She added: ‘But use it as secretly as may be.’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
It was all very well for Davison to say yes, your majesty, Ned thought, but what on earth did she mean by telling him to use the document secretly? He decided not to ask the question.
She turned to him. ‘Tell Walsingham what I’ve done.’ Sarcastically she added: ‘He will be so relieved it will probably kill him.’
Ned said: ‘He’s not that ill, thank God.’
‘Tell him the execution must be done inside Fotheringhay, not on the castle green – not publicly.’
‘Very well.’
A musing mood seemed to come over the queen. ‘If only some loyal friend would deal the blow covertly,’ she said quietly, not looking at either man. ‘The ambassadors of France and Scotland would not blame me for that.’
Ned was shocked. She was proposing murder. He immediately resolved to have nothing to do with such a plan, not even by mentioning it to others. It would be too easy for a queen to deny she had made any such suggestion and prove the point by having the killer hanged.
She looked directly at Ned. Seeming to sense his resistance, she turned her gaze on Davison. He, too, said nothing. She sighed and said: ‘Write to Sir Amias at Fotheringhay. Say that the queen is sorry he has not found some way to shorten the life of Mary Stuart, considering the great peril Elizabeth is subject to every hour of the day.’
This was ruthless even by Elizabeth’s standards. ‘Shorten the life’ was hardly even a euphemism. But Ned knew Paulet better. He was a harsh jailer, but the rigid morality that led him to treat his prisoner severely would also hold him back from killing her. He would not be able to convince himself that murder was God’s will. He would refuse Elizabeth’s request – and she would probably punish him for that. She had little patience with men who did not obey her.
She dismissed Davison and Ned.
Outside in the waiting room, Ned spoke quietly to Davison. ‘When the warrant has been sealed, I suggest you take it to Lord Burghley. He will probably call an emergency meeting of the Privy Council. I’m certain they’ll vote to send the warrant to Fotheringhay without further consulting Queen Elizabeth. Everyone wants this done as soon as possible.’
‘What will you do?’ said Davison.
‘Me?’ said Ned. ‘I’m going to hire an executioner.’
*
THE ONLY MEMBERof Mary Stuart’s little court who was not crying was Mary herself.
The women sat around her bed all night. No one slept. From the great hall they could hear the banging of carpenters, who were undoubtedly building some kind of scaffold. Outside Mary’s cramped suite of rooms, heavy boots marched up and down the passage all night: the nervous Paulet feared a rescue attempt and had posted a strong guard.
Mary got up at six o’clock. It was still dark. Alison dressed her by candlelight. Mary chose a dark red petticoat and a red satin bodice with a low neck. She added a black satin skirt and an overmantle of the same fabric with gold embroidery and sleeves slashed to show a purple lining. She had a fur collar to combat the chill of bleak Fotheringhay. Alison helped her don a white headdress with a long lace veil that fell down her back to the ground. It reminded Alison of the gorgeous train of blue-grey velvet she had carried at Mary’s wedding in Paris, so many sad years ago.
Then Mary went alone into the little oratory to pray. Alison and the others stayed outside. Dawn broke as they waited. Alison looked out of a window and saw that it was going to be a fine, sunny day. Somehow that trivial detail made her angry.
The clock struck eight, and soon afterwards there was a loud and insistent knocking at the door of Mary’s quarters. A man’s voice called out: ‘The lords are waiting for the queen!’
Until this moment Alison had not really believed that Mary would be killed. She had imagined it might all be a sham, a play put on by Paulet for some spiteful purpose; or by Elizabeth, who would issue a last-minute reprieve. She recalled that William Appletree, who had shot at Elizabeth while she was on a barge on the Thames river, had been dramatically reprieved as he stood on the scaffold. But if the lords were here to witness the execution, it must be real. Her heart seemed to turn into a lead weight in her chest, and her legs felt weak. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes and fall asleep for ever.
But she had to look after her queen.
She tapped on the door of the chapel and looked inside. Mary was on her knees in front of the altar, holding her Latin prayer book. ‘Give me a moment longer, to finish my prayers,’ she said.
Alison passed this message through the closed door, but the men outside were in no mood for concessions. The door was flung open, and the sheriff walked in. ‘I hope she won’t make us drag her there,’ he said in a voice tinted with panic, and Alison sensed, in a moment of compassion that surprised her, that he, too, was distressed.
He opened the chapel door without knocking. Mary rose to her feet immediately. She was pale but calm, and Alison – who knew her well – felt reassured, at that moment, that the queen would maintain her regal bearing throughout the ordeal to come. Alison was relieved: she would have hated to see Mary lose her dignity as well as her life.
‘Follow me,’ said the sheriff.
Mary turned back momentarily and took an ivory crucifix from its hook on the wall over the altar. With the cross pressed to her heavy bosom and the prayer book in her other hand, she walked behind the sheriff, and Alison followed.
Mary was inches taller than the sheriff. Illness and confinement had made her portly and round-shouldered, but Alison saw, with grieving pride, that she made a point of walking upright, her face proud, her steps unfaltering.
In the little antechamber outside the hall they were stopped. ‘The queen goes alone from here,’ said the sheriff.
