Matt Ford

OK.

French would be... And I think the Scottish is... You really have been working hard.

I think the French is... And I think the Scottish is...

8th February 1587.

Fotheringay Castle, Northamptonshire, England.

Mary Stewart halts at the top of the Grand Hall's staircase.

An icy chill cuts through her veins as she looks down at the wooden stage that rises two feet high and twelve feet square.

Mary clutches her rosary beads in one hand, tightens her fist around the ivory crucifix in the other, mutters a prayer under her breath to calm her nerves.

Then she descends the stairs.

Her 44-year-old legs, swollen with rheumatism, make every step a challenge.

But Mary is determined to get through her last moments with dignity.

Fine.

In old money, she's basically 90.

Struck one of those trapped nerves you've got next to your varicose veins.

You old git.

She swallows her fear as she nears the scaffold and sees the axe resting against a rail.

The two masked executioners in black and white stand ready.

A quiet calm descends over the sea of English spectators as Mary comes to a halt.

She bites her lip, fighting back tears.

Mary whips her head as the cry from one of her loyal ladies pierces the hall.