University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The Council-room.
Henry, De Lucy, Cornwall, De Eynsford, Archbishop of York; Bishops of Winchester, Salisbury, London, Norwich; Glanville.
Henry.
Glanville!—there is a thing I'd say to you
Before we enter on this business.—
What was it? Pshaw! my head is in the mists,
Or they in it!—O!—true!—We must not, Glanville,
Let these poor squabbles 'tween that priest and us
Prejudice nobler matters. You can guess
What's in my mind.

Glanville.
I judge, Sire, as you speak
Of noble matters, you must mean the cause
You 've had so much at heart—the restitution,
Betterment, stablishment, and general use
Of that, long fallen into desuetude,
That noblest of all noble things which man
Ever invented for behoof of man,
Trial of all accused, by their sworn peers
Called jurors; and the name of the said practice,—
Which shall go sounding down to latest times
Join'd with your own, as its chief Advocate,
Trial by Jury.

Henry.
Yea, good Ranulph, yea;
But you great lawyers, in your deep research,
And dabbling in a flood of words, oft sink
Out of the common sight, like birds called divers,
Than which you're more long-winded. Mend that fault!—
You have been pondering o'er the theme, I see,
And that was well. Draw up your thoughts upon it
For my perusal, and in plain short terms;
D'ye hear?

Glanville.
They shall be brief, my gracious liege!

Enter De Bohun, Clare, and Leicester.
Henry.
Ha! whence come ye?

Leicester.
From the round church, my liege,
Beside us here; where Becket was at mass.

Henry.
So! ye look grave: as if he being at prayers,
Did more than merely recommend his soul
To God and ours to Satan. Heard ye aught strange?

De Bohun.
Nought strange in such a darer, though 'twere monstrous
In any other man!

Henry.
What was that, ha?

Clare.
Besides his affectation palpable
Save to the mole-eyed people, of distress,
Disaster'd state, rapt piety, resignment,
Sanctified patience, sufferance supreme,
By dress, air, act, long moan, loud sob, large tears,—
He ordered as Introit to the service
With blasphemous self-allusion—Princes sat
And spake against me.

Henry.
O! he would set up
As mark'd for martyrdom!—with that angel face
Of his,—the Syrian blackmoor's son!—Himself
Persecutor of his king!

Leicester.
He comes, my liege:
His Meekness comes!

Enter Becket, arrayed in purple and pall, with his Crosier elevated, and a proud retinue.
Henry.
Heyday! the Pope of Canterbury!
Or Babylonian Lady all a-flame
For hot contést!—What think ye, cousins, are we
To have our heads broke with the pastoral Cross?

Becket.
I bear it for my sole protection!

Henry.
Ay!
What dread'st thou? else than paying thy just debts
To me and to the state? Dost need protection
Against thy creditors, like a prodigal?—
Glanville, that scroll!—
[Reading.
Item: three hundred pounds,—
Which thou didst levy upon Eye and Berkham,
Lately thy honours; Item; five hundred marks,
I lent thee at Toulouse; Item, five hundred,—
For which I stood thy surety to a Jew,
Whom thou dealt'st much with, till thy credit broke,
What time thou wallowedst in the wanton streams
Of Luxury most dissolute; Besides
An item, which to small rogues we set down
Plain theft, but to thy Grace embezzlement,—
Forty-four thousand marks, the balance due
From rents, proceeds, and profits of all prelacies,
Abbeys, and baronies, by thee administer'd
When Chancellor. Item—

Becket.
My liege! my liege! my liege!

Henry.
Oh! I am then thy sovereign yet, it seems!
Most affable subject, still to call me liege!—
(To himself)
I've snapt that nerve which keeps up most men's pride,
The purse-string!

Becket.
I did never lack allegiance.—
But for my lavishness as Chancellor,
Call it more loose than his who lets the wealth
Of Tagus' bed roll down by golden shoals
Into the wasteful ocean,—'twas a thing
Praised, as magnificence in the minister
Which made for the more glory of the master,
Whose humour now condemns it!—Was he, Sire,
Who had been found a fraudful Chancellor
Deem'd fit to be a Primate?

Henry.
'Tis not what
He had been deem'd, but what we 've proved him since.

Becket.
Crying injustice! able to bring down
Those spheres in molten fragments on mankind,
But that 'twould crush the guiltless with the guilty!

Henry.
Thank heaven we have one milk-white soul among us!
Thou scarlet sinner!—Why—My gorge is swoln
With names, not huge enough for thy vast insolence!—
Tell me this—thou—who claim'st the Saintship next
Vacant i' the Calendar,—this, Immaculate!—
Thou didst subscribe in these law-guarded terms,
‘Legally, with good faith, and without fraud,
Without reserve,’—to certain Constitutions,
Which thou abjur'st now: does such perjury
Merit no lapidation from the spheres
If they did hurl their hissing firestones at us?

Becket.
There was no perjury!

Henry.
Hear this! hear this!—
Sun-dwelling Truth, hast thou not one bright dart
To strike him through the brain with?—Ye, grave Suffragans!
[To the Bishops.
Did your supreme here (give me your corporate voice)
Swear to our Constitutions, yea or no?

Bishops.
Yea!

Becket.
Foolish children that would judge their father!—
I kept to what I swore, those Constitutions,
While they were such: but when a power beyond
Thine to enact, annull'd them, how could I
Observe non-entities?

Henry.
Fraud within fraud!
In this same wise you may play fast and loose
With any oath; may be, for aught I know,
My very true, sworn subject, on proviso,
Till you 're absolved by bull into a traitor!

Becket.
His Holiness can ne'er absolve, except
To save or serve the Church—

Henry.
Yes, you may load
The winds with loyal oaths, to place your heart
Between mine and all stabbers, yet, even now,
Bear in one sleeve a permit to kill kings,
And in the other a poniard!

Becket.
My dear liege!—
This is uncharitable.

Henry.
To serve the Church!
To serve the Church, man!—Did the Romish altar
Burn for thy sovereign, as a sacrifice,
Thou 'rt bound to slaughter him!—O Thomas! Thomas!
Could I e'er think that thou wouldst pierce the heart
Of thy kind, loving, generous, royal master?

Becket.
Not generous now, to say I 'd pierce thy heart!

Henry.
Thou hast done so!—if not with knife or brand,
With keen-cold weapon of ingratitude,
More poignant still!—But 'tis no matter: go!
There is a gulf as wide as heaven from hell
Between us, across which 'tis vain to think
Of ever shaking hands!—I am thy enemy,
To thy perdition or my own!

Becket.
I know it,
So would betake me into banishment,
And save a sacrilege unto thy soul.

Henry.
Good man!—Thou wouldst betake thyself to Louis,
To the French court, which breeds intriguants,
Fast as Lutetian filth breeds vermin vile,
Against my kingdom.—Twice thou hadst fled thither,
But that the roaring winds, our rough allies,
Forbade thy ship to fetch and carry treason!
My very seas rose up, upon my side,
Against thy steps!—Stay, and be baited here,
Till thy proud dewlaps drop with sweat and foam!—
As a first humblement, thy goods and chattels
Be all confiscate for contempt of court
And breach of fealty, in not attending
Our summons, when John Mareschal appeal'd thee
About the manour of Pageham—

Becket.
On that summons
I, being sick, sent four good household knights
To plead for me. Was this contempt? Was this
Devoir left unperform'd?—Yea, when the cause
Itself, was weigh'd at mine own spiritual Court
In scales which might have dropp'd from Libra stars,
As nice as Conscience trims with trembling hand—

Henry.
Ha! ha!

Becket.
Sir! Sir! 'tis truth; and he who here
By royal subornation brings that cause,
Would blush for it,—but before this grave Council,
Like it iniquitous!

[The Barons start up, and Becket's train advance. Becket raises his Crosier and Henry his Sceptre between them.
Henry.
These sacred wands,
Not unanointed swords, decide the fray!—
Archbishop, from thy last words, if no more,
I see thou art a self-devoted man
Unto destruction imminent!—Take your way.

Winchester.
My liege, accept two thousand marks from him,
In lieu of all demands.

Henry.
I will not, Winchester!
But thou another froward priest, de Blois,
Whose mitre coped thy brother Stephen's crown,
Shalt pronounce sentence for the full amount.

[They retire some paces.
Norwich
(to Becket).
My lord, beseech you on my knees, submit,
Or you, the Church, and all of us are lost!

Salisbury
(to him).
We cannot be thy sureties for such sum,
Though for the less we might.

York
(to him).
Take exhortation
From one a Primate like thyself, and moved
By most disinterested love,—resign
Thy see, to gain full peace, release, and pardon.

London
(to him).
'Twas thou thyself who led'st us to subscribe
The Constitutions, yet, when all too late,
Wouldst have us now proclaim ourselves, with thee,
Rebels to royal power, and renegades
To our own oaths!

Becket.
Folliott, thou shalt be ever
A stench i' the nostril of posterity!—
Thou art corrupted, man!—Primate of York,
This pall is much too weighty for thy shoulders!—
Sarum, I always knew thee as a gryphon
Keeping thy claw fast on thy hoarded gold!—
Poor Norwich, thou art pitiful!—Ye Suffragans,
[Turning to the other Bishops who implore him.
Ay, who will suffer again, again, again,
(Spare me the pertinent quibble!) all the ills
That tyranny can heap on callous meanness,—
Repose your deprecative arms! they 'll soon
Have beggar's-work enough, when ye are turn'd
By foes o' the Church, 'gainst whom ye raise no finger,
To mendicant monks and almsmen!—Stay me not,
I will go forward!

York.
There 's no stopping some men
Upon their course down the steep fall of Ruin!

Becket.
'Tis plain, Sir King!—lord of these lower skies!
Where you point all your thunder-bolts. But let them
Break first on this bare head, as yon poor image
Placed shelterless aloft that pinnacle
Bears with mild brow the elemental brunt
To shield his fane beneath!—Thou hast resolved
I know, thy throne shall rise above all height
Upon the ruins of the downcast Church,
Thy Babel-towering throne, from which shall come
Confusion o'er the land!—Have then thy will!
On this offensive mount, flourish a time,
Perish eternally!

Henry.
At thy behest?

Becket.
There is a throne, compared to earthly ones,
Higher than heaven above the hills: dread thence
Thunderings, which shall shake thy throne to dust,
And bury thyself beneath it, and thy barons
Send down with blasted fronts, to be the spurn
Of devils less degraded towards their king!

Henry.
All this, because I summon a state-debtor,
Punish a peculator, and attach
The goods of a respectless feudatory—
By Mahound, that 's strange doctrine!

Becket.
Mere pretences
To crush the Church in me!—I do appeal
'Gainst all your sentences and penalties
Unto the Pope; and henceforth do commit
To his safeguard, myself and my whole See!

Barons.
High-treason, an appeal to Rome!

Becket.
High-traitor,
I then!—too high for ye to touch!—though graspers
For whom the sacristy holds no sacred things!—
Nay, scowl on others, king!—it daunts not me!—
Thou—thou shouldst rather quail beneath my frown!—
Thy sword may kill the body, but this staff,
Sword of the Militant Church, which I do wield,
Can kill the soul!

Henry.
Pronounce his sentence straight!
He is deprived of all his lands and holdings!

Becket.
I will not drink pollution through mine ears!
Breathe it not, Winchester! till I am gone,
Lest it scorch up thy lips to whitest ashes!

Henry.
Hear how the wolf can howl!

Becket.
Since impious men
Whom strength makes wrongful, wrongfulness makes strong,
Plunder-swoln, gross with produce of all crime,
Band them against the battlements of heaven
On earth, to wit the bulwarks of the Church—

Henry.
He means his turreted Elysium
At Saltwood-park,—to touch which we are Titans!

Becket.
And have decreed its sole defender here,
Me!—me!—most violently trampled down—
Their mounting-step to that assault sacrilegious,—

Henry.
Why thou wert far above our reach but now?

Becket.
Since prayer, plaint, rhetoric's mingled honey and gall,
Cannot withhold them from the fathomless pit
Gaping beneath their steps,—if they must follow
Satan's dark inspirations to such deeds,
Flagitious, dreadless, godless—which mute heaven
Permits, but weeps at—good men's mazement,
The angels' horror—

Henry.
Wipe from thy blest mouth
That surge of foam!

Becket.
Since then, Perverse! thou seem'st
Desperate on self and state destruction both,
What more but this can parting Becket say,—
Thine and Hell's will be done!

[Exit.
Henry.
The wolf 's dog-mad!

[Scene closes.