 | Thomas À Becket |  |
SCENE IV.
An Inn and Smithy by the roadside.De Morville, Brito, and De Traci.
Brito.
Sir William, we must leave you: the time hastes.
De Morville.
Almost as quickly as the king, whose steed
Seems to have feather'd hoofs, like one of old
Our scholars prate of.
De Traci.
Had mine but plain shoes
He 'd make the wind a laggard!—Leave me not
Good Gentlemen!—I 'll with you straight.—Stir! stir!
[To the Blacksmith.
Thou sledge-arm'd slug!
De Morville.
Well the Archbishop stood
Toughly up to 't: I almost honour him.
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Didst thou remark his spirit how it rose,
As sinewy brawn doth on a boxer's arm,
Elastic, after every blow?
De Morville.
Well! well!
De Traci.
Had he but kept his temper to the last?
De Morville.
Turbulence is the nature of a priest,
And while he rein'd it, 'twas as rocks upon
A burning mountain's mouth, which close it only
Till vent be found, and then they 're spit at heaven.
Brito.
Nothing will e'er bring down his haughty front
But what brings down a bull's—the blow of a pole-axe!
De Morville.
He'll get a tap from that same filliper,
Will make him stagger.
De Traci.
Shall we have war?
De Morville.
Most like:
A civil one—no more!
De Traci.
Pardon! what means
Un-civil war? I never for my part,
In fight, slay any man but civilly;
With compliments I deal him coup-de-grâce,
Nothing less courteous will he get from me!
I'm no ox-leveller like Sir Richard here.
Mortbleu! what is a battle but a tilt
Without its mockery? To Mars's lists
I, at the tongueless summons of the trump,
Come, as at love-call to my ladye's bower,
Gallant, and debonair, heartwarm, and trim,
In gentil hauberk, glistening helm, and arms,
But to disport me at the play of lives
With ill intent to no man! 'Tis most churlish
To fight for hate, and pash a stranger's head
Because he's stout; live he on if he may,
After I let the light through him! who cares?
My devoir has been done!—Saint Gris, my horse!
[Going to the Smithy.
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Shoe him with quicksilver, good Smith!
De Morville.
Brave damosel!
I 've seen him kiss his hand to a gallant plume
Before he strook it, dyed with sanguine, off,—
Then cut a capricole!
Brito.
Mine ancestors,
'Tis said, were taught to dance among the points
Of sharpest swords and spears, for pastime; he
Seems to do so by nature!—How he skips
About the Smith, like gnat about a horse
Before it fixes!
De Morville.
Come!—What! ostler there!—
We will not stay. Boy! bring our horses out.—
Enter Boy.
Boy.
Horses, sir? there's not a four-legged beast in the
stable but the ass and John Ostler.
De Morville.
What is 't thou say'st? Innkeeper! scoundrel!
thief! horse-stealer!
Enter Innkeeper.
Innkeeper.
Sir Knight, I pray you—
De Morville.
None of your prayers, Infidel! Fetch me
my horse in a trice, or I 'll cut off thy head, and nail it up
over thine own door for a Saracen's!
Innkeeper.
Why, Sir, your horses have been just led out
the back way.
Brito.
By whom, knave?
Innkeeper.
By two servants at command of my lord the
Archbishop, who said he would explain all to your worships.
De Morville.
Here 's pretty doings!
Brito.
By St. Edward, this passes!
De Morville.
Which way are they gone?
Innkeeper.
Round about, sir; but his Grace is here.
[Exit.
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Becket.
You took, my menials tell me, certain horses
Out of mine inn to-day; was it not so?
[To Gryme.
Gryme.
Two sorrels and a black.
De Morville.
They were our own.
Becket.
They were of twenty sent me yesternight,
As present from the King: I cannot lose them!
Brito.
Sir Primate, they are ours, and we will have them!
Becket.
When you shall prove them yours, as it may be,
By words of better credence than your own;
Till then I know not who has right to come
Rifle my mansion, and call what he steals
No thievery.
De Morville.
‘Thievery!’—the king's gentlemen
Thieves?
Becket.
No! by no means! if indeed ye be
The gentlemen ye call yourselves; but I
Cannot yet guess ye such, whilst ye seem felons.
De Morville.
What! have we stolen out of your remembrance,
My lord Archbishop?—You did know us once.
Becket.
I have, methinks, seen visages like yours
In the King's shadow, darkly, times ago;
But I am oft oblivious of such things,
My memory being throng'd with better.—Pray you,
Go from me now.
De Morville.
De Morville is a baron,
Proud prelate!—Lord of Knaresborough Castle, I!
Becket.
A lesser baron—it may be, perchance—
Brito.
The Britos were born sovereigns, when the Beckets
Were but their slaves and villeins.
Becket.
Bosham, my book:
I'll read a prayer or two, whilst the mules bait.
[He begins to read while the Knights threaten him.
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Will't please your grace retire into the house,
Or shall I call your knights?
Becket.
Who needs defence?
England's most sacred head?—go to! go to!
De Traci
(returning).
Allons, mes enfans! See you how my steed
Pants hotter than the bellows, now he's shod:
Allons.
[Gryme whispers Becket, pointing to the forge.
Becket.
Ha!—that's another of the twenty!
Bosham, go tell a groom to seize that horse
For the Archbishop's use.
[Exit Bosham.
De Traci.
Diable! my horse?
Becket.
Gryme, set these cavaliers aright upon
This trivial matter.
[Walks apart reading.
Gryme.
Sirs, if you 'll examine
These chargers; underneath their housings rich,
You 'll find them branded with the letter B
And a large crook crossed: this is for archbishop,
That is for Becket: you 've but to examine,
And be full satisfied.
De Traci.
What tell you me
Of B's and crooks and Beckets?—He shall have
My steed by neither crook nor hook—
Becket.
You are loud:
It is irreverent in this presence. Are ye
Of the King's body-guard, I can but say
The master's conduct shows it in the men
Most coarsely mimick'd.—Ye shall have no steeds,
So follow him to London as ye can.
De Traci.
Yield we thus, friend?
[To De Morville.
De Morville.
What say you, Brito?
Brito.
I?—
Even what you say!
De Morville.
Though I'm no church-goer,
There is an awe hangs round this priest: I cannot
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(To Becket)
Granted these beasts were of your household, Sir,
They 've been attach'd to-day with all your goods.
Becket.
Does that give you a right to nym them, friend?
It more behoves me guard what I must soon
Surrender to the Sheriff, or be deem'd
A petty-traitor. Meantime they will serve
To bear me on the road to Canterbury;
My servants want good steeds.
De Morville.
O that thou hadst not
This sacred stole upon thee—
Becket.
That I have it
Is well for ye!—or my good sword had sent
Your souls a-horseback on the current winds
To serve the king of darkness!—Speak once more,
I will dismiss them to eternal pain
Even with this naked arm. Begone!—or stay
Accursed for ever!
[They withdraw intimidated.
Now they have given ground,
I will retire. Go you before me, Richard!
[Exit with Gryme.
The Knights come forward.
De Morville.
'T was all in vain; I could not meet his eye!
De Traci.
Pardie, his lance-point were the easier parried!
Brito.
You 'd have found even that no knitting-needle
In an old nurse's hand.—Mars was his sponsor;
He had his first meat put into his mouth
Upon a sword's point; that was his spoon-feeding!
De Traci.
He has affray'd us, three puissant knights,
By his mere growl, as a grim mastiff would
A leash of greyhounds.
De Morville.
Let us bide our time!—
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On any churl's old dobbins we can seize.
Brito.
Be the priest hang'd as high as his own pride!
De Morville.
And without benefit of clergy!—Come.
De Traci.
I'll make that whisperer, Gryme, cry out at least
One day or other!—Allons, mes amis!
[Exeunt.
| Thomas À Becket | |