The Death of the Queen - Act II, Scene II

ACT II.

SCENE II.

Sir Francis Bacon stands with the Baron Burghley in his library. A servant enters and announces the arrival of the Queen's ladies in waiting to see to her comfort and arrangements. Sir Francis nods and he exits.

F.B. My lord, I must see to the arrangements myself and will return once convenient. Pray, take thy leisure amongst the volumes and I shall come againe by and by.

B.B. Thou art too goode, Sir Francis.

Sir Francis bows and exits.

B.B. Thou art indeed too goode, my friend.

He reaches for a dusty volume and pulls it from its shelf and blows the dust from its ancient cover.

B.B. Thucydides my old friend, my hand trembles to open thee. The Peloponnesian War. I mastered Greek reading this very booke! What joy experienced holding it againe. How the sun once seem'd to softly glow as if it too partook in the arts of knowledge and wisdom. How many fond remembrances of St John's, of goode Roger Ascham and hours spent with volumes like these live on in the tablets of my memory.

Staggering slowly backward, he sits upon the couch.

B.B. I am made dizzy at it!

Opening the book, a loose page falls to the floor and the baron stoops to grasp it and then reads it aloud.

B.B. Societies which unthinking separate the scholar from the soldier wilt have its policies written by cowards and its wars fought by fools.

Haviour of battle and vainglory as the Queen is wont to say.

Robert Devereux has already comport'd himself bravely on the field of battle. It has made him as drunk for glory as Drake and Raleigh and twice the fool.

But what of I? I disciplined my body at St John's and master'd the long bow, and yet have not wield'd the musket in the honourable test of arms. If needful, might I screw my courage to the sticking place? Has the stirring spirit o' courage fled this ancient frame that now I grow green and pale at the thought o' it?

What a poor soul am I, that my chief good is to scribble pale policy and then but sleep and feed like some poor beast? The Goode Lord above hast burn'd within my breast that capacity for god-like reason. Must I also wage war like a jove or fight like a simple foot-sore soldier? Is this a cowardly scruple which leads to thinking too precisely, to dodging about without facing down my fear? Am I but one part wise and three parts craven?

Could I face the headman’s axe as resolute as Mary, Queen of Scots? Twas I who suad'd the Queen in this, the execution o' her own flesh and blood.

Shamed, I tremble at the thought of my neck stripped bared before the blade. Why hast Sir Francis penned out this line, dost he also bear secr't guiltiness? I have sharpen'd this instrument (tapping his skull) from my earliest years and yet, o'erwhelm'd in this sacred place it is no more than an unweeded garden grown to seed. Oh, what a villain am I!

But have not I told my son, Sir Robert, many times, that life in the court is fraught with enemies and danger? Is this not courage too?

And yet. And yet. And yet!

Fie upon it! I too covet honour and the dignity befitting my station. I have lived to see perilous times pass goode England by and yet others may follow if I advise unwisely. Heaven help me!

And what of Sir Francis? He know's yet not what his Queen requires of him this day, nor the risk of it. But Marlowe's brain must be discreetly pick'd, and his wastrel failure put to rights. Wil Sir Francis do it? Or wilt he, like me, grow green and pale at the thought o' it?

Heaven help us all.

Sir Francis enters and bows.

F.B. All is in readiness, my lord. Her Majesty has arrived and desires to speak with us both.

They exit.