 | Thomas À Becket |  |
SCENE V.
The Court before King's-Manour Palace, Clarendon. A Sentinel on guard. Several persons assembled. John of Oxford and Geoffrey Radel.John of O.
What breeds the Council better than debate
I marvel? It sits long.
Radel.
Would it were up!
The wind is icy-keen within this court.—
Hey! here comes Walter all a-muck!—Wrap up!
It blows steel-needles!—
Enter Mapes as from the Council Room. After him De Broke.
Mapes.
Pewh! a delicate storm
To that within!—Could'st stretch thy neck
Door-wards, and yon tall axe-man not behead thee,
Thou'dst hear a storm indeed!
65
We have heard much tumult.
Radel.
Tell us, good Walter! what is't like?
Mapes.
What like?
The roll of thunder, roar of seas, and groan
Of heart-burnt mountains, crash of cataracts,
All mingled dense as the dark angels' cry
Of mutual torment; or those threatening voices
From Chaos 'gainst Creation, yell'd by night,
Which make the firm stars tremble in their spheres.
John of O.
Englisht,—a mighty hubbub.
Mapes.
I do assure you—
The roof rebounds as from a Cyclops' forge
At full-sledge work above it; you expect
The stones to fall each moment on your head—
John of O.
Well, well! but does the Primate yield?
Mapes.
Our Bishops
Stand front to front as on a chess-board; some
Are the King's bishops, some the Archbishop's bishops:
These be the fiery tongues that make the blaze
Hottest, and keep the fiercest bicker up;
To which the laity's is but lambent flame
Crackling and spitting. These, claw'd close together,
As mill-wheels tooth in tooth, each urges on
His giddy-pated neighbour, shoulders him,
Kisses him hatefully with bespattering lips,
Or stares quite mute with ire.
De Broke.
Furies in frocks!
Mapes.
I marvel the walls bilge not, with so much
Foul fluency as swags within them.—Peter!
Enter Peter of Blois.
What news? what news? how goes it on? is 't done?
Peter.
'Tis done—and undone—we are all undone!
I know not what! They say there are no wolves
In England since the Conquest—there's a den of them!
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But tell us, will the Archbishop brave it out,
So obstinate?
Peter.
He stands like twice his size,
The sole immoveable thing in that commotion!
Mapes.
I think he hath a cloven hoof, to stand
So firm, on but two legs!
Peter.
I fear he'll have
What's worse,—a cloven head!
John of O.
Doth the king speak?
Mapes.
The king speaks thunder-claps; and every word
Blasts where it strikes!—'Tis fearful even to friends.
De Broke.
I ne'er saw steed upon the edge of battle
With such a bloodshot eye or nostril broader!
Methinks the very fierceness of his glance
Cuts like a shining sword.
Peter.
There will be mischief!
Heaven guard his grace, the Primate!
Sentinel.
Haro! Haro!
[Fitz-Urse, De Morville, De Traci, Brito, with men-at-arms, rush across brandishing their battle-axes, and enter the hall. De Broke joins them.
Mapes.
'Dame! this looks serious.
John of O.
Will they stain their souls
With such a crimson and redeemless sin
As murder of God's High-Priest? It is horrible!
Mapes.
What care these swashing blades? One thing to them
High-priest or heretic! Are not their acts
All of the one blush-colour? Their most innocent,
Rapine and ravishment! Men bred up in blood,
They shed it free as wine.
John of O.
A Christless race!
Peter.
Mapes, jest not now:—Can their thick senses, judge you,
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And popular carrion?
Mapes.
Not, though that were smoked
In the rich fume o' the chalice 'till it smell'd
A whole aisle off!
Peter.
Ventre!—I am a priest!—
I 'll back to Blois!—Courez, mes enfans! courez!—
Sauve qui peut!
[Runs off.
Mapes.
Ha! ha! ha!
Radel.
Walter Mapes,
Thou can'st do grinning mischief like a monkey!
Mapes.
Who could be grave to see a man frighted, like
a crow from his provender, by a hollow rattle or red rag
shaken in the wind?
John of O.
If danger did not make all things look
serious, how ridiculous does it make most of our actions
really!
Mapes.
Come, we will all laugh at this Frenchman tomorrow!
John of O.
Heaven grant it!
[Exeunt omnes.
| Thomas À Becket | |