The Queen of Scots: Shakespeare’s Imagined Play

Shakespeare:

Enter Shakespeare himself, quill in hand, addressing the audience directly. A hush falls across the hall.

Shakespeare
Good gentles all, whose ears and hearts are kind,
I pray you lend your patience to a tale
Of crown and heart, of passion’s reckless fire,
That burneth brighter than the frost of law.

Here stands a queen—a woman first, then crown’d—
Who loved too boldly, and in loving fell.
Not by the sword alone was she undone,
But by the ink of letters from her hand,
Turn’d treason by the mouths of prudent men.

Her cousin sits in judgment, cold yet just,
And mercy, frozen, shatters at the touch.
The scaffold waits, its timber new with fear,
While whispers of her name outlive the axe.

Think not this play a mirror of one age:
Its glass reflects in every sovereign’s face,
And in the breast of each that dares to love.
For crowns are brittle, yet desire is strong;
And when the iron meets the tender flame,
The world shall watch, and judgment write the end.

Here shall you see a woman both of fire
And flesh, no statue cut from marble cold,
But one that laughs, that weeps, that dares, that bleeds.
Her jester mocks, her jailer sighs, her lords
Do weigh her kisses dearer than her laws.
Her cousin, calm, condemns with reason’s frost;
Her lover flames, and fans her toward the pit.

If in her fall you find your pity stirred,
Let pity teach you what the crown conceals:
That love, though scorned, may rise more true in death
Than pomp that clatters hollow in its chair.

So judge her kindly, not for what she lost,
But for the courage that she dared to keep.
Crowns break—but courage evermore endures.

He bows slightly, the Chorus veiled behind him. The placard glimmers: “THIS WOMAN WILL DIE.” The play begins.

Act I — The Crown and the Heart

Scene I — The Chorus and the Shadow of Fate

A veiled Chorus steps into dim light. A placard above reads faintly: “This woman will die.”

Chorus
Attend, ye hearts, and mark the woven thread,
A crown bound fast with passion’s crimson cord.
The Queen of Scots shall love, and by that love
Her throne shall tremble, and her neck shall fall.
Not by sword alone, nor hate, nor stranger’s hand,
But by the letters of her heart undone.
Crowns break, but courage evermore endures.

The Chorus withdraws. Darkness fades into Mary’s chamber.

Scene II — Whispers in the Queen’s Chamber

Candles glow. Mary reads a letter in secret. Her ladies bustle in, gossiping. Courtiers enter pompously; the Fool follows with mocking grace.

Mary (reading softly)
“My queen, my star, my very breath of night…
I burn until thy name is on my tongue.”
(presses the letter to her lips, then hides it)

Lady Agnes
The frost bites harder than the court’s cold smile.
Have you heard? Lord Morton swore his cloak
Was richer than the king of France’s sheets!

Lady Margaret
Aye, and tripped upon its train,
Sprawled like a goose before the court.

Lord Darnall (entering, bowing too low)
Most gracious sovereign, mirror of all grace,
In whom the virtues marry like the stars—

Fool (mocking, with a cracked spoon)
And I, poor fool, am left to wed the moon!
Behold my bride—(he polishes the spoon)—
A silver axe to cut all compliments.

The ladies laugh. Torchlight casts a long shadow like a blade across the floor. The laughter falters.

Mary (aside)
That shadow speaks more plainly than their tongues.

Scene III — Counsel Divided

Lords sit in heated debate. Mary presides, grave but youthful.

Lord Hamilton
The English queen doth watch with hungry eyes.
One false word, one careless hand—our crown
Is snatched like fruit that ripens near the fence.

Lord Morton
And yet, your Grace, the people murmur loud.
They want for bread; their patience wears as thin
As winter reeds upon the frozen loch.

Lord Bothwell
Talk not of bread, but of a stronger hand!
A queen that yields her heart to private fire
Will leave her throne to ashes in the wind.

Fool
Better ashes than hunger’s hollow bellies.
Feed them laughter, feed them lies—
I’ve seen men chew on both and call it supper.

Some chuckle despite themselves. Mary rises, ending the quarrel.

Mary
My lords, this kingdom is no tavern floor,
Where each man spills his pride like sour wine.
I shall be just, though justice starve the court.
And if my heart be fire, let it burn
To warm the poor before it warms myself.

Scene IV — The Queen’s Confession to the Night

Mary lingers after all depart. She draws forth the hidden letter. Silence weighs.

Mary (soliloquy)
O cruel division, sharper than the axe,
That cleaves the heart between the throne and love.
Am I not flesh? Am I not woman too,
Whose blood is stirred by whispers in the dark?
Yet in these walls they see but majesty,
A crown of iron disguised in burnished gold.
My lover’s hand is softer than their oaths,
His kiss more binding than their hollow vows.
Shall I be queen alone, a marble saint,
Or live as woman, crowned by passion’s flame?
If love be treason, let me wear it proud—
I’ll stand a traitor, sovereign of my soul.

She presses the letter to her breast. The stage darkens; the placard still glimmers faintly.

[End of Act I]

Act II — The Fire of Passion

Scene I — Moonlight in the Broken Chapel

A ruined chapel: saints worn thin by time; moonlight falls through broken glass like a silver ladder. A single candle. Mary enters cloaked; her lover steps from shadow.

Mary
Thy footfall comes like mercy upon stone.

Lover
And thine like music taught to breathe in frost.

Mary
The world hath eyes in every knotted beam.
Yet I am bold tonight—my fear stands guard
Without the door and dares not enter in.

Lover (taking her hands)
If fear be captain, love shall mutiny.
These walls have knelt to older prayers than ours;
They will not betray us.

Mary
Walls are honest; men are not.
Speak softly—let our vows be breath, not noise.

Lover
Then hear: I love thee not as courtiers love—
With honeyed tongues and moth-eaten oaths—
But with a soldier’s oath, edged true with steel.
Yet love alone is beggar in a court.
Be queen entire: let passion arm thy rule.
Elizabeth writes winter with her quill;
Write summer with thy heart and take the field.

Mary (half-smiling, half-warned)
Ambition in thy mouth sounds musical.
And yet, sweet friend, crowns cut the brow that wears them.
I would not spill the kingdom for a kiss.

Lover
Then let the kiss become the kingdom’s seal.
Two flames make light enough to blind the wolf.

Mary (yielding, fierce whisper)
So be it—let us blaze and dare the night.

They embrace. Footsteps far away; a draft snuffs the candle, then it gutters back.

Mary
Part now—too long, and love becomes a torch
Held up for archers.

Lover (kissing her hand)
Part—till the sun forgets to rise.

He goes. Mary watches the door darken, then presses her fingers to her lips and exits.

Scene II — Laughter in the Corridors

Morning. A corridor buzzing. Ladies and lords bustle with ribbons, parchments, and pride. The Fool lounges upon a coffer, polishing his cracked spoon like a scepter.

Lady Agnes
He bowed so low his hat ate up his nose.

Lady Margaret
A bow that deep is treason to the spine.

Lord Morton
My jerkin came from Genoa, stitched with—(he fumbles) with—
Some foreign saintly thread I cannot name.

Fool
Saint Threadbare, patron of loud pockets.
(he flourishes the spoon)
Behold, my dukedom: silver and reflection.
A man may shave his conscience in its face.

Lord Bothwell (snorting)
Jester, thy wit is all blade and no handle.

Fool
Then handle me not, my lord; I am sharp with famine.
We dine on speeches and grow fat on air.

Lady Agnes (conspiratorial)
Hast heard? The queen walks later than the sun,
And wakes with stars still tangled in her hair.

Fool (singing a snap of doggerel)
If love be bread, then bake it hot;
If love be tax, then pay it not;
If love be law, then break the lot—
But mind the headsman’s whetted thought.

Laughter; a brief hush as a halberdier passes with an axe wrapped in cloth.

Lord Morton (forcing cheer)
A carpenter’s tool—repairs, no doubt.

Fool (aside)
Aye, it mends the stubborn necks of arguments.

Scene III — Letters in Flight

A small table in Mary’s chamber; another in the lover’s lodging. The stage splits. As one writes, the other reads; their lines braid. A discreet Servant glides between worlds with packets.

Mary (writing)
“My heart, my sovereign of the midnight hour,
I am besieged by counsel thin as smoke.
They warn me back from joy as from a cliff—
But joy hath taught me wings.”

Lover (reading, then writing)
“Your wings shall bear a standard into war.
Name me thy captain, and I’ll set our seal
Upon a world that trembles to be ours.”

Mary (reading, a tremor of delight; writing)
“Not war, my love—yet let my reign be brave.
I would be true as bleeding cannot be.
If truth be scandal, let the scandal kneel.”

Lover (writing faster)
“Then truth shall arm us both. Elizabeth
Would starve a kingdom with her prudent hand;
We’ll feast the poor with boldness and with bread.”

The Servant hovers, hesitates, palms damp, then slips the letters under cloak. Across the stage, a shadowed Clerk watches from a door-crease.

Mary (sealing with a kiss)
Go swift—take not the corridors that talk.

Servant (low)
I know the quiet stair, your Grace.

He exits. The Clerk melts away in the opposite direction.

Scene IV — The Queen’s Garland of Summer

Evening. A small fire. The room seems larger with no one in it. Mary stands before a mirror, her letter to her heart now answered and hidden again.

Mary
I thought a queen was forged all out of law,
Hammer’d by duty, riveted by fear;
But love, like water, finds the smallest seam
And enters. O it makes a jewel blaze
In iron!—and the iron gentler seems.
They call me weather—fickle, warm, unwise.
Yet what is wisdom, if it freeze the blood?
If crowns be wreaths of winter, let mine melt.
I’ll wear a summer garland for my soul.
Let rumor gnaw—its teeth are milk and dust.
This heart that dares shall tutor kings in light.
Elizabeth may govern like a clock;
I’ll govern like a dawn, and wake men singing.

She takes up a simple ribbon, ties her hair back with an almost girlish firmness, and smiles at her reflection as if daring fate to answer.

Scene V — Elizabeth’s Frosted Reply

The council chamber. Lords gathered. A Royal Secretary holds a sealed parchment bearing England’s arms. The Fool slouches at a pillar.

Secretary
From Elizabeth Regina to our sovereign neighbor of Scotland,
To be read with courtesy and weighed with care.

Mary (composed)
Proceed.

Secretary (reading, clean and formal)
“Cousin—
A queen is debtor to her people first,
To passion never. Passion is a guest,
Welcome at feast, but banish’d from the council.
We hear such whispers as would blush a throne—
That letters walk where laws are wont to ride,
And counsel sleeps where vigilance should wake.
I charge thee—guard thy name as thou thy gates,
For fame once spill’d is wine no art may cork.
We hold thee still our dear and royal kin;
Yet kinship shakes when crowns stand brink to brink.
If thou requirest aid, send word; we answer.
If thou requirest warning, read this twice.
—Elizabeth R.”

Silence gathers, dignified and chill.

Lord Hamilton (softly)
Her words are knives wrapt up in courtesy.

Lord Morton
She offers help with one hand, weights the other.

Lord Bothwell
She plays at thunder with a paper sky.

Fool
And yet men drown in paper seas, my lord.

Mary (measured, proud)
We thank our cousin for her tender frost.
I’ll answer her with summer, not with snow.
Read it again tomorrow when we wake—
And see if dawn make kinder sense of it.

Lord Morton (aside to Bothwell)
To dawn belongs the scaffold’s longest shadow.

Fool (catching it, sings under breath)
Sharpen, sharpen, honest steel,
Cut the wages, cut the meal;
If a queen must learn to kneel,
Pay the headsman—strike the deal.

Mary (turning, quick)
Whence came that song?

Fool (bowing)
From winter’s pocket, madam.
I spend it only when the wind grows loud.

Mary
Spend silence then. My lords, withdraw a while.
I’ll frame an answer fit for cousin’s glass—
That shows her calm, and shows me not a storm.

The lords depart in murmurs. The Secretary bows and follows. The Fool lingers a pace.

Mary
Well, friend?

Fool
A queen may govern like a dawn, you said.
Dawn is a sword: it kills the night by degrees.
Beware the men who love degrees too much—
They’ll kill by inches, smiling all the while.

Mary (a wry smile)
Thy cautions breed as rabbits do, good fool.
Yet some are welcome. Keep me from the dark.

Fool (gentle)
I’ll keep a candle; keep thy letters close.

He slips away. Mary stands alone with the English letter in hand; she folds it neatly, lays it beside her own, and places both within a little coffer. She sets her palm atop it, as if swearing fealty to two contrary stars. Lights dim.

[End of Act II]

Act III — Betrayal and Exposure

Scene I — Vanities of the Court

A bright hall in Edinburgh Castle. Courtiers bicker while servants bustle with platters. The Fool lounges on a stool, plucking a lute with two missing strings.

Lord Morton
The queen delays her council yet again.
Is governance a lute to be tuned at whim?

Lord Bothwell
You speak of lutes? Then pluck your tongue less sharp.
Her Majesty shall govern as she please.

Lady Agnes
A gown of Spanish silk arrived today—
More suited, I thought, for a funeral than a feast.

Lady Margaret (giggling)
And yet she wore it laughing. Strange indeed!

Fool (strumming sourly)
Silk for a laugh, sackcloth for a cry,
Bread for a lie, and smoke for a sigh.

Lord Morton (snorting)
Your couplets mock too freely, fool.

Fool
Then bind my tongue and pay me twice for silence.

Laughter breaks out, uneasy. Suddenly the Clerk enters, shadowed, carrying a folded letter.

Clerk (aside to Morton)
My lord, a bird flew crooked from her cage.
Its feathers bear a name writ dangerous.

Morton (eyeing the letter)
Then let us clip it neat. Bring it within.

The courtiers still laugh, but the mirth is thinner now.

Scene II — The Duel of Queens

A chamber with two thrones, one vacant. A symbolic staging: Mary on her chair, and Elizabeth enters, distant, attended by envoys. Their words cross like drawn blades.

Elizabeth
Cousin, your crown sits tilted by a hand
That is not thine. The world hath ears; it hears
A lover’s breath more loudly than thy law.

Mary (flaring)
And thou, Elizabeth, thou frozen star,
Dost judge a fire as though it were thy own.
Hast thou not felt a pulse beneath thy skin?
Or art thou marble wholly, not a maid?

Elizabeth (cold)
I am a queen, and queens are marble when
Their kingdoms lean against them.
Love hath its place,
But not where treason takes its bread and bed.

Mary (rising)
Call love a crime, and thou indict’st the world!
Better a heart that dares too much of truth
Than one that hides its hunger under crowns.

Elizabeth (turning away)
Then guard thy hunger well, for wolves draw near.

She exits with envoys. Mary sinks back, trembling between rage and fear.

Scene III — The Letters Unsealed

Mary’s chamber. Night. The Servant slips in with letters under cloak, but the Clerk steps from shadow and seizes them.

Servant (struggling)
These are for her Majesty’s own hand—release!

Clerk
So treason always cries. (He tears the seal.)
Words soft as down may hide a dagger’s point.

Mary (entering suddenly)
What theft is this? By what authority?

Morton (entering behind her)
By Rome’s old sin: ambition dressed as love.
These letters, madam, are your heart made ink,
And ink may drown a kingdom more than blood.

Mary (snatching at them)
They are my soul—give back what is not thine!

Morton (holding high)
Your soul, my queen, shall be our evidence.

He exits with the Clerk. Mary stands stricken, her hands empty.

Scene IV — The Fool’s Axe-Song

The courtyard. Soldiers gather around a grindstone. The Fool strums his lute, singing darkly. Laughter ripples, then falters.

Fool (singing)
Sharpen, sharpen, honest steel,
Cut the wages, cut the meal;
If a queen must learn to kneel,
Pay the headsman—strike the deal.

First Soldier (laughing)
Sing it again! ’Tis a tune for my belly.

Second Soldier
Aye, but mark the words—
The axe he sings is none of ours, but hers.

Laughter dies into silence. The Fool lowers his lute, eyes sad but unrepentant.

Fool (quietly)
The song is true, though the laughter be false.

Blackout.

Scene V — The Queen’s Fury Unbound

The council chamber. Nobles present the intercepted letters as evidence. Mary storms in, eyes blazing.

Morton
Here stands the proof: her hand, her seal, her heart.
The queen is prisoner of her own desire.

Mary (snatching the letters, tearing one)
Then so am I both prisoner and queen!
You read of kisses—aye, and call it treason.
You read of trust—and call it war.
Was there no crime in famine at your gates,
No crime in bribes that filled your purses full,
But love alone must wear the scaffold’s chain?

Bothwell (aside, troubled)
Her fire burns too wild—it scorches even friends.

Mary (to the lords, furious)
I curse your reason, colder than the grave!
I curse your caution, crueler than the sword!
May your own beds betray you as you sleep,
May your own letters rise and hang you high!

She collapses into her chair, weeping and raging together. The nobles retreat, shaken. Only the Fool dares approach.

Fool
My queen, thy wrath is taller than the walls,
Yet wrath alone is ladder to the noose.

Mary (snapping, then softening)
Then let me climb it, fool. Better a noose
Than silence.

Fool (sad smile)
Silence waits regardless.

The torchlight dims, throwing long shadows shaped like axes across the chamber. Curtain falls.

Act IV — The Trial

Scene I — The Stage of Justice

A long hall transformed into a tribunal. Torches flare. A placard is raised: “THIS TRIAL IS THEATRE.” Judges file in, stiff as puppets; Lords whisper from the shadows. The Chorus passes briefly, unseen by others.

Chorus (to audience)
Behold the stage within a stage:
Where law is parchment, and verdict ink
Before the quill is dipped.
Watch well the actors—
Their lines are writ before their mouths are open.

The Chorus withdraws. Mary is brought in, veiled but unbowed.

Scene II — Lines Fed to the Bench

Chief Judge
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, thou standest charged
With treason, consort with thy country’s foes,
And plotting by the letters of thy hand
To stir rebellion and unseat thy kin.

Lord Morton (aside, feeding a paper)
Read this, my lord—it savors best of guilt.

Chief Judge (reading, stumbling slightly)
“A kiss is kingdom greater than a crown…
Love rules where iron falters.” Thus it stands.

Mary (laughing bitterly)
Then burn me for a woman, not a traitor!
If passion be a crime, then hang the world—
For none are guiltless save the coldest stones.

Scene III — A Queen’s Defence

She steps forward, throwing back her veil. The audience sees both fury and trembling humanity.

Mary
Lords, judges, watchers—ye who mouth the law,
Know this: I wrote no line against my realm.
I wrote of love, that ancient rebel king
Who crowns more hearts than kings with iron do.
If ink condemn me, let the gallows swing;
Yet let the truth be read with equal eyes.

She falters, voice softer.

At night I prayed for mercy—not from men,
But from the silence that hath filled God’s ear.
When none replied, I turned to mortal hand,
And sought a comfort where the law forbids.
Is that my treason? Then I am content
To wear the title, for I wear it true.

Lord Bothwell (aside)
She speaks as fire, yet in her eyes I see
The ash of doubt. Her fear is close as breath.

Scene IV — Elizabeth’s Winter Edict

A Royal Secretary enters, bearing Elizabeth’s decree. He reads with crisp diction.

Secretary
“Mary, our cousin—
A queen is not a vessel for desire,
But steward of the people’s fragile trust.
To falter in that trust is treason plain,
For treason need not brandish sword nor lance;
It thrives where weakness opens up a breach.
Thus mercy here would breed a greater death,
For every drop of pity sows a war.
We grieve, yet we condemn.”

Mary (with bitter pride)
Cold cousin—thou art winter in a crown.
Yet winter feeds the seed that spring must break.
Judge me as thou wilt—my name shall live
Not for thy frost, but for the flame I bore.

Scene V — The Jailer’s Compassion

A Jailer steps forward, hesitant, cap in hand.

Jailer
Your Grace, I keep the keys, yet not my tongue.
I’ve watched you pace the stones these many nights.
My daughter learned to read—by candle, slow—
And asks me why the world is harsh to queens.
I tell her—queens are mortal as the rest.
Forgive my boldness; I pray you sleep in peace.

Mary (softened)
What is thy daughter’s name?

Jailer
Anne, my lady.

Mary
Then tell Anne this: that Mary of the Scots
Died not for crowns, but for her heart’s own truth.
Let her remember queens are women too,
And women may be braver than their chains.

The Jailer bows low, eyes wet, and withdraws.

Scene VI — Solitude Before the Verdict

The hall empties. Guards keep distance. Mary stands center, a single torch lighting her face.

Mary (soliloquy)
So now it comes—the hour without disguise.
What is a queen, when all her robes are stripped?
A woman, flesh and weary, as I am.
Three nights I prayed, and silence was my answer.
Perhaps God sleeps; perhaps He waits to judge
When thrones are dust and crowns but rusted rings.
Yet still—I loved. I loved as women do:
With folly, fire, and with a reckless trust.
Shall I repent? Nay. Love was worth the axe.
For in his arms I found myself more whole
Than in the hollow bowing of ten lords.
Strike when you must. My heart is braced to break.
But know—though law may sever bone from breath,
It cannot chain the courage of a soul.

She kneels briefly, rises with dignity. A placard is raised silently: “SENTENCE PASSED.”

Scene VII — Sentence of the Axe

Chief Judge
The court hath weighed, though mercy’s weight was slight.
Mary Stuart, thou art condemned to die.

Mary (steady)
So be it. Death shall crown me where I stand.

Fool (aside, hushed)
And crowns, once cracked, may shine more bright in death
Than polished gold in life.

The torchlight dims; only the placard glows as the curtain falls.

Act V — The Scaffold

Scene I — The Queen Adorns for Death

A gray dawn leaks through narrow slits. A low brazier. Mary’s veil and gown laid with careful hands. Lady Agnes and Lady Margaret attend; the Jailer waits by the door, eyes lowered. A little coffer sits open with a child’s ribbon inside.

Mary
The light comes pinched—like a miser counting breaths.
(tries the veil)
Not so tight, good heart; I would not faint for fashion.

Lady Agnes (fixing gently)
Your hair lies fair, my queen.

Mary (smiling)
It lies as it hath always lied—
Proud when I would be humble, humble when I would be proud.
(hand on the coffer)
Bring me the ribbon. ’Twas mine at seven years.

Lady Margaret (passing it)
Shall I tie it, madam?

Mary
I’ll tie it myself.
Hands remember truths the tongue forgets.
(tries the knot; it slips)
Ah—my fingers argue with the morning.
There. A child’s knot to hold a woman’s hour.

Jailer (softly)
Will you take broth, Your Grace? It keeps the knees from tremble.

Mary
I’ll take a crust—no more.
If heaven feasts to-day, I’ll not arrive too full.

Lady Agnes (wistful)
Would I could bear this hour for thee.

Mary
Thou hast borne years for me—
laughter, listening, stitches upon stitches.
Keep those accounts; I’ll settle mine above.

She takes the ribbon, rubs it between finger and thumb as if warming a memory.

Mary
When I was small, I dream’d of crowns as toys.
They fit; I grew; they cut.
(to the Jailer)
Friend, keep the coffer for thy Anne.
Let her learn that queens keep keepsakes, not only laws.

Jailer (near tears)
I shall, my lady. She will read this day in gentler ink.

A drum beats faintly outside.

Mary (straightens, serene)
Hark—time knocks.
Help me to the gown.
Let me walk tidy to the end.

Scene II — The Song of Wages

The outer yard. A scaffold of new timber; an axe glints upon the block. Soldiers stamp for warmth. A Headsman tests the edge. The Fool stands aside, hat in hand. A Guard with a rough tenor strums a battered cittern.

Guard (singing, jaunty at first)
Fetch me a penny to whet the steel,
Wages for winter and boots for the heel;
If justice be heavy, who bears the load?
A poor man’s shoulder and a public road.

First Soldier (laughing, clapping time)
Ha! Sing it louder—let the lords hear truth in measure.

Guard (a second verse, darker)
Sharpen, sharpen, honest blade,
Cut the tax and cut the trade;
If crowns must settle every score,
Count it in heads—and one head more.

Some laugh; others hush as the words bite. The Fool lifts a hand; the Guard falters, then finishes softer.

Guard (final couplet, uneasy)
Bread for the strong and prayers for the weak—
Pay me my wage; I’ll not dare speak.

Fool (quietly to the Guard)
Keep thy wage—
but keep thy voice, too, when the wind is kinder.

Headsman (testing the edge, to himself)
A clean bite, or all is sin.

Drums roll. The murmuring crowd shifts like a winter sea.

Scene III — Mary’s Last Oration

Mary enters with measured step, attended by Lady Agnes and Lady Margaret, the Jailer behind. She pauses at the foot of the scaffold, looks to the sky as if greeting an old room, then ascends. The Chorus stands far upstage, veiled; the placard is dim: “CROWNS BREAK, BUT COURAGE ENDURES.”

Mary (to the crowd)
Good people,
I have no coin to pay your tears,
Nor wish to buy your pity with my death.
I come as woman first, and queen thereafter—
And both are mortal.
If I have loved too boldly, count it mine;
If I have ruled too softly, count it yours;
For kings and peoples fashion one another.

(to the soldiers)
You that keep order with your honest frost,
Be gentle to the hungry and the loud;
A belly empty breeds a louder treason
Than any letter ever wrote.

(to the lords)
You that have weighed me out on silver tongues—
Take back your scales.
They measure wind, not worth.
Your caution was a cloak against the rain;
It kept you dry, and left the poor to drown.

(softening)
Yet I forgive you.
Not from a saintliness I do not own,
But from the knowledge that we all are driven—
By fear, by need, by rumors that wear crowns
Until the mirror lies.

(to the sky, half-smiling)
And Thou—if Thou art wakeful, look on me.
I bring no argument but this small truth:
I loved, and in that love I knew myself
More than in any pageant of a court.
If that be fault, then make of fault my pardon.

Lady Margaret (weeping)
Madam—your veil—

Mary
Nay, leave my face. Let winter see me plainly.

Fool (calling softly)
Good night, sweet flame. Burn clear and quick.

Mary (turning to him)
Remember laughter kindly, friend;
It warms the dead as well as living.

She steps to the block, touches it as if testing the grain, then turns once more to the crowd.

Mary
I ask no trumpet, no muffled drum—
Only that the stroke be clean,
And that my soul may outsing the steel.

Scene IV — The Blow of Silence

The Headsman approaches. Mary kneels, arranging her gown with precise modesty. Lady Agnes ties the ribbon one last time; Mary squeezes her hand.

Mary (to Lady Agnes, low)
Thou hast been wind at my back.
Now be wall to my women when I am gone.

Lady Agnes
I shall, my queen.

Headsman (hoarse)
Forgive me, madam. ’Tis my office.

Mary (serene)
Do thy office well, and heaven bless thy bread.

She lays her neck upon the block. A drumbeat counts three. The Headsman lifts the axe. A bird crosses the pale strip of sky.

Chorus (almost a whisper, to the audience)
Now witness how a breath becomes a law,
How silence writes the final proclamation.

The axe falls. A heavy thud. The drum stops. A long, human stillness.

The Headsman steps back, shaking. The Guard lowers the cittern; a single string twangs and dies. The Jailer bows his head. Lady Agnes covers Mary with the veil.

Fool (barely audible)
Good night, plain queen.

Scene V — The Chorus of Ashes

The Chorus steps forward; the crowd recedes into dim shapes. The placard brightens: “CROWNS BREAK, BUT COURAGE ENDURES.” The Fool stands at the edge, holding his cracked spoon; beside it lies the true axe.

Chorus
What learned ye, watchers of a winter stage?
That power needs not fury to be cruel;
That law may wear a mask and call it face;
That women, daring love, are made the text
Where prudent hands inscribe their cautions.

She loved—and for that love she paid in full.
Call it folly, call it faith—
It crowns her now with brighter iron.
And ye that judge her, judge yourselves as well:
What letters would betray your hidden heart?
What scaffold waits the truth you dare not speak?

Fool (stepping forward, to the people)
I kept a jest to warm you—but not now.
Take this instead:
When kings grow marble and the poor grow thin,
Let not your laughter sharpen other men’s axes.
Keep it for mending, not for cutting throats.
(He sets the cracked spoon beside the axe.)
See—tools are twins by accident and will.
Choose what ye polish.

Jailer (entering with the little coffer)
Her keepsake for my Anne.
I’ll teach the child that queens
Remember ribbons, not only laws—
And that remembering makes just men kinder.

Chorus (final)
Go hence with open eyes.
Let memory be not wound but wick,
To bear a smaller, steadier flame.
So shines a truth no winter can put out:
Crowns break—
but courage, learned from one bright breath, endures.

The placard fades; a bell strikes once. Darkness.

Short Bios:

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots
A sovereign of fire and contradiction. Proud yet tender, a woman whose passion for love outshines the caution of thrones. Her tragedy lies in daring to love too boldly.

Elizabeth, Queen of England
Mary’s cousin and rival. Cold, pragmatic, and unyielding, she is reason’s counterpoint to Mary’s passion. She condemns not from hatred but from duty, embodying the merciless logic of power.

The Lover
Mary’s beloved, reckless and ambitious. His devotion is entwined with his hunger for power. To Mary he is flame; to her enemies, a dagger in her breast.

Lord Morton
A Scottish noble, shrewd and self-serving. He seeks survival above loyalty, quick to twist Mary’s love letters into weapons. He represents the opportunism of politics.

Lord Bothwell
A soldier-noble, torn between loyalty and suspicion. Fierce in speech, wavering in action. His voice echoes the restless conscience of the court.

Lady Agnes
Mary’s lady-in-waiting, fiercely loyal yet painfully aware of danger. She embodies the voice of devotion.

Lady Margaret
Another attendant, gentler, quick to tears, whose devotion to Mary is more tender than brave.

The Fool
A ragged wit, half clown, half prophet. He mocks the court’s vanity, sings of sharpened axes, and speaks the truths others fear. His cracked spoon is both toy and symbol—a shadow of the scaffold’s blade.

The Jailer
Keeper of Mary’s prison. Honest, humble, and human. His compassion for Mary and his daughter Anne offers fleeting warmth in a world of cold justice.

The Chief Judge
A puppet of the nobles, reciting charges like an actor reading lines. His role unmasks justice as performance.

The Clerk
Silent, watchful, an agent of betrayal. He intercepts Mary’s letters and delivers them to the lords.

The Secretary of Elizabeth
A cold messenger, delivering Elizabeth’s decrees with surgical detachment.

The Chorus
A veiled figure who frames the story with prophecy, fate, and final judgment. Neither mercy nor malice, but the voice of inevitability.

Soldiers, Guards, Lords, Courtiers, Attendants, Citizens
The many-headed chorus of Scotland and England: some hungry, some foolish, some cruel, all witnesses to the fall of their queen.