Matt Ford

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.

She feels a stab of fury as she's reminded of the injustice of all this.

Before she can stop herself, she turns and hisses at the blank-faced English lords who surround her.

I will not go to my death this way without my own servants.

Yes, Mary, Queen of Scots, spent her formative years in France, came back to the UK when she was 18, so she had a very strong French accent.

Mary watches one of the earls step forward, his voice tight.

Madam, that cannot be granted.