Original subtitles

[ 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.

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