The Death of the Queen - Act I, Scene II

ACT I.

SCENE II.

A Masque hosted by the Queen. A small orchestra performs as the players dance. The Queen sits upon her throne attended by Blanche and the Baron Burghley.

Q.E. Is this not fine, Blanche, to see gambols and hear jigs and b'enchant'd? Let us abandon ourselves to merriments and the convivial spirits of mirth.

How youthful we are grown at it. Are we not?

Bl. Thou art indeed, Mum.

Q.E. Then proclaim it throughout the land! We shall be harmonious and gladsome whilst God's goode graces secure us against Spanish storms.

B.B. That puts me in mind....

Q.E. Pish, William! Leave us to our revels this night. On the morrow fiddles can turn to swords. Lay aside thy hard-hearted adamancy, remind me not of tempests whilst the light of peace and the sun's bright eye warms. Let our hearts be glad at it.

We fancy a turn on the dance floor. See that sprightly fellow who dances the roundel with courtly steps?

Bl. The Harlequin?

Q.E. Nay, amend thy gaze, Blanch, the Cat. The dance will shortly end, bring him hither. Quickly, 'fore the musick begins againe!

The Queen covers her brow and cheeks with a gold bejewel'd Colombina masque. Blanch returns out of breath with the player who bows low before taking the Queen's offered hand and kissing the signet. He removes not his mask.

Q.E. Do I know thee?

Player. I cannot say, Majesty.

Q.E. Reveal thyself.

Pl. I dare not confess myself till the moon is ful and the little clamorous owl hoots the first hour of the morn. Slay the mystery and our midnight revels come to dreary ends. Stay a while, and be merry, pretty Columbina. Tis but a dream of a dream. Tomorrow's troubles will return soon enouh.

Q.E. Very weal, saucy lad. Perhaps thou might whisper it to us behind the arras.

He laughs.

Pl. Dost thy majesty dare to dance? Thy goode humor gives warrant to my boldness.

Q.E. A boon I grant thee, goode player, a dance withal your solemn right!

Both of them laughing, she takes his arm and they walk to the dance floor as Blanch follows.

Sir Robert Cecil enters and walks to the baron.

R.C. My lord.

He bows.

B.B. Bearing ill tidings Sir Robert? I shan't carry unwelcome news to the Queen this night. She only just shed her widow's weeds for the gaiety of the Masque, thank the goode Lord o'er us all.

R.C. It’s Marlowe, my lord.

B. B. What has that licentious cat-a-napes done that cannot wait for the morrow?

R.C. Murdered a poet, my lord.

B.B. Murdered a poet! Whoreson senseless villainy! Anyone of account?

R.C. Just a poor scribbler, my lord, Thomas Watson.

B.B. Has the law assay'd him?

R.C. Held even so in Newgate prison awaiting trial.

B.B. Bugger his braggart and vile arrogance! The knave has no more sense than I have in my elbows.

Ne'er-you-mind, we cannot allow Marlowe defamed by those ignorant in th'affaires he went about for the Queen. Tell Sir Francis to see about the matter on the morrow.

R.C. I wil my lord.

The Queen dances weal. Who is her partner?

B.B. The 2nd Earl of Essex has disguised himself as a player to win the Queen's favour. Hope is a good breakfast, but a bad supper. Keep your eyes upon him. He courts her Majesty as a servant pleads with guile, not affection.

See how he simpers and smirks and weaves his spell and her Majesty attends and hangs on false protestations of love? Soon he wilt make a plea for haviour of battle and vainglory. Yet she shalt command him to stay just as she did with the Earl of Leicester and all the others who wooed the Queen to abet royal dreams.

R.C. The Queen will weary of his antics in a fortnight.

B.B. Nay. The game's afoot; the hare and hounds are parties. I am old and cannot counsel her Majesty forever. By privilege of nature, I will commend her anon to your care. Yet in matters of the heart, she is not easily dissuaded. Keep you on that hand of hers.

R.C. She departs!

B.B. Watch you now whither she goest.

The Queen and Blanch retreat behind the arras. After the Cat begs leave of the other players, he retreats behind the arras after.

Alarmed, Sir Robert turns to follow them before the baron grasps his arm.

B.B. Stay, follow him not. Do not interrupt the Queen in her revels. She wil but steal a kiss or two and pinch his rump to make him blush at it. Walter Raleigh and Francis Drake have both hidden behind the arras with the Queen to play the bawd.

R.C. My gorge rims at the thought!

B.B. Robert Devereux is like a childe holding a burning brand and yet knows the danger not.

You are not thine own man, my son, but the Queen's. I pray that above all, protect you her Majesty from the likes of Robert Devereux. He is a scoundrel, a knave and a prattling fool. Tis better that his head adorn the gates than to let the Queen cast the English crown into the hazard!

Mark you now in matters of succession to persuade her. She must name one 'fore the end. Mark you well!

They exit.