University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

—Castle Malwood. The Banqueting-hall.
Enter Servants with dishes.
1st Servant.
The feast is ready. Flagons glow with wine
Hotter than summer's veins.

2nd Servant.
The steam of joints
Is dense across the breath of basking noon.
The feasters come.

3rd Servant.
Hast noted how the king
Falls into silence after each brave speech,
And is so noisy certain that he'll hunt
Before the day is out?

1st Servant.
Yet puts it off,
And plunges into business recklessly.

2nd Servant.
The chamberlains at cock-crow heard him call
The Holy Name.

1st Servant.
I'll swear he never did;
He scoffs at all religion.

2nd Servant.
Ay, my son,
A mocker is a mendicant at pinch.

[Enter the King, the Ætheling Henry, Walter Tirel, Robert Fitz-hamon, William of Breteuil, and others.]
Rufus.
A goodly meal,
A fat repast. Be seated, gentlemen.
My hearty Tirel, lean you to my right,
I'll have you served with primest venison;
For, gentlemen—be patient with my freak,
It is not worth your jealousy, good lads—
I'm smitten with this Tirel, and my love
Must have him near, at meat and in the chase.
For ere the sun is slanting through the glades,
And taming with its soft decline the brutes
That range these woods, we'll hunt—

Tirel.
We will, we will!
I'll bring to earth rich quarry.

Rufus.
So thou shalt.—
I wish I did not love thee.— [To Attendants.]
Serve him well.
Drink, pot-companions, to my sovereignty.
I'll hold my court at Poitiers next Yule.
The Hall I've built at Westminster is nought,—
A pigmy temple for my empire's shrine.
Drink, compeers, to our revels in the south,
Where Christmas shall be hot as is to-day.
A rouse! Lift up thy cup, thou fool of France.

Ætheling Henry.
Is Walter tame with this blank airless noon,
Or will he flash retort?

Tirel.
Talk, talk, all talk!
The way is clear. Breton and Angevin
Bow to his sway, and yet he nothing does
But wag his forward tongue.

Rufus.
Ho! saucy mate!
We'll be across the Alps and back again
Before our belfries ring the old year out.

Tirel.
If ever they submit to English rule,
An evil death may every Frenchman die!

Ætheling Henry.
A patriot! He's flame and vinegar.
Drink to our merry sport. These beechen glades
And golden mossy plots, where shadows lie
Asleep like satyrs, will be exquisite
In mellow warmth of sun-down ere we start.

Fitz-hamon
[to the King].
You still incline to hunting?

Rufus.
Hunt I will.
My brain is dull and clotted with affairs;
The evening will be cool.

Tirel.
Oh, very cold.

Rufus.
Why say you so?

Tirel.
Sooth, as a flatterer
I magnify your language, for you prate
Like a big tyrant. You say cool—I, cold.

Rufus.
My bosom-friend!

[Enter Wilfrith.]
Breteuil.
Who's here? A staring monk,
With sooty rings about his fevered eyes?

Wilfrith.
Where is the king?

Breteuil.
He crowns the feast up there.

Rufus.
More venison, you niggards! Wine, I say!
I will not hunt till I am full of meat,
And jocund with the madding blood of grapes.
Pour! serve!—I pledge you, Walter.

Tirel.
In red wine
I challenge you.

Breteuil.
This monk has had a dream.

Rufus
[aside].
Cursed be these visions and these haunting sights
That fool my health to qualms. Let's hear this trance.
We have no jester at the feast to-day.
We will make merry with this cowled buffoon.

Wilfrith
[to the King].
Hither, my lord, I've travelled through the sun
To reach your living feet and hold them back
From the dark threshold of your coming doom.
I saw the throne of Judgment, and the night
Flared to annihilation, while the beams
Of moonlight gathered round a kneeling form,
A woman, lily-vestured, sad and white,
The Church that grieved most sorely to her Lord.
I looked and saw a coal-black figure rise,
With grizzly raiment, scintillating darts—
A man, the swarthy witness to his forge.
One shaft the mystic Hand omnipotent
Took, turned, and pointed earthwards.—Oh, my lord,
The bow is bent.

Rufus.
Ho, ho! He is a monk.
Monk-like, he dreams for money. Give him coins—
A hundred shillings.

Wilfrith.
O my lord, my lord ...
I will not take a penny for my pains.
Only believe my words.
Oh, look not on me with hot merry face
That Death may strike to stone and kill with cold
At any wretched moment. [Enter a Smith.]
Heaven! Christ!
'Tis he—the sable minister. Good Lord,
Have mercy!—for the darts are in his hand,
And death becomes reality. Dark man,
Did you not walk along God's hall last night?

Smith.
The monk is crazed. I am an honest soul
Who wrought last night these arrows for the king.
He makes me fear that I am marked to die.

Wilfrith.
Not you.

Rufus
[to Smith].
Approach. How many dost thou bring?

Smith.
Six, my good lord.

Rufus.
They are not for the bow,
You mean them for the deadly arbalest.
They're finely wrought, most cunning Master Smith.
Four I will keep; and two I'll give to thee,
My Walter, for 'tis meet that sharpest steel
Be gift to him who dealeth deadly strokes.
[To Smith.]
My thanks, and praise.

Wilfrith.
There is a further doom.
The murky hands are empty. All is vain.
Woe, woe!

[Enter a Messenger.]
Ætheling Henry.
Your news?

Messenger.
A letter, gracious king,
From Abbot Serlo.

Rufus.
Harry, read the scrawl.
What says it?

Ætheling Henry.
That another monk hath dreamed
Such things as this.

[Pointing to Wilfrith.
Rufus.
Is every brain a cave
Of silly visions? So the Church complains
Among the clouds as well as on the earth.
Walt, do thou justice, even with the things
Which thou hast heard.

Tirel.
I will. Ha, ha! I will.

Rufus.
I wonder at Lord Serlo's fantasy,—
A good old abbot, but a simple soul,—
When I am torn with business and great cares,
To send this nonsense of his snoring monks.
What! Am I like the English, who are scared
From deed and office of necessity
By any whining crone who nods her head?

Ætheling Henry.
The sun declines, and still you linger on.

Tirel.
You are afraid.

Ætheling Henry.
Fie! fie! I think you are,
You have such craven hold upon your chair.
By Jupiter, I swear you will not hunt;
But break your promise to the forest-ways
To make them rich with sport.

Tirel
[aside].
He drinks again,
As if he'd weary Time from tempting him
With what he fears to act. [Aloud.]
A coward! Ay,
Thy liver blanches, though thy cheek's afume.
Fie, thou art fearful of the bunchèd trees,
And the deer startle thee.

Rufus.
I'll hunt, I say.
But I am sick and sad a hundred-fold,
More than ye wot. The end is come—I mean
The feast is over! Rise. I do not think
I stuck more closely to my mother's teat
Than to this table. Nay, I will not go.

Tirel.
He's mocking!

Rufus.
It's a heavy air. ... The dogs
Are baying with a pleasant vulgar sound
That shames my inner strangeness. Seat, farewell!
I feel as I should fall!—All's right. We'll go.

[Exeunt.