University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

A Room in the Palace.
Henry, Prince Henry, Clare, De Lucy, De Eynsford, Glanville, De Bohun, Fitz-Urse, Radel, and other Courtiers.
Henry.
We are now at the goal of all our wishes,
Now have we all our quarries within clutch,
Both Church and State are now beneath our rule,
The Crosier being fast bound unto the Sceptre;
Now are we doubly king—ha, cousin Clare?

Clare.
Most true, my liege! for now your other self
The Archbishop reigns associate in the realm,
Heaven save your Majesties!

Henry.
Nay, one too much!
But you shall shout that blessing with more joy,
Albeit less jocular, when some seasons hence
My little Harry here and I sit crown'd
Together. Will it not be brave, young Sir?

Prince Henry.
Yes, and 'twill be my right; my mother told me.
Oh, I 'll be such a king! I 'll have a gown
Of velvet stiff with gold, and a tall plume
Shall flap you in the eyes when you look o'er me.

Henry.
Bold boy!—He makes a cock-horse of my truncheon
When he can snatch it; and will make me, too,
Bear him about the chamber on my back
When Dick and he play kings; then both will mount
And lead their jaded father such a time!
You 'd laugh to see the round-faced little villains,
How earnest they 're about it!—You are a father
Too, Cousin!

Clare.
Yes, but not an o'er-indulgent.—
Mark how his kingling-ship strides through the hall!

Henry.
He 's proud of his great yesterday; when Gwyneth
Prince of North Wales, and Rheese of South, did homage
At Woodstock, to us both as suzerains.
The memory glads even me; 'twas a white day,
And promises long peace: that Scotland's king,
Malcolm the Maiden, likewise, should bow down
Before my throne, and give his brother David
As hostage for his faith—yes, all this fill'd
My cup of joy to overflowing. France
Hates us, but dreads; and hoists her ensign pale
Begging for truce, where late her oriflamme
Hung dripping o'er War's bed its bloody sheet.
Now shall my subjects, like myself, throw by
Contention's pillow, set with iron thorns,
And rest from home as well as foreign brawls.—
My Lord Justiciary!—
[To him.
We must reform
The Courts; look you to that, Richard de Lucy!
Justice, not blind, nor with both eyes a-squint
As they are deem'd, but even and lustrous-bright,
Shall fix their cold orbs on all things beneath her,
With thorough-piercing rays, like winter stars,
And not less pure from earthly influence.
Plantagenet will be Pater Patriæ.—
My Lord High Constable!—
[To him.
Let Commissioners
Take census of all knights' lands which were known
Under my grandsire Harry Beauclerc; state
The services of each due to the crown,—
Their name, their neighbourhood, their punctual nature;
That so we may, at once and without fail,
As Paul's bell sets the curfeus all a-tolling,
Summon the realm's strength to defend its rights.

De Bohun.
'Twill be a work like Domesday-Book, or better!

Henry.
But most we must restrain those sacred robbers—
Those cowl'd and hooded highwaymen, the priests,
Who fright my lieges, with the deadliest threats,
Out of their coin, for venial faults; those Jews
In Christian gaberdines, whose belts of rope
Should be about their necks, and not their middles;
Who drain the poor man's purse, for penances
And absolutions, till it hang as meagre
As a dried eel-skin, and himself scarce fatter.
They, by this means, more taxes raise, 'fore heaven,
Than come to our Exchequer!—What say you,
Glanville, our jurist deep?

Glanville.
Their bold rapacity
Stops not at threats; nor their licentiousness
At love of money. My report saith here,
[Taking out a scroll.
An hundred murders, besides rapts and thefts,
Have been, by priests alone, committed, since
Primo Henrici Secundi to this present—
I would say since your Majesty's accession—
That 's scarce a dozen years. This Clerk, to wit,
Of Worcester, now before the Court, at first
Seduced the daughter, and then slew the sire—

Henry.
Yet these hot sons o' the Church will have him stand
Before their loose tribunal! to amerce him
Perchance in one cup less of wine per day
Out of his flagon—that themselves may sin
And suffer at like rate!—It shall not be!

De Eynsford.
Fain would the Mitre jostle with the Crown.

Henry.
Then let the weaker vessel of the two
Be crack'd, be crush'd to dust, though it be mine!
No! that bold rivalry must have an end;
Now is the time, now while my own Archbishop
Is aidant and abettant—

De Eynsford.
Here he comes.

Henry.
Good! Make him broad way for his suite and train,
Until he stand before us.
Enter Becket in monk's apparel, a small crucifix in his hands; attended by Gryme.
Welcome, our Chancellor!
Our Primate, and chief Dignitary of the Crown!—
(Seeing him).
Hey, Thomas?—No?—My lord!—Your Grace!—how 's this?
Are we to masquerade it o'er again,
By day as well as night?—What means this drugget?
A shirt too of black horse-hair that peeps out
Coyly beneath his tunic! and clog-slippers
To sheathe his hoseless feet!—Where shall I find
Thomas à Becket under all these weeds?

Becket.
He will be seen anon.

Henry.
Thou 'rt in eclipse
Show forth thy honest face again!—Thou who
Wert wont to look so boon, and meet thy king
With aspect shining in the oil of gladness,
And such a flush of fervour on thy cheek
That every feature melted in the smile,—
Wherefore this face of adamant to me now?

Becket.
I am not what I was!

Henry.
What! not my Chancellor?

Becket.
No more, my liege:
I come to render up that worldly office
So ill-beseeming one now minister
But to the King of Kings—Pray you, receive it.

[Surrendering his staff of office.
Henry.
Ay? cast your staff official from you thus,
Without consulting me?

Becket.
Sir, even so:
I did consult two things which cannot err,—
My conscience and this blessed crucifix.

[Kisses it.
Henry.
Ha!—Has a serpent crept from out the dust
Up my throne-steps to sting me i' the back,
And slide away under the altar then?

Becket.
You do mistake me much: I have put off
My former self as worse than childishness,
The pomp and pride of state, the carnal mass
Of sin that swell'd most hideous on my shoulders
Bending me to the earth: I would become
By prayer, self-discipline, and mortification,
In very deed the consecrated thing
I am in name. But this is all! My love,
Allegiance, loyalty, are what they were,
And should be, still.

Henry.
“You do mistake me much”—
“A consecrated thing”—and “that is all”—
Then prithee, Heart's-Ease! since you show two faces
Under one hood—changed, and not changed—let 's have
Some proof you are the man we spoke with yesterday:
The trial of that Clerk comes on at noon
Before our Bench—is it not so?

Becket.
My liege,
I have considered—much—upon the matter—

Henry.
Ay, with your conscience and your crucifix,
Which you took but small counsel of before!—
Hypocrite!

Becket.
Nay, most faithful, frank, and fair!
See you how innocent am I of this:
Here is a rescript of Archbishop Theobald
(And I must yield unto so good a man!)
Inhibiting the trial of all priests
Before profane tribunals.

Henry.
That I gave you
Admitted, not inhibited, false monk!

Becket.
But this another is, and later one.—
Good Richard, show his Majesty the parchment
[To Gryme, who shows it.
Sign'd by my predecessor, and given up
Even with the ghost.

Henry.
Fitz-Urse, I say! Fitz-Urse?

Fitz-Urse.
Dread sire, I fear 'tis so: that villain Gryme,
Your Grace's confidant, betray'd his trust,
And in the old man's moments of last weakness
(I being shut out as one of the profane)
He got this ready deed Death's signature,
Incapable of correction or erasement,
And gave 't to Becket.

Becket.
Becket, thou insolent!
Know who I am—beneath the King alone,
And him but in a temporal sense—above
Even him, as representative of St. Peter,
And God's vice-gerent on this English earth.

Clare
(to Glanville).
I thought humility sat heavy on him,
So off he throws it—like a sin!

Glanville.
He 's evidence
Against himself. Mark how the King's eye glitters!

Henry.
Have I then thrust my most delicious sops
Into the mouth of an ungrateful dog
That turns and strives to tear the hand which fed him?—
Well then, our Saxon proxy of St. Peter,
To give thee further time for prayer, full swing
For self-disciplinance (which I confess
Thou hast great need of!) here thou art relieved
Of that most duteous office, and much worldly,
The Arch-deaconship—thou 'lt find perchance in this
Some taste of mortification to begin with!

Becket.
My liege, the archdeaconry is a church holding—

Henry.
By Mahound, you say well! and therefore shall
A churchman have it:—Geoffrey Radel, ha?

Radel.
Sire.

Henry.
Be the new archdeacon of Canterbury.—
Farewell, Saint Thomas!—Ply your beads and scourge
Fast as you please: we will not stay to lett you!

[Exeunt King and Courtiers.
Becket.
My heartiest hate, and hater, made archdeacon
Of my own See!—that is a thorn which gores,
Not merely pricks the side!—Archdeacon? rather
Arch-devil!—He will raise a hurricane
To rock my belfries—yea, will ride it too!
But let him fear a shower of blood may lay it,
From his own sides!—This fate of grandeur, I
Look'd for; the sky-ascending bird becomes
The plainer mark. Why, hypocrite?—hypocrite!
Were not my services unto the King
Sincerest, whilst I was his servant? Now
That I am servant of the Church alone,
Should they not be sincere to it? His fault,
If foe to it, he thus will make him mine!
No man can serve two masters,—save they be
At one!—Am I to blame that loftier steps
Give larger views, and clear from mists, through which
Haply I err'd where they are thick below?—
Howe'er he choose to reason it, let him!—Here
He hath mark'd out the mortal lists, and trumpeted
Himself to the high combat; he hath thrown
His glove even in my cheek! Becket may chance
Return it with a gaunlet, that shall fall
Upon him like an iron meteor!—
I can divine him thoroughly, and his purposes!
This king delves hard beneath St. Peter's rock;
But ere it sink an inch, the mighty coign
Shall bruise him, past more sapping, with its shoulder!
We are upon the eve of chances strange;
Heaven will defend its own!