University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.—Gilors.

John of Oxford, and a priest.
John of Oxf.
This to my Lord of London. Make good haste!
Ride day and night! This to my Lord of York:
From every town and hamlet send the tidings
That peace is made, and Becket reconciled,
The Pope contented well, the realm of France
Unanimous in joy.

Priest.
It shall be done.

John of Oxf.
Return at once. All letters for the king
Bring straight to me: I am his secretary.
The journey's costly: take my purse. Good speed!

Scene II.—Wytsand, on the Coast of Boulogne.

Becket, John of Salisbury, Herbert of Bosham, attendants.
Bec.
(standing apart from the rest).
I have tried all ways beside: remains but this.
(After a long pause)
The night comes swiftly like a hunted man
Who cloaks his sin; the sea grows black beneath it;
There's not a crest that thunders on these sands
But sounds some seaman's knell.
The wan spume racing o'er the death-hued waters
This way and that way writhes a bickering lip:
As many winds as waves o'er-rush the deep,
Warring like fiends whose life is hate. Alas!
For him, the ship-boy on the drowning deck!
He never knew the weariness of life,
The sickness of the heart, the sin, the sorrow—
Not thus I hoped to face my native land.
What means this sinking strange? Till now my worst
Was when I saw my sister in her shroud.
Death, when it comes, will not be dread as this:
Death is the least of that which lies before me.
This is mine hour of darkness, and ill powers
Usurp upon my manlier faculties,
Which in the void within me faint and fail,
Like stones that loosen in some high-built arch
Then when the keystone crumbles—
I cannot stamp my foot upon the earth:
Where art thou, Power Divine, my hope till now?
To what obscure and unimagined bourne
Beyond the infinitudes of measureless distance
Hast thou withdrawn thyself? This, this remains;
Seeing no more God's glory on my path
To tread it still as blindfold innocence
Walks 'twixt the burning shares.

John of Sal.
(joining Becket).
Beware, my lord! I know King Henry's eye:
Go not to England. He would have you there,
The man who drave you thence.

Bec.
Our ends are diverse;
Not less my way may lie with his.

John of Sal.
How far?

Bec.
It may be to my church of Canterbury;
It may be to the northern transept there;
It may be to that site I honoured ever,
The altar of Saint Benedict. Thus far
Our paths may blend—then part.

John of Sal.
Go not to England!
I mingled with the sailors of yon ship:
Their captain signed to me: then, with both hands
Laid on my shoulders, and wide, staring eyes,
Thus whispered:—‘Lost! undone! Seek ye your deaths?
All men may land in England—none return.’

Bec.
Behold, I give you warning in good time
Lest anger one day pass the bounds of truth:
King Henry never schemed to shed my blood
Dungeons low-vaulted, and a lifelong chain;—
That was the royal dream. Return, my friend.
[John of Salisbury departs.
Thank God, that cloud above my spirit lightens!
Danger, when near, hath still a trumpet's sound:
It may be that I have not lived in vain;
Let me stand once within the young king's presence,
Yea though the traitors should besiege him round,
Close as the birds yon rock—

Arch. of Sens
(arriving).
My lord, God save you!

Bec.
One kind act more; you come to say fare-well.
My brother, and my lord, four years rush back
And choke my heart! We are both too old for weeping:
I am a shade that fleets. May centuries bless
That house so long my home!

Arch.
The see of Sens
Has had you for her guest; our fair cathedral
And yours are sisters: be the omen blest!
Perhaps in future ages men may say,
‘Thomas of Canterbury, Sens' poor William—
These men, so far apart in gifts of grace,
Were one in mutual love.’

Bec.
My lord, in heaven
Not earth alone, that love shall be remembered.
Bear back my homage to your good French king,
That great and joyous Christian gentleman,
Who keeps his youth in age. Firmly he walks
The royal road—faith, hope, and charity,
To throne more royal and a lordlier kingdom.
Pray him to live with Henry from this hour
In peace.

Arch.
The king will ask of your intent.

Bec.
Tell him we play at heads. God rules o'er all.
Farewell!

Arch.
Good friend, and gracious lord, farewell!

[The Archbishop of Sens departs, attended.
Her. of Bos.
(arriving).
As good to go to heaven by sea as land!
Sail we, my lord, this evening?

Bec.
Herbert, Herbert!
Before thou hast trod in England forty days
All that thou hast right gladly wouldst thou give
To stand where now we stand. What sable shape
Is that which sits on yonder rock, alone,
Nor heeds the wild sea-spray?

Her.
My lord, Idonea;
She too makes way to England, and desires
Humbly your Grace's audience.

Bec.
Lead her hither.
[Herbert departs.
Herbert and John—both gone—how few are like them!
They helped me on rough ways. In Herbert still,
So holy and so infant-like his soul,
I found a mountain-spring of Christian love
Upbursting through the rock of fixed resolve,
A spring of healing strength; in John, a mind
That, keener than diplomatists of kings,
Was crafty only 'gainst the wiles of craft,
And, stored with this world's wisdom, scorned to use it
Except for heavenly aims.
The end draws nigh. Nor John nor Herbert sees it.
[His attendants approach with Idonea.
Earth's tenderest spirit and bravest! Welcome, child!
Soft plant in bitter blast! Adieu, my friends;
This maid hath tidings for my private ear.
[The attendants depart.
My message reached you then, my child, at Rouen?
But what is this? Is that the countenance turned
So long to yon dark West?

Ido.
Love reigns o'er all!—
My father, who but you should hear the tale?
I had forsaken that fair Norman home
To seek my English convent, and those shores
Denied me long. The first night of my journey
There came to me a vision. All alone
I roamed, methought, some forest lion-thronged
And dinned all night by breakers of great seas,
Booming far off. In fear I raised my head:
T'ward me there moved two Forms, female in garb,
In stature and in aspect more than human;
The loftier wore a veil.

Bec.
You knew the other?

Ido.
The Empress! In that face, so sad of old,
Was sadness more unlike that former sadness
Than earthly joy could seem. Within it, lived
A peace to earth unknown, and, with that peace,
The hope serene of one whose heaven is sure.
She placed within my hand a shining robe,
And spake:—‘For him whom most thou lov'st on earth:’—
It was a shroud.

Bec.
A shroud?

Ido.
And other none
Than that which, 'mid the snows of Pontigny,
Enswathed your sister, as in death she lay
Amid the waxlight sheen. It bore that cross
I traced in sanguine silk before the burial.
This is, my lord, men say, your day of triumph,
Christ's foes subjected and His rights restored;
Doubtless long years of greatness lie before you:
Perhaps for that cause she, an Empress once,
Knowing that triumph is our chief of dangers,
Sent you that holy warning.

Bec.
I accept it.
Spake not that other?

Ido.
Suddenly a glory
Forth burst that lit huge trunk and gloomiest cave:
That queenlier Presence had upraised her veil.

Bec.
You knew her face?

Ido.
And learned what man shall be
When risen to incorrupt. It was your sister!

Bec.
Great God! I guessed it.

Ido.
In her hand she held
A crown whose radiance quenched the heavenly signs;
The star-crown of the elect who bore the Cross.
With act benign she placed it in my hand,
And spake:—‘For him thou lov'st the most on earth.’
It was her being spake—her total being—
Body and spirit, not her lips alone.
I heard: I saw. That vision by degrees
Ceased from before me;—long the light remained:
A cloudless sun was rising, pale and dim,
In that great glory lost.

Bec.
My daughter, tell me—

Ido.
This storm is nothing; nor a world in storm!
The rage of nations, and the wrath of kings!
God sits above the roaring water-floods:
He in our petty tumults hath His peace,
And we our peace in His. Man's life is good;
Death better far.

Bec.
Was this a dream or vision?

Ido.
A vision and from God. The man who dreams
Makes question none if dream it be or real:
But when he wakes, well knows he that he dreams not:
Thus knew I that I dreamed not.

Bec.
Dream and vision
Are both God's heralds oft—

Ido.
To make us strong
In duteous tasks, not lull the soul, or soften.
That vision past, tenfold in me there burned
The craving once again to tread our England,
Where fiercest is the battle for the Faith.
Thither this night I sail.

Bec.
In three days I.
Ere then a perilous task must be discharged:
The Pope hath passed the sentence of suspension
On two schismatic bishops, London and York.
See you these parchments with the leaded seals?
They must be lodged within the offenders' hands—
Chiefly the hands of York—and lodged moreover
While witnesses are by. Llewellen failed
But late with missives charged of milder sort:
If this time he succeeds, and yet is captured,
Send tidings in his place.

Ido.
Llewellen's known;
Was late in England; all your friends are known.
Those prelates both are now, I think, in London:
On Sunday morning this poor hand of mine
Shall lodge that sentence, ay, and hold it fast,
Within the hand of York.

Bec.
The danger's great:
The habit of a nun might lull suspicion:
Not less, the deed accomplished—

Ido.
Can they find
Dungeon so deep that God will not be there,
And those twain memories which beside me move,
My soul's defence, a mother's and a brother's?
Or death? One fears to live, for life is sin:
One fears not death. Your sister 'mid the snows
Upon this bosom died: she feared not death;
While breath remained she thanked her God, and praised Him.
The Empress on this bosom died; death near,
She was most humbly sad, most sweetly fearful;
But, closer as it drew, her hope rose high,
And all was peace at last.

Bec.
Then go, my child.
You claim a great prize—meet it is you find it.
May He who made, protect you! May His saints,
Fair-flowering and full-fruited in His beam,
Sustain you with their prayers; His angel host
In puissance waft you to your earthly bourne,
In splendour to your heavenly. Earth, I think,
Hath many a destined work for that small hand;—
Sigh not as yet for heaven!

Ido.
I will not, father:
I wait His time.

Bec.
The wind has changed to south:
The sea grows smoother, and a crimson light
Shines on the sobbing sands. Beyond the cliff
The sun sets red. This is the mandate, child;
Farewell, and pray for me!

[Idonea kneels, kisses his hand, and departs.
Her.
(returning with the rest).
Bad rumours thicken—

Bec.
In three days hence I tread my native shores.

Llew.
With what intent?

Bec.
To stamp this foot of mine
Upon the bosom of a waiting grave,
And wake a slumbering realm.

Llew.
May it please your Grace—

Bec.
My friends, seven years of exile are enough:
If into that fair church I served of old
I may not entrance make, a living man,
Let them who loved me o'er its threshold lift
And lay my body dead.

Scene III.—Sea-shore at Dover.

The Archbishop of York, the Bishops of London and of Salisbury.
Gil.
The boors at Sandwich as his ship drew near
Noting the great cross archiepiscopal,
Met him breast high in the waves.

Joce. of Sal.
The women hailed him
The orphan's father, and the widow's judge:
From Sandwich to the gates of Canterbury
The concourse, as he passed them, knelt, and sang
‘Blessed the man who cometh in God's name!’

Gil.
De Broc and our retainers, as he landed,
Drew near, their armour hidden 'neath their vests,
Protesting with fierce brows against our wrong:
Becket thus answered: ‘With your king's consent—
Two hundred men together heard him speak it—
The Pope suspends those bishops for their sin.’
If Henry yields, all's lost.

Roger.
The king's consent!
'Twas he who bade us crown the prince his son!

Gil.
The game is played, and lost. The cards were with us—
A king magnanimous, and an angry queen
Foe of our foe; an emperor whose sword
Warred on the crosier; and an antipope;
The barons with us, and the people cowed.
These things were for us; what was there against us?
One man—one man alone; not trained in schools;
No canonist; with scant ascetic fame;
A man once worldly warred on by the world:
My lords, this man, subduing his own heats,
And learning how to wait, hath to himself
Well-nigh subdued the realm. No course remains
This day, except to yield.

Joce.
We had these helps;
But policy had none.

Roger.
My lord, we had one:
A day ere Becket landed all was marred.
I at Saint Paul's had sung that morn the mass:
The king was standing with his courtiers round him;
Then drew to me a nun in black, and knelt:
She raised, in humble sort, a scroll. I took it.
She closed my hand in both of hers, and cried,
‘A mandate from the Pope with his command
To read the same aloud.’ The papal seal—
The Fisherman's—witnessed that scroll authentic:
Perforce I read it. 'Twas my own suspension!

Joce.
The nun?

Roger.
Through folly of the king she 'scaped:
The boy but laughed; then sent her to her convent,
Therein to plot and pray.

Joce.
Her name?

Be Broc
(who has just ridden up).
Idonea!
The accursèd veil hid not the hand! I knew it.
I knew it, and remembered well that day
When, as she passed me, by the primate's side
Issuing from Canterbury's sanctuary,
I said, ‘That small white hand shall dig his grave!’
From John of Oxford this! he landed late
At Sandwich with the traitor.

Roger.
Sir, I thank you.
(Reads)
‘The king has given consent to those suspensions,
And stands impledged to fill the vacant sees.
Wring, from this darkness, dawn! At once—unbidden—
In over-measure crown his six years' suit.
Send him six canons from each vacant see:
Let these elect the bishop he shall choose,
In his own chapel, yea, in his own presence;
The royal heart will then be wholly yours:
Make speed across the seas.’

Gil.
At once—we must:
I much misdoubt this youthful king.

De Broc.
Attend:
Where'er the traitor moves I hem him round
With horsemen fierce and free. Without a guard
He dares not move. Now mark! A guard's an army!
A larger army is that rabble-rout
Which dogs his steps. Scare the young king with rumours;
Wake up his spleen; tell him the primate's sworn
To abase a prince ill crowned.

Gil.
The prince, thus warned,
When Becket reaches London must repel him.
His heart will sink; the people's zeal will slack,
And wild tales rush abroad.

De Broc.
The self-same rumours
Shall fire the father-king.

Roger.
A sager counsel—

De Broc.
Sage heads and keen of England, and of France
That think ye see so far, I tell you this,
Within the hollow heart of all your sageness
A blind worm works! Farewell! Ere long you'll cry,
‘The strong hand of De Broc was worth us all.’

[He gallops away. The rest, except Gilbert of London, walk rapidly towards the harbour.
Gil.
(alone).
Somewhere—I know not when—I know not how—
I took, methinks, one step—one little step—
A hair's breadth only from the righteous way.
Where will this end? I know not. This I know,
A man there is I hate; his name is Becket.

Scene IV.—The Great Hall of the Palace of Bur, near Bayeux.

In parts of the hall tables are spread; in other parts the guests converse. At the higher end stand two thrones, on one of which Queen Eleanor sits. Cornwall, Leicester, the Bishop of Lisieux, De Tracy, De Moreville, Brito, courtiers, ladies, guests, and minstrels.
Q. Elea.
Be merry, lords; we keep our birthday feast:
Share ye the royal joy!

Cours.
God save the Queen!

Corn.
(to Leicester).
Five weeks that splendour strengthened on his brow;
Revolted feudatories made submission;
Flanders and France were leagued with him in love:
Then once again that inward grief returned;
New nightmares vexed his bed.

Q. Elea.
Set forth a dance!

Leic.
(to Cornwall).
Sir, the heart hardening maketh soft the brain:
He is not what he was. Of old, when wrath
Hurled forth its fiercest flame, his mind not less
Rushed up keen-edged within it and above it
A spear's length higher;—higher rose his will:
To-day his angers drag aside his purpose
Which oftenest finds its end in accident:
He hath done his own soul wrong.

Corn.
Greatness goes from him.

[The king enters with John of Oxford; they converse apart in a window.
John of Oxf.
He's hot, the goal in sight; his native airs
Dissolve that frosty caution exile taught him:
He said, ‘My lords of Rouen and of Sens
Save for that king had brought me home in honour:’
He plots; but plots not war. Leicester, I note,
Whispers: his zeal takes cold.

K. Hen.
What meant those letters?

John of Oxf.
His knave that blabbed his secret knew not that:
One was for Scotland's king, and four, he thought,
For princes rebel late in Wales; the rest
For earls in England malcontent.

K. Hen.
He dares not.

John of Oxf.
Doubtless he dares not; and that popular zeal
Which hailed him landing, was but madness old:
He plays a deeper game than treason.

K. Hen.
Ha!

John of Oxf.
The realm invaded, or those earls in arms,
He blows the Church's trumpet,—marches to London;
Commends himself deliverer of the king;
Recovers straight his pupil's childish love,
Or mildly, else, inthralls him.

Q. Elea.
Flavel, sing!
I dance no more.

Lis.
(to Leicester).
Her Highness is not pleased:
The man she hates hath triumphed. Year by year
She urged his Highness 'gainst my lord the primate;
Of late she whets him with more complicate craft:
She knows that all she likes the king dislikes,
And feigns a laughing, new-born zeal for Becket,
To sting the royal wrath.

K. Hen.
(to John of Oxford).
He never should have trod those English shores.

John of Oxf.
As freeman, never;—said I not as much?
The young king's council should have found those letters;
And dealt him traitor's doom. Please it your Highness,
'Tis not too late. My Lord Justiciary
Stands by the council's side.

K. Hen.
I dare not, John;
His death, though death by chance, would wrong my heart—
Imprisonment itself requires pretext.
There are that watch us: mingle with the crowd.

[John of Oxford departs.
Q. Elea.
[The king approaches and sits on a chair not far from the queen's throne.

K. Hen.
Our queen is mirthful.

Q. Elea.
When Becket rose, a man was England's king:
Finding such charge too onerous for such manhood
He slipped his burthen, and a boy sits throned;
Wears a straw crown. Becket is king in substance;
Why not in name? Though secular kings—when saints—
Have spurned that siren, Power, he need not fear her:
Yon bird grows sleek on weeds poison to us,
So doth mine earlier favourite Punchinello,
And Becket, meekly wearing crowns of earth,
Shall merit heaven's the more.

K. Hen.
Our queen goes mad!

Q. Elea.
My southern realm remains. That sunnier half
Outweighs the whole;—and yet not thus you deemed,
Husband, that time when, Stephen dead, you sued
Your wife's good aid. I made you King of England!
My strong Provencal fleet o'erawed that day
Your English barons; barred them from allies:
That hour the work was mine; the jest was yours:
You thought it laughter-worth. My turn comes next!
Ye that have goblets, brim them! Mark this cup:
It flames with Albi's wine.

[Queen Eleanor rises and stands on the highest step of the throne with a golden cup in her right hand.
Leic.
(to Lisieux).
Behold her, Lisieux!
That smile is baleful as a winter beam
Streaking some coast wreck-gorged;—her hair and eyes
Send forth a glare half sunshine and half lightning—

Q. Elea.
A health, my lords! the London merchant's son,
Once England's primate—henceforth King of England!

K. Hen.
(leaping to his feet and half drawing his sword).
Woman, be silent!

Fitz-Urse
(entering).
May it please your Highness,
My lords of York, London, and Salisbury
Are come from England, charged with news not good:
My lord of London, worn, and somewhat faint,
Rests by the gate.

K. Hen.
Command them to the presence.

[The Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Salisbury enter, followed by Gilbert of London, low bent and leaning on John of Oxford.

Scene V.—The porch of Canterbury Cathedral.

Herbert of Bosham, John of Salisbury; near them attendants, waiting the arrival of Becket.
Her.
Here stood we on his consecration feast:
The long years dragged: to-day they seem but weeks,
A dove-flight of white weeks through vernal air.

John of Sal.
Herbert, you jar me with your ceaseless triumphs
And hope 'gainst hope. You are like a gold leaf dropped
From groves immortal of the Church triumphant
To mock the rough wave of our Church in storm:
I pray you, chafe at times! The floods are out!
I say the floods are out! This way and that
They come a-sweeping.

Her.
Wheresoe'er they sweep
The eye of God pursues them, and controls:
That which they are to Him, that only are they:
The rest is pictured storm.

John of Sal.
How sped your journey?

Her.
From first to last De Broc with wrong assailed us;
But on us, like a passionate south wind, blew
The greetings of the loyal and the just.
We rode two days. London's old tower in sight,
We met the citizens; for miles forth streamed they
To meet their citizen—for so they hailed him.
The poor came first; then merchants and their wives;
Next, clad in gold, the mayor and aldermen;
And, lastly, priests intoning Benedictus
Scarce heard amid the pealing of the bells.
On London Bridge the houses at each side
That topped with their quaint gables every arch,
Hung tapestries forth, their roofs o'erswarmed with gazers;
The ships were purpled o'er with flags that waving
Painted the crystal bosom of the Thames—
More swayed by popular ecstasies, it seemed,
Than shiftings of the wind.

John of Sal.
How looked our Thomas?

Her.
Passing, he gave the blessing with still smile.
One time he laughed: 'twas when a crazy beldam
Cried from the crowd, ‘Beware the knife, archbishop!’
Sighed once—'twas when he passed his parents' door
Flower-garlanded; the gayest in Cheapside.

John of Sal.
Where lodged he?

Her.
At my Lord of Winton's palace.
At eve he paced the gardens, by his side
Saint Albans' abbot, Simon. I was near:
I marked him draw the right hand of the abbot
Within his robe;—then heard, ‘My friend, my friend,
Things are not what they seem!’

John of Sal.
Saw he his pupil?

Her.
At ten next morning Joceline of Louvaine
Sent by that pupil rudely sought the primate:
The boy-king bade him back to Canterbury!
‘Shall I not barely see the royal face?’
Thus answered he—no more. If ever grief
Cast shadow on man's face, I saw it then.
He sat till noon had struck; then bade to horse.

John of Sal.
Your homeward way was hardest?

Her.
Hardest thrice;
The news had gone abroad, and many shunned us;
Aggression hourly wore a fiercer front;
More contumelious brows were on us bent:
Here lay the bridge a ruin; shafts assailed us;
The dyke was cut; the road in water drowned:
We heard, one time, the spleenful horn of knaves
That hunted in his Grace's woods: as yet
They dared no more. The Council sought De Luci:
The strong man thus made answer to their suit;
‘I am this kingdom's High Justiciary,
And not your faction's hangman. Four years since
I deemed the Legate wrought 'gainst England's laws,
And acted on that thought. The Legate banned me:

Richard de Luci ‘founded the Abbey of Lesnes in Kent, in honour of the martyr [Becket], and became a canon there after his resignation’ (Professor Stubbs's ‘Constitutional History,’ vol. i. p. 469).

I deemed his censures dealt “errante clave”
And put them from my mind. Now ye wrong him:
I run not with your pack.’

John of Sal.
Brave man and true!
How few know friend from foe! Now hear my tale:
Go where I might, except among the poor,
'Twas all one massed conspiracy of error,
Close-woven, and labyrinthed, millions in one;
Conspiracy, and yet unconscious half;
For, though, far down, there worked one plastic mind,
The surface seemed fortuitous concurrence,
One man the hook supplying, one the eye,
Here the false maxim, there the fact suborned,
This the mad hope, and that the grudge forgotten.
The lawyer wrote the falsehood in the dust
Of mouldering scrolls; with sighs the Court-priest owned it;
The minstrel tossed it gaily from his strings;
The witling lisped it, and the soldier mouthed it.
These lies are thick as dust in March—

Her.
Which galls us,
Yet clothes the expectant harvest fields with gold.

John of Sal.
(After a pause)

Her.
That dust, good John,
Is more illusive than my dreams and visions
So oft your sport. Our hope is otherwhere.
The primate bade that old man house at home
A white head, England's pride. Hark, hark, a hymn!
Saint Stephen's feast comes soon. The good choir-master
Rehearses some sweet anthem in his praise.
There's not a saint in heaven dearer to Thomas!

A man in a mask
(coming up rapidly).
A troop of horse makes way through the south gate:
Richard de Humet sent them—he who left
The king at Bayeux late.

A man
(disguised as a cripple, detaching himself from the crowd and joining them).
Flee while ye may!—the primate helped me once:
Unless he 'scape to-night, he sees not Tuesday.

[Rejoins the revellers.
[Becket approaches at the head of a procession.
Her.
Lo, the procession comes!

John of Sal.
The primate walks
As one that died, and rose, and dies no more.

Her.
I note in him one strength the world detects not:
The Church for others hath seven sacraments;
For him she keeps an eighth—the poor of Christ!
Lo there! As often as he gives them alms
He lay on them his hands.

John of Sal.
As one that loves them?

Her.
As one that, touching them, draws strength from God;
Wins more than he bestows. He stops; he stands;—
The exile gazes on his church again:
He kneels with arms outstretched, like holy Andrew
When venerating from afar his cross!
[As Becket enters the cathedral Herbert goes up to him.
Now die if thus God wills! I never spake
That word before. In thee Christ's Church hath conquered.
Now die whene'er God wills. We die together.

[Becket looks at him fixedly, and passes on.

Scene VI.—A Street in Canterbury.

Citizens.
1st Cit.
We are trapped and fooled. Death to the plotters! Haste!

2nd Cit.
And which be they?

1st Cit.
Who knows?

3rd Cit.
A saint is Thomas!
None questions that our primate is a saint;
We'd fight for him and gladly, were he sound:
But sanctity, some think, hath crazed his brain;—
He comes not forth, as once.

4th Cit.
A knight from London
Saw all, and wept to tell it. Nine long hours
The primate, girt with French and Flemish hordes,
Besieged the young king's gates. Richard de Luci
Past hope arriving, quenched the flames just lit:
The rebels fled by night.

2nd Cit.
The father-king
Will rage at this.

4th Cit.
He'll rage that two months since,
When Thomas wept before the royal feet,
He suffered his return. Good John of Oxford
Pledged faith that hour for Canterbury's sons,
Whom as his own he loves.

1st Cit.
Who told you that?

4th Cit.
The same old knight, kinsman of John of Oxford;
And John, he said, saw all.

An old Knight
(riding up).
God save you, sirs!
Conspirators are ye fat and well-liking!
Which lies the loudest?

Several Cits.
Nay, sir, true men we.

Old Knight.
Sirs, ye are Saxons; Saxons speak no truth;
Else, wherefore hid they long like thieves in caverns
To keep their treasons warm? What beast are you
That with your foul hand stain my horse's neck
Which shone like glass?—Let none deceive you, friends!
They'll leave you later to the royal wrath
Which, roused by wrong, burned late three towns in Maine.
Beware of full-fed priests and haughty bishops!
The Conqueror sent you bishops staid and sage,
Most part from Normandy. They spake not English;
So vexed you not with sermons. What, my friends,
A man may go to heaven, yet hear not sermons!
That chime's my dinner bell! God save you, sirs,
And purge your primate's pride! A saint I deem him;
No doubt there's healing latent in his bones;
De Broc hath sworn to boil the proud flesh off them
To make the relics sooner serviceable.
Be wary, sirs; the knife is at your throat!

[Rides away.

Scene VII.—A room in the Archiepiscopal Palace at Canterbury.

The Prior of Merton, Llewellen.
Llew.
Three bishops had arrived the day before me
At Bayeux while the king and queen held feast:
They instanced with such art the primate's rage,
Compassionated so well the kingdom's wrongs,
Some drew their swords; the king looked round and cried,
‘Your counsel, lords?’ They answered, ‘We are priests:
Your captains and your peers shall best advise you.’
Leicester spake first;—'twas parable, not counsel.
Malvoisin next—a babbler. Bohun thus:
‘I know not what can deal with knaves revolted
But wicker-rope or sword.’ Then with dropped eyes,
Gilbert of London, rising, both his hands
Clasped on his breast, spake softly thus: ‘My lords,
Behoves us in this crisis to be meek
Lest we too much inflame the primate's zeal,
Who, like a king, an army at his back,
In vengeance sweeps from shore to shore of England
To abase a king ill-crowned.’

Prior.
What answered Henry?

Llew.
There fell on him that frenzy of his race
Which threats the world with doom. I know not all—
The men that saw it saw as in a trance
And what they saw divulge not save in part.
The fire-cloud of that wrath burned out at last:
The Ill Spirits left him. On the rush-strewn floor
There sat he glaring maniac-like, the straws
Now kneading and now gnawing. That too passed:
The king was standing in their midst: his eye
Slowly he turned from each to each; then spake
With pointed finger, and with serpent hiss:
‘Slaves, slaves, not barons hath my kingdom bred,
Slaves that in silence stand, and eye their king
Mocked by a low-born knave!’

Prior.
None answered? Ha!

Llew.
No man. From that mute hall four knights forth strode—
Fitz-Urse, De Tracy, Moreville, Richard Brito.
At twelve last night they entered Saltwood gates:
De Broc attended them.

Prior.
The end draws nigh.

Scene VIII.—A room in the Archiepiscopal Palace at Canterbury.

John of Salisbury, Herbert of Bosham.
Her.
At Pontigny—the day before he left it—
Within the chapel of the protomartyr,
His mass, the earliest in that church, just said,
He knelt in prayer. The words were:—‘Thomas, Thomas!’
‘Who art Thou, Lord?’ he answered. Then the voice,
‘Thomas, I am thy Brother, and thy Lord:
My Church shall in thy blood be glorified,
And thou in Me.’

John of Sal.
That voice was but his thought!

Her.
The abbot then of Pontigny, just chosen
Lyon's archbishop, came to say farewell:
He stood behind a pillar and heard all.
From him I learned it. Thomas kept it secret.
Thank God! What comes to him shall come to us:—
There's naught to fear.

John of Sal.
Herbert, I love my friend;
But 'twas his triumph, not his death, I looked for:
For him I scarce should fear to die; and yet
I love not death. Ere comes that hour, there's much
To learn, to read, to do, and to repent.
—The solid earth shivers as ship in storm:
The ground is earthquake-shaken: shadows vast
Far flung, and whence we know not, o'er it sweep:
Fiercely the lightnings glare—

Her.
Meantime God's Church
Nor hastes, nor halts, nor frets, nor is amazed.

John of Sal.
What doth she then?

Her.
A smile upon her lips,
She stands with eyes close fixed upon her Lord,
Nay, on His sacred vestment's lowest hem,
To see where next He moves.

John of Sal.
Herbert, I wronged you:
A mystic, feeding on faith's inmost lore—
A dreamer, scanning mysteries in flowers—
I guessed not of your strength.

Scene IX.—Archiepiscopal Palace at Canterbury.

Edward Grim, Llewellen, monks.
1st Monk.
Saint Stephen's festival! Another Christmas!
Easter's our sunrise; Pentecost is noon:
But Christmas is the aurora, pure and white;
God's feast it is of innocence and snow,
The Maid and Babe, angels and simple shepherds;
'Tis Mary's week in winter, sweet as May:—

Llew.
What stranger's yon?

2nd Monk.
They call him Edward Grim;
Poor scholar late at Cambridge: long he yearned
To see the primate.

Llew.
Ill he timed his visit:
None wants him here.

Grim
(in a low voice to a monk).
Proceed, my friend, I pray you.

3rd Monk
(to Grim).
On Christmas night he sang the midnight mass—
Our Benedictine rite. At noon he preached,
‘Peace upon earth,’ his text. ‘We have not here
Abiding city, but we look for one;’
Thus he began: ‘Is this at war with peace?
Nay, this alone is peace: bereft of all things,
Then most our God is ours; and God is peace.’
Next spake he of the saints of Canterbury:
‘Ye have a Martyr likewise, Saint Elphege,
And God may give you, friends, ere long another.’
On all sides sobs burst forth, and wail was heard,
‘Father, desert us not;’—one little moment
With them he wept; and then in strength resumed:
Like some great anthem was that sermon's close,
The whole church glowing with seraphic joy.

4th Monk.
The man is changed.

3rd Monk.
Seldom he speaks; his smile
Is like that smile upon a dead man's face,
A mystery of sweetness.

Llew.
Lo, he comes!

Bec.
(entering with Herbert).
Herbert, my friend beloved, depart this night;
Consign these letters to the good French king:
And you, my chaplain, Richard, speed to Norwich;
In my name bid its bishop to absolve
All who in ignorance erred.

Her.
No power shall move me!
My lord, once only pardon disobedience!
We two have shared great dangers: let us share,
If so God wills, the last!

Bec.
I have had from you,
Herbert, great love! I claim this hour a greater:
Shake not my heart with any earthly passion:
More late we say farewell. Bertram, next morn
Seek out that aged priest we met at Wortham,
That kind old man who serves another's charge:
This deed confers upon him Penshurst's church;
Let it be his ere noon. My brave Llewellen,
To Rome, and bear these letters to the Pope!
That bitter word you spake at Clarendon
To him one moment Satan's blinded thrall,
Saved him when all but lost. Except for you
I had up-towered this day in Europe's face
Robed in the total greatness of my country—
Within, a soul undone! At dawn we keep
The feast of him who, sole of the apostles,
Died not for Christ. Perchance he loved Him most!
Perchance, so great a thing is love, that death,
The martyr's death, could add not to its greatness.
The Church boasts next her Holy Innocents,
Martyrs through grace, though not their own intention:
What saint makes beautiful the third day hence?

A Monk.
It lacks as yet its crown.

Bec.
We give it then
To Saint Elphege, martyr of Canterbury
Then when the Dane devastated the land:
His anthem I must hear once more. Farewell!
[He moves away, but stops for a moment before a window.
How fair, how still, that snowy world! The earth
Lies like a white rose under eyes of God—
May it send up a sweetness!

Scene X.—Canterbury Cathedral—the north transept.

John of Salisbury and a monk.
Monk.
Within his chamber we had sung our nocturns:
The office finished, for an hour or more
He stood beside the casement open flung
Despite the flying flakes. I heard him murmur,
‘They deck one day with gems the martyr's shrine—
Tears, tears fall seldom on a churchman's grave:
Is that a loss? Ah me!’ Again I heard him:
‘Herbert, my tenderest friend, and John, my wisest,
Both, both for me have lost their earthly all:
These must live on, bereft.’ More late he asked
If Sandwich might be reached ere break of day:
We answered, ‘Yea—two hours ere dawn.’ Once more
He stood forth-gazing through the winter night;
Then spake aloud, ‘Whate'er God hath in store,
Thomas will wait it patient in his church:
He leaves that church no more.’

John of Sal.
The last chance lost!

Monk.
At yonder altar of Saint Benedict
He said his mass; then in the chapter-house
Conversed with two old monks of things divine:
Next for his confessor he sent, and made
Confession with his humble wont, but briefly;
Last, sat with us an hour, and held discourse
Full gladsomely. I never marked till then
How joyous was his eye. An old monk cried,
‘Thank God, my lord, you make good cheer!’ He answered,
‘Who goeth to his Master should be glad.’

John of Sal.
His Master! Ay, his Master! Still as such
He thought of God; he loved Him;—in himself
Saw nothing great or wise—simply a servant.
Ere yet his earliest troubles had begun
I heard him say, ‘A bishop should protect
That holy thing, God's Church, to him committed,
Not only from the world but from himself,
Loving, not hers, but her, with reverent love,
A servant's love that, gazing, fears to touch her:
As Mary in the guardian Patriarch's house
Such should she be in his.’

Monk.
We little knew him!
We chose him; but with scanty love or trust.

John of Sal.
He hated rapine; warred on sacrilege—
Trod down abuses; then an outcast lived,
Outcast and exile. Had he reigned ten years
His name had been for aye ‘the Great Reformer.’
—Peace, peace! O God, we make our tale of him
As men that praise the dead!

Monk.
We who have stalls are summoned. Lo, they come.

[The monks of St. Augustine's enter the Cathedral; they advance to the chapel of the Chapter, joined by John of Salisbury and all the other Benedictines, and immediately begin vespers. During the singing of the psalms, a cry bursts out in the streets, accompanied by a rush of soldiers against the southern gates. The monks continue the sacred rite. A few minutes later a procession enters from the cloister, Becket walking last, preceded by his cross-bearer. Having reached a spot in the north transept, midway between the altar of the Blessed Virgin and that of St. Benedict, he stands still.
Bec.
Those who are monks must take their place at vespers:
Make haste, and join the Chapter. Ye are late.

[His attendants obey him; none remaining with Becket except the Prior of Merton, Fitz-Stephen, and Edward Grim. A few monks stand close within the western gates of the Cathedral. A rush of feet is heard outside, and cries of ‘Open the gates—save us!’
Monk.
Keep barred the gates—the soldiers once among us—

Fitz-Ste.
(coming up).
The primate bids you fling the portals wide:
He says a church must not be made a castle:
‘Let all my people in.’

[Fitz-Stephen returns. The gates are opened; a terrified crowd rushes in; solidiers pursue them; but on entering the Cathedral are overawed and kneel. Vespers proceed.
Bec.
A martyr's anthem!

Fitz-Ste.
Yea; our great Elphege.

Bec.
Thank God! I wished to hear his praise once more.

Prior.
The church grows dark as night.

Fitz-Ste.
A deed more dark—

[The soldiers rise from their knees and stand round the gates.
Prior.
My lord archbishop, seek the sanctuary!

Bec.
My place is here;—farewell, my friends!

Prior.
In the cloister
I hear an armed tread: a postern's there;
Not many know it. Who be those four knights,
In sable mailed and fiercely onward striding
With vizors down?

[Fitz-Urse, De Tracy, Brito, and De Moreville enter.
Fitz-Ste.
I know their guide—him only:
De Broc it is—De Broc!

Bec.
Seek out, my friends,
That chapel where they sing—ye cannot see it—
Their rite completed, bid them chaunt Te Deum.

[The Prior and Fitz-Stephen depart; the poor scholar, Edward Grim, alone remains with Becket. The four knights arrive, but at first do not see the primate, who is screened by a pillar.
Fitz-Urse.
Where is the traitor?

Bec.
(advancing, and standing opposite the altar of St. Benedict).
Here I stand; no traitor,
But priest of God, and primate of this land.

Fitz-Urse
(after looking at him long).
God help thee, priest! At once absolve those bishops!

Bec.
The Church of God suspends them for their sin;
The king approved that sentence; thrice approved:
Two hundred heard him: you were of their number.

Fitz-Urse.
Never.

Bec.
I saw you, and God saw you there.

Fitz-Urse.
Remove those censures.

Bec.
You have had your answer.
Reginald, Reginald! Alas! light man,
That giv'st thine all for naught! If yet thou canst,
Repent and live!

Fitz-Urse.
He threatens—lo, he threatens!
Our lives he threatens, and reviles the king!
He'll place the realm beneath an interdict;—
Traitor! thine hour is come!

[He draws his sword, the rest close around Becket.
Bec.
Ye that would slay the shepherd, spare the sheep!
If not, I bind you with the Church's sentence:
That which ye do, do here.

Fitz-Urse.
In death itself
This man must dominate! Strike him down and slay him!

Bec.
(crossing his hands over his breast, and bending forward).
My spirit I commend to God Most High,
The prayers of Mary mother of my Lord,
And those two martyrs of the Church of God,
Saints Denys and Elphege.

[William de Tracy draws his sword, and aims a blow at Becket. Edward Grim intercepts it with his arm, which is nearly severed. The sword descends, notwithstanding, on the head of Becket.
Bec.
I yield Thee thanks, my Maker and my God!
Receive my soul.

[He falls forward on his knees. The second blow is struck by Fitz-Urse, and the third by Brito.
Bec.
For the great name of Jesus, and that Church
Cleansed by His saving blood, with joy I die.

[He falls forward on his face and dies.
De More.
O black and dreadful day! Earth reels beneath us!

Fitz-Urse.
The traitor's dead! He'll rise no more: rush forth!
And ever make your cry, ‘King's men are we!’

[They rush forth waving their swords and shouting ‘King's men!’