University of Virginia Library

II.

The Palace at Shene.
Queen Eleanor and Robert de Bouchard.
Queen Eleanor.
Yea, true for such; but he and I were old
Already, though men say his hair keeps black,
Ay, black-bright hair, touched deep as poppies' black
They cover up in scarlet; that's my lord;
Sweet colour, with a thought of black at heart.
Some flowers, they say, if one pluck deep enough,
Bleed as you gather.

Bouch.
That means love, I think;
You gather it and there's the blood at root.

Qu. El.
How much, my Bouchard? let your beard alone;
You could well strike me, I believe at heart;
God help me that am troubled with you so!
Feel both hands now; the blood's alive there, beats
And flutters in the fingers and the palms.

Bouch.
True, hot enough; what will you do? the king
Comes back to take farewell and hold his way
With some thin train that gathers Londonwards;
Thence ere he take ship shall my lord make way
Among the westward alder-meadows, thrust
Between soft Godstow poplars and warm grass
Right into Woodstock and pleached rose-places;
Shall the queen follow lest he lack a face
For welcome, and sweet words to kiss i'the lip?
I would go with you lest some harm should fall.

Qu. El.
No need, for would God let them hurt me? Well,
I would fain see the rose grow, Robert.

Bouch.
Being fair,
A woman is worth pains to see.

Qu. El.
Being fair.
Sweet stature hath she and fair eyes, men say;
I am but black, with hair that keeps the braid,
And my face hurt and bitten of the sun
Past medicine of all waters; so his tooth
Bites hard in France, and strikes the brown grape hot,
Makes the wine leap, no skin-room spares for white,—
I know well now; the woman has that white,
His water-weed, his golden girl-flower
With lank sapped stem and green rind moist at core.
Ay, gold! but no crown's gold to all this hair,
That's hard, my Robert.

Bouch.
See how men will lie;
They call you hard, this people, sour to bite;
Now I will trust your sweetness, do but say
You will not touch her if I get you through.

Qu. El.
I will not hurt her, Bouchard; for God's love,
Help me; I swear by God I will not hurt,
I will not—Ah, sweet Robert, bear me through,
Do not make smiles and never move your mouth:
When we ride back I will do anything,
Wear man's dress, take your horse to water—yea,
Kiss clean your feet of any travelling dust—
Yea, what your page has never done I will
For mere love, Robert, for pure love of you;
Nay, if I meant to stab or poison her,
You might so chide me, Bouchard, bid me back,
Not now! I will not hurt her; there again.
Kiss me! I love you as a man loves God!
Be sorry for me!

Bouch.
Ah well, well; no doubt
But my Lord wrought me with a tender hand,
Spoiled half a man in making; there, sit, sit.
I felt your teeth come through that bitter kiss.
Sit now and talk; it is my service, madam,
A man's good service merely, nothing else,
To ride for you, to ride with you—not more.

Qu. El.
I have some help yet of this Bouchard, then?
See now, sir, you are knight and gentleman;
I pray you that your service fail not here.
For wears a man rich office and rich name
Nearer than wife about him? so the king
Wears me; and so I bid you serve him, sir.
I bid you? rather I take prayer to me
And catch your faith with prayer; right meek I am,
Chide with me, Bouchard, if I be not meek;
No child was ever so milk-mouthed, no bird
That picks out seed from scented and pink palms.
To say soft words is seasonable; and good
To think of all men smoothly; else a sin
May sting you suddenly—as him it stung—
Hell's heat burn through that whorish mouth of hers!

Bouch.
Madam!

Qu. El.
And God that knows I weep!

Bouch.
Keeps count
(The monks' song says it) of your flitting times,
Seals all your tears up safely, doth he not?
Hark, there's one singing.

Qu. El.
But no monk this time.
Look, in the garden by the red wall's turn,
The king's fool under covert, and steals fruit;
Pluck such raw pears and spoil so bad a song,
That breaks my patience; a lewd witch-burden!

One
sings outside:—
This was written in God's name;
The devil kissed me
Mouth on mouth with little shame
Under a big tree.
He fed me full with good meat,
The best there might be;
He gave me black wine and sweet
Red fruit and honey-meal to eat;
Domine, laudamus te.
He made straight the lame
And fat he made me;
So he gat good game,
Kisses three by three.
He was shapen like a carl,
A swine's foot had he;
Like a dog's his mouth did snarl,
His hands were foul with loam and marl;
Domine, laudamus te.

Qu. El.
Eh, what lewd words so mutter in his teeth?
I hear no good ones; bid them see him whipped.


Outside:—
A bat came out of heaven
That had a flat snout;
A loaf withouten leaven,
Crumbs thereof fell out;
The devil thrust up with his thumb,
Said tho to me,
Lo you, there shall be left no crumb
When I and you in heaven come;
Domine, laudamus te.
There were many leavès thick
Grown well over me;
A big branch of a little stick
Is this greenè tree;
He showed me brave things to wear,
Pleasant things to see;
A good game had we twain there,
The leavès weren broad and fair;
Domine, laudamus te.

Qu. El.
Bid the grooms whip him; even a dog like that
Can be a fret to me, a thorn-prick. Ah,
Such beasts as feed about us, and we make
Communion of their breath! I am sick at him.
Why, my sweet friend, I pray you of your love
Do me some service.

Bouch.
Nay, the fool's no harm;
Let be a little; service was your word?
See now, he creeps by nodding his fool's head,
With back and shoulders rounded for the sun;
Let the poor beast be; 'tis no worse than dogs
When the rain makes them howl, soaks to the bone
As he is sodden through the wits of him.
Now, sweet, sit closer, talk with me; you said
Service? what service must I do? the king,
It's the king has me at his heels, a dog
For service; the best work one does for love;
As I do service for my lord the king.

Qu. El.
Ay, for you love him; I have learnt you, sir,
Can say my Bouchard through and turn the leaf.
Are you his servant, lackey, chattel, purse,
The sheath where he's the hilt? you love him; eh?

Bouch.
Service and love make lordship stable; well,
Suppose I love him; there be such about
As would stoop shoulder and fit knee to bear
Worse weight than I do, only for pure love—
Clean love, that washes out so much!

Qu. El.
Ah, sir,
They make you laugh, then?

Bouch.
Well, not loud; a brush
That strikes one's lips with laughter as a fly
Touches a fruit and drops clean off, you see.
Men love so, pay them wages (ah, not gold,
No gold of course, but credit, name, safe room,
Broad space to sun the back and cram the sides
And shake fat elbows and grow longer beards—
There's all one wants, now) pay them such, I say—
Lo, sir, our friend hath never wrought for that,
That he should take it; love holds otherwhere
Than by the purfled corners of your sleeve,
Eats no such food as keeps your pages warm
Nor wears such raiment.

Qu. El.
Ay, my Bouchard, so?
I've measure of you somewhere; why serve me?
Why sweat and crawl to get me such a rose
And save my gloves one thorn?

Bouch.
Nay, I know not;
Find some clean reason for a miry foot
Or tell me why God makes the sun get up
Pricked out like a tame beast, I'll answer you
Why I am pleased to be so serviceable.
But why our friend's lip tastes a sweet therein
Who serves for honesty? this were more hard to say.
Still the truth stands, he'll work some three good hours
Outside your hireling; yea, that's much for him;
And all to get such dog's wage as a rag
To wrap some naked wound's unseemliness
Caught serving you, lest the sight turn your blood
And swell your sick throat out at him.

Qu. El.
No more?
I doubt you do belie both sides of love.

Bouch.
But ask him rather; there's Jean Becqueval,
King Louis has him throttled up in steel
That was a strong knight once, and had broad bones
To get the mail shut over, not so tight.
A keen sword, madam, makes blunt work in time,
For this man struck two blows for you or three
Some years back, when your courtiers snarled and spat;
Who might have children beat him on his mouth
And could not shake about the chin for spite
To save their plucking at his beard. Poor fool,
I dare well say he hates you not the least,
Most like would bite now for you with his teeth,
Since both hands could not pull the scabbard straight
Or loose the band o'the visor and not let
The steel snap on his fingers.

Qu. El.
If you say truth,
I swear by God's blood I am shamed in it,
Shamed out of face; but I misdoubt you lie
Your old hard way, lie perfectly. Be good,
Say you did lie.

Bouch.
I have said short of truth.
Nay, now you find this wound in him of yours,
Should you fall weeping? ask our lord so much;
He'll swear by God's face, finger his own beard,
And twist a hawk's foot round or hurt its neck,
And say by God such things are pitiful.
Come, is your friend less pinched for his good will?
You know he would not, set things broadly down,
Sweep this cast up and leave him room to throw,
Change his soiled coat to be set clean in gold;
He would just choose to serve you his best way
Something beyond my warrant. Why, in France
Last March the king's friend, Guerrat of Sallières,
—A good knight—has that long mouth like a toad's,
And eats a woman like a grape with it—
(Spits the husk out I mean and strains the core)
Spake thus to me; “Sir Robert, there's a man
Lies flat with rust upon his lips to chew
Who while your Queen touched Paris with her feet
Would have plucked out his hairs for cushion-stuff
To save her shoes a sprinkle of weak rain—
Burnt out his eyes a-sputter in the head
If she misliked their colour.”

Qu. El.
Not Sallières?

Bouch.
It was my question; at which word thrown out
His head went sideways as a big fish flaps
And shoves with head and body, showing white
I'the black oil of sea-water before storm
(You take such off-shore with sides weltering)
And the cheeks got quick twinkles of eased flesh
And the chin laughed; “By Mary's hand,” he said,
“I think I would not.”

Qu. El.
Ah, the fool he was!
Is he grown fat? he must be fat by this.

Bouch.
I held to him; what name and ways and work,
Where the man hid; whereat my Guerrat rolls
And chatters—“By the milk of Pilate's nurse
And by the sleeve that wiped king Herod's beard,
I hope the place be something worse than hell,
Or I shall fare the worse next world, by God!”

Qu. El.
What noise runs towards us? is the king past Thames
Think you, by this?—Take this one word of me;
Albeit I lay no heavy thought on it
Lest pain unmake me, hold this truth of mine,
Sir Robert, which your swordsmen and blank wits,
I doubt, would feel for half one's life and miss;
I had sooner fare as doth this Becqueval
Than as I fare; yea, if a man will weep,
Let him weep here. God is no good to me,
Nor any man i'the world; I have no love
And no smooth hour in those twelve pricks of plague
That smite my blood each once a day. Nay, go;
Do me some greeting to my lord. Farewell.
[Exit Bouchard.
I shall find time to hate you; yea, I do
Hate him past speech. Let me just cool my head
And gather in some breath to face the king—
I am quite stilled.
Enter King Henry.
Fair days upon my lord.

K. Hen.
How does the queen?—Three—not four provinces
To shut one's hand on.—Are you well?—next month
My face at Paris and his hands in mine
Touch service; two, three provinces at most;
I must have more.

Qu. El.
I thank you, well enough.
How doth my Paris?—That means ill to me,
That beat of his two fingers on the cheek.
Will Bouchard make no liar, does one know?

K. Hen.
Fair news; our Louis to the throat in steel,
And cannot clear his saddle at a leap,
But slips and sticks there as he did years back,
Not in the saddle but across a bed
His feet in time drew clear of and made room.

Qu. El.
Made room for you to slide between and thrust
Across the pillows with a sideways head
To warm about the corner where his feet
Were thrust out late; so God keep heat for it
To please you always!

K. Hen.
Ay, not best at swords,
Good Louis; I was eased with swinging steel
In thick fields under lusty months of sun;
He would play blind, wring back my hand in his,
Fall in hard thought. But see now; have I not
A dozen French heads broken through the neck
Hung at my sleeve here, madam, threes and threes?
Guy d'Héricourt and Guerrat of Sallières,
Denis of Gordes, Peter of the March,
I have their tongues shut with gold coins of mine
To seal the lips back; Jacques Becqueval
Shows teeth to nibble; if these fail me quite,
I'll say we have played at luck with God and lost
By some trick's foil; being no such fools of his
As chew the lazy purpose with their teeth,
Eat and wax full and laugh till hair falls out;
Why, all the world lives without sleeping-whiles,
God makes and mars and turns not weak one whit,
But we must find some roost to perch and blink
And wag thick chins at the world; I hate all men
That have large faces with dead eyes in them
And good full fronts of fool.

Qu. El.
Am I worth words?

K. Hen.
So quick, so quick! are you true wife to me?

Qu. El.
I praise God for it, how loyal I have lived
Your soul shall answer.

K. Hen.
What, I see the blood
That goes about the heart and makes you hot—
French blood, south blood! I would not tax you far,
But spare my Louis; he did no such wrong
As I did when I let you slip my hand
In a new French glove you had sewn with gold.

Qu. El.
This is a courteous holiness of yours
That smites so in my face; have you not heard
Of men whose swervèd feet lie delicate
In common couches, with beds made to them
Where priests shed no fair water? Nay, this breath
You chide me with makes treason to your breath
That was my promise; if I be your wife,
The unclean witness of my well-doing
Is your own sin.

K. Hen.
This is a fevered will
That you seem drunk withal.

Qu. El.
I bond-broken?
You lay your taint my way; blush now a little,
Pay but some blood; do but defend yourself;
It is a double poison in revolt
When it deserts the bare rebellion
To be half honest.

K. Hen.
You are not wise.

Qu. El.
I would not:
For wisdom smites awry, when foolishness
Keeps the clean way.

K. Hen.
Have you done yet with me?

Qu. El.
I thrust your bags out with round cheeks of gold
That were my people's; thickened with men the sides
Of your sick, lean, and barren enterprise;
Made capable the hunger of your state
With subsidies of mine own fruitfulness;
Enriched the ragged ruin of your plans
With purple patched into the serge and thread
Of your low state; you were my pensioner;
There's not a taste of England in your breath
But I did pay for.

K. Hen.
Better I had never seen you
Than wear such words unchallenged. You are my wife;
I would the name were lost with mine to it.
I put no weight upon you of the shame
That is my badge in you; the carriage of it
Pays for your gold.

Qu. El.
Ay, you will tax not me,
Being made so whole of your allegiance, you,
Perfect as patience? why, the cause, this cause
(Be it what you say—but saying it you lie,
Are simply liar, my lord!) the shame would prick
A very dog to motion of such blood
As takes revenge for the shame done, the shame
I'the body, in the sufferance of a blow—
But you are patient.

K. Hen.
I will not find your sense.

Qu. El.
Nay, I think so; when you do understand,
Praise me a little then. For this time, sir,
I have no such will to trouble you; and here,
Even here shall leave-taking atone us twain;
Therefore farewell. When I am dead, my lord,
I pray you praise me for my sufferance;
You see I chide not; nay, I say no word;
I will put seals like iron on my mouth
Lest it revolt at me, or any shame
Push some worse phrase in than “God keep you, sir.”

[Exit.
K. Hen.
I am her fool; no word to get her dumb?
I am like the tales of Cornish Mark long since,
To be so baffled. Well, being this way eased,
I need not see her anger twice i'the eyes;
Get me a hawk to ride with presently.

[Exit.