Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the right?
Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege,
Which even Peter had not dared? condemn
The blameless exile? —
HERBERT.
Thee, thou holy Thomas!
I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father.
BECKET.
I would have done my most to keep Rome holy,
I would have made Rome know she still is Rome —
Who stands aghast at her eternal self
And shakes at mortal kings — her vacillation,
Avarice, craft — O God, how many an innocent
Has left his bones upon the way to Rome
Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine own self
The King had had no power except for Rome.
‘Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile,
But Rome, Rome, Rome!
HERBERT.
My lord, I see this Louis
Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm.
BECKET.
He said as much before. Thou art no prophet,
Nor yet a prophet’s son.
HERBERT.
Whatever he say,
Deny not thou God’s honour for a king.
The King looks troubled.
Re-enter KING LOUIS.
LOUIS.
My dear lord Archbishop,
I learn but now that those poor Poitevins,
That in thy cause were stirr’d against King Henry,
Have been, despite his kingly promise given
To our own self of pardon, evilly used
And put to pain. I have lost all trust in him.
The Church alone hath eyes — and now I see
That I was blind — suffer the phrase — surrendering
God’s honour to the pleasure of a man.
Forgive me and absolve me, holy father.
[Kneels.
BECKET.
Son, I absolve thee in the name of God.
LOUIS (rising).
Return to Sens, where we will care for you.
The wine and wealth of all our France are yours;
Rest in our realm, and be at peace with all. [Exeunt.
VOICES FROM THE CROWD.
Long live the good King Louis! God bless the great Archbishop!
Re-enter HENRY and JOHN OF OXFORD.
HENRY (looking after KING LOUIS and BECKET).
Ay, there they go — both backs are turn’d to me —
Why then I strike into my former path
For England, crown young Henry there, and make
Our waning Eleanor all but love me! John,
Thou hast served me heretofore with Rome — and well.
They call thee John the Swearer.
JOHN OF OXFORD. For this reason,
That, being ever duteous to the King,
I evermore have sworn upon his side,
And ever mean to do it.
HENRY (claps him on the shoulder).
Honest John!
To Rome again! the storm begins again.
Spare not thy tongue! be lavish with our coins,
Threaten our junction with the Emperor — flatter
And fright the Pope — bribe all the Cardinals — leave
Lateran and Vatican in one dust of gold —
Swear and unswear, state and misstate thy best!
I go to have young Henry crown’d by York.
Act III
Scene I
The Bower.
HENRY and ROSAMUND.
HENRY.
All that you say is just. I cannot answer it
Till better times, when I shall put away —
ROSAMUND.
What will you put away?
HENRY.
That which you ask me
Till better times. Let it content you now
There is no woman that I love so well.
ROSAMUND.
No woman but should be content with that —
HENRY.
And one fair child to fondle!
ROSAMUND.
O yes, the child
We waited for so long — heaven’s gift at last —
And how you doated on him then! To-day
I almost fear’d your kiss was colder — yes —
But then the child is such a child. What chance
That he should ever spread into the man
Here in our silence? I have done my best.
I am not learn’d.
HENRY.
I am the King, his father,
And I will look to it. Is our secret ours?
Have you had any alarm? no stranger?
ROSAMUND. No.
The warder of the bower hath given himself
Of late to wine. I sometimes think he sleeps
When he should watch; and yet what fear? the people
Believe the wood enchanted. No one comes,
Nor foe nor friend; his fond excess of wine
Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower,
Which weighs even on me.
HENRY.
Yet these tree-towers,
Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles, — the voice
Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes
Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that was your saying,
All pleased you so at first.
ROSAMUND.
Not now so much.
My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful.
But you were oftener there. I have none but you.
The brook’s voice is not yours, and no flower, not
The sun himself, should he be changed to one,
Could shine away the darkness of that gap
Left by the lack of love.
HENRY.
The lack of love!
ROSAMUND.
Of one we love. Nay, I would not be bold,
Yet hoped ere this you might ——
[Looks earnestly at him.
HENRY.
Anything further?
ROSAMUND.
Only my best bower-maiden died of late,
And that old priest whom John of Salisbury trusted
Hath sent another.
HENRY.
Secret?
ROSAMUND.
I but ask’d her
One question, and she primm’d her mouth and put
Her hands together — thus — and said, God help her,
That she was sworn to silence.
HENRY.
What did you ask her?
ROSAMUND.
Some daily something — nothing.
HENRY.
Secret, then?
ROSAMUND.
I do not love her. Must you go, my liege,
So suddenly?
HENRY.
I came to England suddenly,
And on a great occasion sure to wake
As great a wrath in Becket ——
ROSAMUND.
Always Becket!
He always comes between us.
HENRY.
— And to meet it
I needs must leave as suddenly. It is raining,
Put on your hood and see me to the bounds.
[Exeunt
MARGERY (singing behind scene).
Babble in bower
Under the rose!
Bee mustn’t buzz,
Whoop — but he knows.
Kiss me, little one,
Nobody near!
Grasshopper, grasshopper,
Whoop — you can hear.
Kiss in the bower,
Tit on the tree!
Bird mustn’t tell,
Whoop — he can see.
Enter MARGERY.
I ha’ been but a week here and I ha’ seen what I ha’ seen, for to be sure it’s no more than a week since our old Father Philip that has confessed our mother for twenty years, and she was hard put to it, and to speak truth, nigh at the end of our last crust, and that
mouldy, and she cried out on him to put me forth in the world and to make me a woman of the world, and to win my own bread, whereupon he asked our mother if I could keep a quiet tongue i’ my head, and not speak till I was spoke to, and I answered for myself that I never spoke more than was needed, and he told me he would advance me to the service of a great lady, and took me ever so far away, and gave me a great pat o’ the cheek for a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to blindfold such eyes as mine, and such to be sure they be, but he blinded ‘em for all that, and so brought me no-hows as I may say, and the more shame to him after his promise, into a garden and not into the world, and bad me whatever I saw not to speak one word, an’ it ‘ud be well for me in the end, for there were great ones who would look after me, and to be sure I ha’ seen great ones to-day — and then not to speak one word, for that’s the rule o’ the garden, tho’ to be sure if I had been Eve i’ the garden I shouldn’t ha’ minded the apple, for what’s an apple, you know, save to a child, and I’m no child, but more a woman o’ the world than my lady here, and I ha’ seen what I ha’ seen — tho’ to be sure if I hadn’t minded it we should all on us ha’ had to go, bless the Saints, wi’ bare backs, but the backs ‘ud ha’ countenanced one another, and belike it ‘ud ha’ been always summer, and anyhow I am as well-shaped as my lady here, and I ha’ seen what I ha’ seen, and what’s the good of my talking to myself, for here comes my lady (enter ROSAMUND), and, my lady, tho’ I shouldn’t speak one word, I wish you joy o’ the King’s brother.
ROSAMUND.
What is it you mean?
MARGERY.
I mean your goodman, your husband, my lady, for I saw your ladyship a-parting wi’ him even now i’ the coppice, when I was a-getting o’ bluebells for your ladyship’s nose to smell on — and I ha’ seen the King once at Oxford, and he’s as like the King as fingernail to fingernail, and I thought at first it was the King, only you know the King’s married, for King Louis ——
ROSAMUND.
Married!
MARGERY.
Years and years, my lady, for her husband, King Louis ——
ROSAMUND.
Hush!
MARGERY.
— And I thought if it were the King’s brother he had a better bride than the King, for the people do say that his is bad beyond all reckoning, and ——
ROSAMUND.
The people lie.
MARGERY.
Very like, my lady, but most on ‘em know an honest woman and a lady when they see her, and besides they say, she makes songs, and that’s against her, for I never knew an honest woman that could make songs, tho’ to be sure our mother ‘ill sing me old songs by the hour, but then, God help her, she had ‘em from her mother, and her mother from her mother back and back for ever so long, but none on ‘em ever made songs, and they were all honest.
ROSAMUND.
Go, you shall tell me of her some other time.
MARGERY.
There’s none so much to tell on her, my lady, only she kept the seventh commandment better than some I know on, or I couldn’t look your ladyship i’ the face, and she brew’d the best ale in all Glo’ster, that is to say in her time when she had the ‘Crown.’
ROSAMUND.
The crown! who?
MARGERY.
Mother.
ROSAMUND.
I mean her whom you call — fancy — my husband’s brother’s wife.
MARGERY.
Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, my lady; and tho’ I be sworn not to speak a word, I can tell you all about her, if ——
ROSAMUND.
No word now. I am faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay — go.
What! will you anger me.
[Exit Margery.
He charged me not to question any of those
About me. Have I? no! she question’d me.
Did she not slander him? Should she stay here?
May she not tempt me, being at my side,
To question her? Nay, can I send her hence
Without his kingly leave! I am in the dark.
I have lived, poor bird, from cage to cage, and known
Nothing but him — happy to know no more,
So that he loved me — and he loves me — yes,
And bound me by his love to secrecy
Till his own time.
Eleanor, Eleanor, have I
Not heard ill things of her in France? Oh, she’s
The Queen of France. I see it — some confusion,
Some strange mistake. I did not hear aright,
Myself confused with parting from the King.
MARGERY (behind scene).
Bee mustn’t buzz,
Whoop — but he knows.
ROSAMUND.
Yet her — what her? he hinted of some her —
When he was here before —
Something that would displease me. Hath he stray’d
From love’s clear path into the common bush,
And, being scratch’d, returns to his true rose,
Who hath not thorn enough to prick him for it,
Ev’n with a word?
MARGERY (behind scene).
Bird mustn’t tell,
Whoop — he can see.
ROSAMUND.
I would not hear him. Nay — there’s more — he frown’d
‘No mate for her, if it should come to that’ —
To that — to what?
MARGERY (behind scene).
Whoop — but he knows,
Whoop — but he knows.
ROSAMUND.
O God! some dreadful truth is breaking on me —
Some dreadful thing is coming on me.
[Enter GEOFFREY.
Geoffrey!
GEOFFREY.
What are you crying for, when the sun shines?
ROSAMUND.
Hath not thy father left us to ourselves?
GEOFFREY.
Ay, but he’s taken the rain with him. I hear
Margery: I’ll go play with her.
[Exit Geoffrey.
ROSAMUND.
Rainbow, stay,
Gleam upon gloom,
Bright as my dream,
Rainbow, stay!
But it passes away,
Gloom upon gleam,
Dark as my doom —
O rainbow stay.
Scene II
Outside the Woods near ROSAMUND’S Bower.
ELEANOR. FITZURSE.
ELEANOR.
Up from the salt lips of the land we two
Have track’d the King to this dark inland wood;
And somewhere hereabouts he vanish’d. Here
His turtle builds: his exit is our adit:
Watch! he will out again, and presently,
Seeing he must to Westminster and crown
Young Henry there to-morrow.
FITZURSE.
We have watch’d
So long in vain, he hath pass’d out again,
And on the other side.
[A great horn winded.
Hark! Madam!
ELEANOR. Ay,
How ghostly sounds that horn in the black wood!
[A countryman flying.
Whither away, man? what are you flying from?
COUNTRYMAN.
The witch! the witch! she sits naked by a great heap of gold in the middle of the wood, and when the horn sounds she comes out as a wolf. Get you hence! a man passed in there to-day: I holla’d to him, but he didn’t hear me: he’ll never out again, the witch has got him. I daren’t stay — I daren’t stay!
ELEANOR.
Kind of the witch to give thee warning tho’.
[Man flies.
Is not this wood-witch of the rustic’s fear
Our woodland Circe that hath witch’d the King?
[Horn sounded. Another flying.
FITZURSE.
Again! stay, fool, and tell me why thou fliest.
COUNTRYMAN.
Fly thou too. The King keeps
his forest head of game here, and when that horn sounds, a score of wolf-dogs are let loose that will tear thee piecemeal. Linger not till the third horn. Fly!
[Exit.
ELEANOR.
This is the likelier tale. We have hit the place.
Now let the King’s fine game look to itself.
[Horn.
FITZURSE.
Again! —
And far on in the dark heart of the wood
I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell.
ELEANOR.
I have my dagger here to still their throats.
FITZURSE.
Nay, Madam, not to-night — the night is falling.
What can be done to-night?
ELEANOR.
Well — well — away.
Scene III
Traitor’s Meadow at Fréteval. Pavilions and Tents of the English and French Baronage.
BECKET and HERBERT OF BOSHAM.
BECKET.
See here!
HERBERT.
What’s here?
BECKET.
A notice from the priest,
To whom our John of Salisbury committed
The secret of the bower, that our wolf-Queen
Is prowling round the fold. I should be back
In England ev’n for this.
HERBERT.
These are by-things
In the great cause.
BECKET.
The by-things of the Lord
Are the wrong’d innocences that will cry
From all the hidden by-ways of the world
In the great day against the wronger. I know
Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before
The Church should suffer wrong!
HERBERT. Do you see, my lord,
There is the King talking with Walter Map?
BECKET.
He hath the Pope’s last letters, and they threaten
The immediate thunder-blast of interdict:
Yet he can scarce be touching upon those,
Or scarce would smile that fashion.
HERBERT. Winter sunshine!
Beware of opening out thy bosom to it,
Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock should catch
An after ague-fit of trembling. Look!
He bows, he bares his head, he is coming hither.
Still with a smile.
Enter KING HENRY and WALTER MAP.
HENRY.
We have had so many hours together, Thomas,
So many happy hours alone together,
That I would speak with you once more alone.
BECKET.
My liege, your will and happiness are mine.
[Exeunt King and Becket.
HERBERT.
The same smile still.
WALTER MAP.
Do you see that great black cloud that hath come over the sun and cast us all into shadow?
HERBERT.
And feel it too.
WALTER MAP.
And see you yon side-beam that is forced from under it, and sets the church-tower over there all a-hell-fire as it were?
Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Page 162
