University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The Base-court of the Palace.
Enter De Morville and De Traci, meeting John of Salisbury and Walter Mapes.
De Traci.

Hey, Master Bookworms! have ye heard the
news—the wonderful news?

Mapes.

Heard it forsooth?—had I no more ears than a
fish, I must have heard it. Hath it not stricken the whole
city aghast, like an earthquake? All London is in the
streets; yet who told it me I cannot guess, for every one
seemed dumbfounded!

John of S.

I am sorry the Primate has gone so far.

De Traci.

Ay, ay, here's a feat indeed!—put this in your
next Romance, Master Walter! put this in your “Sang-Real”
or what d'ye call it?

De Morville.

Let it be Sang-episcopal, and no Romance,
if you love me!

Mapes.

Nay, by King Arthur and all his Knights! there
will be some dragon's blood spilt at all events. Both are
such fire-breathers!

John of S.

But is the tale as true as it is new? Hath he
indeed cited into Court the great Earl of Clare, cousin and
friend to the king? and launched excommunication against
William de Eynsford, as puissant a knight as ever wore spurs,
and as proud a baron as ever tramped over drawbridge on
steed shod with silver?

De Morville.

No less true than portentous. Becket
was born for a soldier, though he has turned out but a

bishop. Seeing battle inevitable he strikes the first blow,
and if not a crusher 'tis a confounder.

Mapes.

What! he lays church-claim to Tunbridge-Castle?

De Morville.

Ay, “cousin Clare's” castle, as an apanage
of his own diocese; and his pet-incumbent being ejected
by Sir William, head-foremost, from some church—I forget
its name—he ejects Sir William, sans cérémonie, from all
churches whatsoever!

Mapes.

How does the king take this?—does he not rage,
foam, call down the devil's blessing upon Becket?

De Traci.
Oh, sir, no torrent half so still! no cataract
Is quieter!—Ha! ha! ha! ha!—how goes the chanson,
Walter the Jongleur?—thus?
Sings.

Mapes
(to John of S.).
Mark this French popinjay: he sees the air
Grow clouded with thick shafts of death, yet still
Chatters and hops and sings!

John of S.
Ay, light of heart
As heels!

Mapes.
Yea, and as light of head as either!—
Sir Hugh, 'twill be a bustle!—'Twere more strange
The king should not be vex'd, than vex'd beyond
All measure. He has been disappointed much!

De Morville.
His swan has turn'd a rank wild-goose!

Mapes.
Or rather
His duck has turn'd a fire-drake!—Welcome, Peter!
Enter Peter of Blois.
Run not so fast, good brother-scribe!—Hast thou too
Been frighted by this thunder-storm just burst
As broad as England, out of thy calm cell?

Peter.
Marry, my wits are so distract, I run
Two ways at once,—and all ways but the right!
I wish'd to seek the father of the flock,
Th' Archbishop,—and find me i' the lion's den!

De Morville.
Alas, poor sheep!

Peter.
Pray tell me, have the sun
And moon not come together—clash?

De Morville.
Thou 'lt see
The whole land cover'd with their fiery splinters,
Ere long, be sure of it! Dost thou not feel
The air about thee glow with agitation?

Peter.
Methinks my ears do feel a little hot!

Mapes.
I'll make them tingle. What say'st thou for thy patron?
Thou 'dst ever have it he was too immersed
I' the fount of England's Helicon; or entangled
In the fine meshes of philosophy;
Given up to science mathematical,
Arithmetic, astrology, and so forth;
To rhetoric, logic, ethic, and to law,
Besides those gallant studies, wit conceipts,
We lighter gentry deem of weight: why, man!
Those maggots of his brain are very snakes,
Which one hot day has brought forth ready-fang'd
And wing'd, to be the plague of this poor realm!

Peter.
Thy crany seems something worm-eaten too,
And leaks apace; or warm imagination
Hath crack'd thy poet skull, and out fly crotchets!
But Walter, all thy volatile grubs o' the brain
Are harmless—only to thyself!

Mapes.
Heaven grant
The same may still be said of Becket's too,
Harmless,—save to himself!

John of S.
A truce of tongues!—
But what will come—what can—except vast ill,
From this fierce struggle between Church and State?
Which of these wrestling Titans shall be thrown?

Peter.
England 's too little to contain them both,
I fear—I fear!

Mapes.
How does the Primate bear him
During this rout?

De Morville.
I 've come from him but now:
My message was, that he might please recal
His rash anathema against De Eynsford,
As ne'er such sentence has been, since the Conquest,
Fulmined without fore-notice to the king.

Mapes.
Well, how demean'd he him?

De Morville.
Meek as a nun.

Mapes.
Nay, but in very truth?

De Morville.
In downright truth!
He neither stamp'd, nor champ'd, nor raved, nor swore,—
Except by St. Bartholomew's holy thumb,
Which he (who whilome play'd as lief with dice
Of dead saint's bone, as ivory!) now caresses
Linnet-like in his breast, and kisses oft
And soft, as he e'er did sweet sinner's hand!—
No, sir! he sucks his tooth, and sends me back
With this submiss and placable reply—
His humble service, 'twas not for the king
To tell him whom he should absolve, or whom
Pronounce accursèd.

Mapes.
An ungracious speech!

De Traci.
I say unmannerly! most unpolite!—
(Sings.)

His father was a London cit and his mother a Syrian bondslave:
where should he get good-breeding?

De Morville.

The saucy shaveling! Were it left to me,
I'd so mash his lips together with a blow of my steel glove,
they should no more separate again than if Death had
glued them into one—the traitor!

John of S.

Nay, not a traitor; 'tis too hard a word.

Enter Brito.
Brito.

Gentlemen, to the King!

De Morville and De Traci.
We 're with him!

[Exeunt these and Brito.
Peter.

The men of war gone!—what will become of us?

Mapes.

We have nothing to do but sit agape at each
other and croak, like a congregation of toads round a pool
—till we are squash'd into mummy by a shower of missiles.

Peter.
Saint Longinus preserve us!

John of S.
Why seek we not our calm, secluded cells,
And there in study or dim meditation
Consume the soul-improving hours? Let death
Come when it will, and how it will, what matter?
Since it will come at last!—These mad turmoils
Of the outer world, what are they unto us
But noise of Centaurs and of Savages
Fighting ev'n at their feasts?—For idle Courts,
The mountain-shaded moors where nothing stirs
Save the wild daffodil or crispèd fern
Or long lithe broom that flows with every breeze,
Or thistlebeard scarce wafted on, less make
A melancholy desert unto me:
The murmuring branches and the flowers that kiss
Each other's ear in talk, please me far more
Than whisperers of follies, hearers of them,
Or those who lay their fond heads on your neck
But to void scandalous venom there at ease:
For blustering camps, I love the liquid brawl
Of rivulets, the caw of rooks, much better;
Yea, than the lisp of a Circean dame
Or babble of a living doll, had rather
Hear the soft winnowing of a pigeon's wing
As it doth circle round its dovecote o'er me;
And fain this challenge proud of trumps would change
For sound of shepherd pipe or village bell:
Would'st thou not, Peter?

Peter.
Yes,—so I 'll away
To the Archbishop's palace!

[Exit.
Mapes.

Ha! ha! ha! the village-bell?—the dinner-bell,
he thought you spoke of! Among all flowers 'tis the Canterbury
bells he is most in love with: these are the rural
objects which give Peter a taste for the country!

John of S.

He is a Frenchman too!—I 'll to my dormitory,
and finish my “Contemptibilities of Courts.”

[Exit.
Mapes.

And I as his chaplain must attend the king, to
preach patience, and give him absolution for his oaths—
after each repentance.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The King's Closet.
Henry
enters, and sets down his cap.
This bonnet galls me: 'tis too tight—or stiff—
Or ire hath swoln my brow.—Who could be calm?
A hypocrite! an upstart! an arch-traitor!
Rebel! apostate from his civil faith!
But worse—far worse! false-hearted to his friend!—
And such a friend! who made him all he is,
Far more than he should be!—O soft of brain!
My lady-mother, Empress Maud, was right
When she did warn me 'gainst this wily priest;
But women are suspicious where they hate
As credulous where they love; I did not trust her:
That was o'er-wisdom! Men themselves
Affection oft makes womanish,—nay weaker!
Friendship like love is folly, and the fervider
The blinder!—How he hath illuded me!
I might have known his bold and dangerous nature
When at Toulouse, with vehement desire,
He urged me lay imprisoning hands upon
The person of my suzerain, there besieged,
Louis of France; this show'd how light he deem'd
Of fealty and firm devoir to kings.
What! he will have his rochet for a flag
Flaunt over Tunbridge Castle? Ay, and hurl
Heaven's own stored bolts, with hand unscrupulous
As he would fling a quoit, 'gainst whom he will?—
Becket, bethink thee: that same Hill of Fortune
Thou clomb'st so fast by the precipitous side
And takest high airs upon, hath broke more necks
Than Rock Tarpeian or Leucadian!
'Twere safer to have mounted by the slope,
And kept thy senses steady!—Thou would'st fain
Play Dunstan o'er again, but we 'll enact
No Edwy, no girl-king!—Be sure of it.—
Now ere we buckle us to this business,
One thought for my fair Rosamond. Poor bird!
I must weave close thy verdant Woodstock bower,
And make thy prison blissful as secure;
Fitz-Urse hath had command. There is a Labyrinth
Of marbled halls and rooms; of orchard walks,
Fountains and freshening streams and bright parterres,
All hidden in a dell, and umbraged o'er
With the huge crests of brow-commingled trees,
Disposed in such erroneous ordinance
As leads all progress retrograde, and makes
The intruder quaintly turn himself still out.
It was devised by my late Chancellor,—
These Churchmen ever were great architects,
Planners and plotters—maledictions on them!—
But will at least serve now my dearest need.
The she-hawk is less keen to track her prey,
Less fell to swoop upon it, than is Eleanor
On her that flees for shelter to my bosom.
Lord Walter is fall'n sick, they say—death-sick;
He hath no masculine heir; so if he die
His gentle daughter will, by right of kings
And custom of the realm, become my ward,
Her fortune and her fate be in my hand:
Perchance I scarce had else been chosen protector,
Or she at Woodstock now. 'Tis well even so!
'Twill be my refuge too from toils of state
And broils of home: not a mere dull repose,
But sweet intoxication of delight
With one whose gracious beauty is a frame
Only to close in far more precious charms,
Exquisite tastes, refinèd sense, and wit
Which once shone forth with playful lustre, till
Of late, alas! bedimm'd too oft with tears.
I must restore her by all fondest means
Unto her peaceful self and placid cheer,
Or the sweet Rose I've gather'd to my breast
Will die there with the very warmth it feels.—
Much is before me. Now to Clarendon,
And bend my haughty Primate till he kiss
His own feet if not mine.—Ho! there—
Enter Knights of the Body, and Mapes.
Arm, gentlemen!
Make yourselves steel from top to toe, and bear
Your battle-axes bright. Let a stout score
Of men-at-arms attend us.—
[Exeunt Knights.
Walter Mapes,
Go you to Bishop Folliott, our good friend,
Say he will ride with us to Clarendon.
No quips nor quillets now, sir; make no legs,
But use them nimbly rather than your tongue,
As we have told you!—
[Exit Mapes.
Wit hits all things nicely
But the right times; it will be always shooting!—
Now my ex-Chancellor!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An Alcove at the Labyrinth.
De Clifford, in a chair, sick. Rosamond attending him.
De Clifford.
No, no, there is no hope, fond child! for me:
The sun of my life's day is in the west,
And shortly will go down!

Rosamond.
Droop not, my father!
Let not the heavy spirit sink the flesh
To earth before its time!—This journey sure
Hath shaken you over-much?

De Clifford.
Not it! not it!
I follow'd at full easy pace: the change
Took me so far from the grave-side at home;
That's all!—for here's another at my feet.

Rosamond.
Think less on Death, and he 'll think less on thee,
Dear sir!—There's medicine that the mind may minister
To the afflicted clay, its partner frail,—
A hopeful spirit!—'tis the best restorative!
Most life-giving Elixir!—The good Nuns
Who taught me the whole little that I know,
As art's choice secret taught me this. Look up!
Look on thy Rosamond, thy bower-maiden,
Look in her brightening face and learn its smile!

De Clifford.
I do look on thee—as my Minist'ring Angel,
That soothes, but cannot save!—And I do smile
To see thy vain dissembling with thyself
Of the sad truth thou know'st at heart—Now, now
Put up thy wings to hide thine eyes, and weep!

Rosamond.
I'll not believe 't! It can—shall, not be true!—
The king's physician will be here anon,
A learned leech who studied with the Moors,
He is infallible!—Meanwhile this air
Which keeps the woods so green, the birds so gay,
The flowers so blooming-fresh, must revive thee:
Doth it not breathe most dulcet o'er thy brow?
Full of most cordial balm, warmer, and friendlier
Than at the Cliff which overhangs the Ford
Where our bleak Castle stands?

De Clifford.
Ah Girl! thou wert not
Born there, nor reared, as I; else thou hadst loved
Those barren rocks like one of their young eagles!—
Bred up at Godstowe Nunnery hard by,
Thou, like the hunted coney, fain return'st
To thy old covert here, howe'er so fatal!

Rosamond.
I thought it might preserve thee at the least,
If none else.—O dear father! call me not
Cold-hearted to the cradle of my sires!
'Twas but in thy health's cause that I dispraised it.
How oft I've ranged o'er those far-sighted peaks,
Gazing as full-eyed as the mountain-roe
On the great prospect, feeding but on its beauty,
Rude pasture though it be! How long stood mute,
Or like a willow whispering to myself,
Down by the stream who swallows his own roar
In his deep gorge, dread moat! which Nature delved
With course irregular round our fortress-hill.

De Clifford.
My cloud-hung aerie!—blank for every storm,
And baffler of it!—Ocean bursts to spray
On the firm rock, and so to hurtless showers,
Heaven's deluge upon thee!—You draw the picture
Featly, my girl!

Rosamond.
'Tis graven trait for trait
Upon my heart.—I'm a De Clifford too,
Though last, least, lowest! Even to girlish me
Stern Nature hath her terrible charms sublime.

De Clifford.
Better than these slight bowers!

Rosamond.
O far other!

De Clifford.
It warms my veins like spiced wine to see thee
Swell thy young throat as a sweet bird, and praise
Thy dwelling in the wilderness!—Go on:
Thou 'rt full of it.

Rosamond.
I see it now before me,
Rearing its bulk precipitous from the strand.
From crag to steepy crag the eye mounts up,
Although the foot may not, those giant stairs
Listed with verdure, fathoms aloft!

De Clifford.
A bow-shot
Full—at the least!

Rosamond.
Those air-suspended eaglets
Soar, far beneath the summit, and like rooks
'Gainst abbey walls, scream hovering at their nests,
Within its rifted face: Pines on its ledges
Waver like plumes; and yon small patch of briars
Like blustry mosses, sway in the wild wind
You cannot hear sing through them.

De Clifford.
O but they do
Whistle most shrill!

Rosamond.
Heightening the Cliff's tall front
Sits our huge Castle, like a crown of towers;
Their rugged coigns, grey jewels! in the beam
Smooth glittering; whilst o'er those battlements
Darker than thunderclouds, the warder 's lance
Peeps like a rising star!

De Clifford.
Ay, and my pennon
Upon the Keep itself?—

Rosamond.
Blazons the sky
With flickering hues, broad Streamer of the North,
And blends them with the rainbow's!

De Clifford.
As brief-lived
Will now be all its bravery!—Yet it brings
Me back some youth to think of my past days,
And my loved birth-place!—But I'm better here,
I am, my child!—Ay, ay, proud Clifford Castle!
Thou like thy master nodd'st unto thy fall,
And soon like him wilt moulder down to dust!

Rosamond.
Alas! alas! both may live long!—

De Clifford.
Proud fortress!
I have no son, no heir who can uphold
Thy feudal strength and grandeur with his own.
Thou 'rt but the changeful birthright of the winds
From henceforth, or their reckless tenancy!
Foul ravens will thy ruins hoar inherit,
The wildcat litter there, the Moon alone
With vacant gleam light up thy roofless hall,
Or smile, pale Lady! through thy lattices:
Along thy festive floors will reptiles creep
With slimy trails, and make vile sport in corners,
Sole revellers here! whilst the more brutish kind
Graze thy rank courts, or use thy stalls, which echoed
The war-horse neighing 'mid his amber corn,
As mangers bone-bestrewn and dens to rot in!

Rosamond.
Let's home, my father! let us once more home!

Enter Fier-à-bras.
De Clifford.
Noble Sir Warder!—

Fier-à-bras.
Greeting from the King;
Who promises, if business hold him not,
To sup at Woodstock Palace, and to-morrow
Visit De Clifford with his noble Daughter.

De Clifford.
We thank his Majesty. Save you, Sir Mottram!
[Exit Fier-à-bras.
No, thou soft-passion'd creature! thou self-sacrifice,
Still offering up thy life for those thou lovest,
We will not home again, because my follies
Forsooth talk louder than thy gentle wisdom.
The she-wolf shall not ravin my poor lamb
That would, too fondly, follow me to the wilds
From its warm fold,—and I o'er-weak to save it!
Thou camest here for my cause, dreading thyself
The insidious wiles of love more than of hate,
Henry than Eleanor: but listen, dear-one!
Whether I live,—as juggling hope suggests
To thy most cheatable affection,—
Some little time, or die—Nay, cease thy tears,
And listen: thou wilt have defender none
Against thy willing blood-quaffer the Queen,
Except his Majesty. Besides, me dead,
Thou 'lt be his Ward, and he can then enjoy
His will of all thou hast, in thy despite,
Thy lands, thy tenements, thy gold, thy jewels,
The virgin treasure of thy beauty,—all!
Such is the royal licence of these times,
At least if might makes not the right, it takes it,
Fatal no less to thee!—

Rosamond.
Then I 'll return
To Godstowe Convent, and give up at once
All, with the world,—except what I prize more.
They love me there, and will with matron arms
Receive their filial Novice back again.

De Clifford.
Novice in sooth thou art!—Each Convent, girl!
Is but a home-preserve of game for kings,
A coop where liquorish Barons fat betimes
Their fowls of whiter meat; and ruffian losels
Poach—when the glutted lord o' the manor sleeps!
Go not thou back to Godstowe: 'tis in vain!
The grating is no bar, the shrine no sanctum,
The veil itself to dead-cold Chastity
No shroud from violating eyes, no cyprus
Wherein her pure composèd limbs may keep
Their icy form and bloodless tint, untouch'd,
Unstain'd by sacrilegious hands! They would
Rifle a heaven-descended Saint, if tangible,
Who stood for adoration on the altar!

Rosamond.
I know the times are fearful.

De Clifford.
Better far
Than trust their lawlessness, trust to his love
Who has oft sworn thee his next Queen. Dame Eleanor,—
Besides that she might mother thee in years,—
Drinks a slow poison daily—enviousness!

Rosamond.
His Majesty, though generous, most sincere
Of purpose—

De Clifford.
Move not then, I say, his pride
By seeming doubt; nor stir and thwart at once
His hot desires by over-coyness. Be
Trustful, and thou wilt make him more trust-worthy.
Mine own ambition prompted me before
To weave the bond between ye, as a cord
Whereby to climb up silkily myself
Unto dame Fortune's chamber of intrigue:
But now my love for thee—my fears—my hopes—
Ambitious hopes for thee alone, my child!—
Prompt the same counsel. Do not break that bond:
'Twill be a cable to thy safest mooring
In the fierce storm which shall take up my dirge
And fill the land with sighs.

Rosamond.
What mean you, Sir?

De Clifford.
I am already half i' the other world
And catch a glimpse of fate!—It shall be so!
England will soon be rent from sea to sea,
And throne and altar slide to the abyss!—
Now lead me in, for I am faint and chill.

Rosamond.
O for this sluggard leech!—he crawls, though life
Is in his lips!

De Clifford.
And death too!—It will come
Quickly enough without him!

Rosamond.
He will give you
Wormwood, if you're so bitter. Come, you jest—
That 's well! There 's hope when the heart laughs,
Even though the brow be grave.—Lean on me, Sir!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Walk in the Labyrinth.
Enter a Physician blindfold, led by Gabel.
Physician.

Am I to go much farther in the dark?

Gabel.

Only one other round, and a quirk, Sir.

Physician.

Bless me I think I have gone as many as
an ass in a mill!—This muffling is worse than that of a
Moorish damsel, for she at least has the use of her eyes:
mine are no more use to me than if they were glazed with
green lead like a stuffed owl's.

Gabel.

Come on, doctor: don't hurt that post with your
head. What a pity!

Physician.

Pity! pity you didn't speak a little sooner!—
Pity forsooth?

Gabel.

Ay, pity on my life Sir, that such a learned head
as yours should have got such a crack!

Physician.

Take care it happen not again, or thy own
numbskull shall get a crack, and that about the nape of
the neck too!—'Tis hanging-matter to mistreat a man of
my importance, let me assure thee.

Gabel.

Lord, Sir, are you a man of importance? I never
could ha' guessed it!—Come on again—Stoop, Sir, like a
goose under a gate, stoop!

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to an Inner Court. Re-enter Physician and Gabel.
Gabel.

You are to stand here, Sir, awhile, by yourself,
please you Master man of importance!

Physician.

What, still in the dark!

Gabel.

Why yes, doctor; every dunce can stand in the
dark—'tis only shutting your eyes and looking straight
forward before you. It is my way, and a shrewd one,
trust me.

Physician.

I do believe thou art skilful in standing i' the
dark!—Get thee gone, for a perfect dunce! and send me
a leader who is not absolute knave as well.

Gabel.
If he is to be found, with all haste doctor!

[Exit.
Physician.
Pestiferous lout!—There is in simple-hood
Ofttimes a sleek-soft, sleepy cunningness
Which moves more bile than roguery direct.
But I 've that here perchance will bring ye begging
To Charity's bleak door, from this warm berth,
For swine's soup and black bread!—I can avenge
My sovereign-queen and self at the same time;
'Tis good craft to hit two birds with one bolt,
Though but a sparrow and a cock o' the woods.—
Mum! I hear ringing footsteps on the stones,
Heavy as hammers' clang; some horse curvets
Hither upon two legs—

Enter Fier-à-bras.
Fier-à-bras.
Physician, follow me.

Physician.
What! in these winkers,
Clamped on me, like a hoop about a hogshead?

Fier-à-bras.
Take this strong rein into thy hand: now follow!

Physician.
O Avicen! thy son playing bo-peep!—
Hold fast, good sir, or I shall fall on my sinciput.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Court before King's-Manour Palace, Clarendon. A Sentinel on guard. Several persons assembled. John of Oxford and Geoffrey Radel.
John of O.
What breeds the Council better than debate
I marvel? It sits long.

Radel.
Would it were up!
The wind is icy-keen within this court.—
Hey! here comes Walter all a-muck!—Wrap up!
It blows steel-needles!—

Enter Mapes as from the Council Room. After him De Broke.
Mapes.
Pewh! a delicate storm
To that within!—Could'st stretch thy neck
Door-wards, and yon tall axe-man not behead thee,
Thou'dst hear a storm indeed!

John of O.
We have heard much tumult.

Radel.
Tell us, good Walter! what is't like?

Mapes.
What like?
The roll of thunder, roar of seas, and groan
Of heart-burnt mountains, crash of cataracts,
All mingled dense as the dark angels' cry
Of mutual torment; or those threatening voices
From Chaos 'gainst Creation, yell'd by night,
Which make the firm stars tremble in their spheres.

John of O.
Englisht,—a mighty hubbub.

Mapes.
I do assure you—
The roof rebounds as from a Cyclops' forge
At full-sledge work above it; you expect
The stones to fall each moment on your head—

John of O.
Well, well! but does the Primate yield?

Mapes.
Our Bishops
Stand front to front as on a chess-board; some
Are the King's bishops, some the Archbishop's bishops:
These be the fiery tongues that make the blaze
Hottest, and keep the fiercest bicker up;
To which the laity's is but lambent flame
Crackling and spitting. These, claw'd close together,
As mill-wheels tooth in tooth, each urges on
His giddy-pated neighbour, shoulders him,
Kisses him hatefully with bespattering lips,
Or stares quite mute with ire.

De Broke.
Furies in frocks!

Mapes.
I marvel the walls bilge not, with so much
Foul fluency as swags within them.—Peter!
Enter Peter of Blois.
What news? what news? how goes it on? is 't done?

Peter.
'Tis done—and undone—we are all undone!
I know not what! They say there are no wolves
In England since the Conquest—there's a den of them!

John of O.
But tell us, will the Archbishop brave it out,
So obstinate?

Peter.
He stands like twice his size,
The sole immoveable thing in that commotion!

Mapes.
I think he hath a cloven hoof, to stand
So firm, on but two legs!

Peter.
I fear he'll have
What's worse,—a cloven head!

John of O.
Doth the king speak?

Mapes.
The king speaks thunder-claps; and every word
Blasts where it strikes!—'Tis fearful even to friends.

De Broke.
I ne'er saw steed upon the edge of battle
With such a bloodshot eye or nostril broader!
Methinks the very fierceness of his glance
Cuts like a shining sword.

Peter.
There will be mischief!
Heaven guard his grace, the Primate!

Sentinel.
Haro! Haro!

[Fitz-Urse, De Morville, De Traci, Brito, with men-at-arms, rush across brandishing their battle-axes, and enter the hall. De Broke joins them.
Mapes.
'Dame! this looks serious.

John of O.
Will they stain their souls
With such a crimson and redeemless sin
As murder of God's High-Priest? It is horrible!

Mapes.
What care these swashing blades? One thing to them
High-priest or heretic! Are not their acts
All of the one blush-colour? Their most innocent,
Rapine and ravishment! Men bred up in blood,
They shed it free as wine.

John of O.
A Christless race!

Peter.
Mapes, jest not now:—Can their thick senses, judge you,
Tell the fine difference 'tween sacred priest-flesh
And popular carrion?

Mapes.
Not, though that were smoked
In the rich fume o' the chalice 'till it smell'd
A whole aisle off!

Peter.
Ventre!—I am a priest!—
I 'll back to Blois!—Courez, mes enfans! courez!—
Sauve qui peut!

[Runs off.
Mapes.
Ha! ha! ha!

Radel.
Walter Mapes,
Thou can'st do grinning mischief like a monkey!

Mapes.

Who could be grave to see a man frighted, like
a crow from his provender, by a hollow rattle or red rag
shaken in the wind?

John of O.

If danger did not make all things look
serious, how ridiculous does it make most of our actions
really!

Mapes.
Come, we will all laugh at this Frenchman tomorrow!

John of O.
Heaven grant it!

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE VI.

An Apartment in the Primate's house at Clarendon.
Enter Becket with a sour stateliness; followed by the Bishop of Norwich, and Gryme.
Becket.
Sign all of ye!—Not even my ink's black cross
Shall sanctify his godless Constitutions!
I am no reed,—to bend at every whiff
Of blustering tyranny!—no supple flagger!
Ye Suffragans infirm!

Norwich.
My gracious lord!
Will you then be the oak, whose testy pride
Lowered not its head, till torn up by the roots?

Becket.
I will,—a stout, stern, soil-bound English oak,
Shelt'ring a lowly church, a pious people,
Which hears the wind's fierce whistle through his boughs
Age after age, and scorns it—as a whistle!—
Had ye but stood like me—by me—behind me—
This storm had puffed its full, and we but waved it
Off, with scarce-raised arms. We had not lost
An acorn!

Norwich.
Please you, sir, our very lives!
Marked you not those grim hatchet-men, that shook
Aloft bright edges through the hall, to show
Where death might drop from?

Becket.
Tut, a trick terrific
To fool old babes into obedience! Me
It fooled nor quelled.

Gryme.
Thrice Sanctimonious! here
Are lords who crave admittance.

Becket.
I'll not see them:
Begging-faced Bishops! paupers for pity's dole!

Gryme.
Your very venerable Grace! I spy
A red broad hat, and leopard crest, among them.

Becket.
O! 'tis the Cardinal and the Uncle of the King:
Let them come in! (Exit Gryme.)
This seems respect at least.

Enter Cardinal Philip, Earl of Cornwall, and the Grand Prior.
Cardinal.
Highest and mightiest Prelate of the realm,
We come, negotiators of Peace, if not
Plenipotential to conclude it, hoping
Your Grace is thereto well disposed.

Becket.
Why not,
Most Eminent? Within me all is calm
As the hushed sea between his ebb and flood,
Balancing when to roll.—Wherefore should I
Love not this halcyon state?—love it not round me,
Well as within me? Can the sea less whelm
When smooth than rough, the headlong who disturb
The stillness of its pure and deepy bosom?
Kings—moonstruck kings! may lash that sea to foam,
But not my mildness. They upon its rage
Their puerile chains will as successless throw
As upon Becket's ire,—if ever roused!

Cornwall.
My lord! my lord! you take too much upon you—

Becket.
My lord! my lord! you take much more to say so!
Who am I but the Sacerdotal King
Of this great state? who you?—a king impossible!

Cardinal.
You do forget your halcyon calm.

Becket.
The ox
Of quietest front sublime, may be yet stung
To anger, by a gadfly! What's your need with me?

Cornwall.
If you are bland again, we would say thus—

Becket.
Cannot his Eminence, the Legate, speak?
'Twere best, methinks, on church affairs. I listen!

Cornwall
(aside).
If this pride fall not, Lucifer's never did!

Cardinal.
Let me, in mine Italian humour, serve
For spokesman, though unwilling, to this mission.—
It ne'er has been the policy of Rome
To play the cat's-paw.

Cornwall
(aside).
No, the lion's rather
Making a prize of all!

Cardinal.
Nor meddle much
With the hot instruments of civil broils,
Except as mediator 'tween those who sway
Such utensils, (you'll pardon, on the feast
Of good St. Hilary, my lepid vein
Which means to soothe, not stir!)—Now, my dear lord,
Let me approach you in that blessed wise
Of Peace-maker. A little hear me, pray:
The Constitutions, called of Clarendon—

Becket.
Not so—they are not passed, wanting my sign!

Cornwall
(aside).
How hushed a sea he is!

Cardinal.
Well then, these Articles
To be called Constitutions with your sign—

Becket.
Never!—What Sixteen Articles which make
The mitre a huge tassel to the crown!
—A bare appendage!—the grave Bishops merely
Chief foot-kissers of the King, not of the Pope,
Sole osculation, sacred and sublime!—
Which make all priests whate'er amenable
Like common subjects to the Common Laws,
And spiritual culprits even mount the block
Where secular caitiffs die! O monstrous! monstrous!
Most despot Articles which make the King
Head of the Church, supreme, unqualified,
Throughout his whole dominions!—'Tis impossible!
Can ne'er in England come to pass such things!

Cardinal.
My lord, you state them with too round a mouth
Of eloquence, too loosely large; at least
As we do understand them.

Cornwall.
They are no more
In substance than those which at Westminster
You gave assent to.

Becket.
Be't so! Why repeat it?
If it were given, 'twas given, and there's an end.

Cornwall.
Pardon me, humbly I beseech your grace,
But that assent was far too vague and general,
So boundless that it bound to nought at all!

Becket.
I'll give none other. That's a word of Fate!

[Retires.
Grand Prior.
O! miserable kingdom!

Becket.
What wouldst have?

Grand Prior.
A patriot's wish! an old man's wish!—peace! peace!

Cornwall.
A good man's thou might'st add—a wise man's too!

Becket.
Ay, and a fool's as well! The idiot loves
To bask against a sunny wall his days,
With arms like dead boughs hanging, vacant eyes
Fixed on the straw he sees not, and his mouth
Gaping so idly it chops not the mess
Laid 'twixt his teeth: He wishes, and has, peace:
Is that to sample us?

Cornwall.
You are too keen
And subtle a logician to be coped with
By us, my lord. But there are reasoners
Upon the side of these same Articles,
You cannot easily silence.

Becket.
Which be they?

Cornwall.
Three hundred broad-mouthed bugles, whose loud blare
Echoing through each portcullis, will call up
The embodied Baronage of this realm, as one
Mail-clad Colossus.

Becket.
I call down another
More dread—the Angel of the English Church,
With thunders armed,—whose very breath will scorch
Your idol into ashes!

Cardinal.
Brother, perpend!
You bring not king and kingdom under ban
Without the Legate's voice: you are but chorus
To his pre-eminent curse!

Becket.
Ay, but that Legate
May be of other name than Philip then;
Of clime less out-land to us; and of mood
Less that of a good easy man than thine!

Norwich
(to Gryme).
His Legateship had better have continued
To pour some oil on these contentious waves,
And haply smoothen them.

Gryme.
Had he more oil
In his soft tongue than any whale, 'twould not
Have stilled the master-wave at least!

Cornwall.
With us
Are all the bishops—

Becket.
Traitors to God and me!
Who treble-bolt against themselves each blade
Of heaven's already forked fires!—Avaunt!
[To Norwich, who approaches humbly.
Touch not my hem with thy Iscariot kisses!

Cardinal.
He is too much for us—'tis all in vain!

Grand Prior
(falling on his knees to Becket).
Wilt thou spurn my grey hairs?—and from thy hem
Dash these half-childish tears?

Becket.
Richard de Hastings!
Heir of the oldest Norman name renowned!
Grand Prior of the Templars! thou kneel thus,
Sacred with age and station?

Grand Prior.
I am almost
Mere earth already: bowed towards the dust,
To which I moulder inly, by the weight
Of years and ills: 'tis little lowliness
To kneel, where I must lay me down so soon.

Becket.
Prythee, arise—it not beseems thee—

Grand Prior.
Never!
Till thou descend from what beseems not thee!—
I am as fixed in humbleness, as thou
In pride!—The shame of my prostration hang
On thee alone!—My tears, an old man's tears,
Damning as blood, be on thee, and cry up
To piteous heaven for vengeance!

Becket.
Hold!—this hath
The awe of very anathema in its sound,
Though launched by lips unqualified!—Rise, sir!
'Tis as the Patriarch Israel on his knees
Before another Joseph.—I am moved:
That's much.

Grand Prior.
Then say thou grant'st my prayer, good son!

Becket.
I 'll sign these Articles—with a mere clause
For mine own dignity—that they shall stand
As laws of the kingdom, Salvo ordine nostro.

Grand Prior.
That salvo is more worthy of a sophist
Than of a deep philosopher, my son!
Ill Latinists though we barons be, 'tis plain
Those learned words mean—Saving your own Order—
And to sign Articles with such reserve,
Is but to say,—these shall stand laws, when for us,
But when against us, by no means!—'Tis but
To sign in joint-bond for a general debt,
With this provision—such bond shall be binding
On all who have subscribed it—Save ourselves!—
My son, be honester and more politic.

Becket.
Thou too, Grand Prior! join this league?—thou too,
A military Monk, and altar-sworn
To be true soldier of the Church!—Wilt thou
Stab at her thus through me?

Grand Prior.
Alas! I am liker
To fall on my own sword for patriot sorrow,
If now such death were virtue:—I am old,
And feeble, very feeble!—All my strength
Is in my hoary locks!—but I would spend it,
Laying that white appeal before thy feet,
To save the Church and thee from their great foe—

Becket.
Why that's the king!

Grand Prior.
Thyself!—thou 'rt her chief foe,
And thine own likewise!—Suicide prepense,
Parricide of thy Holy Mother the Church!—

Cornwall
(to Norwich).
Truth comes from Heaven, most sure! How it inspires
That weak old man with vigour strange, and sense
So super-natural to his own!

Norwich.
He pauses:
He draws hard breath—he swoons—

Grand Prior.
Both—both shall perish—
Hark! how the King raves!—See those glistening swords!—
The Primate grasps the altar—blood! blood! blood!
Save him!—His brains are on the floor!—O Becket!
Hadst thou but listened when the old man prayed,
This sacrilege had not been!

[Swoons away.
Becket.
Great God! I yield!—
Raise thee, good father! I have signed the scrolls—
Thy prayer is heard!

Grand Prior.
Now lay me i' the tomb—
[He is borne off.
At Battle-Abbey, with mine ancestors—
I 'm a Crusader, let my legs be crossed;
Mark you?—Go tell the king—that—that—I'm dead.

[Scene closes.

SCENE VII.

Eleanor's Closet.
Eleanor and the Physician.
Eleanor.
But wherefore not, old dotard! have at once
Poisoned him?

Physician.
“Poisoned!”—speak not so broad, your highness:
You talk of poison as a common dose
Like coloured aqua pura, with us,—ditto, ditto,
To be repeated every night at bed-time!
'Tis not just so.

Eleanor.
How long will he be dying?

Physician.
Is not this chamber very old?

Eleanor.
What mean'st?

Physician.
Is there no craziness about it?

Eleanor.
Some
I think within it!

Physician.
Ha! ha! ha!—But think you
Are not the walls cracked here or there?

Eleanor.
As much as
The emptier chamber of thy brain.

Physician.
No more?—
I did but dread those seamy auricles
Which oft to little ears without betray
Secrets most close, and with their mystic echoes
Magnify all that's breathed, as the lithe horn
Reverberates mightily the small bray of man.

Eleanor.
I do not understand your chymic speech:
Talk plain as me. Have you made sure the death
Of old De Clifford?

Physician.
Hush! hush!—Thus it stands:
I 've given him—Who's behind that tapestry there?
It moves!—it doth conceal some prowler!—

Eleanor.
True;
A felon watcher; go you, pull him out
By the ears, still longer than your own.

Physician.
Ho! ho!
[Pulling aside the curtain.
Feline you meant, not felon: here is nought
Save old Grimalkin!

Eleanor.
Watching for a mouse
Less timorous than thee!—Go on, sir!—Now,
What dost thou gape at?

Physician.
Here's a sliding pannel
Under the fringe!—I see it!

Eleanor.
Cunning fox!
That dost mistake a hencoop for a trap!—
'Tis an armoire, a cupboard, where I keep
Some cates and cordials for refection:
I see thou smell'st at it like other vermin.

Physician.
Truly a glass or so of aqua vitæ,
Most gracious Mistress, were restorative
After these fainting fits—

Eleanor.
Help thyself; go!

Physician
(filling a glass).
This aqua vitæ is not that same draught
You spake so freely of distributing?—
Not simple aqua mortis, no?

Eleanor.
Thou fool!
Thy low suspicions almost make me smile.
Dost think I'd poison thee with aqua vitæ,
When ratsbane's to be had?

Physician.
Faith, that is true!
'Tis cheap and potent death; but leaves the corse
Unsightlier than should be, livid, and drawn
Distort, as 'twere, within by tenter—hooks,
With its last agonies upon it featured
Too strong, and tale-telling. It is not safe,
Never make use of it!

Eleanor.
Not even on thee:
I will be guided by thy old experience
In safe and skilful murder.—Now, good doctor,
Go on.

Physician.
This poisonous talk hath almost choaked me.
But to our case. The old lord ere I came
Had long been under care o' the President
Himself of our grave College, an adept
At manslaughter—who hath saved me much trouble.

Eleanor.
Thou wert the first.

Physician.
Pardon me, gracious Madam:
Ere me had President Disease been with him,
Under whom doctors but licentiates are;
I found the patient well prepared; for he
Had Death's pale brand upon his wrinkled brow
Marking him for the tomb. I only minister'd
A gentle—quickener.

Eleanor.
Hastener, hurrier?

Physician.
Madam,
Nought as I live, but somewhat—to help Nature,
As we physicians say,—for he was dying;
Merely instead of a preservative,
A small exasperative,—nothing more!

Eleanor.
Then how soon is he dust?

Physician.
I could not say
At all!—but, as I guess, he should be in
His rattles about now.

Eleanor.
That's well!—here 's gold.
And the gay Rose, didst drop a canker in it,
To kill it quickly too?

Physician.
Madam, impossible!
Were I so reckless and precipitate
As you would have me, all would be found out,
And we both hang'd together!—I'm too bold,
I should hang miles below your Majesty!—
Besides that, Mistress Rose sips like the birds
Only pure water, which all minglement
Would stain; and, like them too, cats, I believe,
But what she culls herself. 'Tis hard to syrup her;
Nathless, I'll find a way—

Eleanor.
Do, and thou'lt find it
Strown with gold blocks to build a palace of!—
Meantime go brew me something rich with venom,
For household use.

Physician.
Dear Madam, be discreet!

Eleanor.
Discretion is a virtue for the mean,
Not for the mighty!

Physician.
I 'm of the mighty ones!
Thou ne'er hast done half the fine knaveries
With thy bold indiscretion, which my “meanness”
Hath wrought unknown in every civil land!—
But for my exquisite discretion, I
Had never scaped the tithe, nor been admitted
As a preserver, where I have proved, and may
Again prove, a destroyer!

Eleanor.
I have chafed
Thy noble pride in villany, it seems,
So loud a claim thou lay'st to bear the bell.

Physician.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!—your Highness might contend!

Eleanor.
Begone, sir, as you came; down those wry stairs,
Through the court vaults, and out by the sewer.—Begone!

Physician.
It is the safest way, though none of the sweetest!

[Exeunt severally.