University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Street in London.
De Morville, De Traci, and Brito, meeting.
De Traci.
Good morrow, Hugh de Morville!—Richard Brito,
Grandson, how great I know not, of the Brut
That kill'd his father, and gave life to Britons,
(Brutings they should be call'd!),—bon jour, Sir Richard!

Brito.
I love but little to be jeer'd, Sir Gwillim,
By you, or any spring-heel'd Norman knight,
About mine ancestors. That Trojan Brutus
Was a king's son, and Conqueror of this Isle,
No Bastard Conqueror neither!—I have heard
Our learned Chancellor tell of it.

De Traci.
What, Becket?
Learned he is in sooth; and gallant too,
And wise, as few of his compatriots are.

Brito.
Gallant as ye! gallant and wise as ye,
Half-brethren of the seagulls! whom foul blasts,
Loosed from her wallet by some Lapland witch,
Blew o'er the Northern foam to France, and thence
The next ill wind puff'd hither!

De Morville.
Down with these swords!
Will ye ne'er stop this brawling? Fie! be friends:
He's young, Sir Richard; he 's hot-brain'd, De Traci.—
Yes, as you said, Becket 's a cunning clerk,
Or he would scarce be an Archdeacon; wise
As Guiscard's self, or what had made him Chancellor?
For boldness, he exceeds all priests; and dares
Take even the very Devil by the horns
Did he fall out with him.

De Traci
Well, if he be
Falcon in fight, he 's vulture after it!

De Morville.
He 'll have his pickings! Know you not our adage—

De Traci.
Yet he 's against the Bishops, in this strife
About their jurisdiction; so 'twould seem
At least: and echoes our sharp-witted king,
Who cries them up as ‘Shepherds skill'd to fleece,
Drive, and make market of, those sheep the people.’—
Allons, Fitz-Urse! what think you of this man?

Enter Fitz-Urse.
Fitz-Urse.
Whom?

De Traci.
Why, the man of men—him with more names
Than blaze in Doomsday-Book—the Provost of Beverley!

De Morville.
Dean of Hastings!

Brito.
Constable of the Tower!

De Morville.
Secretary of State! Chancellor of the Realm!
Archdeacon of Canterbury! Castellan of Cahors!
Lord of the baronies of Eye and Berkham!
With some few other—scores of trusts and titles,
Enough to break Ambition's back withal.
He 's a mere sumpter-mule for robes and riches,
Save that he trots with them to his own stall,
Where sables are his litter, cloth of ermine
His housing, and his fodder golden corn.
But more:
As if the custody of the Royal Seal,
With all the perquisites thereto belonging,
The administration of all Sees and Abbeys
Whilst vacant—which they are whene'er his purse is!—
The Wardship of all Minors, whose revenues
Leave a rich crust in running through his hands;
As if these gifts sufficed not to fulfil
His huge capacity for power and office,
He is made tutor to the Prince himself,
Young Henry, whom the crown o'er-hangs—this Becket!
This son of a Saxon truckster, Gilbert Becket,
And a bought Moor-woman!—this Jack o'the Beanstalk,
That climbs up to the clouds, lark-swift, and there
Mocks the mazed world beneath him!

Fitz-Urse.
Very true.

De Morville.
This glib Bologna lawyer—

Fitz-Urse.
True, but yet—

De Morville.
But what, Fitz-Urse?

Fitz-Urse.
Thirty-five score pick'd lances
He brought us, when much needed at Toulouse:
Twelve hundred in the Norman wars. King Harry
Owes him some precious jewels of his crown.

De Traci.
Pardic, but he has claim'd them! If he saved them,
'Twas for himself, to perk in his own cap.

Fitz-Urse.
He's a stout soldier—that's well: sits his horse
Firm as St. Michael sits his Mount; no storm
Moves him a hair: Can drive his lance right through
A mailed breast, and out between the shoulders;
That's pretty well too!

Brito.
I have seen him strain
One of our bows, our mightiest English bows,
Till the tough yew bent withy-like; and when it
Whirr'd straight again, his shaft was in an oak
Barb-deep, twelve-score yards off:—that 's not ill neither!

De Traci.
He gives brave galas, keeps a Cour d' Amour
And Castle-Joyous, throng'd with dames and knights,
One blaze of brilliant arms and brighter beauty,
Where minstrels warble thick as birds on boughs,
And softest instruments thrill through the halls,
And murmurs sweet make up the swarming sound,
And merry bells ring aye a gaudeamus!
This holy Chancellor hawks, hunts, jousts, drinks,
Games, and etceteras—'slife, a noble fellow!

De Morville
(aside).
Our youth's brain is all feathers, so his thoughts
Are of the flightiest—

Fitz-Urse.
As for me, gentlemen,
While Becket aids the king, with sword or pen,
With head in helm or cowl, I am content
To like him.

De Traci.
Bah! so am I.

Brito.
And I.

De Morville.
Then I.

Enter a Beggerman.
Beggarman.
Your charity, brave gentlemen!

De Traci.

If a pennon were as tattered as this fellow's
cloak, 'twould be called the more honourable, and perchance
hung up in a chapel.—Here 's money for thee—go!

De Morville.

'Tis so small a piece of brass, that it shines
in the abyss of his hat, like a glow-worm in a dark ditch.
Here 's another munificent speek—go! we are but poor
Knights of the King's Body.

Beggarman.

Bless ye, but I am poverty itself!

De Traci.

Thou? thou art a Knight of the Hospital,
no less, as I see by thy crutch and bandages. Get thee
away, Sir Lazarus! here comes the king.

Brito.
Heaven smiles in his blue eye, and from his brow
The sun himself shines out!

De Morville.
Becket is with him.
They seem right jocund. How they laugh! as boys,
With their ripe-apple cheeks.

Brito.
The Chancellor 's a wit,
And our good Harry loves it, seasoning wisdom,
As an abbot loves a pot of ale with spice in't.—
Get thee along, fellow!

Beggarman
(going behind the knights).

I'll steal, if
nothing else, a look at him. What 's a king like? Good
lack, I suppose St. George-and-the-Dragon. He has two
bodies, that 's sure!

Enter Henry and Becket, the King with his hands on Becket's shoulders.
Henry.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! By Mahound, an excellent tale!
Come, let us have the other! Press thee a little;
Thou overflow'st with humour, like the gourd
With richest juice.—Come, shall we hear it, ha?

Becket.
May 't please you, sire, now that the evening sun
Reflects him somewhat redly in our looks,
Which he perchance,—so tinged are they with wassail,—
Mistakes for clustering grape, whereon he loves
To hang with warmest kisses—

Henry.
Let him kiss!
And send his burning soul into our cheeks,
Till he change back our blood again to wine,
That fed it! An old Wassailer himself!
That swills the nectarous ether till he reels.
Look you, he wears an after-dinner flush
Crimson as ours! Rogue, he has had his drench,
And purple streams run down his fleecy skirts,
Staining them deep as thine!—Ha? what, Fitz-Urse?
What news from Canterbury?

Fitz-Urse.
My liege, his Grace
The archbishop gasps so hard for life, he scarce
Had breath to make fit answer to your Highness.

Henry.
Poor man! Heaven's gates stand aye ajar for him:
He has a very Saint been ere he died:
A meek, good man!—What mightiness in mildness!
I 've never gain'd from his soft nature half
I had wrung from a stern one.—But he gave some proof
That he agreed the felon-priest should stand
Trial in our Courts, not his?

Fitz-Urse.
Ay, my liege:
Here is the instrument his death-stricken hand
Marked with the cross.

[Giving a parchment.
Henry.
So! well. Keep it, Chancellor,
[Handing it to him.
Till further time.—Have with you to your palace,
And we will hear that story by the way,
You promised us.
[Becket stands abstracted.
Prithee what mood and figure
Is this deep syllogism thou 'rt solving now?
He 's sunk within himself!—Ho, Chancellor!

Becket.
(starts).
I was but conning o'er the tale—my memory—

Henry.
Since you can fold you in your loose fur-sleeves,
And in the sable pall of thought besides,
You want not this warm gown?

Becket.
I would in truth
Put it off—soon—with your good leave—

Henry.
See'st there
[Pointing to the Beggarman.
Yon shiverer, in rags as few as hang
Upon the roadside thorn?—Were it not well
To give that wretch, who shakes i' the summer's sun
Like Winter's image, something of your too-much
For his too-little?

Becket.
I am all content,
And will provide him quickly.

Henry.
Thou wert ever
Most charitable, Thomas!—Come, strip off
This superfluity.

[Laying hold of his robe.
Becket.
Nay, nay, your Highness.

[Struggling to keep it.
Henry.
I swear I'll have it!—You shall walk the town
Naked as dame Godiva, and more stared at,
But I will have it!

[They struggle.
Knights.

Ha! ha! ha!—the King will carry it!—the
Chancellor doubles it close!—'Tis a stiff tussle!—Lion
against Bear!

De Morville.

No; but shepherd against wolf in sheep's
clothing! 'Twill be rent between them!—

Becket.
It is the maddest humour!— [He lets the cloak go.


Henry.
Tut, man! thou need'st but bury thee again
In Meditation's solemn robe: it much
Becomes so grave a lord!—Ha! ha!—I never
Saw thee so lost in foggy thought before.
'Twas a rich mantle, but thou wilt be cover'd
With blessings far more precious.—Give it him!

[It is flung to the Beggar.
Beggarman.
Heaven guard your Majesty, and send my Lord
All that he wishes! And for his good-will
In leaving me this benefit, may he live
A glory to the Church, and at his death
Be worshipt 'mongst the blessed saints and martyrs!
No worse I pray for him—

Becket.
Enough, enough!

[Exit Beggar.
Henry.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Thou 'rt well repaid for thy benevolence!—
Fitz-Urse, I say?—Again to Canterbury:
Stay by the Primate; let no buzzing monks
(Save his confessor, Gryme, whom we can trust,)
Haunt his bedside; nor, while he drops to slumber
On the eternal pillow of repose,
With pestilent whispers sting him in the ear.
He 's not to change the instrument—mark that!—
He has given o'er the priest to the King's Bench,
Lawful tribunal for such crime.—And Reginald!
If the Archbishop hold his promise well,
Give his meek spirit my god-speed, and send me
Immediate tidings when he is in heaven.— [Exit Fitz-Urse.

Have with you, Chancellor.

Becket.
At your Grace's pleasure.

[Exeunt omnes.