The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex Page #5

in his arms again...

...thank heaven you're not a queen.

But I thought to be a queen...

To be a queen is to be

less than human.

To put pride before desire...

...to search men's hearts

for tenderness...

...and find only ambition...

...to cry out in the dark

for one unselfish voice...

...and hear only the dry rustle

of papers of state.

To turn to one's beloved

with stars for eyes...

...and have him see behind them only

the shadow of the executioner's block.

A queen has no hour for love.

Time presses, events crowd upon her.

And for a shell...

...an empty, glittering husk...

...she must give up all

that a woman holds most dear.

And now...

...fetch me Master Francis Bacon.

- Master Bacon?

- At once.

Yes, Your Majesty.

Will your steps always be so laggard

when I send for you, Master Bacon?

My steps have lost the habit

of being summoned by you.

And your tongue has lost

none of its sharpness, I see.

To bed and hopeful dreams.

You're a friend of my Lord Essex,

aren't you?

- I am whatever Your Grace desires.

- And your own interest dictates.

Anyway, you know him better

than any other man.

- Why has he not returned to court?

- Not for lack of attraction...

...but possibly his pride.

- A pox on his pride!

He must come home. I command it!

You need him back so badly,

Your Grace?

Purely for matters of state.

Do you understand?

Perfectly, madam.

Bacon. Bacon, stop being clever.

I'm too tired to fence with you.

I can't force him back,

and you know it.

And he's so stupid,

so stubborn, so pigheaded...

...that he'll never return of his own

accord unless I humble myself to him.

And that I'll never do. Never!

- Do you hear?

- Naturally, Your Majesty.

Naturally! It's against all nature

that I should suffer so.

Tell me, what shall I do?

Find me a way to compel his return

without having to punish him.

I'll not be ungrateful.

My reward would lie

in your happiness.

And the advantage to you

in his return to favor, of course.

I'll not deny it, madam.

But how to persuade him and still save

the pride of each, I'm hanged if I know.

Perhaps if I slept the night upon it.

What is it?

- A courier from Ireland, Your Majesty.

- Have him enter.

Your Majesty.

I came...

Bacon. Wine. Quickly.

Chair.

Allow me, Your Majesty.

- Pardon, Majesty.

- Never mind that. What is the news?

We have been annihilated

in Ireland, Your Grace.

Tyrone surprised us.

Sir William Baganold is dead.

Every company, troop, arms,

stores, everything, utterly destroyed.

Wars, death, famine

in that unhappy land.

And for what?

A few miserable acres

of fever-smitten bog...

...and handfuls of tattered peasants

whose only desire is to be left in peace...

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