University of Virginia Library

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.