The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (40 page)

O, gray old Duke of Gloucester, kindly lord,

For all thy gifts, sage counsel, and sweet care

I mean to clip thee to my kingly breast

When round my temples flows the stream of gold.
⁷

But be not now nor then a wit-poor prophet,

Who cloaks his lank advice in piety.

I would not have my second father’s voice

Now sing this priestly strain,
⁸
nay, Duke, not you.

Do you then call me father, good my prince?

With love I call you only son, from when

That night our gate did croak and murder sleep,
⁹

There came a courser,
¹⁰
black against the sky,

And wondrous dispatch from th’embattled king

Was read to me, great confidence bestowed.

Then soldiers pushed th’unwilling nurse to me,

I marked the fardle
¹¹
in her weak, old arms,

All swathed
¹²
were you in clouts
¹³
of Orient red.
¹⁴

And she did sob to you, “Farewell, my boy,”

And would not ope her fists to give thee o’er.

Then I and my new bride, yet half abed,

Before we passed scarce one black night’s embrace,

Did gaze upon a tiny boy’s bare head.

A mother more than my own dam was she,

Your blessèd wife.

Who lived else issueless,

And loved you as her son unto her grave.

Cries off

Thy pig attends her shrift
¹⁵
and final words,

While I do lay in charge my spear at mutton.
¹⁶

Then have you nothing of a conscience, Prince?

I have a conscience of a nothing, Duke.
¹⁷

And ere I float upon remembered days,

Or lose a stone
¹⁸
to that hog’s truffling chaps,
¹⁹

I’ll take me down the hill to where she droops,
²⁰

And dreams soft or of princes or of swains.
²¹

Whiche’er Mab
²²
soweth that I’ll ear.
²³
Now to her!
²⁴

Exit
[
Arthur
]

“In Gloucestershire is Arthur safe from war.”

Thus read King Uter’s posted words, and Gloucester—

When time was
²⁵
war-like Gloucester—was unmanned.

Each freshly knighted squire, each new-made earl—

To hollowed title raised, for lack of pates

To fill the bloodied casques of warm dead lords—

Did frown on me, a nurse, far off from war.

I nothing chose, but did obey my king:

Not only stand protector for the prince,

But warrant him the future of the realm,

Be England’s Mentor
²⁶
to the Prince of Wales

And tend a manly heir to wisely reign

Then banish war from off our bloodied shores.

I ne’er had other son, nor wife for long.

The day I cut that boy a sword of lath
²⁷

And leapt for him and made to die when touched
²⁸

And held him pick-a-back
²⁹
near all the day,

Smacks
³⁰
not more distant flown than half a week.

Yet he was never mine, but only lent.

Now bounds away this gallant-springing
³¹
man,

No more a boy mistaking me for Mars,

But cockered,
³²
half-made prince ’pon whose slight arm

Anon must trusting lean all Albion.
³³

I am to raise a king or fly with one

As fate decrees, and vicious Saxon
³⁴
arms,

And Scottish breed-bates’
³⁵
whining discontent.

To lead or to be led. For both he’s bred.

On me will lie the blame an
³⁶
he’s not meet.
³⁷

The censure is on Gloucester’s weary duke

Who sacrificed his name to make this prince.

What king forged I? All England will be judge.

Short-winded, boy?

Aye, save your grace. Am I

The first to bear you tidings of the day?

There’s none of any other, nor of thee.

Were ten of us when we were sent from York

To speed to you and Arthur heavy cheer.
³⁸

Is’t he or I were meant to hear thee first?

That wants a learnèd herald to unknot.

’Tis you, my lord, as you are lord protector,

’Tis he, my lord, for he is now your king.

My king? How king? What of the king his sire?

It is on this my embassy depends.

He quaffed of water drawn from venomed well,

Undone by filthy Saxon perfidy,
³⁹

And yet, in litter
⁴⁰
sick, did he still lead.
^41
,
42

With truncheon slipping from his fingers’ grasp

He whispered terms of manage
⁴³
few men heard.

But hoarsely forth he called, to no effect.

And now on York’s high wall the Saxon flag

Does whip, and Pictish
⁴⁴
Loth does claim our throne.

Thus one man’s death so bolds the bashful north

That borderers
⁴⁵
ally with farland
⁴⁶
troops

Conspiring all to reach at Britain’s crown.

Where waits the prince, my lord?

The prince? The king

Is there, below, at hunt.

Shall I to him?

Anon. Allow him yet one weightless breath.

[
Exit messenger
]

His office and the times will bide a trice.
⁴⁷

The feared-desirèd day has startled us.

Who waits?

My lord?

Go bid the master couple up the hounds

And knot the slips,
⁴⁸
uncall this day’s last pleasures.

Then send to all our friends across the Wye
⁴⁹

To speed to London’s abbey, thence to York.

We grieve a king, anoint his heir, and fight.

Exeunt

An it like thee, sit and watch my flock with me.

There’s grass enough to rest a body on. And trees to booth
²
thy white face,
³
an it like thee.

It likes me much, Joan.
Ecce signum
,
^4
,
5
here’s a cowslip
^6
,
7
for thy hair.

Itching,
⁸
are you? I find my own flowers with none to help, thanks.

Sweet goose, you speak true. But can you weave ’em to

a crown? I was learnèd once in twisting stems in what what

form I conceive. Would you a crown, Queen?

Thou namest me what?

A queen, a royal lady of all these demesnes about.

Oh, and wouldst thou be my king then? There’s not a

Jack sits before me promises less than empires for a

kiss. And not a one but delivers me none.

The wretches! But you stretch ’em no credit,
⁹
my

Joan, or more’s the pity. And now I am no common

goat-herd. Find me so?

More pretty, true, but that’s a cloud in stag’s form,

soon enough to turn to other shapes, if only grow its its

horns a foot or two.
¹⁰

She’s witty wise enough to be a queen! All’s well for me

then. Wouldst thou a ring of shoots for thy pretty

hand? Shall I shape these flowers into our banns?
¹¹