University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Queen's Cabinet at Windsor.
Enter Eleanor with a letter.
Eleanor.
(Reading).

“Sovereign Madam,

In answer to your Highness's letter
touching a certain Dædalean work of my careless days, to

wit the Labyrinth called of Woodstock, accept this: I can
be an open antagonist to a king, but a secret one to no man;
neither can petty intrigues of the royal bower concern the
Primate of all England. Nevertheless,

“Your Highness's well-wisher,

“Thomas Canterbury.”

—Thomas Canterbury, what a Saint you are! Pride makes
him traitor on a large scale, yet keeps him true to his little
allegiance! But for his pride alone, he would love to
pinch the King's heart by this corner just as much as I do.
—Now, what's to be done? If the dwarf comes back like
others from their voyage of discovery, with the skin of an
unknown weasel, and an extraordinary cockle-shell found on
the coast, my own brain must work. Rather than lose the
occasion, now Henry's abroad, I'll sack Woodstock itself,
even if my Regent son will not wink at it; and I am sowing
a little rebellion-seed in his mind against his to me disloyal
father. Yes, Eleanor will risk imprisonment for the rest of
her life, but this “Dædalean work” of our Archbishop shall
lay open itself and its monster. What! baffle the Queen's
Majesty!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Coppice in the Labyrinth.
Prince Richard and a Henchman, who trims him a club.
Richard.
Leave the knobs on't: I'll not have one o' them
Smoothed off thus!

Henchman.
But your graciousness—

Richard.
Give't to me!
And the bill-hook too. Now, go you find the dog.

Henchman.
Your grace will promise me not to stray farther
From Woodstock bounds? I shall be whipt and hang'd
If we are caught here in the Labyrinth,
Albeit but o'er the hedge.

Richard.
No, I'll not stir;
There is my knightly word.

Henchman
(going).
He will not break it,
Unruly little lurdane as he is!

[Exit.
Enter Rosamond.
Rosamond.
Who may this stalworth boy, with curls of gold
Clustering adown his shoulders, be?—Thy name?

Richard.
Plantagenet!

Rosamond.
What dost here, royal child?

Richard.
You are a sweet-voiced country lass, and so
I'll answer you. See you not what I do?
Shape me a mall to brain the Saracens.

Rosamond.
But wherefore venture hither, when thou know'st
'Tis strict forbid?

Richard.
Why that's the cause I do't!
What bravery else in't? When my mother Nell
Says, ‘Richard, 'ware that blood-hound!’ Straight I grip him
Fast by the sullen muzzle till he grins,
Then give him a box i' the chaps to make him growl
Like thunder: ha! ha! ha!
Then she so shakes me, and I roar with laughter!
(Turning, and seeing Rosamond).
O!—O!—O!—
You are Fair Rosamond, I'll bet a kingdom!

Rosamond.
How know you that, brave sir?

Richard.
Because—because
You have the sweetest lips—O now I see
What made you speak so sweetly to me here!
You cannot help it!

Rosamond.
You are gallant, young sir!

Richard.
And should not every Chevalier be that?
Tell me—are you a Maid of Honour?

Rosamond.
Alas!—
(Aside.
How every quibble starts me!)—No, my lord.

Richard.
I'm sure you should be!—One so handsome ought
To be most honourable!

Rosamond.
O how I blush
Before this little lecturer!—When youth
Can lesson years, 'tis sin's timidity
Cowed by strong innocence.

Richard.
Perhaps you are not
Old enough for my mother's taste in Maidens?

Rosamond.
I'm old enough, sweet boy, to have a son
Almost thy twin.

Richard.
Nay, you're too slim to have
Such a great boy as me!—Hey, here's a bevy!

Enter Damsels running.
1st Damsel.
O madam! madam! madam! save yourself!
There's such a monster coming after us!

Rosamond.
What is it?

1st Damsel.
We cannot tell! The many faces
It grinned at us, made us hide ours, and flee!

2nd Damsel.
'Tis like a she-baboon, but uglier!

3rd Damsel.
Fangs
Like horns, and fiery eyes, and claws to boot
Like a dwarf ogre!

Richard.
'Tis a Saracen!
Everything grim and odious is a Saracen!

Damsels.
It comes! it comes! jolting along the sward
Its hunch'd deformity on unequal legs,
Mowing and muttering!—Fly! fly!—

[The Damsels fly.
Richard
(setting himself before Rosamond).
Fear you not,
I'll be your Champion!

Rosamond.
Boy, mad boy, come with us!

Richard.
Hold me not, Lady!—See how I'll make this Saracen
One mummy with my mall!

Enter Dwerga, horribly disguised, opposite to her the Henchman.
Henchman
(seeing Dwerga).
The fiend! the fiend!

[Runs away.
Richard
(rushing upon the Dwarf).
Gog!—Magog!—Mahound!—Tyrmagaunt!—

[Dwerga, with doleful screams and yells, is driven off by Richard.
Rosamond.
O true son
Of my own knightliest hero!—Hark his shouts!
Anger, triumphant glee, and glorious laughter,
To mix in combat with a very demon!
Save him, O good St. George! thou patron saint
Of England's chivalry, save this gallant child!
Wretched suspense!—end! end!—O my young Champion!
Re-enter Richard.
Art safe? not wounded? hast thou lost no blood?—

Richard.
No—but I've lost my breath!—What leathern fells
Those Infidels have! There is no piercing them!
Re-enter Damsels and Henchman.
(To the Henchman.)
Was I not right to have the knobs left on?
Runagate!

Henchman.
Sweetest prince, let us away!

Richard.
Go hang!—Come, lady, now my guerdon of you!

Rosamond.
To my young saviour-knight, what can I give?

Richard.
Why, don't you know? do ye not know the rules?
You are to take me home, and feast me there
With spiced wines, confects, and sweetmeats rich,
In a grand lustrous Hall, where you and I
Sit under a fine canopy; and, at last—
No, both at first and last, you are to give me,
With modesty all maiden and demure,
A sweet, sweet kiss—

Rosamond.
My warmest one— (kisses him.)
Where read you
Of all these gallantries?

Richard.
Read?—plague on reading!
One may learn gallantry without book, I hope!

Henchman.
His brain is stuff'd with tales of old Sir Guy,
Rolands, Round Tables, Tournies, and Twelve Peers,
Dragons, and Saracens, which his ear picks up
From Minstrels loose, that haunt the royal halls,
And our romancing sempstresses.

Richard.
Thou liest,
[Striking him.
Base-hearted peasant!—Call them so again,
I'll bang thee like the other unbeliever
Into the slough there, and leave both of ye
To choke i' the mire together! Madam, come!

Rosamond.
O he's the very promise of his father!
Whene'er he speaks to woman, his broad brow,
Which noble ire contracts and knots betimes,
Spreads to a radiant smoothness,—Shall I call you
Herculean Cupid, for thy beauteous strength,
Or, for thy generous courage, Cœur-de-Lion?

Richard.
I know not Cupid. I'll be Cœur-de-Lion!

Rosamond.
Thou shalt then!—Come!—His father's cheek will glow
With pride, to hear of Rosamond's protector.—
Come on, Prince Richard Cœur-de-Lion!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Street in Southwark.
De Eynsford, John of Oxford, Walter Mapes, De Broke.
De Eynsford.

We are nicely pacified, are we not, now the
king has sent home this belligerent Archbishop with the
kiss of peace,—to pass it round among us?

John of O.

Yes? have you ever heard the story of the
Bear in the Boat? Methought our vessel rehearsed it:
here sat the Primate i' the middle, clad even over the ears
with his shaggy ermine, spreading his loose bulk from gunwale
to gunwale, growling to himself, and snuffing for prey,
whilst all the humanity aboard skulked out of his sight to
the scuttle-holes. I who had been made bear-leader, shrank
into a most distant follower of his movements: now he had
got the ring out of his nose, a squeeze from him was strangulation
and a snap demolition.

Mapes.

He would at least have taken such a mouthful out
of you as the Dragon does out of the full-moon—brought
your plenitude to the wane—reduced your rotundity to the
shape of a sickle!—Why, but now I went to pay him my
humble devoirs, and his complaisance received me with a
smile like a shark's, as if he would gladly have swallowed
me wholesale.

De Broke.

What are offenders so weak as I to look for,
when my lord Primate of York has been suspended, and the
two Bishops excommunicated with many others?

De Eynsford.

Unless their journey to Rouen plead both
their own cause and ours with success, our penitential knees
will have to wear out the Black Mountain in Palestine.
He is vindictive as a bloodhound!

John of O.

Be of good hope: they have the King's whole
heart already, and need only a little of his ear. This late

coming together at Fretville between him and Becket was
about as cordial as that between the porcupine and the
serpent: they may both have agreed to live crony-like
together, but irascible readiness to bristle in the one, and
most swelling venom in the other, will soon make them ill
bosom-companions.

Mapes.

Methought that kiss of peace the King gave him
was not quite so warm as he would have given the Lady
Rose. I was just beside his majesty, and he turned him
about after it as if he could have spat it on the floor.

John of O.

Yet he stooped with most gracious condescension
from his horse, to hold the haughty Prelate's stirrup
for him.

De Eynsford.

Yea, that was stooping indeed! not from
his horse alone, but his state of honour. I had rather have
taken hold of Becket's toe, and tumbled him over his palfrey!

Mapes.

Sir Bevis of Southampton on his proud war-horse
Arundel, never looked such a self-promising, prodigious
deed-doer as Becket on his little ambler.

De Broke.

Well, and if so, how much more must it exalt
him in his own conceit, this besotted adulation of him by
the people on his progress to visit the young king? Woodstock
palace will not have a room high enough for his
haughtiness!

De Eynsford.

Hear you how the base-born churls and
citizens applaud him! Howling beasts!

[Shouts within.
Mapes.

Will you go look at them?

De Eynsford.

Who, I? rather at the infidel dogs fawning
and yelping hymns before Mahound!

[Exit.
John of O.

It behoves me to have an eye on the prelate.

Mapes.

And me to have both mine on the people, for it
is the more curious nondescript of the two.

[Exit with John of Oxford.
De Broke.

If I can only keep my spoils from his See by it,
I'll consent to be the last bob of the many-headed monster's
tail! Let me join.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

Before Lambeth Palace.
Becket, Bosham, and several Monks; Clare, De Lucy, and some Knights. A crowd of the lower order welcoming the Archbishop, who scatters a largesse.
1st Mob.

Welcome to his Grace, and ill go with them
that wish it not! Welcome our fellow-citizen, mighty and
worthy, home from France!

2nd Mob.

Largesse! largesse! Cry out more welcomes—
More welcomes and more largesse!

1st Mob.

Welcome! welcome home the father of the
poor! Welcome the 'fender of the church—largesse!
largesse!

Beggarman.

'Fender of the church? ay! didn't I foretell
when he gave me his cloak long ago, that he 'd come to be a
shining 'fender of the church? and a saint and a glorious
martyr into the bargain?

Becket.

So have I been, my friends, a very martyr!

Mobs.

Long live his grace the martyr!

Becket.

Martyrdom, which I joyed in for your sakes.

Mobs.

Heaven grant your Grace the joy of another! And
soon!—Largesse!

Becket.
Thanks for your kindly wishes, though not words!
Now cease from both.

Clare.
For more than either, say I,
Thanks for their silence! 'tis the gratefuller.

Becket.
You have no cause to like it, Earl of Clare!

Enter John of Oxford, Mapes, and De Broke, behind.
Clare.
My gracious lord, I hope yes; for the King
Informs us here that we are to present
Our kneeling griefs before your Sanctity,
Which is oath-bound by covenant with him,
Stricken of late at Fretville, to absolve
Me and my Lord Justiciary from the censures
Your ire pronounced against us. And we hope
In virtue of your faith and our contrition,
To be ta'en once more to the Church's bosom
As well as your good favour.

De Lucy.
With my own,
Here be petitions also on the part
Of Hugh Earl Chester, Nigel de Sackville,
Thomas Fitz-Bernard, and Archdeacon Radel,
Whom the said covenant gives a similar claim.

Becket.
All of ye were accomplices and abettors
In that most sacrilegious mummery titled
The young king's Coronation; when, last June,
Roger of York dared pour the royal unction
(My privilege sole!) upon Prince Henry's head;
For which the vial of wrath shall scald his own
Into a leprosy!—I will absolve
None of ye! 'Twas a covenant at discretion.

Clare.
What! are you desperate to bring fire and sword
Into the kingdom?

De Lucy.
Is your olive-branch
Trimm'd for a scourge?

Becket.
My congress hath of late
Been with crown'd heads, wherefore I mell not now
With coronetted ones!
(To the crowd.)
On Christmas day
Be it well known, we shall anathematise
Robert de Broke, and Ralph, besides some other
Odd servants of the king.

De Broke.
O pardon! pardon!

[Falling on his knees.
Becket.
Thou cry me pardon? that didst rend and ravin
My diocese, the endowment of the Church,
With hand, which should have wither'd in such act,
Tearing the coat of Christ!—Even from now
Be an abomination to man's eyes
For ever!
(De Broke attempts to mingle in the crowds, which shun him with all horror. He rushes out desperately.)
Friends! let us forth upon our peaceful way
Towards Woodstock, to confer with the young Regent
About the Church's weal, including yours.

Enter De Bohun, and Men-at-arms.
De Bohun.
Archbishop, his young Majesty commands
You pass no further.

Becket.
Not with these rich presents
I bear him as a sign of amity?
Will he not be as placable as Becket?
Although my spiritual thunders may have reft
Three mitres from the usurpers of my state,
That does not touch his crown. He is a king
With my full secular consent; and soon
Shall have my sacred benison.

De Bohun.
'Tis well
You think of it even now! When he shall hear
This humble parley 'stead of the proud peals
That swell'd with your approach, his horn may chime:
Till then your Grace cannot pass on, nor enter
Any king's burgh; but must return your steps
To Canterbury straight, and keep the confines
Of your own lands.

Becket
(aside).
Here's my reward for humbleness!
The virtue of the weak and mean and poor,
A vice in Becket! (Aloud)
Who dares stop my way,
Sub-Vicar of St. Peter o'er this realm?

De Bohun.
Humfrey de Bohun, Lord High Constable,
Of that same realm: a name and title proud
As loyal subject ever wore!—Stand fast,
My men-at-arms!

Becket.
Lord Constable, will ye
Damn by this deed Humfrey de Bohun?

De Bohun.
No, do it thou!—thy lips are grown fire-proof
With uttering fulminations that would blister
A bugle's mouth to blast them forth.—Sound out,
Trumpeters there! and pikemen, clear the way!

[Trumpets drown the voice of Becket, who retires in furious chagrin before the advancing pikes. Monks, Crowds, and Bosham, follow.
De Bohun.
I did not like to let his dragon-tongue
Hiss round us, and launch forth its sulphury flames
To singe my ensign and appal my men:
Tough Humfrey's self cares little for anathemas
More than for old wives' blessings: both, foul wind!

[Exit after the Soldiers.
Clare.
Mark'd you how pale and purple Becket grew
By turns?

De Lucy.
I ne'er saw face so mortified!

Mapes.
It looked as grim and ghastly on his neck
Which bore it up stone-stiff, with chin in air,
As doth a felon's stuck o' the city gates.

John of O.
Now will he to his Saltwood shades, and make
Black blood there; now he will spit venom at us,
As strong with gall as ever oozed from heart
So rancorous and so fester'd.

Clare.
Let it be!

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Queen's Apartment at Windsor.
Eleanor. Prince Richard and Prince John at games.
Eleanor.
My doughty Urchin, that would thrust her head
Into the snap-trap, comes not back. I guess'd
Malice so sanguine defter to deceive
Itself than others. Though she can transmute
Those loose joints and flab features to all shapes
But one not hideous,—such that I scarce know
My own familiar devil when it appears,
Deforming her deformity still more,—
The hellicat hath been caught, and nine times kill'd,
Else she had stolen to me ere now. I've lost
My ablest minister, and must be henceforth
Both council and executive myself.
Yet I am all at fault!—They say this boy,
In his wild hardihood, broke fence at Woodstock,
For which the Warder sends him home but now:
Perchance his errantry hath some apt thing
Discover'd, and his innocence may betray it?
Come hither, Dick Plantagenet!

Richard.
Madam, ay.

Eleanor.
So, sir, you broke into the Labyrinth?

Richard.
Yes.

Eleanor.
Spite of penalties which make me pale
With fear.—Even to the Bowery Palace?

Richard.
Yes.

Eleanor.
Iron-head! And where then?

Richard.
Why to be sure
Into the Bower itself!—O fairy-land!

Eleanor.
Well, and whom saw ye?

Richard.
Saw?—the Fairy Queen!
At least the Queen of Fair Ones! Would I were
But big enough to be her knight!—I'll tell you:
As we sat feasting in her ‘chamber-precious’
(So it is call'd), with foliage all festoon'd,
There was a maiden-blush hung by her cheek
(Do ye know what a maiden-blush is, Madam?)
And her cheek look'd the prettier rose of the two,
Though white her brow as lily o' the valley.
That is the reason, now I think of it,
She is named Rosamond—fair Rosamond.

Eleanor.
O! 'twas the minion then herself!

Richard.
The minion?
Minion! minion!—O you'd say Mignonne,
French for our home-word, darling?—Yes, it was:
Would I were with her now, instead of here!

Eleanor.
Couldst find thy way back thither, think you, lad,
To feast in that same bower once more with her
Your maggot-pate so runs on?

Richard.
Let me try!
It has a thousand marks I can remember:
Let me, good Mother!

Eleanor.
You'll take me along?

Richard.
You?—O you'd be a spoil-feast! You would sour
The wine; and keep me much too strict; O, no!
I could not take you with me.

Eleanor.
See what's here:
A silver-hafted poll-axe, which I got
Made for you, when you proved a docile boy.

Richard.
I am a docile boy: give it me straight!

[Snatching it.
Eleanor.
Now what are those same marks which you remember
To trace your path with through that winding maze?—
Let me but reach its heart, and I shall soon
Reach that of its foul Mistress!

Richard.
O ho, ho!—
Yes, I have heard you are very jealous of her,
Because she is so beautiful and young.
Here, take your silver toy again!—My wooden one
Can give as stout a thwack. I am no traitor!

Eleanor.
No, but a naughty rebel!—Tell me all
Thou know'st, or I will cuff thee!

Richard.
Do, good Mother!—
She 'll only hurt her hand upon my brawn,
And cry for pain, when she can give me none!

Eleanor
(shaking him).
Tell me, thou stubborn—

Richard.
Not one word of it!
By Mahound I will not!

Eleanor.
Hear how the monkey
Takes on the man! Talks of his maiden blushes,
And swears his Mahounds and his Tyrmagaunts
Like a bronzed warrior!—Incorrigible!
Thou 'rt not my son!

Richard.
No! Sour-faced Jack i'the corner,
He is your own, own son; I am the King's!

Eleanor.
Like him as lion's cub is to the lion,
Tan-hair'd and huge-limb'd, hot-brain'd and head-strong.

Richard.
Yea, and heart-strong!—Did not Fair Rosamond
Christen me Cœur-de-Lion? better I wot
Than “duck” and “chick” you nickname brother John.

Eleanor.
And what so gallant had you done, that she
So call'd you, my fine Squire of Dames?

Richard.
Your ear!

Eleanor.
Well?

[Bending down.
Richard.
“Chantons Rolant! le preux et puissant!”
[Shouting a song.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!

Eleanor.
Get to thy chamber, thou unnatural knave!
Thou shalt have bread and water for three days!

Richard.
Anything but the goodies you give John
To gulp—panado and sweet pap—I hate them!
“Chantons Rolant! le preux et puissant!”

[Marches out singing, Eleanor following.
Eleanor.
Perverse, undutiful little villain! None
Can tame him, save the king, and with a strength
The father of his own. Get to thy chamber!

SCENE VI.

Porch of Westminster Abbey. A Snow-storm.
De Broke outside on his knees, in squalid penitential attire.
Enter persons of different ages, sexes, and conditions, who pass into the Church. Some turn away their heads from De Broke with horror and scorn and detestation; some hide their faces in their hands, some spit at him: the children throw ashes and filth, the old women scowl upon him, banning and reviling.
A procession of Nuns, who all close their veils and make a sign of the cross as they go by him. A procession of Monks, who all pull over their cowls, and cross themselves; the last puts into De Broke's hand a scourge.
Enter then a Laybrother going to the Refectory with provisions, on which he is regaling himself.
De Broke
(to the Laybrother).
I starve!

[The Laybrother flings a bare bone at him.
De Broke.
O mercy! but one drop to warm
My freezing veins!

[The Laybrother flings an empty flask at him, and exit.

SCENE VII.

Saltwood Grange in Kent. Monks and Serfs employed at rural labours.
Becket and John of Salisbury girt up as woodcutters.
John of S.
O how it glads me, my dear lord, to see you
Peacefully here among us! thus employ'd
In labours wholesome to the body and mind
Refreshing, sweetening, fortifying both,
For blood the sap is of the total man
Which feeds his powers throughout. Why do you start?
Is not the pigmiest creature of us all
In that a very Antæus, that he gathers
New strength each time from Earth's maternal breast,
When he is thrown upon it?

Becket.
You are classical!

John of S.
So says your lip, your nostril says—pedantic.
'Twas the fit word, 'twas the fit word in sooth!
But these old fables, let me tell you, are
Often of larger, richer truth than facts.
Pass that!—I say our good St. Benedict
Ne'er show'd himself more Solomon in his rules
Than when he this enjoin'd upon his Order:
Give your minds hands; marry the practical
To the contemplative, that joint fruit may follow
With all the juice of both, earthful, ethereal.

Becket.
'Twas a good rule: so be it.

John of S.
Here as thou stand'st
Amongst thy household, like a Patriarch,
While clouds are thickening o'er us, I could deem thee
A Noah, when heaven's flood about to burst,
Ponder'd above the world.

Becket.
Let it come down,
We are prepared for it!

John of S.
No, not quite yet:
We must fall to a little.

[Beginning to hew.
Becket.
Simpleton!
He cannot understand this weighty moment
When there 's a flood indeed may sweep us all
Into confounding ruin.

John of S.
Is not this better,
Drawing moist fragrance from the rural air
Than adding our foul sweat to the reek o' the city?
This hurtless war against the yielding trees,
Than broils with kings and barons?

Becket.
John, I tell you,
Hurtless as this cool war to you may seem,
'Twill end in blood!

John of S.
Blood?—I've read something
Like it in Virgil.

Becket.
You are a dreamer, John!
You know not what we speak of. I do tell ye
This quarrel cannot end except in blood.
Are you awake? have you no eyes? no ears?
The King forswears himself, foregoes with me
All his concessions, promises, oaths, pacts!
Here am I sent to Saltwood home in shame
By that miscrownèd Youth they call a King,
Whom as a very mistress I set out
To woo with flattering words and dazzling gifts!

John of S.
But where the need to dazzle him or flatter,
If you brought honest homage, liege affection?
Why did you, first, declining to absolve
Those Bishops on their penitence, give cause
King Harry should decline from favouring you?

Becket.
The Bishops!—John, there is some buzz abroad
You would be one!

John of S.
I am to be, good sooth,
By the King's gracious offer.

Becket.
Ay, indeed?
Small wonder then you take his part against me!

John of S.
Becket, you could not such mean thoughts surmise
In me, were all your own magnanimous!
From heart unsound proceeds a breath which taints
The fame it blows on. Did you whilome take
The King's part, then, but to be made archbishop?
I deem'd it was through conscience,—though you changed!
Are these your acts, ostensive for the Church,
But to exalt, enrich, empower yourself?
In truth this has been “buzzed,” and loud enough,
Yet with the bigotry of friendship, John
Thought 'twas by wasps and idle gnats alone!

Becket.
Forgive me, John: but I feel even the globe
Hollow beneath me; treason hems me round;
Destruction hatches under mine own eaves,
Broods in the grove beside us. Even the Church,
False to herself, cannot be true to me:
Doth she not now adulterate with the King,
His Holiness being pandar? bribed thereto
By his rich-worded promises to stop
Fierce Barbarossa's rage,—a gilded bait
Which only gudgeons catch at! Every Nuncio,
Yea the whole Conclave, fill their purse with gems
Torn from the English Mitre. Louis of France,
My steadiest prop till now, begins to wax
Rotten at core, and fails me at most need.
Ah, simple John! the world is not so smooth
As scholars dream.

John of S.
I did not say 'twas smooth,
Unless men take it smoothly.

Becket.
Wise good man!
(Aside.)
Blockhead! who cannot see conspiracy
Darken and thicken like those sinister rooks
Upon the trees above us; nay, even hear it
Croaking in hoarse accord, like them, for carnage!
(Aloud.)
I muse on what you say: how best to meet
With calmest dignity the coming storm.
'Twill come, be sure, and soon: for I know well
The king holds by his Constitutions yet
Stubborn, as by his crown. 'Tis all cajolery
This truce with Louis, with the Pope, with me;
But to gain time and pick occasion
For his unsleeping purpose. Becket alone
Awakes to baffle it, and can, and will,—
Let him thereafter sleep as dead a sleep
As e'er laid head upon a pillow of dust!

John of S.
Not all alone: I'm with thee to the last!

Becket.
Come on, then! Thou shalt see my power compel
This proud king on his knees to me, albeit
The struggle lay me, too, breathless on earth!

[Exit.
John of S.
Would there were less of passion and of pride
In our self-sacrifice! oft made for self,
For our own glorification, when we seem
Devoted all for others! Yet he thinks
It is the Church he serves, and if so, Heaven
Pardon him if he hurts her in himself!

[Exit.

SCENE VIII.

A Wood.
Enter Fitz-Urse.
Fitz-Urse.
Here was our trysting-place; by that bald oak
Riven from the crown to root; they could not miss it.
So, you are come!

Enter Brito.
Brito.
What cheer?

Fitz-Urse.
Eh! you can see:
The place is white with bones left by wild hounds
And ravens; there 's no other cheer for us.

Brito.
Sorry enough. Know you aught of the others?

Fitz-Urse.
Tortoises! slow worms! laggards! But what needs
More than our two stout selves?

Brito.
Nay, the whole town
Is for him: we must have a dozen more.
If our friends come here and not find us, they
Will raise the shire with noise. De Traci chatters
More than a cage of monkeys: we must wait.

Fitz-Urse.
Heard you no trampling? Why do they bring their horses
To litter here?

Brito.
Only a carrier: mark
How cautiously he skirts the wood about;
It is an ill-reputed place.

Enter De Morville and De Traci.
Fitz-Urse.
Sirs, we had turn'd
Almost to stocks and stones, with standing here
In watch for you.

De Traci.
Pardon! good son of Urse.

De Morville.
Is all agreed? are we to kill him straight?

Brito.
Ay, if he do not yield.

De Traci.
Descend, or fall!

De Morville.
He'll never yield; it is as vain as praying
This oak to bow, or be cut down.

Fitz-Urse.
Hark, gentlemen:
Debate it as ye will, I am resolved:
My king shall never say again before me,
‘Have I no friend will rid me of this pest?’

Brito.
Ay, while he raised his passionate hands, to hear
The Bishops' plaint.

De Traci.
And spake of ‘recreant knights!’

De Morville.
Who were sustained by him, without sustaining!

Fitz-Urse.
Stop ye, or go? Strike, or shill-shall-I?

All.
On!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IX.

A By-way in the Labyrinth.
Eleanor and Dwerga.
Dwerga.
Hither, dull grandam!—this way; here 's the clue.
See where it threads the quickset roots along
Under those nettles, thistles, and rank weeds,
Pale glittering like the Fatal Sisters' yarn
Weft out of dead man's skin.

Eleanor.
'Tis broken here.

Dwerga.
'Tis thou, most sovereign beldam, art blear-sighted!
I, as the dew-born spider, span it slim
Out of my ropy venom, but scarce breakable.
Peer, peer about!—there 'tis again: some reptile
Hath dragg'd it thus awry.

Eleanor.
How didst thou manage
To lay it so adroit?

Dwerga.
Even though mine eyes
Were film'd with slime out of the leech-pond there,
Into which that curst whelp of thee and Satan,
Lubberly Dick (whom I will plague anon!),
When blows had stunn'd me quite, couching his club,
Butted poor Dwerga like a battering-ram!—
Yet forth I trail'd me soon; and while these orbs
Were dim as leaden ones, I laid the clue
Sly as thou see'st it! Was it not well done?

Eleanor.
Shrewdly. Where is it now?

Dwerga.
Here, i' the ditch.
O 'twas well done of Dwerga! as emball'd
Urchin-like, she did bowl herself unseen
By the dusk hedges and rush-cover'd channels,
Out of the maze as she had trundled in!
Hu! hu! hex! hex!

Eleanor.
The Bower! the Bower!

Dwerga.
Trot on!
Now we shall have a frolic worth the venture!—
Trot on, sweet grandam!
[Sings.
Hu! hu! hex!

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to the Bower inside.
Rosamond alone.
Rosamond.
My spirits are heavy, and they lend all things
Their own dark nature! See how the evening sun
Fills this green chamber with a golden gloom;
The broider'd tapestry waves its lustrous folds
Dismal, as o'er some breathless Dame laid here
In proud, sad state; yon cricket chirps as loud
And quick, as sounds a larum-bell by night;
And when that sweet bird twitter'd past the bower,
Methought it was the screech-owl. O how long
Since I felt happy!—Since I left the heaven
Of innocent girlhood, when even sorrow's drops
Were bright and transient as an angel's tears.
Can I not pray? When innocent, night and morn
I always pray'd for happiness, and it came.
Pray!—yet repent not of your sin!—Far worse
Than the mute sin itself. I will go back
To Godstowe once again; I will beseech
The Nuns receive me as a truant wretch
Weigh'd down to heart-prostration by my guilt,
And there upon my face at Mercy's shrine
Beg for an age of suffering to wash out
The stain which blots my youth—

Eleanor
(from behind).
Wash it out here,
With this! (showing a phial).
It is a lotion most abstersive;
'Twill cleanse you monumental-white, and save
A world of holy water!

Rosamond.
Art thou a demon,
Or Eleanor the Queen?

Eleanor.
Either you like,
Or both, if it please you. There's my familiar!

[Pointing at Dwerga
Rosamond.
Ah! fiend assured, that canst return from hell,
Whither young Richard sent thee!

Dwerga.
Hu! hu! hex!
Take to thy sucking-bottle, pretty child!
Take to it, lovesome! 'Tis more precious milk
Than the slow-dribbling poppy gives; yea better
Than the black suckle from my dam I drew,
Which makes me such a darling!

Rosamond.
Fearful thing!
Comest thou to tear me through my opening grave
Into the house of torment for my sins?

Dwerga.
Just so!—But feel how tenderly I'll grip
Thy soft white limbs with my beak'd claws! No blood
Shall ooze from them but I will kiss it up
Fond as a gloating lover, and each wound
Sear with hot caustic breath!—Try it, my sweetling!

Rosamond.
Save me, ah save me, thou more human form!

[Kneeling to Eleanor.
Dwerga.
Let me upon her! my fangs itch.

Eleanor.
Abide:
It were too soon to put her out of pain.
Tell me, young Mistress!—Nay, keep on your knees;
No succour hears thee; good Sir Fier-à-bras
Has been grave-sick these three days, and no other
Dares front the Queen;—tell me, thou smooth-faced Witch!
What sorceries didst thou practise, to beguile
My husband of his troth—what sinful arts?

Rosamond.
None, as I am most sinful, but what nature
Taught him to wile me with—alas the day!

Eleanor.
Ay, wilt thou boast thee of thy natural charms
Above all aid from art? Thou dog-briar Rose!
Thou vile, poor, daggled, village-garden Rose!
Thou stuck upon the bosom of a king,
As the prime flower of England?

Rosamond.
All unmeet:
But 'twas love, not ambition, fixed me there!

Eleanor.
Love! dost avouch it, brazen of tongue and brow

Rosamond.
Ay me, is ever truth a wrong?

Eleanor.
Audacious!
Dost thou, a base-born peasant Girl, dare vie
With Eleanor of Guienne for a king's heart?

Rosamond.
I am a daughter of De Clifford, dame!
A high-born, high-soul'd race, till sunk in me.
But farewell pride!—'tis for the pure alone;
Vain flourish even for them, since humble or proud,
We are all equal in our winding-sheets,
The country-maid and queen!

Eleanor.
No rug, vile Wretch,
Shall wind thy harlot corse! It shall be cast
Upon the cross-road, as a gaze for men,
A glut for dogs and daws!

Rosamond.
O Queen, some pity
To thy own sex!

Eleanor.
That thy so vaunted beauty
Be first the mock of every tongue, and end
The horror of all eyes!

Rosamond.
O rather, rather
Bury me breathing quick ten feet in earth,
Build me up in these walls, and my last look
Shall stare dumb pardon on thee!

Eleanor.
Drink off this!—
Here 's a love-potion from me in return
For that thou gavest the king, to warm his blood
Tow'rds thee his paramour, freeze it towards his spouse.
Drain it up, sorceress!—no words, no prayers!

Rosamond.
One moment, if thou 'rt not inexorable,
To plead with Heaven.

Eleanor.
'Tis deafer still than I!

Rosamond.
But to confess my sins—

Eleanor.
Fool, they are flagrant
In hell itself renown'd!—Hither, good Fury!
[To Dwerga.
Howl through her brain, flame round her with your eyes,
If she put off the cup once more, cling to her
And poison her with your kisses!

Dwerga.
Let me! I'll screw
Her soul out in my tortuous clasp—

Rosamond.
To the dregs!
[She drinks off the poison.
'Tis bitter—as thy hate!—fierce—as thy rage!
My head swims!—Mercy, Heaven!—Too cruel Queen!
Relent when I am dead—O give me burial!
Cast me not out to gaze—Henry! defender!
The fiends are here!—Thy Rosamond is—no more!

[Dies.
Eleanor.
The King's name on her lips even to the last!
She shall bleach for it!

Dwerga.
There's a drying wind
Out now, will make a precious mummy of her,
And with her thus thou canst present the King
To hang up in his cabinet as a study,
Like a stuff'd alligator—hu! hu! hex!

Eleanor.
Fair Rosamond? Pale Rosamond, now, I ween!

Dwerga.
Foul Rosamond she shall be, foul as she fair had been!—
There's a quaint rhyme for thee!—I will turn minstrel
And make a doleful ditty of this drone—
‘Fair Rosamond done to death in her sweet Bower,
By cruel Eleanor, that wicked Queen!’
It shall be famous! you shall have your meed,
As Cain's most pitiless Daughter, from mankind!

Eleanor.
Make me not tremble, now I 've done the deed,
With diabolic drolling: it and this
Would give a stone the shudders. Let's begone!

[Exit.
Dwerga.
I'll plague thee raving-mad with it each night,
Till thou shalt wish to sleep as sound as she!
Dwerga will be thy Incubus; and more,
Thy Succubus too, fattening upon thy gall,
And laughter at thy follies—hu! hu! hex!

[Exit after her.

SCENE X.

An Inn on the Road near Canterbury.
Enter a Pursuivant-at-Arms and an Ostler.
Pursuivant.

Get me another horse for the king's duty—
all bone and sinew, hark'ee! Shift the housings from my
jade, fit or no fit, and in a trice—if you wouldn't have your
hands cut off and nailed behind you, like a kite's wings on
a barn-door!

Ostler.

Yes, sir! (Aside)
I'll bespeak you a toss i' the
mire for that: the waters are out, you shall be made to
play duck-and-drake in them!

[Exit.
Pursuivant.
This crime will be consummate ere I reach them;
And church, prince, people, overwhelm'd in sorrow:
Themselves will walk the world with foreheads sear'd,
Every man's hand against them. Fie on their zeal!
Thus kings have ever-ready slaves to give
Their words the worst translation into acts,
For which the original's blamed: or vantage take
Of royal ire to sate their rascal own.
I fool the time!—My roadster, ho!—not yet?

[Exit.

SCENE XI.

Canterbury. An Apartment in the Archiepiscopal Mansion.
Becket, John of Salisbury, and Henry Bosham.
John of S.
I cannot cease my prayers—nay my rebukes,
Though you of consecrated wisdom are
Prime in all England. You have been too stern,
Imperious and impatient with these men.
I tell you they are not negotiators
Commission'd by the king. Did you not mark
That fellow whose straight, black brows, met i' the front,
How he pursed up his lips, nor seem'd to hear
One word, or pro or con, but kept his eyes
Piercing the ground, his right hand on his hilts?

Bosham.
One Reginald Fitz-Urse.

Becket.
I know it well:
Soldiers are cut-throats in the king's livery,
Murderers whom the laws make gallows-free.

John of S.
Why then provoke them with such bitter taunts,
Such scorn intolerant and intolerable?—
[Noise without.
They are return'd!—I knew it!

Bosham.
My dear lord,
I'm a weak timorous scholar; but for you
Feel myself strong both arm and soul to die:
'Tis not my cowardice speaks—flee, flee, dear Master!

Becket.
Becket resists the Devil, and He shall flee!

Enter Gryme hastily.
Gryme.
To the Church! to sanctuary! fly! fly! fly!

Becket.
Have they got in?

Gryme.
De Broke, that privy traitor,
Mad to be excommuned beyond all grace,
Hath join'd, and leads them up the postern-stairs,
When we had barr'd the portal.

Becket.
How soon, think you,
Will they have burst their way to us?

Gryme.
Five doors!

Becket.
Five oaken, clouted doors?—Fetch me my robes.

John of S.
My gracious lord—my friend—upon my knees—

[Kneeling to him.
Becket.
Richard, obey me!—All in time, good John!
Get up and help me to array.
[Noise without.
My alb—
My pall—my sandals; let me have the mitre—
You hurry, John: be calm; more haste worse speed!
Now, where 's my crosier?
[Noise approaches.
Henry Bosham, you
Go to my almery, here 's the key (remember
'Tis somewhat stiff, so force it not!), and fetch me
My emperor of rings, bright Peretot,
Jewelry-all—

[Exit Bosham, and soon returns.
John of S.
(to himself).
I know not which to name it,
Grandeur of soul or pettiness, pride of state,
Contempt of peril, calm from sense of right,
Or contradictiveness insane!

Becket
(putting on the ring).
I'm ready.
Nay, my precedence is to be preceded,
The greatest comes the last. Go ye before me.

[Exeunt.
Fitz-Urse, De Morville, De Traci, Brito, De Broke, and others, break in.
Conspirators.
Where is the traitor? where? where? he is fled!

De Broke.
Here is a secret passage to the Church:
Thither the wild beast scours as to his den,
I'll wind it like a terrier after him,
And lead the pack into his very lair:
Follow me, friends!

[Exeunt.

SCENE XII.

St. Benedict's Chapel in the Cathedral.
Becket before the Altar. John of Salisbury, Bosham, Gryme.
Becket.
Who closed that door?—Open it, I command!
What! will ye make a Castle of a Church?

The Conspirators rush in.
De Traci.
Where is the traitor?

Brito.
Where is the Archbishop?

Becket.
Here am I, an Archbishop, but no traitor!

De Morville.
Will you absolve the Prelates?

Becket.
No!

Brito.
Will you to Winchester,
And beg the young King's grace, for your attempt
Most traitorous to discrown him?

Becket.
I made none,
And will beg grace of none, save God on high!

De Traci.
You are my prisoner;—come along, proud traitor!

Becket.
Take off that impious hand, which dares profane
My stole immaculate; or I will shake thee,
Vile reptile, off, and trample thee in the dust!
Bosham, let be!—I have an arm as stout
As any stalking Norman of them all!—
Away!

[He casts De Traci from him, who draws.
De Traci.
(Aiming at Becket, strikes off the arm of Richard Gryme.)
Get thee a wooden one, thou false confessor,
To bless thee with! thou supple, whispering knave!

Becket and his friends are assaulted by the Conspirators, many of whom Becket overthrows.
Fitz-Urse.
Here strikes King Harry!

[Cleaving Becket down.
Becket.
Execrabilis esto!

[Dies.
Scene closes.

SCENE XIII.

Before the Cathedral.
Enter Pursuivant as from the Porch.
Pursuivant.
Too late! too late! O how the King will grieve!
O murderous sacrilege! beyond all tongues
To cry out aught upon but Woe! Woe! Woe!
Woe to both king and kingdom! Years of tears
Will not from yonder chapel-floor wash out
The bloody desecration of such blots
As make the heart bleed through the eyes to see them!—
Woe to the nation, woe!

[Exit.

SCENE XIV.

St. Benedict's Chapel.
The ceremony of a Lustration performed by Monks and secular Clergy. A procession.

SCENE XV.

Choir of Canterbury Cathedral: to the left St. Benedict's Chapel.
Becket's Corpse on a bier. Crowds of visitors, some gazing at the death-place, some at the body, or paying it veneration by kneeling around it, touching it, kissing the Primatial robes, insignia, &c.
John of Salisbury. Bosham. John of Oxford.
John of S.
Lo! how the multitude flock in!—'Tis strange
This thing so soon was known; Bosham and I
Were too heart-sick to speak of it; and Gryme
Is in a trance of agony even yet,
Through loss of limb and lord.

John of O.
When did it happen?

John of S.
Near about Vesper time.

John of O.
Methinks the news
Spread with the curfew knell over all England,
Even in a moment: 'twas miraculous!
I heard it scarce more late at London Tower;
And deem'd it that strange mockery of sound
Which oft its echoing shell makes of our ear,
Or yet more strange intelligence presaged
By what we dread is true;—but every face
Round me was pale-struck also, each foot stopt
Howe'er precipitate, hands were half raised,
Or placed to still the beatings of the heart,
As if some thunderous blare had rent the sky
And all drew breath to hear the Doom-word follow.

John of S.
Most strange! Both town and country are afoot;
You'd think an earthquake of the total Isle
Had roused them from their beds. See how they troop,
Jostling with fear, haste, and confusion.

John of O.
The place will be a pilgrimage ere long,
So reverenced was this man.

John of S.
And is the more
That Death enrolls him now among the Martyrs.
Some royalty has enter'd, to do honour,
Or mourn with us—alas! alas!

John of O.
The Queen.

Eleanor approaches hastily, and kneels at the foot of the bier.
John of S.
How very white her Highness looks!

John of O.
Nay, haggard;
She must be wayworn sadly. Hark! she mutters:
Does she forget she's in a crowd and church?
Not at her priedieu?

Eleanor.
O most holy Becket!
Pray for me, make my peace with ireful heaven,
Thou who hast now such influence o'er the Saints
As new amongst them, and above them all
Rank'd by thy bleeding crown of Martyrdom!—
Eleanor is uneasy in her soul:
Give me some sign of favour, and thy tomb
I'll circle with an orb of golden urns
Flaming perpetual incense! Tell me how
To quell this troublous spirit.

[The Shade of Rosamond rises at the head of the Bier.
Shade.
Pitiless Queen!
How canst thou hope repose unto thy spirit,
Denying it to my unhappy clay!

Eleanor.
Help to the Queen of England!—Guards there!—help!
Stand between her and me! Let her not gaze
So ghastly on me thus!

John of S.
Who is it offends
Your grace!

Eleanor.
She!—she!—that fixes on me there
Her marble eyes.

John of S.
'Tis but the statued form
Of a young Martyress.

Eleanor.
I know it well,
Hate's martyress and mine!—Fair Rosamond!
Art thou not she?

Shade.
Rosamond once called Fair!
Poor Rosamond who never wish'd thee harm!
Thy husband loved thee not, and 'twas 'gainst thee
Small crime, that faith, thou nor preserved nor prized,
Plighted itself to me.—My death was merciless
Beyond all need or measure: that fierce drink
Which rack'd me inwardly and warped my form
Unseemliest to behold, might have been spared,
For thy fierce words had slain me.

Eleanor.
'Twas not I
Prepared the drug—false Geber, the physician!

Shade.
Is this pale presence dreadful as the fear
Of that grim fiend thou brought'st to torture me
Before my time in hell?

Eleanor.
The fiend-like creature
Work'd me to work thy death—I was her slave!

John of S.
List how to her own fearful Fantasy
She shrives herself!—'Tis a sad self-exposure.

Shade.
I am fate's herald here: Thy name shall stand
A breviary of all abhorr'd in woman;
Thy memory shall be made eterne on earth
By the immortal hatred of mankind.
Thou shalt be still the slavish tool of those
Who serve, to mock thee; and thy wickedness
Shall be the womb of what shall breed thee woe.
Thy Eldest Son,—his nature weak, by thee
Distempered,—shall die ere his prime; thy Second
In it, by death ignoble, after a flourish
Glorious though brief, and spirit gall'd with chains;
Early and sadly shall thy Third Son perish,
Thy Grand-child too, earlier, sadder still,
Blasting the hopes of England in their flower.
Thy Fourth, thy other self in manlike form,
Thine idol, because thine own image true,
Shall live as miserable from his crimes,
His mean, low, lustful, jealous, coward heart,
As thou from thine; and meet a similar death
To that thou wrought'st for me, but wretcheder still,
Unpitied his by all the world, as mine
By thee alone!

Eleanor.
I am relentful now!—
Thy corse shall virginly be deckt—be borne
With richest care to Godstowe, and interr'd
Like an apparent sovereign, as thou wert
In thine own chapel—so thou wilt not haunt me!

Shade.
Let decent rite and ceremonial due
Be paid, even to the lowliest form of dust
That Heaven's breath sanctified though sin defiled,
As to the mightiest. 'Tis a solemn claim
Humanity has upon humanity;
And thou wilt do no worse fulfilling it,
Than offering base obeisance to this clay,
A servile adoration and absurd,
Dishonouring those who render and receive it.—
Prosper as thou deserv'st. I leave thee now.

[Vanishes.
John of O.
The Queen faints: bear her to the open cloister!

[She is borne off.
John of S.
My friend, and my heart's Daughter, in one day
Lost to me, both!—I have done some great wrong,
And will repent for it, though I know it not.
O what will say the King? He 'll be the sufferer,
First in himself, then through his people all;
His penance will be bitterest that e'er man
Endured for weetless sin or wilful crime.

Scene Closes.