'In truth, he was a great sinner,' she said, 'but not so great as I have been.'

She closed Her eyes but there was no hope of sleep. The heavy boots of soldiers marched up and down outside her room to let her know that she was being guarded with the utmost care, and the sound of hammering came from the hall where the scaffold was being erected by busy carpenters. Time dragged slowly by to heighten the suspense and prolong her torment.

At six o'clock, well before light, she rose from her bed and went into the little oratory to pray alone. Kneeling in front of the crucifix for what seemed like an eternity, she tried to fit her mind for what lay ahead and to ignore the sharp pains that teased and tested her joints. The sheriff of Northampton eventually summoned her and the agony of the wait was over. The longest night of her life would now be followed by its shortest day.

Six of her servants were allowed to attend her. Mindful of her command that they should conduct themselves well, they drew strength from her evident composure and fortitude. Whatever the mistakes of her life, she was determined to end it with dignity.

Almost three hundred spectators had assembled in the great hall and they strained to catch a first glimpse of her as she came in, looking on with a mixture of hostility and awe. They knew that they were in the presence of a legend-Mary Queen of Scots, an erratic, imperious, impulsive woman who had lost two crowns and three husbands, was Catholic heir to a Protestant country and could, by her very existence, inspire rebellion while still under lock and key.

Her youthful charm might have vanished, her beauty might have faded, her face and body might have fleshed out, her shoulders might have rounded and her rheumatism might oblige her to lean on the arm of an officer as she walked along, but she was still a tall, gracious figure with the unmistakable aura of majesty about her and it had its due effect on her audience.