A Banquet on the Tables_.
_Enter_ BECKET. BECKET'S RETAINERS.
1ST RETAINER.
Do thou speak first.
2ND RETAINER.
Nay, thou! Nay, thou! Hast not thou drawn the short straw?
1ST RETAINER.
My lord Archbishop, wilt thou permit us--
BECKET.
To speak without stammering and like a free man?
Ay.
1ST RETAINER.
My lord, permit us then to leave thy service.
BECKET.
When?
1ST RETAINER.
Now.
BECKET.
To-night?
1ST RETAINER.
To-night, my lord.
BECKET.
And why?
1ST RETAINER.
My lord, we leave thee not without tears.
BECKET.
Tears? Why not stay with me then?
1ST RETAINER.
My lord, we cannot yield thee an answer altogether to thy
satisfaction.
BECKET.
I warrant you, or your own either. Shall I find
you one? The King hath frowned upon me.
1ST RETAINER.
That is not altogether our answer, my lord.
BECKET.
No; yet all but all. Go, go! Ye have eaten of my dish and drunken of
my cup for a dozen years.
1ST RETAINER.
And so we have. We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not say, 'God bless
you,' ere we go?
BECKET.
God bless you all! God redden your pale blood! But mine is human-red;
and when ye shall hear it is poured out upon earth, and see it
mounting to Heaven, my God bless you, that seems sweet to you now,
will blast and blind you like a curse.
1ST RETAINER.
We hope not, my lord. Our humblest thanks for
your blessing. Farewell!
[_Exeunt_ RETAINERS.
BECKET.
Farewell, friends! farewell, swallows! I wrong the bird; she leaves
only the nest she built, they leave the builder. Why? Am I to be
murdered to-night?
[_Knocking at the door_.
ATTENDANT.
Here is a missive left at the gate by one from the castle.
BECKET.
Cornwall's hand or Leicester's: they write marvellously alike.
[_Reading_.
'Fly at once to France, to King Louis of France: there be those about
our King who would have thy blood.' Was not my lord of Leicester
bidden to our supper?
ATTENDANT.
Ay, my lord, and divers other earls and barons. But the hour is past,
and our brother, Master Cook, he makes moan that all be a-getting
cold.
BECKET.
And I make my moan along with him. Cold after warm, winter after
summer, and the golden leaves, these earls and barons, that clung to
me, frosted off me by the first cold frown of the King. Cold, but look
how the table steams, like a heathen altar; nay, like the altar at
Jerusalem. Shall God's good gifts be wasted? None of them here! Call
in the poor from the streets, and let them feast.
HERBERT.
That is the parable of our blessed Lord.
BECKET.
And why should not the parable of our blessed Lord be acted again?
Call in the poor! The Church is ever at variance with the kings, and
ever at one with the poor. I marked a group of lazars in the
marketplace--half-rag, half-sore--beggars, poor rogues (Heaven bless
'em) who never saw nor dreamed of such a banquet. I will amaze them.
Call them in, I say. They shall henceforward be my earls and barons--
our lords and masters in Christ Jesus.
[_Exit_ HERBERT.
If the King hold his purpose, I am myself a beggar. Forty thousand
marks! forty thousand devils--and these craven bishops!
_A_ POOR MAN _(entering) with his dog_.
My lord Archbishop, may I come in with my poor friend, my dog? The
King's verdurer caught him a-hunting in the forest, and cut off his
paws. The dog followed his calling, my lord. I ha' carried him ever so
many miles in my arms, and he licks my face and moans and cries out
against the King.
BECKET.
Better thy dog than thee. The King's courts would use thee worse than
thy dog--they are too bloody. Were the Church king, it would be
otherwise. Poor beast! poor beast! set him down. I will bind up his
wounds with my napkin. Give him a bone, give him a bone! Who misuses a
dog would misuse a child--they cannot speak for themselves. Past help!
his paws are past help. God help him!
_Enter the_ BEGGARS _(and seat themselves at the Tables)_.
BECKET _and_ HERBERT _wait upon them_.
1ST BEGGAR.
Swine, sheep, ox--here's a French supper. When thieves fall out,
honest men----
2ND BEGGAR.
Is the Archbishop a thief who gives thee thy supper?
1ST BEGGAR.
Well, then, how does it go? When honest men fall out, thieves--no, it
can't be that.
2ND BEGGAR.
Who stole the widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she was at mass?
1ST BEGGAR.
Come, come! thou hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen! Our Lord
Becket's our great sitting-hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been sitting
here if the barons and bishops hadn't been a-sitting on the
Archbishop.
BECKET.
Ay, the princes sat in judgment against me, and the Lord hath prepared
your table--_Sederunt principes, ederunt pauperes_.
_A Voice_.
Becket, beware of the knife!
BECKET.
Who spoke?
3RD BEGGAR.
Nobody, my lord. What's that, my lord?
BECKET.
Venison.
3RD BEGGAR.
Venison?
BECKET.
Buck; deer, as you call it.
3RD BEGGAR.
King's meat! By the Lord, won't we pray for your lordship!
BECKET.
And, my children, your prayers will do more for me in the day of peril
that dawns darkly and drearily over the house of God--yea, and in the
day of judgment also, than the swords of the craven sycophants would
have done had they remained true to me whose bread they have partaken.
I must leave you to your banquet. Feed, feast, and be merry. Herbert,
for the sake of the Church itself, if not for my own, I must fly to
France to-night. Come with me.
[_Exit with_ HERBERT.
3RD BEGGAR.
Here--all of you--my lord's health (_they drink_). Well--if that isn't
goodly wine--
1ST BEGGAR.
Then there isn't a goodly wench to serve him with it: they were
fighting for her to-day in the street.
3RD BEGGAR.
Peace!
1ST BEGGAR.
The black sheep baaed to the miller's ewe-lamb,
The miller's away for to-night.
Black sheep, quoth she, too black a sin for me.
And what said the black sheep, my masters?
We can make a black sin white.
3RD BEGGAR.
Peace!
1ST BEGGAR.
'Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, I am here by the dam.'
But the miller came home that night,
And so dusted his back with the meal in his sack,
That he made the black sheep white.
3RD BEGGAR.
Be we not of the family? be we not a-supping with the head of the
family? be we not in my lord's own refractory? Out from among us; thou
art our black sheep.
_Enter the four_ KNIGHTS.
FITZURSE.
Sheep, said he? And sheep without the shepherd, too. Where is my lord
Archbishop? Thou the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's brotherhood,
answer.
3RD BEGGAR.
With Cain's answer, my lord. Am I his keeper? Thou shouldst call him
Cain, not me.
FITZURSE.
So I do, for he would murder his brother the State.
3RD BEGGAR (_rising and advancing_).
No my lord; but because the Lord hath set his mark upon him that no
man should murder him.
FITZURSE.
Where is he? where is he?
3RD BEGGAR.
With Cain belike, in the land of Nod, or in the land of France for
aught I know.
FITZURSE.
France! Ha! De Morville, Tracy, Brito--fled is he? Cross swords all of
you! swear to follow him! Remember the Queen!
[_The four_ KNIGHTS _cross their swords_.
DE BRITO.
They mock us; he is here.
[_All the_ BEGGARS _rise and advance upon them_.
FITZURSE.
Come, you filthy knaves, let us pass.
3RD BEGGAR.
Nay, my lord, let _us_ pass. We be a-going home
after our supper in all humbleness, my lord; for the
Archbishop loves humbleness, my lord; and though
we be fifty to four, we daren't fight you with our
crutches, my lord. There now, if thou hast not laid
hands upon me! and my fellows know that I am all
one scale like a fish. I pray God I haven't given thee
my leprosy, my lord.
[FITZURSE _shrinks from him and another presses upon_ DE BRITO.
DE BRITO.
Away, dog!
4TH BEGGAR.
And I was bit by a mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog already by
this token, that tho' I can drink wine I cannot bide water, my lord;
and I want to bite, I want to bite, and they do say the very breath
catches.
DE BRITO.
Insolent clown. Shall I smite him with the edge of the sword?
DE MORVILLE.
No, nor with the flat of it either. Smite the shepherd and the sheep
are scattered. Smite the sheep and the shepherd will excommunicate
thee.
DE BRITO.
Yet my fingers itch to beat him into nothing.
5TH BEGGAR.
So do mine, my lord. I was born with it, and sulphur won't bring it
out o' me. But for all that the Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday.
He likes it, my lord.
6TH BEGGAR.
And see here, my lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my leg. It's
humbling--it smells o' human natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my lord? for
the Archbishop likes the smell on it, my lord; for I be his lord and
master i' Christ, my lord.
DE MORVILLE.
Faugh! we shall all be poisoned. Let us go.
[_They draw back,_ BEGGARS _following_.
7TH BEGGAR.
My lord, I ha' three sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating sickness.
They be dead while I be a-supping.
8TH BEGGAR.
And I ha' nine darters i' the spital that be dead ten times o'er i'
one day wi' the putrid fever; and I bring the taint on it along wi'
me, for the Archbishop likes it, my lord.
[_Pressing upon the_ KNIGHTS _till they disappear thro' the door_.
3RD BEGGAR.
Crutches, and itches, and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, and
running sores, praise ye the Lord, for to-night ye have saved our
Archbishop!
1ST BEGGAR.
I'll go back again. I hain't half done yet.
HERBERT OF BOSHAM (_entering_).
My friends, the Archbishop bids you good-night. He hath retired to
rest, and being in great jeopardy of his life, he hath made his bed
between the altars, from whence he sends me to bid you this night pray
for him who hath fed you in the wilderness.
3RD BEGGAR.
So we will--so we will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be king, and the
Holy Father shall be king, and the world shall live by the King's
venison and the bread o' the Lord, and there shall be no more poor for
ever. Hurrah! Vive le Roy! That's the English of it.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--ROSAMUND'S _Bower. A Garden of Flowers. In the midst a bank
of wild-flowers with a bench before it_.
_Voices heard singing among the trees_.
_Duet_.
1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead?
2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land.
1. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the
strand,
One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering red?
2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea.
1. Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have
fled?
2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life from the
dead.
1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, let us be.
2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it--he, it is he,
Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea.
_Enter_ HENRY _and_ ROSAMUND.
ROSAMUND.
Be friends with him again--I do beseech thee.
HENRY.
With Becket? I have but one hour with thee--
Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the mitre
Grappling the crown--and when I flee from this
For a gasp of freer air, a breathing-while
To rest upon thy bosom and forget him--
Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, Becket--
Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's own bower,
Must be the nightmare breaking on my peace
With 'Becket.'
ROSAMUND.
O my life's life, not to smile
Is all but death to me. My sun, no cloud!
Let there not be one frown in this one hour.
Out of the many thine, let this be mine!
Look rather thou all-royal as when first
I met thee.
HENRY.
Where was that?
ROSAMUND.
Forgetting that
Forgets me too.
HENRY.
Nay, I remember it well.
There on the moors.
ROSAMUND.
And in a narrow path.
A plover flew before thee. Then I saw
Thy high black steed among the flaming furze,
Like sudden night in the main glare of day.
And from that height something was said to me
I knew not what.
HENRY.
I ask'd the way.
ROSAMUND.
I think so.
So I lost mine.
HENRY.
Thou wast too shamed to answer.
ROSAMUND.
Too scared--so young!
HENRY.
The rosebud of my rose!--
Well, well, no more of _him_--I have sent his folk,
His kin, all his belongings, overseas;
Age, orphans, and babe-breasting mothers--all
By hundreds to him--there to beg, starve, die--
So that the fool King Louis feed them not.
The man shall feel that I can strike him yet.
ROSAMUND.
Babes, orphans, mothers! is that royal, Sire?
HENRY.
And I have been as royal with the Church.
He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pontigny.
There wore his time studying the canon law
To work it against me. But since he cursed
My friends at Veselay, I have let them know,
That if they keep him longer as their guest,
I scatter all their cowls to all the hells.
ROSAMUND.
And is that altogether royal?
HENRY.
Traitress!
ROSAMUND.
A faithful traitress to thy royal fame.
HENRY.
Fame! what care I for fame? Spite, ignorance, envy,
Yea, honesty too, paint her what way they will.
Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow;
Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow;
And round and round again. What matters? Royal--I
mean to leave the royalty of my crown
Unlessen'd to mine heirs.
ROSAMUND.
Still--thy fame too:
I say that should be royal.
HENRY.
And I say,
I care not for thy saying.
ROSAMUND.
And I say,
I care not for _thy_ saying. A greater King
Than thou art, Love, who cares not for the word,
Makes 'care not'--care. There have I spoken true?
HENRY.
Care dwell with me for ever, when I cease
To care for thee as ever!
ROSAMUND.
No need! no need!...
There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit?... My bank
Of wild-flowers [_he sits_]. At thy feet!
[She sits at his feet.
HENRY.
I had them clear
A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood,
Not leave these countryfolk at court.
ROSAMUND.
I brought them
In from the wood, and set them here. I love them
More than the garden flowers, that seem at most
Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half speaking
The language of the land. I love _them_ too,
Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all the roses--
Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's name--
This wild one (_picking a briar-rose_)--nay, I shall not prick myself--
Is sweetest. Do but smell!
HENRY.
Thou rose of the world!
Thou rose of all the roses!
[Muttering.
I am not worthy of her--this beast-body
That God has plunged my soul in--I, that taking
The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so long
Have wander'd among women,--a foul stream
Thro' fever-breeding levels,--at her side,
Among these happy dales, run clearer, drop
The mud I carried, like yon brook, and glass
The faithful face of heaven--
[Looking at her, and unconsciously aloud,
--thine! thine!
ROSAMUND.
I know it.
HENRY (_muttering_).
Not hers. We have but one bond, her hate of Becket.
ROSAMUND (half hearing).
Nay! nay! what art thou muttering? _I_ hate Becket?
HENRY (_muttering_).
A sane and natural loathing for a soul
Purer, and truer and nobler than herself;
And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate,
A bastard hate born of a former love.
ROSAMUND,
My fault to name him! O let the hand of one
To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it
But for a breath.
[_Puts her hand before his lips_.
Speak only of thy love.
Why there--like some loud beggar at thy gate--
The happy boldness of this hand hath won it
Love's alms, thy kiss (_looking at her hand_)--Sacred!
I'll kiss it too. [_Kissing it_.
There! wherefore dost thou so peruse it? Nay,
There may be crosses in my line of life.
HENRY.
Not half _her_ hand--no hand to mate with _her_,
If it should come to that.
ROSAMUND.
With her? with whom?
HENRY.
Life on the hand is naked gipsy-stuff;
Life on the face, the brows-clear innocence!
Vein'd marble--not a furrow yet--and hers
[_Muttering_.
Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's web--
ROSAMUND (_springing up_).
Out of the cloud, my Sun--out of the eclipse
Narrowing my golden hour!
HENRY.
O Rosamund,
I would be true--would tell thee all--and something
I had to say--I love thee none the less--
Which will so vex thee.
ROSAMUND.
Something against _me_?
HENRY.
No, no, against myself.
ROSAMUND.
I will not hear it.
Come, come, mine hour! I bargain for mine hour.
I'll call thee little Geoffrey.
HENRY.
Call him!
ROSAMUND.
Geoffrey!
[_Enter_ GEOFFREY.
HENRY.
How the boy grows!
ROSAMUND.
Ay, and his brows are thine;
The mouth is only Clifford, my dear father.
GEOFFREY.
My liege, what hast thou brought me?
HENRY.
Venal imp!
What say'st thou to the Chancellorship of England?
GEOFFREY.
O yes, my liege.
HENRY.
'O yes, my liege!' He speaks
As if it were a cake of gingerbread.
Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to be Chancellor of England?
GEOFFREY.
Something good, or thou wouldst not give it me.
HENRY.
It is, my boy, to side with the King when Chancellor, and then to be
made Archbishop and go against the King who made him, and turn the
world upside down.
GEOFFREY.
I won't have it then. Nay, but give it me, and I promise thee not to
turn the world upside down.
HENRY (_giving him a ball_).
Here is a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway and play with as
thou wilt--which is more than I can do with mine. Go try it, play.
[_Exit_ GEOFFREY.
A pretty lusty boy.
ROSAMUND.
So like to thee;
Like to be liker.
HENRY.
Not in my chin, I hope!
That threatens double.
ROSAMUND.
Thou art manlike perfect.
HENRY.
Ay, ay, no doubt; and were I humpt behind,
Thou'dst say as much--the goodly way of women
Who love, for which I love them. May God grant
No ill befall or him or thee when I
Am gone.
ROSAMUND.
Is _he_ thy enemy?
HENRY.
He? who? ay!
ROSAMUND.
Thine enemy knows the secret of my bower.
HENRY.
And I could tear him asunder with wild horses
Before he would betray it. Nay--no fear!
More like is he to excommunicate me.
ROSAMUND.
And I would creep, crawl over knife-edge flint
Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay his hand
Before he flash'd the bolt.
HENRY.
And when he flash'd it
Shrink from me, like a daughter of the Church.
ROSAMUND.
Ay, but he will not.
HENRY.
Ay! but if he did?
ROSAMUND.
O then! O then! I almost fear to say
That my poor heretic heart would excommunicate
His excommunication, clinging to thee
Closer than ever.
HENRY (_raising_ ROSAMUND _and kissing her_).
My brave-hearted Rose!
Hath he ever been to see thee?
ROSAMUND
Here? not he.
And it is so lonely here--no confessor.
HENRY.
Thou shall confess all thy sweet sins to me.
ROSAMUND.
Besides, we came away in such a heat,
I brought not ev'n my crucifix.
HENRY.
Take this.
[_Giving her the Crucifix which_ ELEANOR _gave him_.
ROSAMUND.
O beautiful! May I have it as mine, till mine
Be mine again?
HENRY (_throwing it round her neck_).
Thine--as I am--till death!
ROSAMUND.
Death? no! I'll have it with me in my shroud,
And wake with it, and show it to all the Saints.
HENRY.
Nay--I must go; but when thou layest thy lip
To this, remembering One who died for thee,
Remember also one who lives for thee
Out there in France; for I must hence to brave
The Pope, King Louis, and this turbulent priest.
ROSAMUND (_kneeling_).
O by thy love for me, all mine for thee,
Fling not thy soul into the flames of hell:
I kneel to thee--be friends with him again.
HENRY.
Look, look! if little Geoffrey have not tost
His ball into the brook! makes after it too
To find it. Why, the child will drown himself.
ROSAMUND.
Geoffrey! Geoffrey!
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--_Montmirail. 'The Meeting of the Kings.'_
JOHN OF OXFORD _and_ HENRY. _Crowd in the distance_.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
You have not crown'd young Henry yet, my liege?
HENRY.
Crown'd! by God's eyes, we will not have him crown'd.
I spoke of late to the boy, he answer'd me,
As if he wore the crown already--No,
We will not have him crown'd.
'Tis true what Becket told me, that the mother
Would make him play his kingship against mine.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
Not have him crown'd?
HENRY.
Not now--not yet! and Becket
Becket should crown him were he crown'd at all:
But, since we would be lord of our own manor,
This Canterbury, like a wounded deer,
Has fled our presence and our feeding-grounds.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
Cannot a smooth tongue lick him whole again
To serve your will?
HENRY.
He hates my will, not me.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
There's York, my liege.
HENRY.
But England scarce would hold
Young Henry king, if only crown'd by York,
And that would stilt up York to twice himself.
There is a movement yonder in the crowd--
See if our pious--what shall I call him, John?--
Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suzerain,
Be yet within the field.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
I will. [_Exit_.
HENRY.
Ay! Ay!
Mince and go back! his politic Holiness
Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch again,
And we shall hear him presently with clapt wing
Crow over Barbarossa--at last tongue-free
To blast my realms with excommunication
And interdict. I must patch up a peace--
A piece in this long-tugged at, threadbare-worn
Quarrel of Crown and Church--to rend again.
His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals,
Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me
For the moment. So we make our peace with him.
[Enter_ Louis.
Brother of France, what shall be done with Becket?
LOUIS.
The holy Thomas! Brother, you have traffick'd
Between the Emperor and the Pope, between
The Pope and Antipope--a perilous game
For men to play with God.
HENRY.
Ay, ay, good brother,
They call you the Monk-King.
LOUIS.
Who calls me? she
That was my wife, now yours? You have her Duchy,
The point you aim'd at, and pray God she prove
True wife to you. You have had the better of us
In secular matters.
HENRY.
Come, confess, good brother,
You did your best or worst to keep her Duchy.
Only the golden Leopard printed in it
Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again
Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did we convene
This conference but to babble of our wives?
They are plagues enough in-door.
LOUIS.
We fought in the East,
And felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail,
And push'd our lances into Saracen hearts.
We never hounded on the State at home
To spoil the Church.
HENRY.
How should you see this rightly?
LOUIS.
Well, well, no more! I am proud of my 'Monk-King,'
Whoever named me; and, brother, Holy Church
May rock, but will not wreck, nor our Archbishop
Stagger on the slope decks for any rough sea
Blown by the breath of kings. We do forgive you
For aught you wrought against us.
[HENRY _holds up his hand_.
Nay, I pray you,
Do not defend yourself. You will do much
To rake out all old dying heats, if you,
At my requesting, will but look into
The wrongs you did him, and restore his kin,
Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury,
Be, both, the friends you were.
HENRY.
The friends we were!
Co-mates we were, and had our sport together,
Co-kings we were, and made the laws together.
The world had never seen the like before.
You are too cold to know the fashion of it.
Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious--
Most gracious.
_Enter_ BECKET, _after him,_ JOHN OF OXFORD, ROGER
OF YORK, GILBERT FOLIOT, DE BROC, FITZURSE, _etc_.
Only that the rift he made
May close between us, here I am wholly king,
The word should come from him.
BECKET (_kneeling_).
Then, my dear liege,
I here deliver all this controversy
Into your royal hands.
HENRY.
Ah, Thomas, Thomas,
Thou art thyself again, Thomas again.
BECKET (_rising_).
Saving God's honour!
HENRY.
Out upon thee, man!
Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no.
Knights, bishops, earls, this London spawn--by Mahound,
I had sooner have been born a Mussulman--
Less clashing with their priests--
I am half-way down the slope--will no man stay me?
I dash myself to pieces--I stay myself--
Puff--it is gone. You, Master Becket, you
That owe to me your power over me--
Nay, nay--
Brother of France, you have taken, cherish'd him
Who thief-like fled from his own church by night,
No man pursuing. I would have had him back.
Take heed he do not turn and rend you too:
For whatsoever may displease him--that
Is clean against God's honour--a shift, a trick
Whereby to challenge, face me out of all
My regal rights. Yet, yet--that none may dream
I go against God's honour--ay, or himself
In any reason, choose
A hundred of the wisest heads from England,
A hundred, too, from Normandy and Anjou:
Let these decide on what was customary
In olden days, and all the Church of France
Decide on their decision, I am content
More, what the mightiest and the holiest
Of all his predecessors may have done
Ev'n to the least and meanest of my own,
Let him do the same to me--I am content.
LOUIS.
Ay, ay! the King humbles himself enough.
BECKET.
(_Aside_) Words! he will wriggle out of them like an eel
When the time serves. (_Aloud_.) My lieges and my lords,
The thanks of Holy Church are due to those
That went before us for their work, which we
Inheriting reap an easier harvest. Yet--
LOUIS.
My lord, will you be greater than the Saints,
More than St. Peter? whom--what is it you doubt?
Behold your peace at hand.
BECKET.
I say that those
Who went before us did not wholly clear
The deadly growths of earth, which Hell's own heat
So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd Heaven.
Yet they did much. Would God they had torn up all
By the hard root, which shoots again; our trial
Had so been less; but, seeing they were men
Defective or excessive, must we follow
All that they overdid or underdid?
Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter
Denying Christ, who yet defied the tyrant,
We hold by his defiance, not his defect.
O good son Louis, do not counsel me,
No, to suppress God's honour for the sake
Of any king that breathes. No, God forbid!
HENRY.
No! God forbid! and turn me Mussulman!
No God but one, and Mahound is his prophet.
But for your Christian, look you, you shall have
None other God but me--me, Thomas, son
Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. Out!
I hear no more. [_Exit_.
LOUIS.
Our brother's anger puts him,
Poor man, beside himself--not wise. My lord,
We have claspt your cause, believing that our brother
Had wrong'd you; but this day he proffer'd peace.
You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church
King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord,
We that are kings are something in this world,
And so we pray you, draw yourself from under
The wings of France. We shelter you no more.
[_Exit_.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
I am glad that France hath scouted him at last:
I told the Pope what manner of man he was.
[_Exit_.
ROGER OF YORK.
Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm,
Let either cast him away like a dead dog!
[_Exit_.
FOLIOT.
Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage,
And let another take his bishoprick!
[_Exit_.
DE BROC.
Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury.
I pray you come and take it. [_Exit_.
FITZURSE.
When you will.
[_Exit_.
BECKET.
Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York,
And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De Brocs
That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see!
Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them
That sow this hate between my lord and me!
_Voices from the Crowd_.
Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their
faces for the honour of God.
BECKET.
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise!
I thank you, sons; when kings but hold by crowns,
The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven
Is my true king.
HERBERT.
Thy true King bad thee be
A fisher of men; thou hast them in thy net.
BECKET.
I am too like the King here; both of us
Too headlong for our office. Better have been
A fisherman at Bosham, my good Herbert,
Thy birthplace--the sea-creek--the petty rill
That falls into it--the green field--the gray church--
The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh--
The more or less of daily labour done--
The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest
Piping for bread--the daily want supplied--
The daily pleasure to supply it.
HERBERT.
Ah, Thomas,
You had not borne it, no, not for a day.
BECKET.
Well, maybe, no.
HERBERT.
But bear with Walter Map,
For here he comes to comment on the time.
_Enter_ WALTER MAP.
WALTER MAP.
Pity, my lord, that you have quenched the warmth of France toward you,
tho' His Holiness, after much smouldering and smoking, be kindled
again upon your quarter.
BECKET.
Ay, if he do not end in smoke again.
WALTER MAP.
My lord, the fire, when first kindled, said to the smoke, 'Go up, my
son, straight to Heaven.' And the smoke said, 'I go;' but anon the
North-east took and turned him South-west, then the South-west turned
him North-east, and so of the other winds; but it was in him to go up
straight if the time had been quieter. Your lordship affects the
unwavering perpendicular; but His Holiness, pushed one way by the
Empire and another by England, if he move at all, Heaven stay him, is
fain to diagonalise.
HERBERT.
Diagonalise! thou art a word-monger!
Our Thomas never will diagonalise.
Thou art a jester and a verse-maker.
Diagonalise!
WALTER MAP.
Is the world any the worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes be rolled
out from a full mouth? or any harm done to the people if my jest be in
defence of the Truth?
BECKET.
Ay, if the jest be so done that the people
Delight to wallow in the grossness of it,
Till Truth herself be shamed of her defender.
_Non defensoribus istis_, Walter Map.
WALTER MAP.
Is that my case? so if the city be sick, and I cannot call the kennel
sweet, your lordship would suspend me from verse-writing, as you
suspended yourself after subwriting to the customs.
BECKET.
I pray God pardon mine infirmity.
WALTER MAP.
Nay, my lord, take heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, the Pope
let you down again; and tho' you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope
will not leave them in suspense, for the Pope himself is always in
suspense, like Mahound's coffin hung between heaven and earth--always
in suspense, like the scales, till the weight of Germany or the gold
of England brings one of them down to the dust--always in suspense,
like the tail of the horologe--to and fro--tick-tack--we make the
time, we keep the time, ay, and we serve the time; for I have heard
say that if you boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you might stagger
him, but he would pocket the purse. No saying of mine--Jocelyn of
Salisbury. But the King hath bought half the College of Red-hats. He
warmed to you to-day, and you have chilled him again. Yet you both
love God. Agree with him quickly again, even for the sake of the
Church. My one grain of good counsel which you will not swallow. I
hate a split between old friendships as I hate the dirty gap in the
face of a Cistercian monk, that will swallow anything. Farewell.
[_Exit_.
BECKET.
Map scoffs at Rome. I all but hold with Map.
Save for myself no Rome were left in England,
All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome,
Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ,
Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the right?
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege,
Which even Peter had not dared? condemn
The blameless exile?--
HERBERT.
Thee, thou holy Thomas!
I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father.
BECKET.
I would have done my most to keep Rome holy,
I would have made Rome know she still is Rome--
Who stands aghast at her eternal self
And shakes at mortal kings--her vacillation,
Avarice, craft--O God, how many an innocent
Has left his bones upon the way to Rome
Unwept, uncared for. Yea--on mine own self
The King had had no power except for Rome.
'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile,
But Rome, Rome, Rome!
HERBERT.
My lord, I see this Louis
Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm.
BECKET.
He said as much before. Thou art no prophet,
Nor yet a prophet's son.
HERBERT.
Whatever he say,
Deny not thou God's honour for a king.
The King looks troubled.
_Re-enter_ KING LOUIS.
LOUIS.
My dear lord Archbishop,
I learn but now that those poor Poitevins,
That in thy cause were stirr'd against King Henry,
Have been, despite his kingly promise given
To our own self of pardon, evilly used
And put to pain. I have lost all trust in him.
The Church alone hath eyes--and now I see
That I was blind--suffer the phrase--surrendering
God's honour to the pleasure of a man.
Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. [_Kneels_.
BECKET.
Son, I absolve thee in the name of God.
LOUIS (_rising_).
Return to Sens, where we will care for you.
The wine and wealth of all our France are yours;
Rest in our realm, and be at peace with all.
[_Exeunt_.
_Voices from the Crowd_.
Long live the good King Louis! God bless the great Archbishop!
_Re-enter_ HENRY _and_ JOHN OF OXFORD.
HENRY (_looking after_ KING LOUIS _and_ BECKET).
Ay, there they go--both backs are turn'd to me--
Why then I strike into my former path
For England, crown young Henry there, and make
Our waning Eleanor all but love me!
John,
Thou hast served me heretofore with Rome--and well.
They call thee John the Swearer.
JOHN OF OXFORD.
For this reason,
That, being ever duteous to the King,
I evermore have sworn upon his side,
And ever mean to do it.
HENRY (_claps him on the shoulder_).
Honest John!
To Rome again! the storm begins again.
Spare not thy tongue! be lavish with our coins,
Threaten our junction with the Emperor--flatter
And fright the Pope--bribe all the Cardinals--leave
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of gold--
Swear and unswear, state and misstate thy best!
I go to have young Henry crown'd by York.
ACT III.
SCENE I.--_The Bower_. HENRY _and_ ROSAMUND.
HENRY.
All that you say is just. I cannot answer it
Till better times, when I shall put away--
ROSAMUND.
What will you put away?
HENRY.
That which you ask me
Till better times. Let it content you now
There is no woman that I love so well.
ROSAMUND.
No woman but should be content with that--
HENRY.
And one fair child to fondle!
ROSAMUND.
O yes, the child
We waited for so long--heaven's gift at last--
And how you doated on him then! To-day
I almost fear'd your kiss was colder--yes--
But then the child _is_ such a child. What chance
That he should ever spread into the man
Here in our silence? I have done my best.
I am not learn'd.
HENRY.
I am the King, his father,
And I will look to it. Is our secret ours?
Have you had any alarm? no stranger?
ROSAMUND.
No.
The warder of the bower hath given himself
Of late to wine. I sometimes think he sleeps
When he should watch; and yet what fear? the people
Believe the wood enchanted. No one comes,
Nor foe nor friend; his fond excess of wine
Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower,
Which weighs even on me.
HENRY.
Yet these tree-towers,
Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles,--the voice
Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes
Of Solomon-shaming flowers--that was your saying,
All pleased you so at first.
ROSAMUND.
Not now so much.
My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful.
But you were oftener there. I have none but you.
The brook's voice is not yours, and no flower, not
The sun himself, should he be changed to one,
Could shine away the darkness of that gap
Left by the lack of love.
HENRY.
The lack of love!
ROSAMUND.
Of one we love. Nay, I would not be bold,
Yet hoped ere this you might--
[_Looks earnestly at him_.
HENRY.
Anything further?
ROSAMUND.
Only my best bower-maiden died of late,
And that old priest whom John of Salisbury trusted
Hath sent another.
HENRY.
Secret?
ROSAMUND.
I but ask'd her
One question, and she primm'd her mouth and put
Her hands together--thus--and said, God help her,
That she was sworn to silence.
HENRY.
What did you ask her?
ROSAMUND.
Some daily something--nothing.
HENRY.
Secret, then?
ROSAMUND.
I do not love her. Must you go, my liege,
So suddenly?
HENRY.
I came to England suddenly,
And on a great occasion sure to wake
As great a wrath in Becket--
ROSAMUND.
Always Becket!
He always comes between us.
HENRY.
--And to meet it
I needs must leave as suddenly. It is raining,
Put on your hood and see me to the bounds.
[_Exeunt_
MARGERY (_singing behind scene_).
Babble in bower
Under the rose!
Bee mustn't buzz,
Whoop--but he knows.
Kiss me, little one,
Nobody near!
Grasshopper, grasshopper,
Whoop--you can hear.
Kiss in the bower,
Tit on the tree!
Bird mustn't tell,
Whoop--he can see.
_Enter_ MARGERY.
I ha' been but a week here and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, for to be
sure it's no more than a week since our old Father Philip that has
confessed our mother for twenty years, and she was hard put to it, and
to speak truth, nigh at the end of our last crust, and that mouldy,
and she cried out on him to put me forth in the world and to make me a
woman of the world, and to win my own bread, whereupon he asked our
mother if I could keep a quiet tongue i' my head, and not speak till I
was spoke to, and I answered for myself that I never spoke more than
was needed, and he told me he would advance me to the service of a
great lady, and took me ever so far away, and gave me a great pat o'
the cheek for a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to blindfold such
eyes as mine, and such to be sure they be, but he blinded 'em for all
that, and so brought me no-hows as I may say, and the more shame to
him after his promise, into a garden and not into the world, and bad
me whatever I saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be well for me in
the end, for there were great ones who would look after me, and to be
sure I ha' seen great ones to-day--and then not to speak one word, for
that's the rule o' the garden, tho' to be sure if I had been Eve i'
the garden I shouldn't ha' minded the apple, for what's an apple, you
know, save to a child, and I'm no child, but more a woman o the world
than my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen--tho' to be sure if
I hadn't minded it we should all on us ha' had to go, bless the
Saints, wi' bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' countenanced one
another, and belike it 'ud ha' been always summer, and anyhow I am as
well-shaped as my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and
what's the good of my talking to myself, for here comes my lady
(_enter_ ROSAMUND), and, my lady, tho' I shouldn't speak one word, I
wish you joy o' the King's brother.
ROSAMUND.
What is it you mean?
MARGERY.
I mean your goodman, your husband, my lady, for I saw your ladyship
a-parting wi' him even now i' the coppice, when I was a-getting o'
bluebells for your ladyship's nose to smell on--and I ha' seen the
King once at Oxford, and he's as like the King as fingernail to
fingernail, and I thought at first it was the King, only you know the
King's married, for King Louis--
ROSAMUND.
Married!
MARGERY.
Years and years, my lady, for her husband, King Louis--
ROSAMUND.
Hush!
MARGERY.
--And I thought if it were the King's brother he had a better bride
than the King, for the people do say that his is bad beyond all
reckoning, and--
ROSAMUND.
The people lie.
MARGERY.
Very like, my lady, but most on 'em know an honest woman and a lady
when they see her, and besides they say, she makes songs, and that's
against her, for I never knew an honest woman that could make songs,
tho' to be sure our mother 'ill sing me old songs by the hour, but
then, God help her, she had 'em from her mother, and her mother from
her mother back and back for ever so long, but none on 'em ever made
songs, and they were all honest.
ROSAMUND.
Go, you shall tell me of her some other time.
MARGERY.
There's none so much to tell on her, my lady, only she kept the
seventh commandment better than some I know on, or I couldn't look
your ladyship i' the face, and she brew'd the best ale in all
Glo'ster, that is to say in her time when she had the 'Crown.'
ROSAMUND.
The crown! who?
MARGERY.
Mother.
ROSAMUND.
I mean her whom you call--fancy--my husband's brother's wife.
MARGERY.
Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, my lady; and tho' I be sworn not to speak a
word, I can tell you all about her, if----
ROSAMUND.
No word now. I am faint and sleepy. Leave me.
Nay--go. What! will you anger me.
[_Exit_ MARGERY.
He charged me not to question any of those
About me. Have I? no! she question'd _me_.
Did she not slander _him_? Should she stay here?
May she not tempt me, being at my side,
To question _her_? Nay, can I send her hence
Without his kingly leave! I am in the dark.
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to cage, and known
Nothing but him--happy to know no more,
So that he loved me--and he loves me--yes,
And bound me by his love to secrecy
Till his own time.
Eleanor, Eleanor, have I
Not heard ill things of her in France? Oh, she's
The Queen of France. I see it--some confusion,
Some strange mistake. I did not hear aright,
Myself confused with parting from the King.
MARGERY (_behind scene_).
Bee mustn't buzz,
Whoop--but he knows.
ROSAMUND.
Yet her--what her? he hinted of some her--
When he was here before--
Something that would displease me. Hath he stray'd
From love's clear path into the common bush,
And, being scratch'd, returns to his true rose,
Who hath not thorn enough to prick him for it,
Ev'n with a word?
MARGERY (_behind scene_).
Bird mustn't tell,
Whoop--he can see.
ROSAMUND.
I would not hear him. Nay--there's more--he frown'd
'No mate for her, if it should come to that'--
To that--to what?
MARGERY (_behind scene_).
Whoop--but he knows,
Whoop--but he knows.
ROSAMUND.
O God! some dreadful truth is breaking on me--
Some dreadful thing is coming on me.
[_Enter_ GEOFFREY.
Geoffrey!
GEOFFREY.
What are you crying for, when the sun shines?
ROSAMUND.
Hath not thy father left us to ourselves?
GEOFFREY.
Ay, but he's taken the rain with him. I hear
Margery: I'll go play with her. [_Exit_ GEOFFREY.
ROSAMUND.
Rainbow, stay,
Gleam upon gloom,
Bright as my dream,
Rainbow, stay!
But it passes away,
Gloom upon gleam,
Dark as my doom--
O rainbow stay.
SCENE II.--_Outside the Woods near_ ROSAMUND'S _Bower_.
ELEANOR. FITZURSE.
ELEANOR.
Up from the salt lips of the land we two
Have track'd the King to this dark inland wood;
And somewhere hereabouts he vanish'd. Here
His turtle builds: his exit is our adit:
Watch! he will out again, and presently,
Seeing he must to Westminster and crown
Young Henry there to-morrow.
FITZURSE.
We have watch'd
So long in vain, he hath pass'd out again,
And on the other side. [_A great horn winded_.
Hark! Madam!
ELEANOR.
Ay,
How ghostly sounds that horn in the black wood!
[_A countryman flying_.
Whither away, man? what are you flying from?
COUNTRYMAN.
The witch! the witch! she sits naked by a great heap of gold in the
middle of the wood, and when the horn sounds she comes out as a wolf.
Get you hence! a man passed in there to-day: I holla'd to him, but he
didn't hear me: he'll never out again, the witch has got him. I
daren't stay--I daren't stay!
ELEANOR.
Kind of the witch to give thee warning tho'.
[_Man flies_.
Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's fear
Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd the King?
[_Horn sounded. Another flying_.
FITZURSE.
Again! stay, fool, and tell me why thou fliest.
COUNTRYMAN.
Fly thou too. The King keeps his forest head of game here, and when
that horn sounds, a score of wolf-dogs are let loose that will tear
thee piecemeal. Linger not till the third horn. Fly!
[_Exit_.
ELEANOR.
This is the likelier tale. We have hit the place.
Now let the King's fine game look to itself. [_Horn_.
FITZURSE.
Again!--
And far on in the dark heart of the wood
I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell.
ELEANOR.
I have my dagger here to still their throats.
FITZURSE.
Nay, Madam, not to-night--the night is falling.
What can be done to-night?
ELEANOR.
Well--well--away.
SCENE III.--_Traitor's Meadow at Fréteval. Pavilions and Tents of the
English and French Baronage_. BECKET _and_ HERBERT OF BOSHAM.
BECKET.
See here!
HERBERT.
What's here?
BECKET.
A notice from the priest,
To whom our John of Salisbury committed
The secret of the bower, that our wolf-Queen
Is prowling round the fold. I should be back
In England ev'n for this.
HERBERT.
These are by-things
In the great cause.
BECKET.
The by-things of the Lord
Are the wrong'd innocences that will cry
From all the hidden by-ways of the world
In the great day against the wronger. I know
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before
The Church should suffer wrong!
HERBERT.
Do you see, my lord,
There is the King talking with Walter Map?
BECKET.
He hath the Pope's last letters, and they threaten
The immediate thunder-blast of interdict:
Yet he can scarce be touching upon those,
Or scarce would smile that fashion.
HERBERT.
Winter sunshine!
Beware of opening out thy bosom to it,
Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock should catch
An after ague-fit of trembling. Look!
He bows, he bares his head, he is coming hither.
Still with a smile.
_Enter_ KING HENRY _and_ WALTER MAP.
HENRY.
We have had so many hours together, Thomas,
So many happy hours alone together,
That I would speak with you once more alone.
BECKET.
My liege, your will and happiness are mine.
[_Exeunt_ KING _and_ BECKET.
HERBERT.
The same smile still.
WALTER MAP.
Do you see that great black cloud that hath come over the sun and cast
us all into shadow?
HERBERT.
And feel it too.
WALTER MAP.
And see you yon side-beam that is forced from under it, and sets the
church-tower over there all a-hell-fire as it were?
HERBERT.
Ay.
WALTER MAP.
It is this black, bell-silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hindering
interdict that hath squeezed out this side-smile upon Canterbury,
whereof may come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it.
Sudden change is a house on sand; and tho' I count Henry honest
enough, yet when fear creeps in at the front, honesty steals out at
the back, and the King at last is fairly scared by this cloud--this
interdict. I have been more for the King than the Church in this
matter--yea, even for the sake of the Church: for, truly, as the case
stood, you had safelier have slain an archbishop than a she-goat: but
our recoverer and upholder of customs hath in this crowning of young
Henry by York and London so violated the immemorial usage of the
Church, that, like the gravedigger's child I have heard of, trying to
ring the bell, he hath half-hanged himself in the rope of the Church,
or rather pulled all the Church with the Holy Father astride of it
down upon his own head.
HERBERT.
Were you there?
WALTER MAP.
In the church rope?--no. I was at the crowning, for I have pleasure in
the pleasure of crowds, and to read the faces of men at a great show.
HERBERT.
And how did Roger of York comport himself?
WALTER MAP.
As magnificently and archiepiscopally as our Thomas would have done:
only there was a dare-devil in his eye--I should say a dare-Becket. He
thought less of two kings than of one Roger the king of the occasion.
Foliot is the holier man, perhaps the better. Once or twice there ran
a twitch across his face as who should say what's to follow? but
Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother Church, and every now and then
glancing about him like a thief at night when he hears a door open in
the house and thinks 'the master.'
HERBERT.
And the father-king?
WALTER MAP.
The father's eye was so tender it would have called a goose off the
green, and once he strove to hide his face, like the Greek king when
his daughter was sacrificed, but he thought better of it: it was but
the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, a smaller matter; but as to the
young crownling himself, he looked so malapert in the eyes, that had I
fathered him I had given him more of the rod than the sceptre. Then
followed the thunder of the captains and the shouting, and so we came
on to the banquet, from whence there puffed out such an incense of
unctuosity into the nostrils of our Gods of Church and State, that
Lucullus or Apicius might have sniffed it in their Hades of
heathenism, so that the smell of their own roast had not come across
it--
HERBERT.
Map, tho' you make your butt too big, you overshoot it.
WALTER MAP.
--For as to the fish, they de-miracled the miraculous draught, and
might have sunk a navy--
HERBERT.
There again, Goliasing and Goliathising!
WALTER MAP.
--And as for the flesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all
manner of game, and four-footed things, and fowls--
HERBERT.
And all manner of creeping things too?
WALTER MAP.
--Well, there were Abbots--but they did not bring their women; and so
we were dull enough at first, but in the end we flourished out into a
merriment; for the old King would act servitor and hand a dish to his
son; whereupon my Lord of York--his fine-cut face bowing and beaming
with all that courtesy which hath less loyalty in it than the backward
scrape of the clown's heel--'great honour,' says he, 'from the King's
self to the King's son.' Did you hear the young King's quip?
HERBERT.
No, what was it?
WALTER MAP.
Glancing at the days when his father was only Earl of Anjou, he
answered:--'Should not an earl's son wait on a king's son?' And when
the cold corners of the King's mouth began to thaw, there was a great
motion of laughter among us, part real, part childlike, to be freed
from the dulness--part royal, for King and kingling both laughed, and
so we could not but laugh, as by a royal necessity--part childlike
again--when we felt we had laughed too long and could not stay
ourselves--many midriff-shaken even to tears, as springs gush out
after earthquakes--but from those, as I said before, there may come a
conflagration--tho', to keep the figure moist and make it hold water,
I should say rather, the lacrymation of a lamentation; but look if
Thomas have not flung himself at the King's feet. They have made it up
again--for the moment.
HERBERT.
Thanks to the blessed Magdalen, whose day it is.
_Re-enter_ HENRY _and_ BECKET. (_During their conference
the_ BARONS _and_ BISHOPS _of_ FRANCE _and_ ENGLAND _come
in at back of stage_.)
BECKET.
Ay, King! for in thy kingdom, as thou knowest,
The spouse of the Great King, thy King, hath fallen--
The daughter of Zion lies beside the way--
The priests of Baal tread her underfoot--
The golden ornaments are stolen from her--
HENRY.
Have I not promised to restore her, Thomas,
And send thee back again to Canterbury?
BECKET.
Send back again those exiles of my kin
Who wander famine-wasted thro' the world.
HENRY.
Have I not promised, man, to send them back?
BECKET.
Yet one thing more. Thou hast broken thro' the pales
Of privilege, crowning thy young son by York,
London and Salisbury--not Canterbury.
HENRY.
York crown'd the Conqueror--not Canterbury.
BECKET.
There was no Canterbury in William's time.
HENRY.
But Hereford, you know, crown'd the first Henry.
BECKET.
But Anselm crown'd this Henry o'er again.
HENRY.
And thou shalt crown my Henry o'er again.
BECKET.
And is it then with thy good-will that I
Proceed against thine evil councillors,
And hurl the dread ban of the Church on those
Who made the second mitre play the first,
And acted me?
HENRY.
Well, well, then--have thy way!
It may be they were evil councillors.
What more, my lord Archbishop? What more, Thomas?
I make thee full amends. Say all thy say,
But blaze not out before the Frenchmen here.
BECKET.
More? Nothing, so thy promise be thy deed.
HENRY (_holding out his hand_).
Give me thy hand. My Lords of France and England,
My friend of Canterbury and myself
Are now once more at perfect amity.
Unkingly should I be, and most unknightly,
Not striving still, however much in vain,
To rival him in Christian charity.
HERBERT.
All praise to Heaven, and sweet St. Magdalen!
HENRY.
And so farewell until we meet in England.
BECKET.
I fear, my liege, we may not meet in England.
HENRY.
How, do you make me a traitor?
BECKET.
No, indeed!
That be far from thee.
HENRY.
Come, stay with us, then,
Before you part for England.
BECKET.
I am bound
For that one hour to stay with good King Louis,
Who helpt me when none else.
HERBERT.
He said thy life
Was not one hour's worth in England save
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of peace.
HENRY.
He said so? Louis, did he? look you, Herbert.
When I was in mine anger with King Louis,
I sware I would not give the kiss of peace,
Not on French ground, nor any ground but English,
Where his cathedral stands. Mine old friend, Thomas,
I would there were that perfect trust between us,
That health of heart, once ours, ere Pope or King
Had come between us! Even now--who knows?--
I might deliver all things to thy hand--
If ... but I say no more ... farewell, my lord.
BECKET.
Farewell, my liege!
[_Exit_ HENRY, _then the_ BARONS _and_ BISHOPS.
WALTER MAP.
There again! when the full fruit of the royal promise might have dropt
into thy mouth hadst thou but opened it to thank him.
BECKET.
He fenced his royal promise with an _if_.
WALTER MAP.
And is the King's _if_ too high a stile for your lordship to overstep
and come at all things in the next field?
BECKET.
Ay, if this _if_ be like the Devil's '_if_
Thou wilt fall down and worship me.'
HERBERT.
Oh, Thomas;
I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas,
For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone.
BECKET.
Nay, of the people there are many with me.
WALTER MAP.
I am not altogether with you, my lord, tho' I am none of those that
would raise a storm between you, lest ye should draw together like two
ships in a calm. You wrong the King: he meant what he said to-day. Who
shall vouch for his to-morrows? One word further. Doth not the
_fewness_ of anything make the fulness of it in estimation? Is not
virtue prized mainly for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an
exception: for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would look
up to you? and were all as base as--who shall I say--Fitzurse and his
following--who would look down upon them? My lord, you have put so
many of the King's household out of communion, that they begin to
smile at it.
BECKET.
At their peril, at their peril--
WALTER MAP.
--For tho' the drop may hollow out the dead stone,
doth not the living skin thicken against perpetual whippings?
This is the second grain of good counsel I
ever proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of
frequency. Have I sown it in salt? I trust not, for
before God I promise you the King hath many more
wolves than he can tame in his woods of England, and
if it suit their purpose to howl for the King, and you
still move against him, you may have no less than to
die for it; but God and his free wind grant your lordship
a happy home-return and the King's kiss of peace
in Kent. Farewell! I must follow the King.
[_Exit_.
HERBERT.
Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King
Speak of the customs?
BECKET.
No!--To die for it--
I live to die for it, I die to live for it.
The State will die, the Church can never die.
The King's not like to die for that which dies;
But I must die for that which never dies.
It will be so--my visions in the Lord:
It must be so, my friend! the wolves of England
Must murder her one shepherd, that the sheep
May feed in peace. False figure, Map would say.
Earth's falses are heaven's truths. And when my voice
Is martyr'd mute, and this man disappears,
That perfect trust may come again between us,
And there, there, there, not here I shall rejoice
To find my stray sheep back within the fold.
The crowd are scattering, let us move away!
And thence to England.
[_Exeunt_.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--_The Outskirts of the Bower_.
GEOFFREY (_coming out of the wood_).
Light again! light again! Margery? no, that's a finer thing there. How
it glitters!
ELEANOR (_entering_).
Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither?
GEOFFREY.
On my legs.
ELEANOR.
And mighty pretty legs too. Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw.
Wilt thou love me?
GEOFFREY.
No; I only love mother.
ELEANOR.
Ay; and who is thy mother?
GEOFFREY.
They call her--But she lives secret, you see.
ELEANOR.
Why?
GEOFFREY.
Don't know why.
ELEANOR.
Ay, but some one comes to see her now and then. Who is he?
GEOFFREY.
Can't tell.
ELEANOR.
What does she call him?
GEOFFREY.
My liege.
ELEANOR.
Pretty one, how camest thou?
GEOFFREY.
There was a bit of yellow silk here and there, and it looked pretty
like a glowworm, and I thought if I followed it I should find the
fairies.
ELEANOR.
I am the fairy, pretty one, a good fairy to thy mother. Take me to
her.
GEOFFREY.
There are good fairies and bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and
can't sleep sound o' nights because of the bad fairies.
ELEANOR.
She shall cry no more; she shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take
me to her. I am her good fairy.
GEOFFREY.
But you don't look like a good fairy. Mother does. You are not pretty,
like mother.
ELEANOR.
We can't all of us be as pretty as thou art--(_aside_) little bastard.
Come, here is a golden chain I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to
thy mother.
GEOFFREY.
No--no gold. Mother says gold spoils all. Love is the only gold.
ELEANOR.
I love thy mother, my pretty boy. Show me where thou camest out of the
wood.
GEOFFREY.
By this tree; but I don't know if I can find the way back again.
ELEANOR.
Where's the warder?
GEOFFREY.
Very bad. Somebody struck him.
ELEANOR.
Ay? who was that?
GEOFFREY.
Can't tell. But I heard say he had had a stroke, or you'd have heard
his horn before now. Come along, then; we shall see the silk here and
there, and I want my supper.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.--ROSAMUND'S _Bower_.
ROSAMUND.
The boy so late; pray God, he be not lost.
I sent this Margery, and she comes not back;
I sent another, and she comes not back.
I go myself--so many alleys, crossings,
Paths, avenues--nay, if I lost him, now
The folds have fallen from the mystery,
And left all naked, I were lost indeed.
_Enter_ GEOFFREY _and_ ELEANOR.
Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to!
[_Seeing_ ELEANOR.
Ha, you!
How came you hither?
ELEANOR.
Your own child brought me hither!
GEOFFREY.
You said you couldn't trust Margery, and I watched her and followed
her into the woods, and I lost her and went on and on till I found the
light and the lady, and she says she can make you sleep o' nights.
ROSAMUND.
How dared you? Know you not this bower is secret,
Of and belonging to the King of England,
More sacred than his forests for the chase?
Nay, nay, Heaven help you; get you hence in haste
Lest worse befall you.
ELEANOR.
Child, I am mine own self
Of and belonging to the King. The King
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings,
Almost as many as your true Mussulman--
Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him
To call his wives; but so it chances, child,
That I am his main paramour, his sultana.
But since the fondest pair of doves will jar,
Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late,
And thereupon he call'd my children bastards.
Do you believe that you are married to him?
ROSAMUND,
I _should_ believe it.
ELEANOR.
You must not believe it,
Because I have a wholesome medicine here
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty!
Do you believe that you are married to him?
ROSAMUND.
Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in the fork of the great
willow over the brook. Go. See that you do not fall in. Go.
GEOFFREY.
And leave you alone with the good fairy. She calls you beauty, but I
don't like her looks. Well, you bid me go, and I'll have my ball
anyhow. Shall I find you asleep when I come back?
ROSAMUND.
Go. [_Exit_ GEOFFREY.
ELEANOR.
He is easily found again. _Do_ you believe it?
I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught;
But if you should not care to take it--see!
[_Draws a dagger_.
What! have I scared the red rose from your face
Into your heart. But this will find it there,
And dig it from the root for ever.
ROSAMUND.
Help! help!
ELEANOR.
They say that walls have ears; but these, it seems,
Have none! and I have none--to pity thee.
ROSAMUND.
I do beseech you--my child is so young,
So backward too; I cannot leave him yet.
I am not so happy I could not die myself,
But the child is so young. You have children--his;
And mine is the King's child; so, if you love him--
Nay, if you love him, there is great wrong done
Somehow; but if you do not--there are those
Who say you do not love him--let me go
With my young boy, and I will hide my face,
Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall know me;
The King shall never hear of me again,
But I will beg my bread along the world
With my young boy, and God will be our guide.
I never meant you harm in any way.
See, I can say no more.
ELEANOR.
Will you not say you are not married to him?
ROSAMUND.
Ay, Madam, I can _say_ it, if you will.
ELEANOR.
Then is thy pretty boy a bastard?
ROSAMUND.
No.
ELEANOR.
And thou thyself a proven wanton?
ROSAMUND.
No.
I am none such. I never loved but one.
I have heard of such that range from love to love,
Like the wild beast--if you can call it love.
I have heard of such--yea, even among those
Who sit on thrones--I never saw any such,
Never knew any such, and howsoever
You do misname me, match'd with any such,
I am snow to mud.
ELEANOR.
The more the pity then
That thy true home--the heavens--cry out for thee
Who art too pure for earth.
_Enter_ FITZURSE.
FITZURSE.
Give her to me.
ELEANOR.
The Judas-lover of our passion-play
Hath track'd us hither.
FITZURSE.
Well, why not? I follow'd
You and the child: he babbled all the way.
Give her to me to make my honeymoon.
ELEANOR.
Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her
Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind,
Dark even from a side glance of the moon,
And oublietted in the centre--No!
I follow out my hate and thy revenge.
FITZURSE.
You bad me take revenge another way--
To bring her to the dust.... Come with me, love,
And I will love thee.... Madam, let her live.
I have a far-off burrow where the King
Would miss her and for ever.
ELEANOR.
How sayst thou, sweetheart?
Wilt thou go with him? he will marry thee.
ROSAMUND.
Give me the poison; set me free of him!
[ELEANOR _offers the vial_.
No, no! I will not have it.
ELEANOR.
Then this other,
The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught
May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make
Thy body loathsome even to thy child;
While this but leaves thee with a broken heart,
A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which
If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own,
It must be broken for him.
ROSAMUND.
O I see now
Your purpose is to fright me--a troubadour
You play with words. You had never used so many,
Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child....
No.... mercy! No! (_Kneels_.)
ELEANOR.
Play!... that bosom never
Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion
As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot,
Which it will quench in blood! Slave, if he love thee,
Thy life is worth the wrestle for it: arise,
And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee!
The worm! shall I let her go? But ha! what's here?
By very God, the cross I gave the King!
His village darling in some lewd caress
Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own.
By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! I warrant
Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times
Never to leave him--and that merits death,
False oath on holy cross--for thou must leave him
To-day, but not quite yet. My good Fitzurse,
The running down the chase is kindlier sport
Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover
May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee?
Come hither, man; stand there. (_To Rosamund_)
Take thy one chance;
Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse;
Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him
For thy life and thy son's.
ROSAMUND (_rising_).
I am a Clifford,
My son a Clifford and Plantagenet.
I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee
One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he
Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I
Would bow to such a baseness as would make me
Most worthy of it: both of us will die,
And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven,
And shriek to all the saints among the stars:
'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England!
Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor,
Whose doings are a horror to the east,
A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard
Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle--nay,
Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father--
Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen--
Strike!
I challenge thee to meet me before God.
Answer me there.
ELEANOR (_raising the dagger_).
This in thy bosom, fool,
And after in thy bastard's!
_Enter_ BECKET _from behind. Catches hold of her arm_.
BECKET.
Murderess!
[_The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause_.
ELEANOR.
My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand,
But having now admired it long enough,
We find that it is mightier than it seems--
At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it.
BECKET.
And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better
Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me
Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death
To wail in deathless flame.
ELEANOR.
Nor you, nor I
Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry
Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he
Gainsays by next sunrising--often ready
To tear himself for having said as much.
My lord, Fitzurse--
BECKET.
He too! what dost thou here?
Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den?
One downward plunge of his paw would rend away
Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee.
Go, lest I blast thee with anathema,
And make thee a world's horror.
FITZURSE.
My lord, I shall
Remember this.
BECKET.
I _do_ remember thee;
Lest I remember thee to the lion, go.
[_Exit_ FITZURSE.
Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath.
ELEANOR.
Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me?
But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high.
Well--well--too costly to be left or lost.
[_Picks up the dagger_.
I had it from an Arab soldan, who,
When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at
Our unfamiliar beauties of the west;
But wonder'd more at my much constancy
To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen,
From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord,
God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us.
I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of
His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt.
What excellent workmanship. In our poor west
We cannot do it so well.
BECKET.
We can do worse.
Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat;
I heard your savage cry.
ELEANOR.
Well acted, was it?
A comedy meant to seem a tragedy--
A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known
Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one
That mars a cause with over-violence.
You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself.
We thought to scare this minion of the King
Back from her churchless commerce with the King
To the fond arms of her first love, Fitzurse,
Who swore to marry her. You have spoilt the farce.
My savage cry? Why, she--she--when I strove
To work against her license for her good,
Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, that
The King himself, for love of his own sons,
If hearing, would have spurn'd her; whereupon
I menaced her with this, as when we threaten
A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not
That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you hear me?
Believe or no, I care not. You have lost
The ear of the King. I have it.... My lord Paramount,
Our great High-priest, will not your Holiness
Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your Queen?
BECKET.
Rosamund hath not answer'd you one word;
Madam, I will not answer you one word.
Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter;
Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery,
And live what may be left thee of a life
Saved as by miracle alone with Him
Who gave it.
_Re-enter_ GEOFFREY.
GEOFFREY.
Mother, you told me a great fib: it wasn't in the willow.
BECKET.
Follow us, my son, and we will find it for thee--
Or something manlier.
[_Exeunt_ BECKET, ROSAMUND, _and_ GEOFFREY.
ELEANOR.
The world hath trick'd her--that's the King; if so,
There was the farce, the feint--not mine. And yet
I am all but sure my dagger was a feint
Till the worm turn'd--not life shot up in blood,
But death drawn in;--_(looking at the vial) this_ was no feint then?
no.
But can I swear to that, had she but given
Plain answer to plain query? nay, methinks
Had she but bow'd herself to meet the wave
Of humiliation, worshipt whom she loathed,
I should have let her be, scorn'd her too much
To harm her. Henry--Becket tells him this--
To take my life might lose him Aquitaine.
Too politic for that. Imprison me?
No, for it came to nothing--only a feint.
Did she not tell me I was playing on her?
I'll swear to mine own self it was a feint.
Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, or was,
A sovereign power? The King plucks out their eyes
Who anger him, and shall not I, the Queen,
Tear out her heart--kill, kill with knife or venom
One of his slanderous harlots? 'None of such?'
I love her none the more. Tut, the chance gone,
She lives--but not for him; one point is gain'd.
O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis,
Scorning his monkery,--I that wedded Henry,
Honouring his manhood--will he not mock at me
The jealous fool balk'd of her will--with _him_?
But he and he must never meet again.
Reginald Fitzurse!
_Re-enter_ FITZURSE.
FITZURSE.
Here, Madam, at your pleasure.
ELEANOR.
My pleasure is to have a man about me.
Why did you slink away so like a cur?
FITZURSE.
Madam, I am as much man as the King.
Madam, I fear Church-censures like your King.
ELEANOR.
He grovels to the Church when he's black-blooded,
But kinglike fought the proud archbishop,--kinglike
Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly sires,
The Normans, striving still to break or bind
The spiritual giant with our island laws
And customs, made me for the moment proud
Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which link'd me with him
To bear him kingly sons. I am not so sure
But that I love him still. Thou as much man!
No more of that; we will to France and be
Beforehand with the King, and brew from out
This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such
A strong hate-philtre as may madden him--madden
Against his priest beyond all hellebore.
ACT V.
SCENE I.--_Castle in Normandy. King's Chamber_.
HENRY, ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.
ROGER OF YORK.
Nay, nay, my liege,
He rides abroad with armed followers,
Hath broken all his promises to thyself,
Cursed and anathematised us right and left,
Stirr'd up a party there against your son--
HENRY.
Roger of York, you always hated him,
Even when you both were boys at Theobald's.
ROGER OF YORK.
I always hated boundless arrogance.
In mine own cause I strove against him there,
And in thy cause I strive against him now.
HENRY.
I cannot think he moves against my son,
Knowing right well with what a tenderness
He loved my son.
ROGER OF YORK.
Before you made him king.
But Becket ever moves against a king.
The Church is all--the crime to be a king.
We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more land
Than any crown in Europe, will not yield
To lay your neck beneath your citizens' heel.
HENRY.
Not to a Gregory of my throning! No.
FOLIOT.
My royal liege, in aiming at your love,
It may be sometimes I have overshot
My duties to our Holy Mother Church,
Tho' all the world allows I fall no inch
Behind this Becket, rather go beyond
In scourgings, macerations, mortifyings,
Fasts, disciplines that clear the spiritual eye,
And break the soul from earth. Let all that be.
I boast not: but you know thro' all this quarrel
I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope the crown
Would cleave to me that but obey'd the crown,
Crowning your son; for which our loyal service,
And since we likewise swore to obey the customs,
York and myself, and our good Salisbury here,
Are push'd from out communion of the Church.
JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.
Becket hath trodden on us like worms, my liege;
Trodden one half dead; one half, but half-alive,
Cries to the King.
HENRY (_aside_).
Take care o' thyself, O King.
JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.
Being so crush'd and so humiliated
We scarcely dare to bless the food we eat
Because of Becket.
HENRY.
What would ye have me do?
ROGER OF YORK.
Summon your barons; take their counsel: yet
I know--could swear--as long as Becket breathes,
Your Grace will never have one quiet hour.
HENRY.
What?... Ay ... but pray you do not work upon me.
I see your drift ... it may be so ... and yet
You know me easily anger'd. Will you hence?
He shall absolve you ... you shall have redress.
I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest.
I'll call you by and by.
[_Exeunt_ ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, _and_ JOCELYN OF SALISBURY.
Would he were dead! I have lost all love for him.
If God would take him in some sudden way--
Would he were dead. [_Lies down_.
PAGE (_entering_).
My liege, the Queen of England.
HENRY.
God's eyes! [_Starting up_.
_Enter_ ELEANOR.
ELEANOR.
Of England? Say of Aquitaine.
I am no Queen of England. I had dream'd
I was the bride of England, and a queen.
HENRY.
And,--while you dream'd you were the bride of England,--
Stirring her baby-king against me? ha!
ELEANOR.
The brideless Becket is thy king and mine:
I will go live and die in Aquitaine.
HENRY.
Except I clap thee into prison here,
Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there again.
Ha, you of Aquitaine! O you of Aquitaine!
You were but Aquitaine to Louis--no wife;
You are only Aquitaine to me--no wife.
ELEANOR.
And why, my lord, should I be wife to one
That only wedded me for Aquitaine?
Yet this no wife--her six and thirty sail
Of Provence blew you to your English throne;
And this no wife has born you four brave sons,
And one of them at least is like to prove
Bigger in our small world than thou art.
HENRY.
Ay--
Richard, if he _be_ mine--I hope him mine.
But thou art like enough to make him thine.
ELEANOR.
Becket is like enough to make all his.
HENRY.
Methought I had recover'd of the Becket,
That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again,
Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own.
ELEANOR.
I will go live and die in Aquitaine.
I dream'd I was the consort of a king,
Not one whose back his priest has broken.
HENRY.
What!
Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe
My victor in mid-battle? I will be
Sole master of my house. The end is mine.
What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing?
Why do you thrust this Becket on me again?
ELEANOR.
Why? for I _am_ true wife, and have my fears
Lest Becket thrust you even from your throne.
Do you know this cross, my liege?
HENRY (_turning his head_).
Away! Not I.
ELEANOR.
Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think,
Half of the Antioch whence I had it.
HENRY.
That?
ELEANOR.
I gave it you, and you your paramour;
She sends it back, as being dead to earth,
So dead henceforth to you.
HENRY.
Dead! you have murder'd her,
Found out her secret bower and murder'd her.
ELEANOR.
Your Becket knew the secret of your bower.
HENRY (_calling out_).
Ho there! thy rest of life is hopeless prison.
ELEANOR.
And what would my own Aquitaine say to that?
First, free thy captive from _her_ hopeless prison.
HENRY.
O devil, can I free her from the grave?
ELEANOR.
You are too tragic: both of us are players
In such a comedy as our court of Provence
Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin lay
Of Walter Map: the lady holds the cleric
Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure
A crown of Empire. Will you have it again?
(_Offering the cross. He dashes it down_.)
St. Cupid, that is too irreverent.
Then mine once more. (_Puts it on_.)
Your cleric hath your lady.
Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see you!
Foam at the mouth because King Thomas, lord
Not only of your vassals but amours,
Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue
Hath used the full authority of his Church
To put her into Godstow nunnery.
HENRY.
To put her into Godstow nunnery!
He dared not--liar! yet, yet I remember--
I do remember.
He bad me put her into a nunnery--
Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devilstow!
The Church! the Church!
God's eyes! I would the Church were down in hell!
[_Exit_.
ELEANOR.
Aha!
_Enter the four_ KNIGHTS.
FITZURSE.
What made the King cry out so furiously?
ELEANOR.
Our Becket, who will not absolve the Bishops.
I think ye four have cause to love this Becket.
FITZURSE.
I hate him for his insolence to all.
DE TRACY.
And I for all his insolence to thee.
DE BRITO.
I hate him for I hate him is my reason,
And yet I hate him for a hypocrite.
DE MORVILLE.
I do not love him, for he did his best
To break the barons, and now braves the King.
ELEANOR.
Strike, then, at once, the King would have him--See!
_Re-enter_ HENRY.
HENRY.
No man to love me, honour me, obey me!
Sluggards and fools!
The slave that eat my bread has kick'd his King!
The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried me!
The fellow that on a lame jade came to court,
A ragged cloak for saddle--he, he, he,
To shake my throne, to push into my chamber--
My bed, where ev'n the slave is private--he--
I'll have her out again, he shall absolve
The bishops--they but did my will--not you--
Sluggards and fools, why do you stand and stare?
You are no king's men--you--you--you are Becket's men.
Down with King Henry! up with the Archbishop!
Will no man free me from this pestilent priest? [_Exit_.
[_The_ KNIGHTS _draw their swords_.
ELEANOR.
_Are_ ye king's men? I am king's woman, I.
THE KNIGHTS.
King's men! King's men!
SCENE II.--_A Room in Canterbury Monastery_.
BECKET _and_ JOHN OF SALISBURY.
BECKET.
York said so?
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Yes: a man may take good counsel
Ev'n from his foe.
BECKET.
York will say anything.
What is he saying now? gone to the King
And taken our anathema with him. York!
Can the King de-anathematise this York?
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Thomas, I would thou hadst return'd to England,
Like some wise prince of this world from his wars,
With more of olive-branch and amnesty
For foes at home--thou hast raised the world against thee.
BECKET.
Why, John, my kingdom is not of this world.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
If it were more of this world it might be
More of the next. A policy of wise pardon
Wins here as well as there. To bless thine enemies--
BECKET.
Ay, mine, not Heaven's.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
And may there not be something
Of this world's leaven in thee too, when crying
On Holy Church to thunder out her rights
And thine own wrong so pitilessly. Ah, Thomas,
The lightnings that we think are only Heaven's
Flash sometimes out of earth against the heavens.
The soldier, when he lets his whole self go
Lost in the common good, the common wrong,
Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I crave
Thy pardon--I have still thy leave to speak.
Thou hast waged God's war against the King; and yet
We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may,
Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites
And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
[_Enter_ EDWARD GRIM.
BECKET.
Thou art but yesterday from Cambridge, Grim;
What say ye there of Becket?
GRIM.
_I_ believe him
The bravest in our roll of Primates down
From Austin--there are some--for there are men
Of canker'd judgment everywhere--
BECKET.
Who hold
With York, with York against me.
GRIM.
Well, my lord,
A stranger monk desires access to you.
BECKET.
York against Canterbury, York against God!
I am open to him.
[_Exit_ GRIM.
_Enter_ ROSAMUND _as a Monk_.
ROSAMUND.
Can I speak with you
Alone, my father?
BECKET.
Come you to confess?
ROSAMUND.
Not now.
BECKET.
Then speak; this is my other self,
Who like my conscience never lets me be.
ROSAMUND (_throwing back the cowl_).
I know him; our good John of Salisbury.
BECKET.
Breaking already from thy noviciate
To plunge into this bitter world again--
These wells of Marah. I am grieved, my daughter.
I thought that I had made a peace for thee.
ROSAMUND.
Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father.
Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper crept
That thou wouldst excommunicate the King.
I could not eat, sleep, pray: I had with me
The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower:
I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it.
I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me
Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once,
I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop;
'Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I pass'd
From house to house. In one a son stone-blind
Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far
Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother,
Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine,
Cried out against the cruelty of the King.
I said it was the King's courts, not the King;
But she would not believe me, and she wish'd
The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once,
So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father.
BECKET.
Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King,
I fear I was as cruel as the King.
ROSAMUND.
Cruel? Oh, no--it is the law, not he;
The customs of the realm.
BECKET.
The customs! customs!
ROSAMUND.
My lord, you have not excommunicated him?
Oh, if you have, absolve him!
BECKET.
Daughter, daughter,
Deal not with things you know not.
ROSAMUND.
I know _him_.
Then you have done it, and I call _you_ cruel.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop;
For once in France the King had been so harsh,
He thought to excommunicate him--Thomas,
You could not--old affection master'd you,
You falter'd into tears.
ROSAMUND.
God bless him for it.
BECKET.
Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury,
Nor make me traitor to my holy office.
Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle,
'The King is sick and almost unto death.'
How could I excommunicate him then?
ROSAMUND.
And wilt thou excommunicate him now?
BECKET.
Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it.
And were it longer--well--I should not do it.
ROSAMUND.
Thanks in this life, and in the life to come.
BECKET.
Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste;
Let this be thy last trespass. But one question--
How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey?
No fever, cough, croup, sickness?
ROSAMUND.
No, but saved
From all that by our solitude. The plagues
That smite the city spare the solitudes.
BECKET.
God save him from all sickness of the soul!
Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns,
May that save thee! Doth he remember me?
ROSAMUND.
I warrant him.
BECKET.
He is marvellously like thee.
ROSAMUND.
Liker the King.
BECKET.
No, daughter.
ROSAMUND.
Ay, but wait
Till his nose rises; he will be very king.
BECKET.
Ev'n so: but think not of the King: farewell!
ROSAMUND.
My lord, the city is full of armed men.
BECKET,
Ev'n so: farewell!
ROSAMUND.
I will but pass to vespers,
And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King,
His child and mine own soul, and so return.
BECKET.
Pray for me too: much need of prayer have I.
[ROSAMUND _kneels and goes_.
Dan John, how much we lose, we celibates,
Lacking the love of woman and of child.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall
Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems
Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it--one
So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought
Is broken ere it joins--a shrew to boot,
Whose evil song far on into the night
Thrills to the topmost tile--no hope but death;
One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth;
And one that being thwarted ever swoons
And weeps herself into the place of power;
And one an _uxor pauperis Ibyci_.
So rare the household honey-making bee,
Man's help! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin
For worship, and our Mother Church for bride;
And all the souls we saved and father'd here
Will greet us as our babes in Paradise.
What noise was that? she told us of arm'd men
Here in the city. Will you not withdraw?
BECKET.
I once was out with Henry in the days
When Henry loved me, and we came upon
A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still
I reach'd my hand and touch'd; she did not stir;
The snow had frozen round her, and she sat
Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs.
Look! how this love, this mother, runs thro' all
The world God made--even the beast--the bird!
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Ay, still a lover of the beast and bird?
But these arm'd men--will you not hide yourself?
Perchance the fierce De Brocs from Saltwood Castle,
To assail our Holy Mother lest she brood
Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, and send
Her whole heart's heat into it, till it break
Into young angels. Pray you, hide yourself.
BECKET.
There was a little fair-hair'd Norman maid
Lived in my mother's house: if Rosamund is
The world's rose, as her name imports her--she
Was the world's lily.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Ay, and what of her?
BECKET.
She died of leprosy.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
I know not why
You call these old things back again, my lord.
BECKET.
The drowning man, they say, remembers all
The chances of his life, just ere he dies.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Ay--but these arm'd men--will _you_ drown _yourself?_
He loses half the meed of martyrdom
Who will be martyr when he might escape.
BECKET.
What day of the week? Tuesday?
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Tuesday, my lord,
BECKET.
On a Tuesday was I born, and on a Tuesday
Baptized; and on a Tuesday did I fly
Forth from Northampton; on a Tuesday pass'd
From England into bitter banishment;
On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to me
The ghostly warning of my martyrdom;
On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd,
And on a Tuesday--
[TRACY _enters, then_ FITZURSE, DE BRITO, _and_
DE MORVILLE. MONKS _following_.
--on a Tuesday----Tracy!
_A long silence, broken by_ FITZURSE _saying, contemptuously,_
God help thee!
JOHN OF SALISBURY (_aside_).
How the good Archbishop reddens!
He never yet could brook the note of scorn.
FITZURSE.
My lord, we bring a message from the King
Beyond the water; will you have it alone,
Or with these listeners near you?
BECKET.
As you will.
FITZURSE.
Nay, as _you_ will.
BECKET.
Nay, as _you_ will.
JOHN OF SALISBURY.
Why then
Better perhaps to speak with them apart.
Let us withdraw.
[_All go out except the four_ KNIGHTS _and_ BECKET.
FITZURSE.
We are all alone with him.
Shall I not smite him with his own cross-staff?
DE MORVILLE.
No, look! the door is open: let him be.
FITZURSE.
The King condemns your excommunicating----