 | Anthony Babington |  |
Scene III.
—A Ball-room at Court—masks, mummers, musicians, &c. Cecil, Walsingham, Leicester. Queen Elizabeth on the arm of Sir Christopher Hatton.Elizabeth
(perceiving Walsingham and Cecil, who wish to obtain a hearing).
Well, Mr. Timidity, what now? You and Mr.
Propriety have been dogging our footsteps for the
night. One of you hath had, doubtless, in view
care of my life, t' other of my honour. Oh, I know;
I will not be gainsaid. So far so good. It hath
been said of us, however, that we have the mind of
a man, though housed in these poor rags of womanhood.
Of some who live in trunk-hose we have
heard said they had the souls of women. We will
First we will answer those who would
have care for our life. Are we, or are we not, the
daughter of King Harry?
Cecil
(bluntly).
Your majesty has always been accounted his
daughter, and of late years his daughter born in
wedlock.
Elizabeth.
Answered as though cum grano salis. Well, then,
we have been accounted the daughter of King Harry
by those who by their language would fain we had
been another's, so it were not their own. Ergo, we
are the daughter of King Henry. What say you,
my lord of Leicester? Nay, by that cuff on his
addled pate he knows us for the daughter of King
Harry!
[Cuffs him.]
Leicester.
Your majesty is the daughter of King Harry.
Elizabeth
(continuing).
Then do I fear for my life, gentlemen? I shall
answer, Did my royal father fear harm of any
the Pope, or Antichrist, or all the combined powers
of Europe? Neither do I fear them. Let them do
their worst. Vex not yourselves for me—nay, 'tis
maybe but of small account.
[Weeps.
Sir C. Hatton.
Nay, madam.
[Kissing her hand.
Elizabeth
(sharply).
Nay, sir; we are King Harry's daughter.
[Boxes his ears.
Sir C. Hatton
(holding his hand to his head).
Her grace hath strange moods—a very woman,
a very woman!
Elizabeth.
S'death, man! What do we hear you muttering
below breath? “A very woman! a very woman!”
Out, man! We are no woman! It hath been said
of us that we had the mind of a man.
Leicester.
Her highness's varying moods recall alternately
the smiles of Venus and the thunders of Jove.
(smiling).
Strange! that hath been said of us before. But
now for the second clause of our argument. As
regardeth our honour, are we, or are we not a virgin
queen?
Walsingham.
Your grace having presently signified that you
were not a woman, it is difficult so to reconcile your
declarations as to give satisfaction to your highness;
thus I can but make answer that your highness hath
ever been accounted a virgin.
Elizabeth.
Zounds! Answered again as with a grain of salt.
Since when such contumacy?
Sir C. Hatton.
Your majesty is the daughter of King Harry,
and a man and a virgin.
Walsingham
(aside).
Cum grano salis.
Elizabeth.
Then what fears have ye, mine honest well-wishers,
for for my life or honour?
Dear madam, could I ask a moment's truce to
this light mood. I have that to speak about to
sadden your highness. I grieve to trespass on time
meant for merrymaking, but I am left no choice.
Might I have audience of your highness alone?
Elizabeth.
We will pass towards the anteroom. But, good
Walsingham, be not long-winded.
[They proceed towards
the corner of the apartment.
Nay, before you
speak I know what you would say—another Popish
plot? Nay? What then?
[Snatching at the paper
with the picture by Babington.]
Ha! who are these
pretty young gentlemen? One, two, three, four, five,
six—twelve of them.
Walsingham
(sadly).
Madam, such levity doth ill beseem
One seated so above us, on a throne
Still insecure and threaten'd. Let the child
Trample the daisy-wreath he calls a crown,
Or split the sceptre that was once a reed.
Your highness plays with nations' destinies,
And should consider. Precious is the life
But precious, too, that life to Protestants
Who war with Antichrist, and to the realm—
An orphan, madam, dry-nursed with rough hands,
Should you abandon it. I have said my say.
Think of the Prince of Orange. In a word,
Madam, those dog your steps who seek your life.
Deign but to cast your gracious eyes hereon.
[Presents the Queen with a paper.
Elizabeth.
Another letter from the Queen of Scots!
See how her spider's web of sly-fox French
Creeps o'er the paper! And to whom this letter?
Walsingham.
Deign but to glance at present to the end,
And certify its signature.
Elizabeth.
We mark
Her well-known signature—the “Mary R.,
Queen Dowager of France.”
Walsingham.
And maybe queen
Of England also, if we find no means
Of those who have at heart, besides their love
And loyalty towards you, love of God,
Of England, of its old-establish'd laws—
Let these prevail, and urge your majesty
To prudent measures, and to just restraint,
Directed where we need it most. Behold
These twelve young gentlemen.
Elizabeth.
And are these too—
These pretty gentlemen, well dress'd and shaven—
Our hidden enemies? Ah, there is he,
The Irishman who fix'd us with his stare
To-day at Richmond [recognising Barnwell's portrait.]
Walsingham.
All these gentlemen
Are sworn together, madam, to complete
The work begun in Holland. They are sworn,
Under the guidance of the Scottish queen,
To work your ruin. Even where we stand
Stood one, a moment hence, who held conceal'd
The dagger that should make her claim secure.
She cannot be so base, good Walsingham;
Nor will we for one moment do such wrong
To her intelligence. She seek our life
Whom we (maybe from no great sister-love,
But rather awe of that estate of queen,
The which we also share) protected twice,
First, from her angry Scots, who, as a hare
Is mangled by the fierce besetting hounds
Save for the huntsman, so had mangled her,
And torn her limb from limb; she had lain cold
Amongst her kingly kindred, but for us.
And then, against her own delinquencies—
Her murders, falsehoods, foul adulteries—
Which had leaped forth to scare the waiting world
From proofs these hands kept closed. The Queen of Scots!
She seek our life! What! murder her first friend?
Nay, nay! we will not credit it!
Walsingham.
Alas!
I fear me, madam, 'tis a sorry truth;
But time will test it.
She will stand the test.
Zounds, sir! we who are woman understand
A woman's dire temptations—husbanded
Thrice by the priest, and often by the will
Of wanton fancy. There be tangled webs
Woven of wantonness, good Walsingham;
And we can credit that there should at times
Arise the wish to sever such as these.
Yet, were we not her one defending voice?
And would she silence it? What! add our blood
To that with which her hands are reeking red?
We cannot deem her fool as well as false.
Let all the strength of her intelligence
Protest against it! Let the wailing voice
Of all the victims slain for love of her
Protest against it! Let those murder'd men
Protest against it! Murray, her own brother!
Nay, let the strangled wraith of Henry Stewart
Arise from out the ashes of his doom,
And blaze the bloody work of Kirk o' Field
To the four quarters of the winds of heaven,
To damn her that was merciless, and so
Protest against it!
Madam, every voice
Must needs protest against it, 'mongst the just
In heav'n and earth; it rests but with your grace
To see that they do not protest too late.
Elizabeth.
What is your plan of action? Would to heav'n
We could dispense with hurdle, gallows, block,
And quart'ring knife!
Walsingham.
The times are young for that,
I fear, your grace. Tho' should you ask me when
England may hope foreshadowing of peace,
With shooting ear of plenty in her sheaves,
I could but thus make answer, 'gainst my wish—
When God shall will that Mary Stuart shall die,
Or your great wisdom haste the certain doom
Of all humanity.
Elizabeth.
Nay, you and Cecil
Seem but to see in queens mere common folk.
We sometimes see in them, your majesty,
Folk over-lenient, foolishly o'er-fond,
And over-trustful; whilst in some we see
Folk turbulent, assuming, serpent-tooth'd,
Malignant, fawning, murderous, and false.
Elizabeth.
Hush, hush! She is our cousin, and a queen,
And all is yet unprov'd.
Walsingham.
Her cyphers, madam,
Are in our hands—thus may we test this queen.
Her letters, also, are conveyed to us
Ere ever they do reach their destined end.
The heinous youths portrayed upon this scroll,
We have their names, their comings and their goings
Are well beknown to us; our agents note
Their secret doings; some of them are here—
“They lurk in court and camp” (I quote the words
Of one who wist not all I knew of him).
The servant of the most determined traitor
Is in our pay, and writes us word of all.
One word, and all these vile conspirators
From wayside hedges in the country lanes.
Your majesty has glanced upon the letter
Addressed to him that is the ringleader,
One Babington by name, a gentleman
Of good repute till now, in Derbyshire?
Mark well her words of comfort to his cause,
The hint as of some mystery, and then
Her gracious leavetaking, as tho' to one
Her subject and deliverer.
Elizabeth.
Alas!
And that is he that standeth in the midst,
High-featured; he that wears the shortest hair,
The sharpest beard?
Walsingham.
That one is Babington.
Upon his right is Ballard, in disguise
A seminary priest; there, at his side,
Stand Chidiock Titchborne, Windsor, Salisbury,
And many more. Each instant that these live,
A danger to your Majesty as great
As is the biding in polluted air:
Of this one thing—I know not when they strike!
Elizabeth.
Then we will be as patient as themselves,
And scorn to strike too soon. Let them live on,
So that their plot may thicken, and involve
All those that wish our ruin. We are bold,
And fear nor man nor devil. Hang a warrant
Over their foolish heads, and set your trap
To test the Queen of Scotland. Mark my words,
She will be still too wise to turn our foe.
Or if she plays us false, let her beware!
We are King Harry's daughter!
[Exit.
Walsingham
(musing).
Aye, once more
“King Harry's daughter!” Yet not his alone,
Child of a mother destin'd to endure
Disgrace and violence! Was her doom ordain'd
Ere ever Henry Norris had her glove,
And weigh'd her conduct nothing in the scale
Of fate's mysterious balance? Who may say?
And whether this, her daughter, wax o'er bold,
Or turn to prudent measures? Is all plann'd
Is only wasteful worrying? Alas!
We see but dimly. Yet my utmost sight
Is strain'd for England's weal, and ev'ry speck
(E'en tho' no bigger than that little cloud
Seen by the Prophet) on the furthest edge
Of England's dark horizon, must command
My keen solicitude; and this hath grown,
E'en as a storm that flings athwart blue heav'n
The black of nether hell. To save the queen,
With all her king-craft and her woman-whims,
Is one with saving England. At this point
England hath need of her that is the queen.
And we have need of her—our sovereign lady.
Her faithful few, who having grasp'd their nettle,
Feel not what stings the craven-finger'd fool.
I, Walsingham, have need of her, my queen,
Who needs me also, and our English land
Hath need of Walsingham. He will not fail!
[Exit.
| Anthony Babington | |