An Accidental Tragedy (58 page)

The party left Chartley on 21 September and passed the night at Burton. They then proceeded in easy stages of seven to fifteen miles and arrived at Fotheringhay on 25 September. The only approach to this grim castle was by a path called Perryho Lane and Mary took one look at Fotheringhay and said, ‘Perio! I am lost!’

Fotheringhay was a huge fortress in the unfamiliar flat Northamptonshire countryside surrounded by a double ditch, making access deliberately difficult: the exterior ditch was seventy-five yards across and the interior ditch stretched for sixty-six yards. The entrance to the castle itself was on the north side with a drawbridge and staircase leading to a vast courtyard with the Great Hall on the first floor. A chapel lay to the left, with a dining hall and tapestried staterooms, and the royal apartments were on the upper floors. It was a forbidding castle used solely as a state
prison, its sinister aspects being emphasised for Mary by her currently being the only inhabitant, apart from a mere five or six servants. It seemed the ideal place for a secret assassination, although Mary correctly guessed that since many of the other rooms were being prepared for habitation others were expected.

Mary could have been tried under a statute of Edward III – even though she was not an English citizen – which made it treason to conspire against the sovereign, execute war within the kingdom or communicate with the sovereign’s enemies. But it was decided that the Act of Association would suffice, since under this legislation anyone found guilty would have all claims to the English throne denied and could be lawfully sentenced to death. Since it was, in fact, a trial for treason, the rules applying to that charge were to be applied, and Mary would have no counsel nor could she call witnesses. The form of the trial was not explained to her in advance. Mary spoke and thought in French, had learned enough Scots for reasonable fluency, but still spoke and wrote English with difficulty. Armed thus with only her native wit and the knowledge that she was arguing for her life, she prepared to debate with the finest forensic brains in Tudor England.

On 1 October Paulet, armed no doubt with instructions from Burghley, asked Mary to confess her guilt, assuring her of Elizabeth’s mercy. Mary replied that she was aware of ‘no fault or offence for which I have to render account to anyone here below’. Mary could now be in no doubt that she was to be on trial for her life. Her plight increased when, on 12 October, Sir Walter Mildmay, Paulet and Edward Barker, a notary, gave her a letter from Elizabeth. It was one of the most savage letters ever written.

You have in various ways and manners attempted to take my life and to bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. I have never proceeded so harshly against you but have, on the contrary, protected and maintained you like myself. These treasons will be proved to you and all made manifest. Yet it is my will, that you answer the nobles and peers of the kingdom as if I were myself present. I
therefore require, charge, and command that you make answer for I have been well informed of your arrogance.

Act plainly and without reserve, and you will sooner be able to obtain favour of me.

Elizabeth R.

There cannot have been any doubt as to which verdict of the court would satisfy Elizabeth. Elizabeth also let it be known privately that she had made an offer to Mary that if she confessed, a royal pardon and confinement in comfort awaited her, but there is no evidence that such a letter ever existed.

The next day, Mary argued that she had never enjoyed the protection of the laws of England, under which she was being tried, and in the afternoon she met Burghley; Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor; and the Lord President. She told them she was no subject but would answer only before a full parliament or directly to Elizabeth herself. Since Mary was well aware that the commission might simply try her in absentia with the verdict a foregone conclusion, she cautioned them, ‘The theatre of the whole world is much wider than the kingdom of England.’

Mary denied that the Act of Association constituted legal grounds for her trial and asked for experts in law from Pavia or Poitiers to be brought. This request was ignored. She was reminded of Elizabeth’s letter but claimed that she could only remember the letter in snatches – ‘it stood not with her royal dignity to play the scrivener’. Mary was told that Elizabeth ‘would be much affected with joy if you are proved innocent’, but replied that she would not answer ‘to the judgement of mine adversaries . . . I will not submit myself . . . I am myself a Queen, the daughter of a King, a stranger and the true kinswoman of the Queen of England . . . As an absolute Queen I cannot submit to orders, nor can I submit to the laws of the land without injury to myself, the King my son, and all other princes.’

Burghley told Mary that Elizabeth had already protected her
from a trial for treason along with Norfolk and had ‘protected [her] from the fury of [her] own subjects’. Mary smiled. Hatton interceded, ‘If you be innocent you wrong your reputation in avoiding a trial. Lay aside the bootless privilege of royal dignity, which now can be of no use unto you, appear in judgement, and show your innocency.’ This argument weighed with her, and on 14 October Mary agreed to appear before the commission. In reality she had no option. Her attempt to include her international allies was no more than a feeble hope, but on 21 November Henri III wrote to his ambassador, de Courcelles, ‘Now I desire that you will excite the king of Scotland . . . to take up the defence and protection of his mother.’

The trial took place in a large room above the Great Hall, a cold and forbidding place that overwhelmed the hastily installed temporary furniture. At one end of the room was a dais with an empty chair of state under a cloth bearing Elizabeth’s arms. On backless benches on one side of the hall the Lord Chancellor Bromley, Burghley, nine earls and a viscount were seated. One of these earls was her previous gaoler, Shrewsbury, who had done everything he could to be excused, including offering to send his verdict of guilty before the trial took place. He was firmly reminded of his duty by Burghley. On a bench facing them were thirteen barons. Nearby were Hatton, Walsingham, Sadler, Mildmay and Paulet. Chief justices and lesser legal lights were scattered around. All of these had tables covered with documents. In the centre of all of these was a chair for Mary with a cushion for her feet. She had no table. She was to be placed at the foot of the royal dais in a position of maximum weakness, with all others seated around her in positions of threat.

Mary entered, supported by Melville and Bourgoing and attended by her surgeon, apothecary and three waiting women. The commissioners dutifully doffed their hats and bowed their heads as she made her painful way to her seat, declaring that she should have been seated on the royal chair under the cloth of state. As she took her seat the Lord Chancellor informed her that Elizabeth ‘not without great grief of mind’ advertised that ‘you
have conspired the destruction of her and of England and the subversion of religion’. Mary, still seated, answered with a statement not of her guilt or innocence, but of her position and attitude to the court.

I am an absolute queen, and will do nothing which will prejudice either mine own royal majesty, or other princes of my place and rank or my son. My mind is not yet dejected nor will I sink under my calamity . . . The laws and statutes of England are to me most unknown; I am destitute of counsellors, and who shall be my peers I am utterly ignorant. My papers and notes are taken from me, and no man dareth step forth as my advocate. I am clear of all crimes against the Queen. I have excited no man against her, and I am not to be charged but by mine own word or writing, which cannot be produced against me. Yet can I not deny but I have commended myself and my cause to foreign princes.

Mary then reiterated her personal sovereignty as a crowned queen and Elizabeth’s lack of help for her plight. This was simply ignored and the commission drove steadfastly ahead with direct accusations.

Gaudy, the royal sergeant-at-law, vividly robed in blue with a red hood, now described the Babington plot in detail, avowing ‘that she knew of it, approved it, assented unto it, promised her assistance, and showed the way and means’. This was crucial and Mary knew it. She could also guess that at least some of her correspondence would have been compromised and would also presume that some evidence against her would have been obtained under torture. However, she had no way of knowing how much detail was in Walsingham’s hands and she had been given no notice of the evidence that would be produced at the trial. Mary was certain that the commission would find her guilty and that parliament would sentence her to death, although she may have harboured some fragile hope that the sentence would
never be carried out. Therefore, since she now had nothing to lose, Mary had no hesitation in making the most extreme statements.

Opting for the blanket denial she had given to Paulet at Chartley, she denied knowing Babington, Ballard or anyone else. She ‘excited no man to commit any offence, and being shut up in prison, she could neither know nor hinder what they attempted’. She did admit that she fervently had wanted to gain her freedom, ‘a very natural wish’. Babington’s confession was read and Mary simply declared that many men wrote to her and ‘it could not thereby be gathered that she was privy to all their wicked counsels’. Then her letters from Babington were read and she denied she had ever written any to him. The response to this was immediate and her incriminating letter of 12 July 1585 was also read.

Now the court could connect Babington’s ‘six noble gentlemen’ who would ‘undertake the tragical execution’ or the ‘dispatch of the usurping competitor’ with Mary’s request to Babington to know how the ‘six gentlemen deliberate to proceed’ and when it ‘shall be time to set the gentlemen on work’, leading to her rescue and the restoration of the Catholic faith. Mary was staggered to find the depth of Walsingham’s penetration of her correspondence and realised that if the letter was accepted by the court as having been written by her – and she knew very well that their inclination would be strongly for acceptance – then her guilt was inevitable. She feared that things were being effected now by Walsingham ‘who, as she had heard, had practised against her life and her son’s’, to bring about her death.

Mary had to respond immediately, and her defence was simple. She told the court that while it was true that the letter in question was written in her ciphers, these ciphers had been stolen from her agents in France and the letter was a complete forgery. Mary, reasonably, asked to see the originals of the letters; ‘If my enemies possess them, why do they not produce them?’ Walsingham could only bite his lip at this. Mary went on to declare that she had not so much as thought of the destruction of
the queen, ‘And withal she shed plenty of tears.’ At this point Walsingham smiled and slowly rose to his feet. He replied that being ‘very careful for the safety of the Queen and realm, I have curiously searched out the practices against the same’. Mary said that spies could not be relied upon and burst into more tears. ‘I would never make shipwreck of my soul by conspiring the destruction of my dearest sister.’

This was the moment when Walsingham desperately needed the original minute, but lacking it he had to move to the evidence of Nau and Curle. They did not appear in person but their confessions were read out. Given the opportunity to question the pair, Mary might well have been able, by appealing to their loyalty, to gain some retraction of their testimony, but instead she was left with no option but to rise above it: ‘The majesty and safety of all princes falleth to the ground if they depend upon the writings and testimony of secretaries . . . If they have written anything which may be hurtful to the Queen [Elizabeth] they have written it altogether without my knowledge . . . sure I am that if they were here present, they would clear me of blame in this cause. And I, if my notes were to hand, could answer particularly to these things.’

On the next day she again protested against her situation and ‘saw herself barred from all hope of her liberty’ and hoped there might be another trial at which she would be allowed an advocate. She also noticed that the commissioners had all arrived in the chamber in boots and riding clothes, and presumed correctly that this would be the last day of the trial. Mary started by attacking her accusers. ‘The manner in which I am treated appears to me very strange. I find myself overwhelmed under the importunity of a crowd of advocates and lawyers, who appear more versed in the formality of petty courts of justice, in little towns, than in the investigation of questions such as the present. I demand that, as this assembly appears to have been summoned for my accusation, another shall be summoned in which I may enter freely and frankly, defending my rights and honour, to satisfy the desire I have of proving my innocence.’ Burghley said
that her protests would be noted and that the letters held by Walsingham were proof enough. Mary, with some forensic skill, pointed out that ‘the circumstances may be proved but never the fact’. Next, Burghley accused her of awarding her inheritance in England to Philip of Spain. Mary said it seemed ‘good to some’ that the crown should pass to a Catholic. He then told her that Morgan had sent Parry to murder the queen. There was no possibility that Mary could be linked to the intrigues of third parties without any evidence, and Mary leapt on him. ‘Ah! You are my adversary.’ Burghley responded, ‘Yea, I am adversary to Queen Elizabeth’s adversaries.’

Mary cut short the slanging match and asked to be heard in a full parliament or that she might speak in person with the queen. She then rose ‘with great confidence of countenance’ and pardoned the gathering for what they had done. The trial was over. She spoke privately to Walsingham ‘which seemed to cause him disquiet’ and turned to the now-standing assembly. ‘My lords and gentlemen, I place my cause in the hands of God.’ The commissioners managed not to say ‘amen’, and Mary started to leave the chamber. To disguise her need for a rest after only a few steps, she paused by the table of lawyers. ‘Gentlemen, you have shown little mercy in the exercise of your charge . . . the more so as I am one who has little knowledge of the laws of quibbling, but may God keep me from having to do with you all again.’ The lawyers recognised this as a royal joke and smiled. After she left the room the atmosphere lightened, and with much clearing of noble throats the commissioners mounted their waiting horses and departed from Fotheringhay. Walsingham wrote to Leicester, ‘we had proceeded presently to sentence, but we had a secret countermand’. This was the beginning of Elizabeth’s procrastination. Mary and her little court were left alone with Paulet and his armed guards in the vast castle of Fotheringhay.