University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Room. Enter Flambard with a letter.
Flambard.
This from my mother. [Reads.]
“I am pelted, stoned,
Hooted, bedraggled, cursed at for a witch.
Save me, sweet Ralf, bid me come over seas;
Under my son's protection I am safe:
But here in Bayeux, naked, sorrowful,
I creep about the corners of the streets,
And spit upon the Christians like a Jew
From my dark covert.”—Ah! the evil eye,
The malice of the woman! Very like
She is a witch. The devil certainly
Is my true sire.

[Enter Messenger.]
Messenger.
So please you, she entreats
For money, and due escort, till she touch
The land where she may safely walk abroad;
Since by the terror of your name men's tongues
Wag circumspectly—this she urged me add,
Fearful the penman had not set her plaint
As eloquent as from her tingling lips
It issued voluble.

Flambard
[giving a paper].
Despatch. I send
This paper and these bags. Looked she in health
When she dictated this? I know her way,—
Her speech warmed at the embers of her eyes,
She never paused till bursting in a laugh
To see the scribe with tortoise, toiling hand
A-cramp to copy all. [Exit Messenger.]
She's given me
My ready tongue. How should a man serve God
By his fine wit? God has no work for him;
Whereas the devil turns to good account
All lies, concupiscence, and avarice.
He keeps the brain at labour all the day:
I like employment; haply in my age
I may take lighter service.

[Enter William Rufus.]
Rufus.
Serious!
Now by my mother's soul—

Flambard.
Most opportune
The oath; both you and I are filial:
We can't forget the look in parents' eyes,
The victor's triumph and the miser's lust
Softened to such a human coveting
As empties the brimmed coffers of the eyes—

Rufus.
True, my fair Chancellor. I can't forget
The Mora bore a figure-head, a boy
Vermilion-cheeked, with clust'ring golden hair.
My father held me up to look at him;
His kiss rubbed harsh against my pouting lips
Agape in wonder, frighting me,—I screamed
And kicked, but heard him whisper, pressing close,
“This the man-child upon whose head I fix
The English royalties—a stalwart son!”
Ralf, my ambition ripes; 'tis harvest-time;
The Conqueror's prophecy must be fulfilled,
Surpassed;—accomplishment exceed presage.
I must have all becomes an emperor—
Wealth, vassals, territory to the steep
Of mountain ramparts inaccessible;
Where with the pasture fails the shepherd's flock,
Be first my name unfrequent. Solitude
Ridge my supremacy. How grows the gold?
I must be prodigal; my nature sweats
Munificence; 'tis healthy to perspire.
Come now, let's look into thy register.

Flambard.
Sire, it exceeds belief how priests will rob
The churches, melt the consecrated gold,
Expose the saint a shamèd penitent
Stripped to the shirt, and from the skeleton
Pluck the loose, dusty ring: they have no awe,
And the revenue waxes.

Rufus.
Hoo, hoo, hoo!
[Throwing money on the table.
A bellyful of laughter! Thirty marks
I cast down on this table, as my mite
Toward the ten thousand owed for Normandy.
How thinkest thou I earned them?

Flambard.
Honestly?
Nay, but by pious subterfuge.

Rufus.
A Jew
Came to me weeping o'er his recreant lad,
Subtle St. Stephen drove to baptism,
As Christ the swine to perish in the sea.
Would I command the convert to abjure
(Here shook the knave his lusty money bags),
He would show gr—ratitude. So I professed
Compassion, fronted the rebellious boy,
And darted on him such a fiery look
As half-fulfilled my threat to rend his eyes.
He feigned to think I jested. My shrewd Ralf,
The youth was shameless in his piety,
And would not be abashed. But afterward
I claimed, as payment of my royal pains,
Half the fore-promised fee; and Abraham,
With his lost child, lost gold, lost impudence,
Turned stubborn on his heel.

Flambard.
Sire, I predict
The heavy Anselm will resign his staff,
So groans he at the vast extortion
Of the oppressèd Church. If he retire
And leave you wolfish pastor of the flock—

[Enter Anselm unseen at a distance.]
Anselm
[aside].
Alas! I'm tired in soul, and for the south
I pine to death as winter-stricken bird;
There is the pain of thwarted wings within
The care-barred prison of my cònfined brain.
Oh, I must fly to Rome, where comfort, rest,
And light would fall as summer on my grief.

Rufus.
Anselm! The name offends me. He hath lost
My Welsh campaign. The pious gentlemen,
His duteous addition to my ranks,
Took field more like the drooping garrison
Of a surrendered city than a troop
Of knights, fresh, emulous, and fair-disposed.
His sheep are for the slaughter.

Anselm.
True, my lord.
They have a deathly look; their means of life
Is swallowed by your officers; their blood
Is shed with their last coins.

Rufus.
Shut up your jaws!

Anselm.
My lord, I come—

Rufus.
The rot consume your sheep

Anselm.
To ask a favour for myself.

Rufus.
For you?

Anselm.
That I may journey for a little space
To Rome—the shrine of comfort raised aloft
On seven-pillared hills. My native skies
Have lately dyed my memory. I long
For cloudless sun and heaven-tinctured peace.
My spirit fails for counsel and relief
Of holy love and guidance fatherly.
Thought leaves me, and the level mists of life
Envelop vision and distort all truth,
Till I am lost and weary.

Rufus.
Am I mad?
Look I insane? No, by my mother's soul,
You shall not leave my billow-guarded shore.
No, no, good father. Have you done a deed
So black and deadly that the Pope alone
Can give you absolution? By God's face,
I never will believe it. Would you ask
The Pope for counsel? You might give him such
With far more fitness than receive 't of him.
You have no need to go.

Anselm.
All pow'r is yours,
And as you will you speak. Another day
What you refused you royally may grant.
I'll multiply my pray'rs.—And patience rule
The fever of my soul.

[Exit.
Rufus.
Ho, ho! Well heard.
Ay, now he's sick and shall be penitent.
How I will taunt him! Sick of hearing bleat
His hungry lambs, he's off to quiet feed
On the green pastures of the Roman slope.
I will be bitter. Go you after him,
Say his petition has much moved the king,
Who threatens worse oppression.
[Exit Flambard.
It is odd;
I plague this saint and cannot part with him.
The company of fiends is tedious;
One must have something holy to torment,
And—and ... if fever struck me down again,
I should have hunger for the face of God,
Though it should damn me. He's a remedy
Not to be loosed from hand. I'll make him smart.

[Exit.