His little rebellion was soon quelled. Sir Christopher Blount was wounded and captured; and very soon Essex and Southampton, with others, were in the Tower.

HE COULD NOT be anything but guilty. He was a traitor who had plotted against the Crown, who had tried to raise men against the Sovereign and planned her assassination in order to put another in her place. It was blatant treachery and there was no other name for it. Therefore there could be no other course than to find Essex, with Southampton and Christopher Blount, guilty. They were sentenced to death and again it was my bitter duty to sign the death warrants.

I decided to spare Southampton's life for I was sure he had been drawn into the conspiracy by Essex, and eventually he was condemned to life imprisonment. Christopher Blount was to suffer the death penalty.

I knew there were some who believed I would not sign Essex's death warrant. They remembered how I had hated signing that of Mary of Scotland. They believed that I was weak where my affections were concerned; they considered how many times I had forgiven Leicester. It was true, I was faithful in my affections, and had I not forgiven him time and time again?

But there was a difference. I had not loved Essex as I had loved Leicester. My love for Robert had been as real as life itself; for Essex it was but a fantasy. I had tried to believe I was young again, capable of arousing love and desire, and when that brash young man had burst into my chamber so unceremoniously he had destroyed a dream and with it himself.

On a cold February day Essex walked out of his prison in the Tower to his execution.

He looked very handsome in a cloak of black velvet over a satin suit and wearing a black hat. He mounted the scaffold calmly and bravely, although he had been less so after his sentence and had accused all manner of people, including his own sister, of drawing him into intrigue; and he had heaped reproaches on Sir Francis Bacon, whom he had believed to be his friend and who had acted as one of the prosecution's lawyers.

“Oh God be merciful to me, the most wretched creature on Earth,” he prayed.

He took off his hat and standing there beside the scaffold he addressed the assembly.

“My lords and you, my Christian brethren who are to be witnesses of this my just punishment, I confess to the glory of God that I am a most wretched sinner, and that my sins are more in number than the hairs of my head; that I have bestowed my youth in pride, lust, uncleanness, vainglory and divers other sins…

“Lord Jesus, forgive it us, and forgive it me, the most wretched of all… The Lord grant Her Majesty a prosperous reign and a long one, if it be His Will. Oh Lord, bless her and the nobles and ministers of the Church and State. And I beseech you and the world to have a charitable opinion of me for my intention upon Her Majesty, whose death upon my salvation and before God, I protest I never meant, nor violence to her person, yet I confess I have received an honorable trial and am justly condemned. And I desire all the world to forgive me, even as I do freely and from my heart forgive the world…”

When he had taken off his ruff and his gown, the executioner came forward and as was the custom asked his forgiveness.

“Thou art welcome,” he replied. “I forgive thee. Thou art the minister of justice.”

He took off his doublet and stood there in his scarlet waistcoat. Then he prayed for humility and patience.

Would to God he had cultivated those qualities in life. If he had done so, he would not have been standing where he was at that time.

He knelt on the straw and put his head on the block; and that was the end of my Lord Essex.

HE WAS DEAD, BUT I COULD NOT FORGET HIM. HIS HANDsome face appeared in my dreams and when I awoke I remembered that I should never see him again, and I was overcome with sadness.

They were all dying around me—all those whom I had loved and it seemed that I was outliving them all. How much longer? I wondered sometimes. I was sixty-eight years old. Not many lived so long. Surely my time must soon be at hand.

These thoughts occupied me very much in the quiet of the night, and I used to think: “What will happen when I am gone? Who will take my place? There must be no war. War is no good. England has known peace too long to appreciate its blessings.”

It would have to be her son. He was the natural heir. They had brought him up in Scotland as a Protestant, so there would be no difficulty about religion.

How strange! Mary Stuart's son, James the VI of Scotland and the first of England. I wondered what he would be like. The son of one of the most foolish of women and that oaf Darnley! If she had called me bastard—and many would secretly say that I was—at least I had had a great king for a father and a mother who must have been one of the most fascinating women in England, to make a king break with Rome for her sake. That had turned out well. It was better to be free of Rome; and the English, I was sure, would in the future, thank God for Queen Elizabeth.

Another of my friends fell ill that year. I was very fond of the Countess of Nottingham and immensely grateful for what her husband—Howard of Effingham—had done for his country at the time of the war with Spain. I visited her and as I sat with her it became clear to me that she had something on her mind.

Her hands were hot and feverish, her eyes wild. I said to her: “You must lie quietly. You need your breath, my dear.”

But she could not rest and when she said: “There is something I must tell you,” I was not surprised.

Then it came out. She had a terrible secret and she could not rest without my forgiveness for she knew that she was about to die.

I said she must tell me what was troubling her and relieve her mind. It was hard for me to believe that she had ever done me any harm.

She said: “It was the ring…”

I bent closer to her. “What ring?” I prompted.

“It… was to have been given to you. Sir Robert Carey sent a messenger with it…to give it to my sister when she was in attendance on you.”

She hesitated again and I said: “Yes, yes, your sister, my dear Lady Scrope.”

She closed her eyes. “He…he brought the ring to me… thinking I was my sister… and I took it… and when I showed it to my husband, he said I must not give it to you… because for the good of England he must die.”

“Who? Who must die?”

“The Earl of Essex,” she said.

Then I began to understand, and I felt myself go cold with fear of what was to come.

“The Earl told Sir Robert Carey that when you received… the ring… you would forgive him… you would save his life. He had…to get the ring to you.”

“Oh, God's Holy Son,” I murmured.

“Your Majesty, forgive me. My husband forbade me to bring the ring to you. He said Essex would always make trouble. He was preparing to bring revolution to the country…He was as dangerous as Mary Stuart had been in her time. More so… because the people liked him… and he was so reckless…he would attempt the wildest adventures…”

“So you kept the ring, and I did not know that he was sending to me for help.”

She nodded her head. “I have left instructions that the ring be sent to Your Majesty when I am gone. But seeing you there…so kind to me… so good…I had to confess. It has been on my conscience…I could not die without telling Your Majesty and begging you to forgive me.”

I sat there quite numb with emotion. I had always known that had he shown some spark of humility, if he had asked for forgiveness, I should never have signed that death warrant. I had prayed that he would make some sign, give me a way out. Once I had refused to sign it and then delayed for days. One sign from him would have made the difference. But I had believed he had continued in obstinate rebelliousness. And all the time…he had sent the ring. He had lain in the Tower waiting for a response from me—and none had come. He would have died believing that I had broken my promise to come to his aid if ever he should call me through the ring.