 | Anthony Babington |  |
ACT I.
Scene I.
—An inner room at the tavern of the “Three Tuns,” in Newgate Market; Anthony Babington, seated at a table, shrouded in a cloak and disguised as an old man, with false beard, surrounded by nine of his Fellow-conspirators. John Ballard, also disguised, and under the name of “Captain Fortescue.” Peter Barton, a servant of Babington's. Tankards, flagons, and remains of a supper.Ballard.
We must call for another flagon of wine, so that
they deem we meet here only to drink.
[Calls for
wine, which is brought.]
Are we all assembled?
One is wanting, but he will be here anon.
Ballard.
See that the doors are locked
[doors secured]
while I read over the names of those present.
Anthony Babington, of Dethwick (under God the
prime mover in this good cause), John Charnock,
Edward Windsor, Thomas Salisbury, Robert Barnwell,
Thomas Gerrard, John Savage, Charles Tilney,
Henry Donn, and myself, John Ballard, a priest of
the most holy Order of Jesus; but who will be known
and addressed this evening as Captain Fortescue,
a soldier of fortune.
Conspirators.
We are all here, save Mr. Chidiock Titchborne,
of South Hants, whom we are momentarily expecting.
Ballard.
Now I would have you all to say once more
that ye be agreed in this undertaking, which is for
the ultimate good of all Christendom; for though
you have each one partaken of the blessed sacrament,
swearing thereon to be united together to this end, I
from the midst of us, lest his ensample should cause
others to falter.
Conspirators.
We are all agreed.
Ballard.
Then we may hope for great things. Ye have
heard how the Holy Father, Christ's vicar on earth,
hath graciously extended unto him that shall be the
chosen instrument of God, his absolution and his
blessing; seeing that in ridding the world of the Beast,
great glory must needs accrue to the one true faith?
Conspirators.
We have heard the gracious message of his
Holiness.
Ballard.
You, John Savage, have good reason to rejoice,
in that you have been specially singled out and predestined
of heaven to accomplish this great work.
Sometime a soldier under his most catholic highness
the Prince of Parma, may you find yourself ere long
enrolled amongst the glorious army of Christ's saints,
in whose service if so be that you endure martyrdom,
reward.
John Savage.
Amen!
Ballard.
Yet it is an old saying, and one to be reverenced,
that two heads are better than one; and so with the
hands that are to strike—they should be ready on all
sides—let them but bide their time. For we should
not let the weight of so mighty an undertaking
depend alone on the finite prowess of one man.
You, Robert Barnwell, in that you are an inmate
at this present of the Court, and Charles Tilney,
seeing that you are one of the pensioners of the
heretic queen (whom we speak of as the Beast
that doth trouble Christendom), and therefore one
of those last to be suspected, you will have access
in many ways to the royal presence, denied to others
amongst us, who would, nevertheless, rejoice at the
same chance, whereof see that ye profit, and that
ye strike home.
Conspirators.
We bide our time.
This is the way we hope to work for God.
Firstly, we propose to remove the Beast that troubles
the earth; and when this great good is achieved,
then shall we strike at the hearts of all those her
evil counsellors who have confirmed and strengthened
her in her evil course. Cecil, Walsingham,
Francis Knollys, and Hunsdon—these are the
names of those to be doomed and damned. May
their deaths serve as a warning to all such as
militate against Christ's kingdom on earth.
Conspirators.
Amen!
Ballard.
Once again, have ye given up, all of you, the
safest and surest way of dealing with her whose
living is a curse? I have in my mind her removal
by poison, to be administered in her food by those
of her creatures whom we may convert for the
glory of God.
Babington.
As English gentlemen, this is an idea not to be
entertained by us.
I spoke of it but as a method which would not
be fraught with the same dangers that must needs
now lurk in your path; the tortures inflicted on
the blessed Balthasar Gerard, the instrument of
heaven who so bravely freed the world of the
heretic Prince of Orange, affright you not?
Babington.
What a French lad, base born, could dare and
endure, are we, who are Englishmen, to shrink
from?
Ballard.
Then we are all agreed?
Babington.
Mr. Titchborne is for some safe middle course.
He hath said to me more than once of this project:
“So it involved not the killing of a woman, and
she my queen, I would join to you with the more
zeal.”
Ballard.
He that is minded to croak, or to clap a wet
clout on our endeavours, let him cry off.
[Knock at door.
A gentleman of your party who has been delayed.
[Enter Chidiock Titchborne.]
Titchborne.
Good evening, friends. A cold March after
our green Yule.
Babington.
“A green Yule makes a full kirkyard,” as the
Scots say.
Titchborne.
It was heavy travelling over the Hampshire
moors. But our farmers say of the cold, Better
now than later.
Ballard.
God prosper the harvest.
[Exit Landlord.]
But he is departed now, so a truce to the weather
and the crops. Though, now I bethink me, your
greeting, Babington, would not make a bad password,
for a time at least; though we must change
it to another ere long, for safety. It were well that
those gentlemen who are joined together in this
great cause should have some string of words by
they may make known which way lie their sympathies;
for each day the circle of those who work
for the glory of God will wax larger, and there may
be those amongst us in a week who to-day know
not where to turn for comfort. Let it be told to
our friends that with this greeting they may be sure
of a welcome: “A green Yule maketh a full kirkyard,”
in some method interpolated into their talk;
and lest it should be said lightly and by accident
by those who are ignorant of its significance, let
them afterwards say, in carelesswise, “God prosper
the harvest.” You have made a note of this, gentlemen?
Conspirators.
We have.
Peter Barton.
I am no scholar; would one of these gentlemen
write the words?
[Babington writes.
Ballard
(to Titchborne).
And now, sir, how comes this, and you a Catholic
gentleman, one of the good old stock? How so
luke-minded? For I hear that you shrink from what
apathy as damnable 'fore God as evil deeds. Buckle
yourself for action!
Babington.
Bear with him, father, he is with us privily; but,
like myself, he hath a wife. He plays a game of
hazard most disastrous if he lose. Her heart breaks
with his neck.
Ballard
(aside).
Hush, Babington! your words unnerve him. And
of your own wife, how often have you said that she
stood not in your way?
Titchborne.
It is as you say. I wish you well. Yet well
I also wish others had worked for this—not my true
friends. See, too, your idol be not made of clay—
the lady of your dreams. I say no more, fearing to
anger you; but since seeing you I have had more
proof of the truth of those grievous reports—the
rumours of her evil living heretofore.
Ballard.
There is no purity that can withstand
Obliquity of vision. As I watch'd
Before the daylight vanish'd, I beheld
The very snowflakes, on their earthward side,
Look black against the whiter space of sky,
Yet were they very part of that same world
Of unshed purity. Be generous,
You do not know her; your material eyes
See but the under-shadow cast by earth
Upon the falling snowflakes.
Titchborne.
Yet, my friends,
Be ye not trick'd by vain ambitions. Anthony,
There are good things besides the love of fame
And smiles of princes. I am not long wed
To one who makes the world seem emptiness
And home a world of blessings. Politics
Involve in these our days such tortuous
Deceptions, such false dealings, all for ends
So fork'd and complicated, budding forth
In doubtful double-blossom—France and Spain,
Poor Ireland, where the ragged rightful lords
Wait, like a grisly pack of famish'd wolves,
To spring on their oppressors. Add to this,
Flung in a mine of powder, this same plot
To crown the Scottish Mary. Mark my words!
The queen is such a weathercock to turn
That what she wills to-day is but a sign
She change her mood to-morrow; she may yet
Name Mary Stuart her heir. And one thing more—
I would that ye could keep from deed of blood—
You guess my thought—think of it, Anthony—
A woman and your queen! Why, at the worst
Let but the queens change places; for the one,
Three crowns and all the people at her feet
(If she act wisely); whilst Elizabeth
Languish in lone captivity. The Tower,
If God so wills it. Nay, the very block
Hath pillow'd many heads of our true faith
Whilst we walk'd young and lusty! E'en the block,
If Heaven so wills, not the assassin's knife.
Ballard
(ironically).
Were it not better at once to withdraw your name
and countenance from so dangerous an enterprise?
Let us first think of our own heads, and when they
are sure 'twill be time enow to work for the kingdom
changed, and thy one-time flower of chivalry, since
thou groanest under a heretic prince!
Titchborne.
Sir, I have no words for one who calls me coward
from under a priest's habit. I cannot strike, so I
am dumb. Farewell, my friends, I have to journey
to-morrow into South Hants, and I must be a-bed
betimes.
Babington
(producing pencil and paper).
First, I must have the turn of your head, the
cut of your beard, and the tip of your pearl earring
[sketching hastily].
Thus—my picture is well-nigh
completed, and our queen will now have a sure
way of knowing our faces. She need no longer
think of us as a pack of featureless churls. See,
a goodly company! Will her grace recognise
amongst them the smooth-faced boy who was her
page at Sheffield grown to man's estate? Folks say
I am but little changed, save in my stature.
[Passing the sketch to Titchborne.
Titchborne.
A pretty fancy. I recognise you as our head
conveying this to her Majesty?
Babington.
A way most sure and safe. Heaven is certainly
with us.
[Drawing.
Titchborne.
Should these hurried lines not suffice for thee,
we might complete the work in Hampshire, whither,
as I have said, I go to-morrow, and where I should
be proud to be host to you, Anthony. There are
many things on which I would converse at mine
ease.
Babington.
The picture must be despatched at once, whilst
this sure method is open to us; but if you will not
journey too early in the day, I shall most gratefully
avail myself of your hospitality. I myself am bound,
ere long, to journey towards your Hampshire.
Titchborne.
Then we journey together. To-morrow we will
communicate. Once more, good evening, gentlemen.
[Exit.
(to Ballard).
Nay, he is as brave as our bravest. It is not
for his own neck he fears; he hath a wife and
child.
Ballard.
Whom you did wrong, Babington, to recall at
such a moment to his mind. The woman hath
doubtless been working upon him. Oh, I know
these women-folk! They have blasted the soul
of many an honest man. But let us turn from
the ominous gruntings of this Hampshire hog—let
him wallow in his Southampton mire.
Babington.
As gallant a gentleman as ever stepped.
Ballard.
Marriage may have marred him; and yet Brutus
was no bachelor! But now to what is nearest our
hearts.
Babington.
That is our queen's letter. It hath been
nearest to mine for the week. See! its edges
fray already and threaten my lady's sweet words.
[Kisses the letter.
When to the love of woman is join'd the love
of God, the true faith, and the good of all Christendom,
love on. But ere we band together in this
greatest cause, each of you is bound, I hold, to
forswear the love of all such sweethearts and courtesans
as mar the dreams of young men. You should
all swear this on God's word. Oh! I have known
women—but I would have you to know that
it is possible for our divine love towards the blessed
Mother of God so to incorporate itself and become
incarnate, even in the fleshly nature of man, to the
utter casting out of baser desires.
Babington
(thoughtfully).
Even so—even so—I begin to credit your words.
My soul seems at length attuning itself to this grand
mystery, and, my earthly queen acting as mediator,
I doubt not I may hope to climb from her love to
that of her blessed namesake the queen of heaven.
Ballard.
That is as it should be. So a young man fix
his eyes on heaven, I blame him not if he remember
some of the stars were women. But let us now
lead to damnation. Here's to the steeling of our
hearts 'gainst all those that were wont to soften them!
We want our hearts, gentlemen.
[Drinks.
Conspirators.
Aye, and our heads!
[All drink, passing the flagon. Babington hesitates.
Voice of Alice (heard without).
I have word of a gentleman being here, with
whom I would speak. Can you show me to his
presence, good sir?
Landlord.
How, think you, fair mistress, should I know
your gentleman from the fourscore or so that
frequent us nightly? How may I know your
gentleman?
Alice.
He is a young gentleman of noble carriage, I
have heard say there is not one like him—no, not
in all England.
Landlord.
Ah! I'll be bound a very paragon of beauty!
your gentleman?
Alice.
He would stoop at your door, yonder, through
which I have been privily informed he passed an
hour ago. May I speak with him?
Landlord.
There was an old man, gray-bearded and cloak'd,
who stooped at my door. I noted him as straight
and tall for his years, though he walk'd with a stick.
Alice
(suspecting).
Ah! that is, belike, his father. Is he within there?
Landlord.
He is carousing with some dozen of his boon
companions; were I a young gentlewoman, I would
keep clear of them.
Alice.
His gray hairs will protect me. May I enter?
[Knocks.
Ballard.
Who knocks?
Alice.
I would speak with one of you gentlemen.
(aside).
Alice!
Ballard
(unlocking door).
Your gentleman is not amongst us, my good girl,
but satisfy yourself.
Alice
(after scanning each face attentively).
To any of you doth the name of “Alice,”
Of one sweet moonlight night, of an old house
In Dorsetshire, amidst its flat park lands—
Crow-crested elm-trees clust'ring round its wings—
Of a dim chamber wainscoted with books,
Of an old woman reading from God's word
With Luther's mind, as sanction'd by King Harry,
Of a young maiden kneeling at her feet,
And list'ning to her words: to none of you
Twelve present gentlemen, do all these things
Seem to mean anything?
Conspirators.
To none of us!
Alice.
Alas! to none of you? Then can my heart
Have so deceiv'd me? [Aside]
Nay, he must be here!
The name of Alice?
Ballard.
Hark you, Alice, then—
So that you rest as pure as when you came,
Take yourself hence, this is no place for you.
These gentlemen are somewhat gone in wine.
So that they deem you not some fly-by-night,
Go, get you hence!
[Rises.
Alice.
Sir, all these gentlemen
Seem sober as yourself. I fear them not,
Knowing he is amongst them.
Ballard
(angrily).
Out, girl, out!
Alice.
Yet if he knows not me, maybe he knows
This ring—his coat of arms. Not long ago—
Ballard.
This passes patience! Here, mine host! Since
when hath your house so lost its good name, that
gentlemen as they sup? Out with this brazen
wench!
[Endeavours to thrust Alice towards the door. Babington rises up to defend her, and in so doing, his disguise falls from him.
Alice
(recognising him).
Anthony!
[Clings to him for protection, whilst Babington makes a gesture to keep off the rest.
Scene II.
—An anteroom at Court. Two Courtiers in conversation. Evening.1st Gentleman.
Good ev'ning, sir; you do not wear a mask?
2nd Gentleman.
I only wait to speak with Mr. Walsingham.
I am not of the company to-night.
Then let us wait here, in this anteroom,
Whence he and all the other notables
Must pass towards the presence.
2nd Gentleman.
He will pass,
Knowing I wait him. He confides to me,
To-night, a letter to Lord Shrewsbury,
Touching the Queen of Scots. I start to-morrow
Upon an embassage to Tutbury,
Bearing his papers.
1st Gentleman.
What think you of Shrewsbury?
2nd Gentleman.
True as tried steel—all Papist tho' he be.
He is too near this queen to see in her
Aught save the painted Jezebel she is.
He sickens of her whims—as well he may—
Seeing a woman one day make her bath
Of good veal broth amidst the starving poor,
And then of wine. Why, waste is not the word!
And all to smooth her wrinkles, so they say,
Who die for her ere they have seen the face
She smooths for them!
1st Gentleman.
Nor will they ever see it.
Nor her head crown'd as they would have it crown'd;
She smooths it for the headsman. Mark my words!
2nd Gentleman.
Well, so she must coquette, no matter how;
It may as well be with the headsman's axe,
For that will kiss her close for good and all.
1st Gentleman.
Hush! she may still reign over us.
2nd Gentleman.
Ah well,
If so (we live in times of change, good sooth!)
I'll never see her wrinkles, and if needs,
I'll kiss her all as closely as the axe.
We live in times of change.
[Whistles.
1st Gentleman.
Yet God is merciful—most merciful!
This is for some good end. 'Tis often thus.
Have seen how Satan's Babel Tow'r of cards
Fell as he rais'd the topmost card.
2nd Gentleman.
A queen?
1st Gentleman.
Ha, ha! A queen or knave, or sometimes both.
2nd Gentleman.
God raises kings; these queens are of the devil—
They have such whims and such infirmities.
1st Gentleman.
Hush, hush! thou knowest they are none the less
The Lord's anointed. All things have a purpose;
And e'en a scourge may guide us the right way.
2nd Gentleman.
I am awearied of these wholesome scourges.
If the Lord's mercy would but grant we went
Right of ourselves! I hold with none of this.
1st Gentleman.
I hold with it just now for my head's sake.
Once off, this head of mine will gabble treason
And blasphemies enow, I warrant you.
But till the day that I am cleft asunder
I am a Protestant and queen's good courtier.
2nd Gentleman.
Methought anon you were for all these things,
Being foreshadow'd in the Word of God?
1st Gentleman.
Another time I will expound to you
The contradictions that there seem in me.
Not now, not now; these very walls have ears,
And might betray my idle words. But hush!
Here comes the topmost card in Satan's pack.
[Enter the Earl of Leicester, dressed in magnificent costume.]
2nd Gentleman.
Good night, my lord. It were vain to ask how
the world fares with one of so pleasant a countenance.
Leicester.
Thanks, my good friend. I am as well as a man
may be in troublous times—his brain so harassed by
the State's complexion that he hath no time to mark
sweat for the million.
1st Gentleman.
My lord is the very Atlas of our State. This is
well known—the masses speak of it.
Leicester.
Nay, then, they are not so dunder-headed as I
deemed. Her Grace is at the helm. I watch the
stars.
1st Gentleman
(aside).
Were I a fiery star whose writhing tail must
switch the earth, he would not watch me long for
lack of eyes.
2nd Gentleman
(aside).
Report saith he knows as little of the real state
of the realm as may be with one so pampered, and
that her grace will show him rather the colour
of her garters than that of her mind.
Leicester.
Good ev'ning, sirs. I pass into the presence.
Your servants, good my lord.
[Exit Leicester.
[Enter Sir F. Walsingham.]
Walsingham
(giving paper to 2nd Gentleman).
Here is the letter
Of which I spoke; give it my lord of Shrewsbury,
With loving greeting. Rest not by the road,
And bring his answer to me presently.
Saddle to-morrow early, and be sure
You take the safest way.
2nd Gentleman.
Your servant, sir;
I do as you desire me, and depart
To make me ready.
[Exeunt the two Gentlemen.
[Enter Cecil.]
Cecil.
Ah! good ev'ning, Walsingham!
Walsingham.
Hast heard these papist cries of exultation
That echo thro' the land?
To me the cries
Of tinkling cymbal. Mark me, blatant brass.
Walsingham.
Hast heard their threats directed 'gainst the life
Of the queen's highness?
Cecil.
Measured to a cry!
Mark me, cried only to excite the masses
To some untoward act, reactionary
Against the Catholics; who henceforth, wrong'd
(As they will prove), will wear a martyr's mien
And spur their partisans to contumacy.
Such seem to me to mean these late reports
Floating around us—idle, aimless threats,
Made for a purpose.
Walsingham.
Yet it might be well
To fence her highness, were it but to prove
My thought the more unmeaning; for to me
These seem less idle threats than warning words,
Flung e'en to warn Her Highness. Making sure
Their hearts wax pitiful, and counting her
E'en as the hang'd who walks to meet his death,
They make a truce of hatred, for the queen
Feeling that full forgiveness men may feel
Towards one doomed to die, e'en if in life
He crossed their purpose.
Cecil.
I am with you there,
To fence Her Highness from all shadow of harm.
But she is hard to fence. Such iron courage
Mix'd often with such flippancy of mood,
I marvel at the medley.
Walsingham.
Ah, forsooth
Her Highness is a woman.
Cecil.
Aye, indeed,
The very veriest woman in the land!
[Exit Cecil.
Walsingham
(musing).
I had a mind to tell him of my plot
'Tis yet o'er soon, each moment makes more ripe.
Yet, as I wait, the queen's most precious life
May be in jeopardy. See, here they stand.
[Opens paper with the picture by Babington.
Curse you for traitors! Yes, I see his face
Whom but an hour from now I saw abide
A bow-shot from her! Who may say the names
Of those whose faces start not, like his own,
To my remembrance? Ah, he comes this way.
Now to dissemble!
[Enter Robert Barnwell.]
Barnwell.
Ah, good ev'ning, sir!
A splendid entertainment, well conceived.
In my poor country such high junketing,
With so great hospitality, withal
So merrily attuned, had bred, with time,
A spirit far more loyal than exists
In that misguided land towards the queen.
Such bravery makes Irish loyalty.
Is Irish loyalty in aught allied
To loyalty in England?
Barnwell.
It is said
An Irish heart, newly awakening
To loyalty, love, honour, duty, hate,
Or vengeance, stays at nothing.
Walsingham.
So, indeed!
But they avenge, at times, e'en benefits
With thrust of knife or blow of knotted club
In that your Ireland.
Barnwell
(lightly).
There be caitiffs, sir,
And knaves—born knaves—in all lands o' the earth.
They lurk in court and camp, and not alone
'Midst my gray mist-capp'd mountains—this is truth.
Your servant, sir, good ev'ning!
Walsingham
(aside).
Ah, too true!
“They lurk in court and camp—and this is truth.”
[Aloud]
Your servant, sir, good ev'ning! [Aside]
Ah, I would
My one thought is to let her highness know
Her near destruction, meditated e'en
By those she fear'd the least. I hear the strains
Of merry-making music. Now to show
My fears less idle than she deem'd. God grant
I find her highness predisposed to list
To my entreaties.
[Exit Walsingham.
[Enter Edward Windsor.]
Barnwell.
Well, my brother-in-arms!
Windsor.
How goes the cause? No need to say to you
Our watchword of green Yule and harvest time,
And yet, God speed the harvest!
Barnwell.
So say I.
And yet there doth appear to hang some charm
About her life. I was as near to her
To-day as now you stand—the wherewithal
To do the deed I held tight in my grasp—
She is King Harry's daughter.
Windsor.
Some do say
She was but father'd on him.
Barnwell.
Nay, I knew
One who, in liquor, used to say he knew
The late King Henry, and I feel assured
This queen proceeds from him. A royal temper—
A real right royal temper.
Windsor.
You, indeed,
Seem not to breathe in vain the air of courts—
You know to flatter even while you stab.
Barnwell.
Yes, we have flattered her grace. We have fawned
upon her, and come near to stabbing her with a
knife; we have called her a lily and a rose; her two
buck teeth have been call'd pearls, and her hair
gold.
I have christened her a very queen of quicksilver—
there is none can change like the queen. But stay
—by the sound of the music methinks she hath
enter'd the ball-room. I wish you well, and success
to your undertaking.
[Exeunt.
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 | |