Shakespeare's Kings

by John Julius Norwich

  Here by my side doth hang my wedding knives:

  Take thou the one and with it kill thy queen

  And learn by me to find her where she lies;

  And with this other I'll despatch my love,

  Which now lies fast asleep within my heart:

  When they are gone, then I'll consent to love.

  Stir not, lascivious king, to hinder me;

  My resolution is more nimbler far

  Than thy prevention can be in my rescue,

  And, if thou stir, I strike: therefore stand still,

  And hear the choice that I will put thee to:

  Either swear to leave thy most unholy suit,

  And never henceforth to solicit me;

  Or else, by Heaven, this sharp-pointed knife

  Shall stain thy earth with that which thou wouldst stain,

  My poor chaste blood. Swear, Edward, swear,

  Or I will strike and die before thee here.

  K. ED. Even by that Power I swear, that gives me now

  The power to be ashamed of myself,

  I never mean to part my lips again

  In any words that tends to such a suit.

  Arise, true English lady, whom our isle

  May better boast of, than e'er Roman might

  Of her, whose ransack'd treasury hath task'd

  The vain endeavour of so many pens:

  Arise; and be my fault thy honour's fame,

  Which after-ages shall enrich thee with.

  I am awaked from this idle dream;

  -Warwick, my son, Derby, Artois, and Audley,

  Brave warriors all, where are you all this while?

  (II, ii) Enter all

  Warwick, I make thee Warden of the North:

  -Thou, Prince of Wales, and Audley, straight to sea

  Scour to Newhaven; some there stay for me:

  -Myself, Artois, and Derby, will through Flanders

  To greet our friends there and to crave their aid:

  This night will scarce suffice me, to discover

  My folly's siege against a faithful lover;

  For, ere the sun shall guide the eastern sky,

  We'll wake him with our martial harmony.

  Exeunt

  ACT III SCENE I

  Flanders. The French Camp.

  Enter King John of France; his two Sons,

  Charles of Normandy, and Philip; and the Duke of Lorraine. K. JOHN. Here, till our navy of a thousand sail

  Have made a breakfast to our foe by sea,

  Let us encamp to wait their happy speed. -

  Lorraine, what readiness is Edward in?

  How hast thou heard that he provided is

  Of martial furniture for this exploit?

  LOR. To lay aside unnecessary soothing

  And not to spend the time in circumstance,

  'Tis buried for a certainty, my lord,

  That he's exceeding strongly fortified;

  His subjects flock as willingly to war

  As if unto a triumph they were led.

  CHAR. England was wont to harbour malcontents,

  Bloodthirsty and seditious Catilines,

  Spendthrifts, and such as gape for nothing else

  But changing and alteration of the state;

  And is it possible,

  That they are now so loyal in themselves?

  LOR. All but the Scot; who solemnly protests,

  As heretofore I have inform'd his grace,

  Never to sheathe his sword, or take a truce.

  K. JOHN. Ah, that's the anch'rage of some better hope!

  But, on the other side, to think what friends

  King Edward hath retain'd in Netherland,

  Among those ever-bibbing Epicures,

  Those frothy Dutchmen, puff'd with double beer,

  (III, i) That drink and swill in every place they come,

  Doth not a little aggravate mine ire:

  Besides, we hear, the Emperor conjoins,

  And stalls him in his own authority:

  But, all the mightier that their number is,

  The greater glory reaps the victory.

  Some friends have we beside domestic power;

  The stern Polonian, and the warlike Dane,

  The King of Bohemia and of Sicily,

  Are all become confederates with us,

  And, as I think, are marching hither apace.

  [Drum within]

  But, soft, I hear the music of their drums,

  By which I guess that their approach is near.

  Enter the King of Bohemia, with Danes, and a

  Polonian captain, with other soldiers, another way.

  K. BOH. King John of France, as league and neighbourhood

  Requires when friends are anyway distress'd,

  I come to aid thee with my country's force.

  POLE. And from great Moscow, fearful to the Turk,

  And lofty Poland, nurse of hardy men,

  I bring these servitors to fight for thee

  Who willingly will venture in thy cause.

  K. JOHN. Welcome, Bohemian king; and welcome, all:

  This your great kindness I will not forget.

  Besides your plentiful rewards in crowns,

  That from our treasury ye shall receive,

  There comes a hare-brain'd nation, deck'd in pride,

  The spoil of whom will be a treble game.

  And now my hope is full, my joy complete:

  At sea, we are as puissant as the force

  Of Agamemnon in the haven of Troy;

  By land, with Xerxes we compare of strength

  Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst:

  Then, Bayard-like, blind over-weening Ned,

  To reach at our imperial diadem

  Is either to be swallow'd of the waves

  Or hack'd a-pieces when thou com'st ashore.

  Enter [Mariner]

  MAR. Near to the coast I have descried, my lord,

  As I was busy in my watchful charge,

  The proud Armado of King Edward's ships:

  Which at the first, far off when I did ken,

  (III, i) Seem'd as it were a grove of wither'd pines;

  But, drawing near, their glorious bright aspect,

  Their streaming ensigns wrought of colour'd silk,

  Like to a meadow full of sundry flowers,

  Adorns the naked bosom of the earth.

  Majestical the order of their course,

  Figuring the horned circle of the moon:

  And on the top-gallant of the admiral,

  And likewise all the handmaids of his train,

  The arms of England and of France unite

  Are quarter'd equally by herald's art.

  Thus, tightly carried with a merry gale,

  They plough the ocean hitherward amain.

  [K. JOHN].

  Dare he already crop the flower-de-luce?

  I hope, the honey being gather'd thence,

  He, with the spider, afterward approach'd,

  Shall suck forth deadly venom from the leaves. -

  But where's our navy? how are they prepar'd

  To wing themselves against this flight of ravens?

  MAR. They, having knowledge brought them by the scouts,

  Did break from anchor straight; and, puff'd with rage

  No otherwise than were their sails with wind,

  Made forth, as when the empty eagle flies

  To satisfy his hungry griping maw.

  K. JOHN. There's for thy news. Return unto thy bark;

  And, if thou scape the bloody stroke of war

  And do survive the conflict, come again

  And let us hear the manner of the fight. -

  Exit Mariner

  Mean space, my lords, 'tis best we be dispers'd

  To several places, lest they chance to land:

  First, you, my lord, with your Bohemian troops,

  Shall pitch your battles on the lower hand;

&
nbsp; My eldest son, the Duke of Normandy,

  Together with this aid of Muscovites,

  Shall climb the higher ground another way;

  Here in the middle coast, betwixt you both,

  Philip, my youngest boy, and I will lodge.

  So, lords, be gone, and look unto your charge;

  You stand for France, an empire fair and large.-

  Now tell me, Philip, what is thy conceit,

  Touching the challenge that the English make?

  PHIL. I say, my lord, claim Edward what he can,

  (III, i) And bring he ne'er so plain a pedigree,

  'Tis you are in possession of the crown,

  And that's the surest point of all the law:

  But, were it not, yet, ere he should prevail,

  I'll make a conduit of my dearest blood

  Or chase those straggling upstarts home again.

  K. JOHN. Well said, young Philip!

  Call for bread and wine,

  That we may cheer our stomachs with repast,

  To look our foes more sternly in the face.

  The battle heard afar off

  Now is begun the heavy day at sea.

  Fight, Frenchmen, fight; be like the field of bears,

  When they defend their younglings in their caves!

  Steer, angry Nemesis, the happy helm;

  That with the sulphur Battles of your rage

  The English fleet may be dispers'd and sunk! Shot

  PHIL. O, father, how this echoing cannon-shot,

  Like sweet harmony, disgests my cates!

  K. JOHN. Now, boy, thou hear'st what thund'ring terror 'tis,

  To buckle for a kingdom's sovereignty.

  The earth, with giddy trembling when it shakes,

  Or when the exhalations of the air

  Breaks in extremity of lightning flash,

  Affrights not more than kings when they dispose

  To show the rancour of their high-swoln hearts.

  Retreat

  Retreat is sounded; one side hath the worse:

  O, if it be the French! - Sweet Fortune, turn;

  And, in thy turning, change the forward winds,

  That, with advantage of a favouring sky,

  Our men may vanquish and the other fly!

  Enter Mariner

  My heart misgives: - say, mirror of pale death,

  To whom belongs the honour of this day?

  Relate, I pray thee, if thy breath will serve,

  The sad discourse of this discomfiture.

  MAR. I will, my lord.

  My gracious sovereign, France hath ta'en the foil,

  And boasting Edward triumphs with success.

  These iron-hearted navies,

  When last I was reporter to your grace,

  Both full of angry spleen, of hope and fear,

  Hasting to meet each other in the face,

  (III, iv) Wounding her bosom with her crooked beak

  That so her nest of young ones may be fed

  With drops of blood that issue from her heart;

  The motto, 'Sic et vos' 'And so should you.'

  Exeunt

  ACT IV SCENE I

  Brittany. Camp of the English Enter Lord

  Mountford with a coronet in his hand; with him the

  Earl of Salisbury.

  MOUNT. My Lord of Salisbury, since by your aid

  Mine enemy Sir Charles of Blois is slain,

  And I again am quiedy possess'd

  In Britain's dukedom, know that I resolve,

  For this kind furth'rance of your king and you,

  To swear allegiance to his majesty:

  In sign wherof, receive this coronet.

  Bear it unto him, and withal mine oath,

  Never to be but Edward's faithful friend.

  SAL. I take it, Mountford: thus, I hope, ere long

  The whole dominions of the realm of France

  Will be surrender'd to his conquering hand.

  Exit Mountford

  Now, if I knew but safely how to pass,

  I would at Calice gladly meet his grace,

  Whither I am by letters certified

  That he intends to have his host remov'd.

  It shall be so; this policy will serve:

  -Ho, who's within? Bring Villiers to me. -

  Enter Villiers

  Villiers, thou know'st, thou art my prisoner,

  And that I might for ransom, if I would,

  Require of thee a hundred thousand franks,

  Or else retain and keep thee captive still:

  But so it is, that for a smaller charge

  Thou may'st be quit, an if thou wilt thyself;

  And this it is, procure me but a passport

  Of Charles the Duke of Normandy, that I

  Without restraint may have recourse to Calice

  Through all the countries where he hath to do,

  (Which thou may'st easily obtain, I think,

  (IV, i) By reason I have often heard thee say,

  He and thou were students once together)

  And then thou shalt be set at liberty.

  How say'st thou? wilt thou undertake to do it?

  VIL. I will, my lord; but I must speak with him.

  SAL. Why, so thou shalt; take horse, and post from hence:

  Only, before thou go'st, swear by thy faith

  That, if thou canst not compass my desire,

  Thou wilt return my prisoner back again;

  And that shall be sufficient warrant for me.

  VIL. TO that condition I agree, my lord,

  And will unfeignedly perform the same.

  Exit

  SAL. Farewell, Villiers. -

  This once I mean to try a Frenchman's faith.

  Exit

  SCENE II

  Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.

  Enter King Edward and Derby, with Soldiers.

  K. ED. Since they refuse our proffer'd league, my lord,

  And will not ope their gates and let us in,

  We will intrench ourselves on every side,

  That neither victuals nor supply of men

  May come to succour this accursed town;

  Famine shall combat where our swords are stopp'd.

  DER. The promis'd aid that made them stand aloof

  Is now retir'd and gone another way;

  It will repent them of their stubborn will.

  Enter six poor Frenchmen

  But what are these poor ragged slaves, my lord?

  K. ED. Ask what they are; it seems, they come from Calice.

  DER. You wretched patterns of despair and woe,

  What are you? living men, or gliding ghosts,

  Crept from your graves to walk upon the earth?

  FIRST FR. NO ghosts, my lord, but men that breathe a life

  Far worse than is the quiet sleep of death:

  We are distressed poor inhabitants

  That long have been diseased, sick and lame;

  And now, because we are not fit to serve,

  The captain of the town hath thrust us forth

  (III, i) At last conjoin'd, and by their admiral

  Our admiral encounter'd many shot.

  By this, the other, that beheld these twain

  Give earnest-penny of a further wrack,

  Like fiery dragons took their haughty flight;

  And, likewise meeting, from their smoky wombs

  Sent many grim ambassadors of death.

  Then gan the day to turn to gloomy night;

  And darkness did as well enclose the quick

  As those that were but newly reft of life.

  No leisure serv'd for friends to bid farewell;

  And if it had, the hideous noise was such,

  As each to other seemed deaf and dumb.

  Purple the sea; whose channel fill'd as fast

  With streaming gore that from the maimed fell

  As did her gushing moisture break into

  The
crannied cleftures of the through-shot planks.

  Here flew a head, dissever'd from the trunk;

  There mangled arms and legs were toss'd aloft,

  As when a whirlwind takes the summer dust

  And scatters it in middle of the air.

  Then might ye see the reeling vessels split

  And tottering sink into the ruthless flood

  Until their lofty tops were seen no more.

  All shifts were tried both for defence and hurt.

  And now the effect of valour and of force,

  Of resolution and of cowardice,

  We lively pictur'd; how the one for fame,

  The other by compulsion laid about.

  Much did the Nonpareille, that brave ship;

  So did the Black-snake of Bullen, than which

  A bonnier vessel never yet spread sail:

  But all in vain; both sun, the wind and title

  Revolted unto our foeman's side,

  That we perforce were fain to give them way,

  And they are landed: thus my tale is done;

  We have untimely lost, and they have won.

  K. JOHN. Then rests there nothing, but with present speed

  To join our several forces all in one, And bid them

  Battle ere they range too far. -Come, gende

  Philip, let us hence depart;

  This soldier's words have pierc'd thy father's heart.

  (HI, ii)

  SCENE II

  Picardy. Fields near Cressy.

  Enter two Frenchmen; a woman and two little

  children meet them, and other citizens.

  I [FR.] Well met, my masters: how now? what's the news?

  And wherefore are ye laden thus with stuff?

  What, is it quarter-day, that you remove And carry bag and baggage too?

  [i CiT.] Quarter-day? ay, and quartering day, I fear:

  Have ye not heard the news that flies abroad?

  i [FR.] What news?

  [2 CIT.] How the French navy is destroy'd at sea

  And that the English army is arriv'd.

  1 [FR.] What then?

  [1 CIT.] What then, quoth you? why, is't not time to fly,

  When envy and destruction is so nigh?

  1 [FR.] Content thee, man; they are far enough from hence;

  And will be met, I warrant ye, to their cost,

  Before they break so far into the realm.

  [1 CIT.] Ay, so the grasshopper doth spend the time