HERBERT.
Ay.
WALTER MAP.
It is this black, bell-silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hindering interdict that hath squeezed out this side-smile upon Canterbury, whereof may come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I wouldn’t trust it. Sudden change is a house on sand; and tho’ I count Henry honest enough, yet when fear creeps in at the front, honesty steals out at the back, and the King at last is fairly scared by this cloud — this interdict. I have been more for the King than the Church in this matter — yea, even for the sake of the Church: for, truly, as the case stood, you had safelier have slain an archbishop than a she-goat: but our recoverer and upholder of customs hath in this crowning of young Henry by York and London so violated the immemorial usage of the Church, that, like the gravedigger’s child I have heard of, trying to ring the bell, he hath half-hanged himself in the rope of the Church, or rather pulled all the Church with the Holy Father astride of it down upon his own head.
HERBERT.
Were you there?
WALTER MAP.
In the church rope? — no. I was at the crowning, for I have pleasure in the pleasure of crowds, and to read the faces of men at a great show.
HERBERT.
And how did Roger of York comport himself?
WALTER MAP.
As magnificently and archiepiscopally as our Thomas would have done: only there was a dare-devil in his eye — I should say a dare-Becket. He thought less of two kings than of one Roger the king of the occasion. Foliot is the holier man, perhaps the better. Once or twice there ran a twitch across his face as who should say what’s to follow? but Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother Church, and every now and then glancing about him like a thief at night when he hears a door open in the house and thinks ‘the master.’
HERBERT.
And the father-king?
WALTER MAP.
The father’s eye was so tender it would have called a goose off the green, and once he strove to hide his face, like the Greek king when his daughter was sacrificed, but he thought better of it: it was but the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, a smaller matter; but as to the young crownling himself, he looked so malapert in the eyes, that had I fathered him I had given him more of the rod than the sceptre. Then followed the thunder of the captains and the shouting, and so we came on to the banquet, from whence there puffed out such an incense of unctuosity into the nostrils of our Gods of Church and State, that Lucullus or Apicius might have sniffed it in their Hades of heathenism, so that the smell of their own roast had not come across it ——
HERBERT.
Map, tho’ you make your butt too big, you overshoot it.
WALTER MAP.
— For as to the fish, they de-miracled the miraculous draught, and might have sunk a navy ——
HERBERT.
There again, Goliasing and Goliathising!
WALTER MAP.
— And as for the flesh at table, a whole Peter’s sheet, with all manner of game, and four-footed things, and fowls ——
HERBERT.
And all manner of creeping things too?
WALTER MAP.
— Well, there were Abbots — but they did not bring their women; and so we were dull enough at first, but in the end we flourished out into a merriment; for the old King would act servitor and hand a dish to his son; whereupon my Lord of York — his fine-cut face bowing and beaming with all that courtesy which hath less loyalty in it than the backward scrape of the clown’s heel—’great honour,’ says he, ‘from the King’s self to the King’s son.’ Did you hear the young King’s quip?
HERBERT.
No, what was it?
WALTER MAP.
Glancing at the days when his father was only Earl of Anjou, he answered:—’Should not an earl’s son wait on a king’s son?’ And when the cold corners of the King’s mouth began to thaw, there was a great motion of laughter among us, part real, part childlike, to be freed from the dulness — part royal, for King and kingling both laughed, and so we could not but laugh, as by a royal necessity — part childlike again — when we felt we had laughed too long and could not stay ourselves — many midriff-shaken even to tears, as springs gush out after earthquakes — but from those, as I said before, there may come a conflagration — tho’, to keep the figure moist and make it hold water, I should say rather, the lacrymation of a lamentation; but look if Thomas have not flung himself at the King’s feet. They have made it up again — for the moment.
HERBERT.
Thanks to the blessed Magdalen, whose day it is.
Re-enter HENRY and BECKET. (During their conference the BARONS and BISHOPS of FRANCE and ENGLAND come in at back of stage.)
BECKET.
Ay, King! for in thy kingdom, as thou knowest,
The spouse of the Great King, thy King, hath fallen —
The daughter of Zion lies beside the way —
The priests of Baal tread her underfoot —
The golden ornaments are stolen from her ——
HENRY.
Have I not promised to restore her, Thomas,
And send thee back again to Canterbury?
BECKET.
Send back again those exiles of my kin
Who wander famine-wasted thro’ the world.
HENRY.
Have I not promised, man, to send them back?
BECKET.
Yet one thing more. Thou hast broken thro’ the pales
Of privilege, crowning thy young son by York,
London and Salisbury — not Canterbury.
HENRY.
York crown’d the Conqueror — not Canterbury.
BECKET.
There was no Canterbury in William’s time.
HENRY.
But Hereford, you know, crown’d the first Henry.
BECKET.
But Anselm crown’d this Henry o’er again.
HENRY.
And thou shalt crown my Henry o’er again.
BECKET.
And is it then with thy good-will that I
Proceed against thine evil councillors,
And hurl the dread ban of the Church on those
Who made the second mitre play the first,
And acted me?
HENRY.
Well, well, then — have thy way!
It may be they were evil councillors.
What more, my lord Archbishop? What more, Thomas?
I make thee full amends. Say all thy say,
But blaze not out before the Frenchmen here.
BECKET.
More? Nothing, so thy promise be thy deed.
HENRY (holding out his hand).
Give me thy hand. My Lords of France and England,
My friend of Canterbury and myself
Are now once more at perfect amity.
Unkingly should I be, and most unknightly,
Not striving still, however much in vain,
To rival him in Christian charity.
HERBERT.
All praise to Heaven, and sweet St. Magdalen!
HENRY.
And so farewell until we meet in England.
BECKET.
I fear, my liege, we may not meet in England.
HENRY.
How, do you make me a traitor?
BECKET.
No, indeed!
That be far from thee.
HENRY.
Come, stay with us, then,
Before you part for England.
BECKET.
I am bound
For that one hour to stay with good King Louis,
Who helpt me when none else.
HERBERT.
He said thy life
Was not one hour’s worth in England save
King Henry gave thee first the kiss of peace.
HENRY.
He said so? Louis, did he? look you, Herbert.
When I was in mine anger with King Louis,
I sware I would not give the kiss of peace,
&nbs
p; Not on French ground, nor any ground but English,
Where his cathedral stands. Mine old friend, Thomas,
I would there were that perfect trust between us,
That health of heart, once ours, ere Pope or King
Had come between us! Even now — who knows? —
I might deliver all things to thy hand —
If . . . but I say no more . . . farewell, my lord.
BECKET.
Farewell, my liege!
[Exit Henry, then the Barons and Bishops.
WALTER MAP.
There again! when the full fruit of the royal promise might have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou but opened it to thank him.
BECKET.
He fenced his royal promise with an if.
WALTER MAP.
And is the King’s if too high a stile for your lordship to overstep and come at all things in the next field?
BECKET.
Ay, if this if be like the Devil’s ‘if
Thou wilt fall down and worship me.’
HERBERT. Oh, Thomas;
I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas,
For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone.
BECKET.
Nay, of the people there are many with me.
WALTER MAP.
I am not altogether with you, my lord, tho’ I am none of those that would raise a storm between you, lest ye should draw together like two ships in a calm. You wrong the King: he meant what he said to-day. Who shall vouch for his to-morrows? One word further. Doth not the fewness of anything make the fulness of it in estimation? Is not virtue prized mainly for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an exception: for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would look up to you? and were all as base as — who shall I say — Fitzurse and his following — who would look down upon them? My lord, you have put so many of the King’s household out of communion, that they begin to smile at it.
BECKET.
At their peril, at their peril ——
WALTER MAP.
— For tho’ the drop may hollow out the dead stone, doth not the living skin thicken against perpetual whippings? This is the second grain of good counsel I ever proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency. Have I sown it in salt? I trust not, for before God I promise you the King hath many more wolves than he can tame in his woods of England, and if it suit their purpose to howl for the King, and you still move against him, you may have no less than to die for it; but God and his free wind grant your lordship a happy home-return and the King’s kiss of peace in Kent. Farewell! I must follow the King.
[Exit.
HERBERT.
Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King
Speak of the customs?
BECKET.
No! — To die for it —
I live to die for it, I die to live for it.
The State will die, the Church can never die.
The King’s not like to die for that which dies;
But I must die for that which never dies.
It will be so — my visions in the Lord:
It must be so, my friend! the wolves of England
Must murder her one shepherd, that the sheep
May feed in peace. False figure, Map would say.
Earth’s falses are heaven’s truths. And when my voice
Is martyr’d mute, and this man disappears,
That perfect trust may come again between us,
And there, there, there, not here I shall rejoice
To find my stray sheep back within the fold.
The crowd are scattering, let us move away!
And thence to England.
[Exeunt.
Act IV
Scene I
The Outskirts of the Bower.
GEOFFREY (coming out of the wood).
Light again! light again! Margery? no, that’s a finer thing there. How it glitters!
ELEANOR (entering).
Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither?
GEOFFREY.
On my legs.
ELEANOR.
And mighty pretty legs too. Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw. Wilt thou love me?
GEOFFREY.
No; I only love mother.
ELEANOR.
Ay; and who is thy mother?
GEOFFREY.
They call her — But she lives secret, you see.
ELEANOR.
Why?
GEOFFREY.
Don’t know why.
ELEANOR.
Ay, but some one comes to see her now and then. Who is he?
GEOFFREY.
Can’t tell.
ELEANOR.
What does she call him?
GEOFFREY.
My liege.
ELEANOR.
Pretty one, how camest thou?
GEOFFREY.
There was a bit of yellow silk here and there, and it looked pretty like a glowworm, and I thought if I followed it I should find the fairies.
ELEANOR.
I am the fairy, pretty one, a good fairy to thy mother. Take me to her.
GEOFFREY.
There are good fairies and bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and can’t sleep sound o’ nights because of the bad fairies.
ELEANOR.
She shall cry no more; she shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take me to her. I am her good fairy.
GEOFFREY.
But you don’t look like a good fairy. Mother does. You are not pretty, like mother.
ELEANOR.
We can’t all of us be as pretty as thou art — (aside) little bastard. Come, here is a golden chain I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to thy mother.
GEOFFREY.
No — no gold. Mother says gold spoils all. Love is the only gold.
ELEANOR.
I love thy mother, my pretty boy. Show me where thou camest out of the wood.
GEOFFREY.
By this tree; but I don’t know if I can find the way back again.
ELEANOR.
Where’s the warder?
GEOFFREY.
Very bad. Somebody struck him.
ELEANOR.
Ay? who was that?
GEOFFREY.
Can’t tell. But I heard say he had had a stroke, or you’d have heard his horn before now. Come along, then; we shall see the silk here and there, and I want my supper.
[Exeunt.
Scene II
ROSAMUND’S Bower.
ROSAMUND.
The boy so late; pray God, he be not lost.
I sent this Margery, and she comes not back;
I sent another, and she comes not back.
I go myself — so many alleys, crossings,
Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, now
The folds have fallen from the mystery,
And left all naked, I were lost indeed.
Enter GEOFFREY and ELEANOR.
Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to!
[Seeing ELEANOR.
Ha, you!
How came you hither?
ELEANOR.
Your own child brought me hither!
GEOFFREY.
You said you couldn’t trust Margery, and I watched her and followed her into the woods, and I lost her and went on and on till I found the light and the lady, and she says she can make you sleep o’ nights.
ROSAMUND.
How dared you? Know you not this bower is secret,
Of and belonging to the King of England,
More sacred than his forests for the chase?
Nay, nay, Heaven help you; get you hence in haste
Lest worse befall you.
ELEANOR.
Child, I am mine own self
Of and belonging to the King. The King
Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings,
Almost as many as your true Mussulman —
Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him
To call his wiv
es; but so it chances, child,
That I am his main paramour, his sultana.
But since the fondest pair of doves will jar,
Ev’n in a cage of gold, we had words of late,
And thereupon he call’d my children bastards.
Do you believe that you are married to him?
ROSAMUND.
I should believe it.
ELEANOR.
You must not believe it,
Because I have a wholesome medicine here
Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty!
Do you believe that you are married to him?
ROSAMUND.
Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in the fork of the great willow over the brook. Go. See that you do not fall in. Go.
GEOFFREY.
And leave you alone with the good fairy. She calls you beauty, but I don’t like her looks. Well, you bid me go, and I’ll have my ball anyhow. Shall I find you asleep when I come back?
ROSAMUND.
[Exit Geoffrey.
ELEANOR.
He is easily found again. Do you believe it?
I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught;
But if you should not care to take it — see!
[Draws a dagger.
What! have I scared the red rose from your face
Into your heart. But this will find it there,
And dig it from the root for ever.
ROSAMUND. Help! help!
ELEANOR.
They say that walls have ears; but these, it seems,
Have none! and I have none — to pity thee.
ROSAMUND.
I do beseech you — my child is so young,
So backward too; I cannot leave him yet.
I am not so happy I could not die myself,
But the child is so young. You have children — his;
And mine is the King’s child; so, if you love him —
Nay, if you love him, there is great wrong done
Somehow; but if you do not — there are those
Who say you do not love him — let me go
With my young boy, and I will hide my face,
Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall know me;
The King shall never hear of me again,
But I will beg my bread along the world
With my young boy, and God will be our guide.
I never meant you harm in any way.
See, I can say no more.
ELEANOR.
Will you not say you are not married to him?
ROSAMUND.
Ay, Madam, I can say it, if you will.
ELEANOR.
Then is thy pretty boy a bastard?
ROSAMUND. No.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 163