All language subtitles for The.Virgin.Queen.2005.S01E03E04.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DD+2.0.H.264-playWEB_track3_[eng]

[ woman breathing heavily,
I was starting to think

your absence was
from sulking, Robbie.

What, and miss
such a performance?

A puppet is still a puppet,
French prince or not.

Oh, hush now.

Slay him!

A Jesuit missionary
found spreading subversive propaganda.

Whatever the crime,
a grisly fate for any man.

But then a man's fate lies
in his own hands, does it not?

Is this choice of venue to remind me

where my loyalties lie?

A lesser man
might be insulted.

We're under no illusion,
Master Gifford.

The ten years we've kept
the queen of Scots confined

has made her a martyr
to her Catholic supporters.

My Lord Burghley,

the gentleman I spoke of,
Master Gifford.

We also know... another attempt
to rescue her is being devised.

It's details...
we're lacking.

The Catholic League in Europe
is behind this one.

Once her freedom
is secured,

King Philip has pledged
Spain's support to...

assassinate Queen Elizabeth
as a prelude to invasion.

And your role
in this enterprise?

To act as... an intermediary,

to find a means of communication
with the Scottish queen,

seek her approval.

But... your zeal
over her security

has put pay to her...
her contact with foreign powers.

If we were
to be less zealous?

Allow you access to her?

There was a man... who worked as
her page when first she, um...

she sought sanctuary in England.

He has volunteered
to orchestrate her rescue.

His name?

Anthony Babington.

As the noxious humor is released,

the diseased area is purified.

Your pain will ease.

Which humor is out of balance?

The fourth--

his earth melancholy, my lord.

See how dark his blood is?

That signifies the
bile which will...

Oh, yes, yes,
uh... carry on, do.

As for trying to keep
his visit a secret

by hiding him behind
that screen...

They say every tavern in London
is laying bets

on when her betrothal
will be announced.

The Duke of Anjou is
a whey-faced brat half her age.

Such a man can never
capture her hand,

much less her heart.

Oh, she seems
most taken with him.

And later
last evening

when you were, um... indisposed?

It was transparent to everyone,
she was captivated by him.

She talks of nothing
but his wit, his intellect.

"My Frog Prince" she calls him,

and his emissary, Simier,
she calls her monkey.

Though I confess
I sometimes wonder

which of the two she prefers.

Precisely her purpose, Christopher--

to keep us all wondering.

The wonder is you
are so witless to fall for it.

The wonder is she's not yet
guessed your own situation.

Of all people,
you know

how she feels
about such subterfuge

and the depth of her rage
should she discover it.

Let us hope
your noxious humor

will soon
be cured, my lord,

for all our sakes.

Sir Francis Drake began his passage here.

From Plymouth,
he sailed thus southwards.

Here Sir Francis
faced his first challenge,

the mutiny
of his crew.

But instead of punishing them,
he offered them their release.

Not a single man
left his side-- not one.

More pity for Spain
and the treasures you stole

from her colonies,
my lord.

Sir Francis is known for
his entrepreneurial spirit.

And at such a distance,
what could a poor queen do?

A mouse!

God's wounds!

Don't just stand there!

Dispatch it!

For the queen, kill the beast!

Kill him!

Um... Babington's letter
to the, um, queen of Scots.

Y-You can't say that
I don't deliver, sir.

How long to decipher
the code?

As long as it takes,
sir, as always.

Do not fail me, Master Gifford.

I cannot concentrate
while being watched, sir.

Privacy, please.

Good morning, sir.

Go. Go!

Do something, you jolt heads!

Dispatch it!

Kill it, I say!

Marriage to Anjou is the only option.

How else do we halt Spain's
supremacy in the region?

They've already annexed
Portugal.

Is England to be next?

If you know
of a better protection

than an alliance with France,
my lord, name it.

A treaty.

Treaties can be reneged upon.

The match ensures our security

and the succession
in one stroke.

And if nothing else,
puts pay to the vile rumors

that I am barren born.

It has taken us years
of negotiation

to get this far
with the duke, my lord.

Do not undermine that now,
for God's sake.

Marriage will make the Papal menace

vanish in a puff of smoke.

War with Spain will be averted
and the Catholics here appeased.

The war
will come to us

if people get wind
of such a union.

They'd rather take on Spain
with their bare hands

than be subsumed to France.

Enough, my lords.

Pick up the pace!

Our dinner is escaping.

If I could have a moment,
Your Majesty.

The draft of my
Act of Association

for your approval,
Your Majesty.

Parliament are waiting
for your response to ratify it.

"Any claimant
or their associates

"conspiring to seize the throne

shall forfeit
all right of succession."

And their life.

We all witnessed
your distress

over the signing of
the Duke of Norfolk's death warrant.

This act absolves you
of all such onerous responsibility.

You will simply be
adhering to the law,

discharging your
responsibility to the state and letting us...

I am not so obtuse

I cannot grasp the
implications, Sir Francis.

And if the claimant is ignorant

of any conspiracy
on their behalf?

On that count,

my sister could have sent me
to the scaffold.

As your heir,
the queen of Scots,

would do the same
given the opportunity.

And the blood she would shed
would not be yours alone.

Her ambition to make
England Catholic once more

will engulf your people
in a civil war more catastrophic

than anything your sister
ever inflicted on us.

The physician awaits,
Your Majesty.

Amend it.

Claimant
must have knowledge

of any conspiracy
on their behalf.

Proven knowledge, Sir Francis.

My signature
is contingent on that.

As you know,
Your Grace,

the purpose of
my examination is

to ascertain
whether there is any physical impediment

to your
bearing a child.

I'm afraid it requires that I...

Do what you must, sir.

Get it over with!

I can find nothing
to prevent Her Majesty

from bearing a child.

A sublimation code, see?

Every letter of the alphabet
is substituted by another.

These coded symbols?

They denote
the key words.

Some letters occur
with more frequency.

The letter E, for example...

But the content, sir!

Does Babington lay out
the details of their conspiracy?

Is it sufficient?

"Proven knowledge" is
what Her Majesty demanded.

For that we need
the queen of Scots' response.

All shall come
to he who waits, Master Phelippes.

Excusez-moi, monsieur.

Viens, viens!

Viens!

The Earl of Leicester?

They are close,
are they not?

How close?

Dis-moi.

That is the queen's
private business, sir.

We are not permitted
to discuss such things

out of the bedchamber.

Then let us find
the bedchamber, hein?

I can tell you something...

but I can't
tell you here.

I see.

Bien!

The Earl of Leicester

is my most trusted
and loyal friend, sir!

It's a sorry day
that I listen

to the flap-mouthed
venom of others!

That you choose
to indulge in it

does you no credit,
monsieur.

Your Majesty,
he is not worth your loyalty.

Il vous a trahi!

He has betrayed you.

May God strike me down
if I tell a lie!

Who else knows?!

Why was I not told?!

Your audience
with the queen

is delayed,
my lady.

You double-faced toad
of a scullion!

A lying, cheating knave!

A maggot-hearted son
of a mongrel traitor!

My folly was ever
to place my trust in you!

And as if your slyness,
your treachery were not enough,

you dare to deny me the chance
of my own marriage,

while seizing it for yourself
with that she-wolf!

That vixen!

Did I not offer you the chance
of marriage a dozen times?

And a dozen times
you refused me!

And I thank God for my wit
that I did.

For my merciful escape!

You are loathsome to my eyes!

I detest the very
sight of you!

I have mortgaged my life

in the hope that someday
we'd be together.

I have stood by and watched

while others fawn at your feet,
flattering your vanity...

You did not
go empty-handed for your pains!

Well, it was a poor exchange
for an empty bed!

This wretched
vow of virginity

was your choice, not mine.

This marriage was when?

A year since past.

Was she still in my service

when it began?

After she left, when?

In your service.

It was for comfort, Bess.

It was a diversion.

And when she left my court
to marry Walter Devereux?

Did you still partake
of her comfort?

How fortuitous for you both
he died so suddenly.

Her son, who bears
Devereux's name...

he, too, is called
Robert, is he not?

Does he have dark eyes,
like you?

Such rank insinuation
is unworthy of you, Bess.

The bond we shared
was like no other, Robbie.

You have defiled it.

So what's it to be?

Banishment again, Bess?

Another mission abroad?

Henceforth, if I see you,
I shall not know you.

You are dead to me.

Look on her well,
Lettice.

For there
true loyalty lies.

'Tis a pity

you did not learn
from Kat's example, is it not?

I am heartbroke,

Your Majesty, that we have
so incurred your displeasure.

Alas, we cannot always choose
where love's arrow falls.

Such sentimental claptrap
finds no favor with me, madam.

Get up!

Imported silk?

It's from France.

The color is too
vulgar for my taste.

Gold?

I am told you also run
a lavish household--

a retinue of staff,
glittering soirees, hunting parties...

for all the world,
a queen holding court.

I must occupy myself somehow,

whilst my husband attends you,

Your Grace.

Then I have some
cheerful news for you.

His attendance on me
is no longer required.

All gifts, gratuities
and monopolies

shall cease forthwith.

Along with his salary.

You must learn to live
within your means, Lettice.

Cut your cloth.

Though I doubt
it will be imported now.

Do you remember
those many years ago,

when my sister held us
at the Tower?

Those long nights,
hearing the lions roar?

The screams
from the rack?

Stench of death
in our nostrils?

Come into my presence again

and I shall
fetch you back there!

Go!

Go!

Trounced again!

How does she do it!

They say chess is
the gymnasium of the mind, my lord.

Such a mind.

Such a body.

You are indeed
heaven sent.

My lord Leicester
is taken ill, Your Grace.

He hopes that you
might attend him.

How many times has
he feigned illness

to get my attention?

How many times
have I run to him?

I'm done with
his trickery.

Tell him to pack
his bags-- begone!

Bess.

Thank God.

What, no fever?

Was that beyond
your contrivance?

Your melodramatics
are always entertaining, my lord.

They lighten even
the dullest day.

I know that companionship
of the flesh...

is a poor substitute for
what we both share, Bess.

I am but a man, after all.

That it had to be her
is what cuts.

Be thankful
it was her.

In exchange for privileges,

she has settled
for a loveless marriage.

My heart lies elsewhere,
and we both know it.

Now tell me...

is it truly
your will

to wed your Frog prince, Bess?

Hmm?

You asked for your penance.

That is it, Robbie.

For marry him I shall now.

And I do it for an heir.

A child.

I am of an age now
when the idea of that...

You have malingered
long enough, my lord.

You have duties at court.

It was a poor show
this time, Robbie.

Not up to your
usual performance.

Yes!

Your Majesty!

"By one John Stubbs of Norfolk,
the Discovery of a Gaping Gulf

"whereunto England is like to be
swallowed by a French marriage.

"Let all true subjects know

the queen is being led
as a lamb to the slaughter..."

"...in this disastrous union with the Duke of Anjou.

"How can Her Majesty surrender
her virginity to a foreigner,

"and a Catholic--
be subject to his influence?

"Has she forgotten the bloody
legacy of her sister

"from such a match?

"Proof of his deviousness

is in his desire to marry
a woman so many years older."

We must double the sentries

in your quarters.

Outside the palace,

an armed guard must accompany
you at all times.

And let
my people think

I have succumbed
to this malicious spleen?!

All copies of this profanity
must be confiscated.

I want this man Stubbs
apprehended, dealt with.

Hostility to your
projected marriage

is not limited to
a handful of miscreants,

Your Grace.

The view is widespread
among your subjects.

And you, gentlemen--

where is the focus of your
opinion now on this matter?

This decision is too weighty
to take alone, my lords.

I must have your counsel
on how I am to proceed.

Advise me!

I cannot wait for that day, Majesty!

I shall live for it!

Let the jewels on my dress

be like a thousand eyes

so that my subjects know,
however distant,

I am always watching out
for them.

And let there be no shadows
on my face and neck,

for they accentuate age.

Immortal is the look
we're after, sir, and virginal.

Divinity if you can
so render it.

My hair must be loose.

Oh, and make much of my hands!

Emphasize their slenderness,

for I am told
they are my best feature.

Henceforth, when my people think
of their queen,

this is the image they must see.

In her reply,

the queen of Scots writes
mainly of her rescue.

On the subject of assassination,
she is more circumspect.

Your proven knowledge might
be hard to prove, sir.

I heard tell,

when Her Majesty was to be sent
to the Tower by her sister,

she wrote begging her for mercy.

In order that no
incriminating postscript

could later be added,
she drew lines thus.

Pity her cousin lacked
such forethought.

Take this down.

"I would be glad
to know..."

Is this to be in...
in her coded letter?

Both the coded letter
and the transcription, Master Phelippes.

"I would be glad
to know the names

"of the six gentlemen

"who are to accomplish the
dispatch of the impostor queen.

"With such knowledge,

I may advise them on how best
to achieve their mission."

As you see,
her postscript is

in response
to Babington's letter.

I took the precaution yesterday
of ordering a search

of her quarters
in Derbyshire.

Texts on cipher codes
were secreted there.

Also drafts of letters
to her agents in Spain.

There is no question
of her culpability.

Mr. Babington and his associates
must be rounded up,

brought to trial.

And the queen of Scots?

If my cousin confesses
her guilt,

vows to put an end
to her wretched plotting,

she will yet be pardoned.

The new statute
of association dictates

that, as claimant
and chief conspirator,

she, too, must be
brought to trial.

Your Majesty,
that is the law now.

How prescient you were
in that legislation,

Sir Francis.

I see now
I underestimated you in that regard.

I will not make
the same mistake again.

My lords, you shall attend
the proceedings on my behalf.

Remember the eyes
of the world behold

the actions of us princes...
and judge us accordingly.

Cousin, you have in various ways and means

attempted to take my life

and bring my kingdom
to destruction by bloodshed.

These treasons have been
proved against Babington,

and your fellow conspirators

have been punished
for their actions.

It is my command that you
answer the peers of my kingdom

as if I myself were present.

Act honestly, cousin, and you might yet obtain my favor."

Thirty noblemen commissioned as judges arranged thus.

Move. Come on.

Put that there

to signify the presence
of the queen, though absent.

And the queen of Scots?

If... if we place her adjacent,
that makes her an equal.

She goes there,
where we can read her face.

No, could you...

Get this damn dog
out of here!

We need chairs
here and here.

I repudiate the legality of these proceedings against me.

Like you, as a queen,

I am subject
only to God's jurisdiction.

The evidence against me
is forgery.

I know nothing
of this man Babington

nor ever exchanged letters
with him.

I declare I would rather
shipwreck my soul

than seek your death.

She is tireless in her wretched protestations of innocence.

I fear she is intent

on treating her trial
as a theater,

where she plays
the innocent martyr

unjustly accused
by her heretic sister queen,

thus hoping to inspire
her Catholic supporters

to rise against you...
so destroy you after all.

Your commissioners have

reached a verdict,
Your Majesty.

The queen of Scots
is found guilty on the charge of treason

and of conspiring
in your assassination.

As you know,
the penalty for such an offense is...

Death.

We two were milkmaids
with pails upon our arms,

and this matter was
just between us.

Even knowing
she had sought my death,

I would never consent to hers.

But as I carry the burden
of my nation's welfare,

I must demand her blood.

Her coconspirators were hung,
drawn and quartered, Your Grace.

Anything less than her death
will reek of nepotism.

Or worse, of a vengeful queen
expunging a rival heir.

And her execution could yet
send a clarion call to Spain

to make good their threat,
send their armada against us.

Be warned, cousin.

One day, you will be held

to account for
your unjust treatment of me,

for my blood and the misery
I have endured at your hands

will be remembered by
every Catholic in your kingdom

and in Europe.

They will cross the water
and avenge my death.

The blood on your hands
will stain your kingdom

for centuries to come.

Why cannot some other method
be found?

Poison or...

You think if your hand
is unseen,

God will be more lenient
on you?

My enemies might.

Spain, to name but one.

You make such a play that, as
queens, you and she are alike.

Is it not in how
you discharge that duty

where the difference lies?

She has always let
her heart rule her head,

put passion
before politic need.

If you shrink before
this duty now, Bess,

then indeed you risk the
accusation that you are alike.

As a woman, you were just
not equal to the task.

She will sign the death warrant.

Oh, God in Heaven, forgive me!

What have I done?

I was bound for France to collect salt,

and there was
the Spanish fleet.

130 galleons, I counted.

Like a vast floating city, they
were, in half-moon formation,

stretching
near ten miles across.

The masts and prows
of such height, Your Majesty,

such might, it seems
they wiped out the very sky.

The ocean groaning
under their weight.

The beacons are lit.

They are sighted

off the
Cornish coast.

Heading which way?

Northeast, if my
intelligence is sound,

to anchor off Calais,

wait for the second force
to embark from Flanders here

and join them.

Then it begins.

Their soldiers are professional,

expertly trained.

If they get
to the channel,

they'll sweep
through Kent,

crush London
within a week.

No mongrel of a Spaniard
shall get through, sir,

not while I have breath!

What word from Plymouth?

Drake and
the western squadron

left under cover
of darkness.

He means to get behind
the Spanish fleet

and attack from the rear.

Well, pray to God the tide stays with them.

News, my lords!

I lack news!

Is the Isle of Wight secure?

But barely, Your Grace.

Two galleons are lost to them.

Only two?

Then it is stalemate.

Drake's squadron is

even now pursuing them
towards the Straits of Dover.

Without sufficient munitions
for his cannons,

that's all he can do.

And the Flanders fleet?

Holed up by storms.

Let us hope it is

a Protestant wind, my lords,
that keeps blowing for us.

More papal propaganda the
Spanish carry of no interest.

"Incestuous bastard of depraved
courtesan Anne Boleyn,

cursed heretic, shame of
her sex and princely name."

Of no interest indeed.

I fear it may be of interest

to your Catholic subjects,
Your Grace.

Have faith, my lord.

They are English
before they are Catholic.

My God! 'Tis Queen Bess!

My God! 'Tis the queen!

The queen!

God preserve the queen!

God is with us, Your Majesty!

A statement from
one Cardinal Don Pedro,

captured by Drake
on the Rosario.

"Upon our glorious assault
on England,

"all heretics will be whipped
by chains until dead.

"Protestant children under
seven to follow their fathers;

the rest

branded on the forehead
with the letter L for Lutheran."

How very original.

When this is over, you will go
to Buxton, Robbie.

Take the water.

Or I shall
brand you myself!

The L shall not be for Lutheran,

but lunkhead!

The second force is set
to embark from Flanders.

Then in the name of God,
listen to reason.

For your own safety,
you must return

to Whitehall.

The trust you put in your people
is worthy, Bess,

but if they turn against you,

there is no protection
for you here.

Or is it a martyr's death
in battle

you hanker for?

And a hero's epitaph?

What greater purpose
to a prince's life

than to teach us how to die?

They say
the queen of Scots

met her death with courage.

Yet it took three strokes
of the ax to dispatch her.

After there was panic,

they thought they still detected
some movement in her.

It was but her wretched dog,
sheltering beneath her skirts.

That was not yet
her final epitaph.

When the executioner lifted up
her severed head,

it fell from his hand.

He was left holding
only her wig.

It's a thin line between respect
and ridicule, is it not?

My loving people, I have always so conducted myself

that, under God,
my strength and safety lies

in the loyal hearts
and goodwill of my subjects.

So I come amongst you...

"I come amongst you at this time, not for my recreation,

"but being resolved in
the midst and heat of battle

"to live or die
amongst you all,

"to lay down for my God and
for my kingdom and my people

my honor and my blood,
even in the dust."

I know I have the body
of a weak and feeble woman.

But I have the heart
and stomach of a king...

and a king of England, too!

And I think foul scorn that
Spain or any prince of Europe

should dare to invade
the borders of my realm!

To which, rather than face
that dishonor,

I will myself
take up arms beside you!

I will be your general
and your rewarder

for your virtues in the field.

We know that you already deserve
rewards and crowns,

and we do assure you,
in the word of a prince,

they shall be paid to you.

And take heed, too,
of my lieutenant general,

for no prince ever commanded

a more worthy
or noble subject as he.

By your obedience to him,
by your valor in battle,

we shall yet win
a famous victory

over these enemies of God...

of my kingdom...
and of my people!

"Night of the 28th July, two
miles southeast of Calais,

reinforced by Seymour
and Winters..."

They are celebrating.

The news must have...

Yes, yes!

Read! Read!

"Drake unleashed
eight fire ships

"among the anchored
Spanish galleons

"to dislodge their formation.

"Believing the ships
were primed with gunpowder,

the Spanish cut
their anchors..."

"And fled
in utmost confusion.

"A running battle was
thereafter maintained near Gravelines.

"So close
were we to the enemy,

we were within speech
of one another."

"Then the wind shifted,

"what remained of the armada
was swept by storms and gales

to founder in the North Sea."

And the Flanders
force?

"Intelligence that the Flanders
force will not embark

without the protection
of the Spanish fleet."

Then they are vanquished?

God breathed
and they were scattered!

We are saved, Robbie!

God bless you all!

This is not just
a Protestant victory,

but England's victory!

This is all our victory!

We are saved, Your Grace!

Victory, my lords! Victory!

My lord, we must
make preparations

for our celebration.

I will issue a proclamation,

for a day of holiday
throughout the realm.

And a new coin
must be struck

in honor of
our triumph.

And let us make
a victory procession

to St. Paul's,
to thank God for...

So solemn on
such a day, William?

Shame on you!

I would speak with you
alone, Your Grace.

As you know, after Tilbury,
the Earl of Leicester

was to journey to Buxton
to take the waters.

En route he fell ill
with a fever,

was forced to stop at his
hunting lodge in Oxford.

He was found there
this morning by a servant.

Say it is not so.

Say it is not so.

He was alone when...?

Oh.

Oh, my heart is wrenched
from me!

There was a letter
for you by his side.

Oh, God, not this.

Anything but this.

Your Majesty?

News from Ireland.

The wrecks of yet more
of the Spanish fleet

are washed up
on their shores.

They say the coast is

fair littered
with their corpses!

The pope himself acknowledges

your supremacy,
Your Grace!

He said though
only a woman

and mistress
of one half of a small island,

yet you have
made yourself feared by Spain,

by France,
by all of Europe!

Your Majesty, enough now.

Throughout the realm
your people call your triumph

the greatest victory
since Agincourt,

and they cannot celebrate it
without you.

My Lord Leicester would never
want his passing

to eclipse your finest hour.

I humbly beseech you to pardon your poor old servant

being so bold in writing to ask how my gracious lady is.

As ever, your welfare
is all that consumes me.

As for my own poor case,

I am hoping to find
a perfect cure at Buxton

as you instructed,

so I can all the more quickly
return to your side.

Until then, as always,
I kiss your feet.

Your most loving,
most faithful servant, Robbie.

That young man yonder--

do I know him?

Robert Devereux, Your Grace.

The Second
Earl of Essex.

My Lord Leicester's stepson,

Your Majesty.

Do you not
remember him?

I seem to recall, my lord,

when presented to me as a child,
you shrank from me.

So afraid were you
I might deign to kiss you.

I am a grown man now,
Your Majesty...

and know better.

His son in all but name.

God's blood, no!

Must I say it a thousand times?

Your Majesty,

the bad tooth must be removed.

There is no other remedy!

Your Grace, the Earl of Essex's
fleet is landed in Plymouth.

Your people gather to celebrate

his triumphant return
with you!

Ha!

The tooth is diseased
and must be extracted.

Pain will be
but momentary,

and your weeks
of suffering

will be at an end.

Rather an eternity of suffering

than die at the hands
of that loggerheaded butcher!

Pain will be but momentary,

and the queen's
suffering will be at an end.

All thanks to
your courageous example.

You'd lose a tooth,
but you win back her favor.

Is that not the opportunity

you've been
waiting for?

Some years ago...

Seven years ago,
my lord.

Alas, I recall it
to the day.

Master Alsop was presented
to the queen.

As he bowed,
a voluminous fart

escaped him--

if voluminous
is the word.

Easily done, sir,
when in a prone position.

Should she remember that
unfortunate event, my lord...

Her memory is not
what it was, Master Alsop.

You have nothing
to fear in that regard.

Select the sacrificial
tooth, sir.

We will announce you.

It is but a pinprick,
Your Majesty.

All right,
extract the damn thing.

I did not catch your name, sir.

Horace Alsop,

Your Majesty.

Horace Alsop, Your Grace.

We are grateful for your service
to us today, Master Alsop.

And I had entirely forgotten
the fart.

Every town, every village calls him England's glory.

He basks in their praise.

I fear your generosity these many years

has swollen the earl's head,
Your Majesty.

News of his triumph at Cadiz
travels fast-- deservedly so.

It was the tactics of Sir Walter
Raleigh which triumphed there.

Though wounded in battle,
his heroism goes unsung.

Instead of capturing
the Spanish treasure,

the earl's negligence
allowed them to burn their fleet.

What ransom he plundered
he gave to his men,

rather than reserving
it for the crown,

as you instructed.

The rivalry between your son
and the Earl of Essex

is like that of two
spitting hawks, my lord,

and is tiresome.

You invested

£50,000
in the venture.

The Spanish claim they
lost millions in the siege.

Yet we estimate
the booty the earl brings back

as only £13,000.

The rest is squandered.

Or pilfered.

It is not just a Spanish ransom
he denied you.

Every heart
of your people he wins

is one less to honor you.

Pygmy!

They say that every dog
must have his day.

Mmm.

They also say
a man's finest hour

precedes his darkest,
Sir Robert.

Father?

Your Majesty!

Just being
in your presence again

is all that sustained me
these dreary months.

Sir Walter Raleigh!

Is he here?

Your injury caused us
grievous concern, my lord.

I could not
sleep for worry.

It was but a flesh wound,
Your Majesty... a trifle.

Never think your skill in battle

has gone unnoticed,
Sir Walter.

Posterity will vouch for it,
as I will,

even though some might
think to eclipse it.

What fool was it
said absence makes the heart grow fonder?

Absence is something
that some might use

to their advantage,
my lord.

Salvaged from the Spanish wrecks
by my own hand, Your Grace.

My homecoming gift to you.

Where are the gold rings?

The casks of sugar?

The Portuguese wines?

I foresaw it would
end this way!

Everyone would benefit
from this folly

except she who actually
funded it!

My Lord Cecil?

Assess the value
of these trinkets

and offset it against
the earl's debt to us.

Your Majesty knows
more than anyone

the state of my
impoverished finances.

Surely you will
not be so cruel.

I am not inclined to reward
incompetence, my lord.

And the cruelty is yours
in betraying my trust!

The celebratory concert is canceled!

And the fireworks display!

Sir Charles,

I am in the mood
for chess.

Enough time has been
wasted on this debacle!

'Tis his mother! 'Tis Lady Leicester!

A glimpse of him is all we ask, my lady!

He has restored the nation's pride! He is our pride!

It is spite which propels her.

'Tis spite and jealousy.

"There is but one sun
in the universe!"

Well, another sun rises now.

The more that she fears
it will outshine her,

the greater the venom
she spits.

'Tis that cripple of
a pen-pusher Robert Cecil

who has turned her.

The wretch takes every
opportunity to malign you.

He may have her ear.

My son holds
the greater prize.

It is your name

they call out
there, none other.

Much use is that,
when I face bankruptcy.

She who controls the purse
controls the man.

Not this man.

Not my son.

When you were absent,
they say

that she pined for you

like a lovesick harpy.

Her scrawny heart can
be yours again if...

you play her right.

Your stepfather always said

that however bitter
their rows,

their reconciliations
were always sweeter.

For each one came
gift wrapped.

Shh...

The face is familiar.

Alas, the name escapes me.

Sir Charles Blount,
as well you know, my lord.

They say your company
is much sought after

by the queen of late;

that you spend hours closeted
alone in her privy chamber.

We are exploring
the theological ramifications

of Dante's Inferno.

My Lady relishes
such pursuits, as do I.

He has the sallow look of a
scholar about him, it's true.

This token you wear...
denotes what?

This is a gift
of favor from the queen.

It's to mark
my skill at jousting.

I'll be blunt, Blount.

You do not strike me

as a man who exhibits much
in the way of athletic prowess.

Which leads me to
one of two conclusions:

Either you took
advantage of the queen

and purloined the chess piece
while she was distracted...

I did no such thing!

Or you are a fool.

For only a fool would
display her favor

in so cheap a fashion.

And only a knave would make
such a cheap insinuation.

Oh, Robbie...

What folly has your
impetuousness led you to now?

It is but a flesh wound,
Your Majesty, a trifle.

Is your life
of so little value

you would risk it for the sake
of pointless pride?

It is my life which is
pointless.

Your unkindness makes it so.

I strive only
to be worthy of you.

I am human.

I make mistakes.

Am I to be
condemned for that?

Night and day, hope and jealousy
fight within me.

I have no respite from it!

Only you have the power

to free me
of the tyranny of one

that I may
rise to the other.

But when you shun me...

demean me...

I wish to God he had
struck me through the heart,

be done with it!

Hush now.

You are not the only one
fighting demons, Robbie.

You do not see.

Without your love
I am lost to them.

There is only
futility, despair.

Have I not proved my
affection a hundred times?

Given you every
opportunity for advancement?

Every chance
to prove your worth?

Your respect is harder
to win, it seems.

Respect is not the
prize you think, Robbie.

People have short memories.

Then they are fools...

and unworthy of you.

Do your work well, sir,

for there is none
so precious to me.

Your ruse with Blount was a masterstroke!

Such a cocktail
of erudition--

a dash of nihilism,
a pinch of devotion.

Shakespeare himself
could not have matched it.

You think that I am so callous,

that my words were
but a cynical ploy...

a sham!

You know me less well
than you think, Francis.

Francis Bacon is the man for your attorney general.

I tell you, you will
find none better.

Be warned, Robbie,

if you mean to wear
me down with your badgering,

many have tried
that trick

and I have
outlived them all.

For the sake of
both our sanities, choose another topic.

I fear the next might
please you even less.

My mother asks that you
receive her back in court.

Her exile is
my punishment, too.

My badgering is but
a whimper compared to hers.

She gives me
no peace on it!

She claims that
your beauty robbed her

of her husband's love

and now you seek to do
the same with her son.

Do you not see
how I am caught in the enmity between you?

Yonder trees.

Shall we?

It's a fair distance
for someone of your years.

My years!

You will choke
on those words, my boy!

As ever, your efforts on my behalf are welcome.

But I fear the queen suspects your generosity to your friends

is about enhancing
your popularity

at the expense of hers.

If you are to erase that
suspicion from her mind,

your watchword
must be moderation.

I beg you,
curb your impulsiveness.

Forget your aspirations
for military success.

Instead, focus your energy
on the privy council.

For only there can you halt the ascendancy of Robert Cecil.

When his father leaves office
there will be a power vacuum.

Prove yourself equal to it

and the flower of your
greatness can truly flourish.

Her Majesty is detained
on matters of state.

She bids you
wait for her in here.

My lady.

I thought I was
to be received in the Presence Chamber

so the whole
court could see.

It is but more
of her damn trickery.

Retire?! To do what?

Bury yourself on your estate
and breed guinea fowl?

I am weary, Your Majesty.

I am losing what
dexterity of mind and body I once had.

It is time someone
younger took my place.

"Someone" being your
son Robert, I presume.

Have I not groomed him
for just this eventuality?

He is too young
for so weighty a commission.

He's older than you
when first you became sovereign.

And you were at my side,
guiding me, counseling me.

Would you desert
me now when I need you most?

Gloriana is but a ghost
in my people's memory.

The young blood
that surrounds me

is governed only
by self-interest, by ambition.

They care not for the values
of service and sacrifice

which shaped our generation.

And I am not so vain

I mistake their flattery
for devotion, my lord.

When you are
at my side,

I am invincible,
William.

You are the rock
upon which I built my reign.

And my reign is not over yet,
nor your duty to me.

Your Majesty.

My mother still eagerly awaits
your audience.

Patience is a virtue, Robbie,
and virtue is its own reward.

She comes.

So many years,
Your Majesty...

They have not diminished
your beauty one iota.

Is that it?

It's just the first skirmish,
Mother.

I shall win her over yet.

I swear the best part of you

was left running down my legs
when you were born.

Antichrist of ingratitude!

Duplicitous mongrel
of a Frenchman!

Did I not help him to his crown,
support his claim to be king?

In forging an alliance
with Spain,

he seeks only to secure

the safety of France.

We could do worse

than follow his example.

Ally with Spain?

When they are trying
to use Ireland

as a back door to conquer us?

Tyrone is not just
another Irish renegade.

He is using their support
to oust us.

He is their gateway to invasion.

Any treaty would be conditional

that King Philip ceases
his support

of Tyrone
and his Catholic rebels.

Without Spain's resources, Tyrone's rebellion will collapse

and our sovereignty over Ireland
will be assured.

Only force can accomplish that.

We must mount
a double offensive--

attack the Spanish colonies;

lead a military assault
against Tyrone in Ireland.

Boldness is the key.

And who will lead
such a bold campaign?

The question is rhetorical,
my lord.

Perhaps I should commend
the 55th Psalm to the earl.

"Bloodthirsty men
will not live half their days."

And those who live too long

lose their grasp
of the scriptures, my lord.

For does not
the same psalm also say

that God shall cast his enemies
into the pit of destruction?

I will not have God used as a weapon to score points--

not in this council chamber
or elsewhere.

When you are nearer the end
of your life than the beginning,

boldness loses something
of its appeal, my lord.

For you are engaged in a war
of a different kind.

Your jest is in poor taste,
ladies.

Your pamphlet is but a step away from treason, my lord.

You question both my authority
and my judgment.

I wrote it only so the people
know the disaster

this peace treaty
with Spain will bring us.

My foreign policy will not be dictated by public opinion

nor by such underhand tactics.

While we hesitate over Ireland,
we give Tyrone and his rebels

time to amass
yet more Spanish support.

We play into their hands!

I will not be goaded into war
on the say-so of a hothead

with delusions
of adequacy.

You will not
turn your back on me, sir!

I have not done with you yet!

Is it a hothead
who has the people

screaming my name
from every rooftop?

They know that
England's glory

lies not in the relics
of the past

but in a vision of greatness,
which can again be ours.

Relics? You dare to utter
such words to me?

To dare is what soldiers do--
it is what defines us.

I will teach you manners yet.

No woman shall strike me thus,

queen or not!

Unhand me! Release me!
Let me go!

Without her forgiveness, all doors will be closed to him.

He must yield to her will, apologize, my lady.

On his knees,
if she demands it.

A letter.

I have penned to her
in his name.

I beg you, make him see reason.

Put his seal on it,
dispatch it.

End this wretched deadlock.

Why is it he who must grovel in slavish apology?

No son of mine shall
ever subscribe

to such fawning hypocrisy.

He used to say you cannot catch
a monkey by chasing it.

You must make the monkey
come to you.

♪ Come again

♪ Sweet love doth now invite
thy graces that refrain ♪

♪ To do me due delight

♪ To see, to hear, to touch,
to kiss, to die ♪

♪ With thee again
in sweetest sympa-ha-ha-thy. ♪

The Earl of Essex
is gripped by a fever, Your Majesty.

He is mortal sick.

They say he is...

he is so weakened by it,
he has but days left.

Mother... mother,
do not fuss so.

We are not done yet.

You must appear weakened
by illness and remorse.

No tantrums or tirades.

Did she not send her
physician to attend me?

Her actions speak
louder than any words.

Well, this time
watch your own words, son.

You lose her favor again,
you will forever lose mine.

Your bet is
as good as lost, sir-- admit defeat.

I am relieved to find you in
such rude health, Your Majesty.

Yours is fully restored,
it seems.

Thanks to your mercy
and the skill of your physician.

Sir Walter and I
are conducting a wager.

He claims
he can calculate

the weight of smoke--
a claim which I refute.

Put it to the test, sir.

And there you have it: the weight of smoke.

Well done, sir.

I am an ignoble wretch and
unworthy of your forgiveness,

so I will not
insult either of us by asking for it.

My greatest fear is

your rashness will one day
destroy you, Robbie.

Worse, I shall be
the instrument of it.

Does not any son rail against
the rule of his mother?

It does not lessen
the bond they share.

A mother's love
obeys only one rule...

that it is given without
expectation of any in return.

Unconditional love
is the greatest gift

any woman can give a man.

On the Irish question--

we have received fresh
intelligence on the matter.

It seems your position on it
holds merit after all.

Tyrone and his rebels
are even now

building up his
garrisons in Ulster.

Forgive me, I must speak.

Let it be me
who quenches this fire for you.

For you have seen in me
qualities no others have.

You alone can see
beyond the trivial

into a man's soul.

I beg you,
for your honor and for mine,

let me beat Tyrone in the field,

prove to the world
Gloriana still reigns.

I will reflect upon it, my lord.

The seizure rendered him

without speech or movement
on his left side.

Please God he can still hear.

Time and again I warned him

that the burden of his duties
was too much for his years.

Nourishment and rest
are what's needed now.

We will have you restored
to your old self in a trice.

I understand it is your will

that the Earl of Essex
goes to Ireland, Your Grace,

to take on
the rebel Tyrone?

He set sail
with his army last night

under the cover of darkness.

If victory is to be
assured in battle,

the element of surprise
is a prerequisite, Sir Robert.

Drake taught me that lesson.

Forgive the presumption,

but he is no Francis Drake,
Your Majesty.

Is it wise to take
such a gamble

on one so capricious,
so headstrong?

Should Spain get dominance
there, your kingdom could be...

Do you think my wits
are so impaired

I cannot grasp
the consequences?

Why must you all persist
in always seeing

the faults
in him?

Recall him.

He will take you down with him,
and England with you.

Recall him.

He is tired.

He asks to rest.

It must be her mother, Anne Boleyn.

The one they call the whore?

That's why the queen
will never speak of her.

'Tis but one of her ladies
from the old days.

'Tis no one.

Oh, that's lovely, Agnes.

"His last letter"?

There is no seal on it.

Oh, quickly, quickly!

Quickly.

She comes.

The silence from Ireland
is explained, Your Majesty.

The Earl of Essex
has disobeyed your instructions.

He has wantonly
ignored them.

He did not go north to Ulster after Tyrone.

All this time he has
been in the South,

engaged in fruitless
skirmishes

against the rebel
outposts there!

Of the 16,000 men
under his command, only 4,000 remain,

the others lost,
if not in battle,

then through disease
or desertion.

The waste of it!

The earl is where now?

He tarries
in Dublin,

claiming exhaustion
and ill health.

He seeks your permission
to return home.

My lord, I forbid you to come out of that kingdom

until Tyrone and his garrisons
are disposed of.

Why have you not prosecuted
your campaign against him?

You have had ample time, men
and ordnance to accomplish it.

You defy my authority with your futile adventure in the south,

which has decimated my treasury

and cost my kingdom dear
in human life!

Discharge your duty
against Tyrone, my lord.

Do not let disgrace
be your epitaph,

nor the ignominy
of defeat be mine.

For be assured, I will not pay
the price of that alone.

Your Majesty?

You were my Alpha and my Omega, my lord.

No prince ever had
such a counselor.

Sir Francis Bacon,
Your Majesty.

You asked him
to attend you.

We have reason to be concerned

about the Earl of
Essex's actions, Sir Francis.

As one close to him, we hoped
you might give us some insight.

Like you, Your Grace,

I have always tried to be
a moderating influence,

tried to stay his impulses.

But all in vain,
I'm afraid.

I fear he has a malady
in his mind

which has tainted him
since birth.

Either he is tortured by
melancholy and self-doubt,

or he acts with such
reckless hubris

there is no restraining him.

At best, the result
is inconsistency,

at worst, indecision.

Well, he has made a decision

now, sir...
one he will live to regret.

He has agreed a truce
with the rebel Tyrone.

Today we received notice

he has deserted his post,

together with
a legion of his officers.

He has offered them knighthoods
to secure their loyalty.

Given the extremities
of his nature,

he is not just a danger
to himself, but to others.

Your Majesty, he must
be found, and quickly.

His whereabouts are
unknown to us, sir...

as are his intentions.

To London!

Onwards to our destiny!

Quickly!

Go! Leave me!

Her Grace is
not yet dressed, my lord!

You must leave
now, sir,

or we will
summon the guard!

Forgive my intrusion,

Your Majesty!

I had to see you.

I could not wait.

My treaty with Tyrone is not

the disgrace
your council have you think.

They fight us like savages,

coming at us
through the mist like ghosts,

deploying tactics
of ambush, of sabotage!

Where is the dishonor
in admitting

defeat against such
a foe is inevitable?

Is not Tyrone's threat
neutralized

by our treaty?

His rebellion quelled?

And bloodlessly!

At no more cost to your revenue.

As ever, your words
take the sting

out of your actions,
my lord.

You must be wearied
after your journey.

Why not repair to your home,
refresh yourself?

When we are both
more presentable,

we can discuss this
matter at our leisure.

I see now...

this is where I belong.

I was a fool to stray
so far from you.

He is the only prince of our hearts, my lady!

All our hopes rest with him.

She has dismissed him

from the
privy council,

stripped him
of his offices

of Earl Marshall,
Master of the Ordnance.

And now his patent on
Sweet Wines is revoked.

She has bankrupted him.

I am ruined, Mother.

She is as crooked
as her wretched carcass!

This is down to that wretch
Cecil and his conniving.

And as for Bacon...

That turncoat shall
pay for his treachery!

But there will
be ample time for atonement.

And you have squandered enough
of it on futile self-pity.

Cecil and the others

who've contrived
your downfall

are looking to secure
their future

beyond the queen.

And you must
do the same.

These hands
hold the course of history, my son.

Such a moment
comes to a man but once in a lifetime,

if he has the courage
to seize it.

Sir Gilly will take the palace here,

at the north gate.

Your contingent will enter
from the river, Henry.

Mine will take
the main gate.

And the palace guard?

Most will be marshaled
to the queen's apartment

and council chamber.

They fight for coinage,
we for a cause.

They will not detain us long.

But the queen
must not be harmed.

She must be confined
to her quarters

under guard
for her own protection.

And her councilors?

Rounded up and executed.

He claims you are no longer competent

to rule, Your Majesty.

He means to depose you,

eliminate Sir Robert
and your council,

proclaim himself
Lord Protector,

rule in your place.

He awaits reinforcements from the army.

Then he will raise the people
and attack the palace.

His malice against
your council

is quite fixed,
Your Majesty.

He accuses Sir Cecil

of secretly plotting

to divert
the succession to Spain,

and you, sir,
of contriving

in murderous
intrigues against him.

The man is delusional!

What meager grasp of reality
he had is lost to him.

I fear the Earl of Essex
was always a lost cause

in that regard,
my lord.

He also revealed
his malice to you

in another regard,
Your Majesty.

It seems he made reference to--

and I quote-- your
"wretched, crooked carcass."

'Tis true, Your Majesty.

We cannot rely on the fidelity

of your people,
Your Grace.

The hardships they have endured

could turn their hunger
into hate.

It is a breeding ground
for revolution.

Sir Walter,
you and Sir Francis will lead

a delegation
of my councilors to him.

Give him no arena
for his heroics.

Tell him the hearing he demands
has been granted.

I require him to attend me.

Then take him to the Tower.

Forgive the rabble,
my lords.

Their rage is born
from loyalty.

A rare commodity in such
troubled times, is it not?

The queen awaits
your attendance, sir.

We come to take you to her.

Then I must make
myself presentable

for such an honor.

The rear of the house
is safer, my lords.

Sir Francis is familiar
with the way.

I will detain you
only a moment, my lords.

I demand that you let us out, sir!

We must strike now!

Get your weapons-- make ready!

We are not yet
prepared!

We need
reinforcements.

The people will
rise behind us.

They will not fail us!

To the city!

A plot is laid for my life!

To the city for a call to arms,
to save the crown!

Save the crown!

England's crown is to be sold to
the Spanish by Sir Robert Cecil!

Come out, fight for the crown!

The queen's government has betrayed her!

They have betrayed us all!

Fight!

My cause is just.

Fight for England!

They have reached Fenchurch
Street, Your Majesty.

Others gather at Ludgate,

and yet more in Newgate.

Dispatch a contingent
of my militia north, here,

to block their escape.

Another thus--

to divide their ranks.

We need men and arms
to defend the crown!

Come out, I say!

For the queen!

Defend her crown!

Destroy the bastard traitors!

No! You must join us!

The queen's council is corrupt!

We must to the palace--
save her from them!

Out of my way!

Come out!

Deserters!

Cowards!

Why do they not come?

Traitors!

I am the Earl of Essex
and I command you, come out!

Fight with me!

Cowards! Pathetic traitors!

Traitors!

They've boxed us in.

We're trapped!

To the river!

We are not done for yet!

Save yourself! Go!

We need more cavalry, more horses.

The people are closing their doors

to them,
Your Majesty!

They are still loyal to you.

Remove the surprise
from your voice, Sir Charles.

I for one never doubted it.

Mother?

Mother.

The roof!

It is over, my lord!

For your life,
you must surrender!

I meant only to protect her

against those
who would betray her!

It was for love of her!

For love of England!

Then make your peace
with God, my lord,

or face the fires of Hell!

Your Grace?

The Earl has surrendered, Your Majesty.

The rest are scattered
or arrested.

Over a hundred are confined
with him at the Tower.

We must make preparations

for his trial,
Your Grace, and speedily--

before his supporters
can regroup.

When I hold my arms thus,
I am ready.

Let me by.

Let me pass!

Do not mourn my death...

for I welcome it.

I see now only God can give me
the peace

I have been denied on earth.

God save the queen.

God save us all.

He is gone, Your Grace.

Since the execution of the Earl of Essex,

the queen's spirit
is quite broken.

She is ever more melancholy,
ever more forgetful,

her temper more capricious.

She leaves her quarters now
only for duty.

The recitals and plays
she once relished,

her horse riding...

None can tempt her out.

She is beset by fears of assassination,

stalking the palace at night,
striking at unseen enemies.

Then for a brief moment,

her old spirit
was restored to us.

She was Gloriana once more.

To be a king and wear a crown

is a thing more glorious
to them who see it

than pleasant to them
who bear it.

For myself... I was never
so much enticed by it as...

humbled that God chose me
as his instrument

to defend my kingdom
from peril, dishonor,

tyranny and oppression.

There will never be a queen
with more zeal and devotion

for her country
and her subjects.

But it is my desire now

to reign no longer...

than for your good.

Then the flame was extinguished.

She began to slip away from us.

Too weak to walk, she has spent the past 15 hours

standing in her chamber,
refusing to sit,

lest she should never
rise again.

Boleyn's little bastard.

I will have but one mistress here,

and no master, do you hear me?!

I will have no man
rule over me!

Then, after over 40 years as sovereign,

she quietly departed this life.

As for the succession,

she neither denied
nor confirmed you.

But you can be assured

of my fidelity
in that respect, Your Majesty.

For King James's hand alone.

No other.

Wait outside.

A clasp has been added.

She has hidden
a portrait inside.

Robert Dudley.

'Tis the whore, Anne Boleyn.

Her mother.

by
Media Access Group at WGBH access.wgbh.org