had therefore resolved to sign Mary's death warrant without further delay. Davison placed the document before the Queen, who read and signed it, saying that she wished the execution to take place as soon as possible in the Great Hall of Fotheringhay Castle, not in the courtyard. She instructed him to ask the acting Lord Chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton, to append the Great Seal of England to the warrant, and then have it shown to Walsingham.

'The grief thereof will go near to kill him outright,' she jested grimly.

Her final instructions were that the warrant was to be sent to Fotheringhay with all speed and she 'would not hear any more thereof until it was done'.

Davison immediately showed the warrant to a relieved Burghley before taking it to Hatton, who attached the Great Seal, which validated the warrant so that it could be put into effect. The next day, the Queen 377.

sent word to Davison that he was not to lay the warrant before the Lord Chancellor until she had spoken with him again; when Davison told the Queen that it had already been sealed, she asked him, in some alarm, why he was in such a hurry. Fearing that she was about to change her mind, he asked Hatton's advice. On 3 February, both men went to Burghley, who at once called an emergency meeting of the Council, which debated whether or not to dispatch the warrant without further reference to the Queen. This resulted in a resolute Burghley taking it upon himself to insist that no councillor discuss the matter further with her until Mary was dead, in case Elizabeth thought up 'some new concept of interrupting and staying the court of justice'.

In order to spare Davison from taking the blame, all ten councillors present agreed that they would share the responsibility for what they were about to do. Burghley then drafted an order for the sentence to be carried out, which Davison copied and sent to Fotheringhay on 4 February with the warrant. His messenger was Robert Beale, clerk to the Council.

Elizabeth's version of events differed. She insisted that, after she had signed the warrant, she had commanded Davison not to disclose the fact, but when she learned that it had passed the Great Seal, she made him swear on his life not to let the warrant out of his hands until she had expressly authorised him to do so.

Davison might have been mistaken, but this is unlikely. It has been suggested, both by contemporary and more recent historians, that Burghley, realising that the Queen wanted someone else to take responsibility for Mary's death, chose Davison to be a scapegoat, but there is no proof of this. On the contrary, Burghley held a high opinion of Davison's abilities, asserting that he was capable of any office in the realm; he is hardly likely therefore to have regarded him as expendable. The only plausible explanation must be that Elizabeth herself had picked Davison to shoulder the responsibility - and the blame - for Mary's death. In her view, this would be morally justified under the Bond of Association.

What is undisputed is that, as Davison gathered up his papers and made to leave the room, the Queen detained him. Acting on the often- repeated advice of Leicester, Whitgift and others, she suggested that he ask Paulet, as a signatory of the Bond of Association, to ease her of her burden and quietly do away with Mary, so that Elizabeth could announce that Mary had died of natural causes and so avoid being held responsible for her death. Davison was horrified, asserting that Paulet would never consent to such an unworthy act, but when the Queen told him that wiser persons than he had suggested this, he reluctantly agreed to write to Paulet.

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After the warrant had been dispatched, the unsuspecting Queen sent for Davison again and told him she had had a nightmare about Mary's execution. He asked her if she still wished it to go ahead. 'Her answer was yes, confirmed with a solemn oath in some vehemency,' but she added 'that it might have received a better form'. She asked if he had heard back from Paulet, but he had not.

Later that day a letter did arrive, but it was not the response the Queen desired, for although Paulet was one of those who was urging her to let the law take its course, he would not stoop to murder. 'My good livings and life are at Her Majesty's disposition', he wrote, 'but God forbid that I should make so foul a shipwreck of my conscience or leave so great a blot to my poor posterity as to shed blood without law or warrant.'

When she was shown his letter the next morning, Elizabeth complained about its 'daintiness' and wondered aloud why Paulet had ever subscribed to the Bond of Association. She 'blamed the niceness of those precise fellows who in words would do great things for her surety, but in deed perform nothing'.

Two days later, on 7 February, Elizabeth instructed Davison to write a 'sharp note' to Paulet, complaining of the fact that 'it was not already done'. Davison, realising that she was still hoping that Mary could be disposed of by covert means, insisted that Paulet required a warrant 'and not any private letter from me' as 'his direction in that behalf. That was the end of the matter.

In fact, the warrant arrived at Fotheringhay that day, and in the evening, Paulet told Mary she must prepare to die at eight o'clock the following morning. She took the news well, and was quite cheerful at supper that evening. Afterwards, she wrote farewell letters and gave instructions for the disposal of her personal effects. She then spent several hours in prayer before falling asleep at about two o'clock in the morning.

When she awoke, the sun was shining; the 'very fair' weather was interpreted by Protestants as a sign that God approved of the execution. As she was made ready, Mary wept bitterly at the prospect of saying goodbye to her servants, but she had composed herself by the time she was summoned to the Great Hall.

At eight o'clock on Wednesday, 8 February 1587, escorted by the Sheriff of Northampton and attended by her ladies, her surgeon, her apothecary and the master of her household, Mary, Queen of Scots entered the Great Hall of Fotheringhay Castle, watched by three hundred spectators. Many were astonished to see that this almost legendary beauty was in fact a lame, plump middle-aged woman with a double chin. Her manner, however, was dignified and calm, and she had dressed herself with care for this, her last public appearance: 'On her 379.

head a dressing of lawn edged with bone lace; a pomander chain and an Agnus Dei; about her neck a crucifix of gold; and in her hand a crucifix of bone with a wooden cross, and a pair of beads at her girdle, with a medal in the end of them; a veil of lawn fastened to her caul, bowed out with wire, and edged round about with bone lace. A gown of black satin, printed, with long sleeves to the ground, set with buttons of jet and trimmed with pearl, and short sleeves of satin, cut with a pair of sleeves of purple velvet.'

As she approached the black-draped scaffold, strewn with straw, she turned to her ladies and said, 'Thou hast cause rather to joy than to mourn, for now shalt thou see Mary Stuart's troubles receive their long- expected end.'

The Protestant Dean of Peterborough was waiting on the scaffold to offer her consolation, but she refused: 'Mr Dean, trouble not yourself nor me, for know that I am settled in the ancient Catholic religion, and in defence thereof, by God's grace, I mind to spend my blood.' As he insisted on praying aloud, she read her Latin prayers in a louder voice, weeping as she did so.

Then the executioner and his assistant came forward to help her remove her outer garments, so as not to impede the axe. 'I was not wont to have my clothes plucked off by such grooms, nor did I ever put off my clothes before such a company,' she observed. But there was a ripple of comment amongst the onlookers when she took off her black gown to reveal a low-cut satin bodice and velvet petticoat of scarlet, the Catholic colour of martyrdom; by this, together with the religious ornaments she wore and carried, she proclaimed herself to be a martyr for the Catholic faith.

When the executioner knelt before Mary to beg forgiveness for what he must do, she gave it readily, saying, 'I hope you shall make an end of all my troubles.' With great fortitude, she knelt and laid her head on the block, repeating over and over, 'In manuas tuas, Domine, confide spiritum meum 'In manuas tuas, Domine, confide spiritum meum (Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit).' It took two blows of the axe to sever her head, and such was the trauma to the spinal cord that her lips continued to move for fifteen minutes afterwards. (Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit).' It took two blows of the axe to sever her head, and such was the trauma to the spinal cord that her lips continued to move for fifteen minutes afterwards.

As was the custom, the executioner lifted the head by its hair and cried, 'God save the Queen!' But on this occasion, as he did so, the lawn cap and red wig fell off, revealing grey hair 'polled very short', except for a lock by each ear. The face, too, seemed to have changed, having become virtually unrecognisable in death.

Orders had been given that the body was to be stripped and all the clothes burned, so that no relics should remain as objects of reverence for papists, but when the executioner stooped 380.

to pluck off her stockings, he found her little dog under her coat, which, being put from thence, went and laid himself down betwixt her head and body, and being besmeared with her blood, was caused to be washed, as were other things whereon any blood was. The executioners were dismissed with fees, not having any thing that was hers. Her body, with the head, was conveyed into the great chamber by the sheriff, where it was by the chirurgeon embalmed until its interment.

That afternoon, on Walsingham's orders, it was securely encased in lead and placed in a heavy coffin.

When news of the execution reached London, the people went wild with joy. Bells were rung in celebration, guns thundered a salute, bonfires were lit, and there were impromptu feasts in every street. The celebrations lasted for a week.

But the Queen did not rejoice: when news of Mary's execution was broken to her at nine a.m. on 9 February, her reaction was almost hysterical. According to Camden, 'Her countenance changed, her words faltered, and with excessive sorrow she was in a manner astonished, insomuch as she gave herself over to grief, putting herself into mourning weeds and shedding abundance of tears.' She erupted, not only in a torrent of weeping, but also in rage against those who had acted on her behalf and driven her to this. Her councillors and courtiers had expected recriminations, but nothing like this, and they quaked in fear at the terrible accusations that were hurled at them. Hatton was paralysed with apprehension; Walsingham fled home to Barn Elms and feigned illness; Burghley and Leicester were banished from the royal presence. A frightened Burghley wrote to Elizabeth several times, begging to be permitted to lay himself'on the floor near Your Majesty's feet' to catch 'some drops of your mercy to quench my sorrowful, panting heart', and offering to resign, but his letters were simply marked 'Not received'.

Elizabeth was barely functioning, despite pleas from her councillors to 'give yourself to your natural food and sleep to maintain your health'. Yet although her grief and remorse were genuine, they were as much for herself as for her cousin, for she very much feared that God would punish her for Mary's execution, and she was also concerned about what would become of her international reputation when news of this terrible deed spread. Her chief preoccupation was to exonerate herself from blame. Therefore, after the worst outpourings of her misery had dried up, she deliberately affected to appear as ravaged as ever by emotion and regret, hoping thereby that her enemies would say that one so moved 381.

by the death of the Queen of Scots could not possibly have ordered it.

And of course there had to be a scapegoat, for she had to convince her fellow monarchs that her councillors were the ones responsible, not her. She insisted that the warrant should not have been submitted to the Council without her express authorisation, although Davison had quite correctly interpreted her signature on the document as implying just that. But in order to convince James VI that she was not guilty of his mother's death, the Queen accused poor Davison of having acted with impropriety; she refused to heed his explanations, and he was arrested on 14 February, tried in the Star Chamber, and sentenced to a heavy fine and imprisonment in the Tower during the Queen's pleasure. Elizabeth had wanted him hanged, but Burghley persuaded her that such vengeance smacked of tyranny: she must not think 'that her prerogative is above the law'. Beale, who had carried the warrant, was demoted to a junior post in York.

But the world at large was not deceived. 'It is very fine for the Queen of England now to give out that it was done without her wish, the contrary being so clearly the case,' observed Philip II, whose confessor was sternly reminding him that it was his duty to avenge Mary's death.

As Elizabeth had feared, Catholic Europe did indeed revile her for what she had done, and that revulsion expressed itself in virulent pamphlets and tracts, condemning her as a heretic and a Jezebel, and calling down the judgement of God upon her. The Pope called for a new crusade against her, and urged Philip of Spain, now ostentatiously mourning Mary, to invade England at the earliest opportunity. Since it was believed that Mary had bequeathed him her claim to the English succession, he would be justified in doing so. But despite papal efforts to establish otherwise, it soon became apparent that Mary had never actually made a new will naming Philip as her successor. A few Catholics in England, including Jesuit priests, nevertheless persisted in regarding Philip's daughter, the Infanta Isabella, as the rightful Queen of England. The lack of any will did not overly concern Philip, who felt that Mary's execution was sufficient to justify his planned invasion and seizure of the English crown.

To James VI, her 'dear brother', Elizabeth wrote a letter of sympathy, describing his mother's execution as a 'miserable accident which, far contrary to my meaning, hath befallen. I beseech you, that as God and many more know how innocent I am in this case, so you will believe me, that if I had bid aught, I would have abided by it. If I had meant it, I would never lay it on others' shoulders.'