The Death of the Queen - Act III, Scene I

ACT III

SCENE I

Ten years have passed. The Baron Burghley is an old man now. He sits writing in his study, his body bent over to better see his papers. Robert Cecil enters and bows.

R.C. My Lord. I trust thou art weal.

B.B. I have serv'd our Majesty with humble diligence for so many a year I've grown blinde in my labours. Now death waits in ambuscade. Thou wilt soon bear the burden of prominence as the Queen's leading minister that hitherto I have bourn. I'm tired and often cold these dark and dreary days. Toss a log on the fire. That's a goode son. My poore feet are as frozen as if bootless and bare.

There is much for us to discuss before the end. Robert Devereux has committ'd much mischief and shalt do more, I'm afeard.

He serv'd with Francis Drake on that ill-fat'd expedition to Spain. Forty ships lost, fifteen thousand English men who shant serve the crown againe. All we had gain'd when the arrogant Spanish and their mighty armada were wrack'd by storm and fire lost for vanity and glory. But Robert Devereux is a babe, a simpleton, a knotty-pated rantipole. He hath learnt nothing from Drake's lunatic example.

R.C. The Queen dotes upon his wit and charms. I have craft, but short and hunch'd, I cut a poor figure when liken'd to Robert Devereux.

What prevention?

B.B. His o'erwhelming appetency for fame wilt, like his clay-brained betters, poison the Queen's love in the end. We shalt tempt him with a task to inflame his ambition in the face of her most assured approbation.

Trouble thyself not. He thinks himself better than the Queen. He wilt do thy werk for thee. Give him an inch and he wilt take a furlong. Never met he one whose company he loves quite so much as his own.

His sin's not accidental, but a trade.

If thou givest him goode leave and the rope to hang himself, his perfidy shalt provoke the Queen in the end. He hast enjoy'd Fortune's favours for o'er long.

R.C. But my lord, even when he left the English coast unguard'd at the approach of the Spanish with a new armada, the Queen prosecuted him not for his undisciplin'd and treasonous acts, so criminal in nature yet stirr'd not in her Majesty righteous calumny nor condemnation.

If God in his wisdom and mercy had not confus'd the Spanish enemy with the cyclone, they would have land'd soldiers upon our shores unmolest'd by English cannon!

B.B. He lobbies e'en now for an appointment he deserveth not, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. The Queen cuff'd him in the Privy Counsel for insolence and the arrogant pup half drew his sword. I warn'd her after to put him in the tower but she yet lives by his looks.

We must 'suade the counsel to grant him the post he desireth and yet must surely fail. We may countenance the Irish rebellion by dispatching our worst, but he is a greater threat to England than they. He hath tax'd overmuch the Queen's patience, a little more and she shal censor and pluck away his arrogant contumely as a jackdaw plucks a dead dog’s eye.

Gird up thy loins and consider thy tactics weal, my son, for the danger's mortal. He will fly into a rage and muster the distracted multitude for his heart is o'er fill'd with a treasonous and irrational bile. He wilt assuredly know thee as enemy.

When the blackguard reveals his treasonous aims do not in deliberation or slowness act. Think on't now, in the moment when his blood boils with the flames o’ anger twil be too late.

God in heav'n wilt watch o'er thee in this for thou art in the right. We are the Queen's men even if our hands grip neither halberd nor sword.

We carry death in a word.

In the end you wil enjoy the ear of the Queen and she shalt never 'gain be 'suad'd by his noxious brabble.

R.C. My lord.

He bows and exits.