Death of the Queen - Act III, Scene II

ACT III

SCENE II

The Tower of London. Robert Devereux stands beneath a narrow window, the light from it shines upon his solemn features, his shoulders bowed by woe. The heavy cell door clanks loudly and opens. Sir Francis Bacon enters.

F.B. How now, my Lord?

R.D. The Queen has stripped me of title, lands and income. Pray call me Robert, friend or brother. It is disheartening in this gaol to hear thee name me Lord. Embrace me for I am disconsolate, all my hopes dashed upon a lee shore. I pray that I am not friendless, too.

F.B. I am ever and always thy faithful and true friend, Robert.

They embrace. Robert brushes aside tears as they separate.

R.D. From Ireland, the Queen did demand my return in dishonor for listening to the wisdom in my heart aft'r making peace with the rebels when the council wish'd for havoc and war. She tooke all but my goode name: my lands, my income, my honour. Robert Cecil pour'd a poisonous unction in Her royal ear to twist my goode wil into unpardonable il.

In the heat of passion, I gather'd those about me loyal and true lovers of our great Majesty to strip from Her the liars and wagging tongues in the Council that I might finally 'suad her of the truth of my earnest love and valour. But Cecil with an armed company laid in wait, as if I were provok'd by his maleficium to rashly charge into an ambuscade and the pit from which no man returneth. E'en Walter Raleigh falsely testified against me, and I once thought him friend.

They charg'd that I march'd on London to slay my Queen and suborn the crown and that I favour'd religious dissent. I who stoutly fought catholic Spain and not that crook'd-back gargoyle, Robert Cecil, a life-long, secret papist and coward!

F.B. It never troubles the wolf how many the sheep be.

R.D. Aye. Now am I condemned and led to the slaughter under the headman's axe. I whom spared my same executioner of crimes capital that he might execute those unfortunates like myself who remain unpardon'd. It makes me weary of this calamitous world and yet I cling to hope the Queen with clemency might repent and forgive my many faults. I desir'd only to shield her from Robert Cecil's insolent lies and wilful misdirection. I learn'd my true enemy over late.

Of treason innocent, I die 'cause I lov'd my Queen too weal!

Now my love and liking quite are overthrown and in their place are grief and sorrows grown. Woe to me the sun shroud'd in a cloud and darksom mists do overrun the day.

Stay a while and condole, Francis, to slay these demonic thoughts which rob me of peace and shake my mortal frame with terror. A little time with a friendly face may help me quiet my fears for an hour or two o' an unfriendly 'morrow. Stay with me I beg.

They sit upon a small cot cover'd by a threadbare blanket. Robert takes Francis' hand in his own.

R.D. Have thou spoken to thy cousin, the Queen?

F.B. I have tried to visit Her thrice, and thrice rebuffed. Deliver'd I a letter beggin' audience and clemency to the Queen's maide, but no answer did I receive.

R.D. Then assuredly I die on the 'morrow, my deare Francis, my brother, my friend.

He pulls an envelope from his coat. His hand trembling, he passes it to Sir Francis.

R.D. Pass these letters to my poor wife and long-suffering mother, I pray thee. Beg them come not to the Tower Green on the 'morrow. Twil make it hard to play the man, if I witness their anguish at my dishonorable ending.

The door clanks and opens.

F.B. I must away.

They embrace.

R.D. Remember of me at your praying!

They bow and Sir Francis exits. And the door clanks shut.

R.D. Remember me.

Robert Devereux returns to stand beneath the narrow window and stares up at the retreating light.