The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (45 page)

And they’ll not cuff me more?

An if they do, thou sayest the pope will

excommasticate
²
’em.

They say the king will not see the dogs no more, no

time for hunts now.

When the king had thy years, he passed all hours with

me, slipped his watchers, came tripping to the

hounds. Knew them all and one, e’en by their name,

called ’em to their slips, learnt to flesh
³
’em.

“Highness,” says I, “they’ll be wanting you in for

lessons,” I’d say, but no, I knew he’d stay by. “Or

tilting,” I’d say, “dancing,” and

the king—were not the king, then—the king, says he to me, “If it please,”

talk sweet and crisple
⁴
up their coats with his light

fingers, “If it please, not to give out, leave me just to

see to Peritas, his leg ails, his gait’s not good.” Not for

long years, but back then, he knew better than thou

hast shown, could make ’em bark or hold mum at his

word. “Sing,” says he, and there they sing. “Mum

now,” says he, and all there’s no sound. “Sing! Mum!

Sing! Mum!” He’d weep when a boar or bear did the

the worst to one of his.

He’ll see worse things now, sure. All to war. No time now for hounds.

Any other prince become any other king, I’d say thee

aye. But this boy loved his dogs, loved his games. And

then, now, see, he cannot but stop and admire every

maid or lady passes by. Say there’s a king who loves it so,

so strong as any pleasure-jack or apple-squire,
⁵

who runs ’em to earth, prefers ’em to all war making,

mark it. Wants to miss the wars, sees no joy in the

noble slashing, the crying out, the gobbets of flesh

and man’s blood-sprays. Give ’em his choosing, say I,

he’ll visit his tib,
⁶
have his will,
⁷
then back in his slop,
⁸

then he’ll be here, next us two, thou’lt see him, and

him calling for old Edgar and Lucius and stroking

Socrates’ long ears. And all us others, we’ll do what

the king will do, and not have to go to war. If he’s the

same boy, and why not? Who tells me he’s of another

sort now? For nothing: a drop of oil and a crown

makes not a man another sort.

I wot not,
⁹
sir. There’s magic talk as well.

Makes no puttock of a wren.
¹⁰
Same

boy I loved, same boy. He’ll make no war when there’s peace to joy.

Watch, thou.

My mother’s brothers twain are pikemen in Sir

David’s company.

A valiant, and Welsh as one might hope, God save him.

My mother would their hands were hers sooner their

arms lopped or hacked for Sir David.

Might she see the kingdom commodated
¹¹
all to her

liking alone. Now wilt thou come, boy? There’s meat

to give out. Wouldst thou tarry
¹²
on and on?

Exeunt

Now thick-walled York looms gray and cold above

And bristles all along like porpentine
¹

With spear and bolts that scent out English flesh.

My English friends, my English brothers now,

You hear my voice’s maiden call to arms,

To urge you on who want from me no urging,

And quicken ire of knights to martial wrath

Who were born fighting men ere I was born,

To lead you where you have already bled,

But I have not. What king is this who calls?

An York should be the first and last of me,

Let no man say I was not Uter’s son,

Nor valued more than he this bubble life.

But of our foemen, this cannot be said.

Who waits for us within, fell
²
Englishmen?

This Saxon pride set sail o’er Humber’s tide
³

And then conjoined
⁴
to Pictish treachery

For but to cower, spent and quaking-shy,

Portcullised
⁵
fast behind the walls of York,

As guilty lads will seek their mother’s skirts

When older boys they vex come for revenge.

But Arthur’s at the gate! ’Tis Britain’s fist

That hammers now upon the shiv’ring
⁶
boards.

An English blood be thin as watery wine,

Then sheathe we now our swords and skulk away

With Saxon language tripping from our lips.

You’d con
⁷
th’invader’s tongue?
Absit omen
.
⁸

Let’s school them then in terms of English arms,

Decline and conjugate
⁹
hard
¹⁰
words—but hark!

Chambers
¹¹

She sighs with gentle pleading that we come!

Now wait no more to save her, nobles, in,

And pull those Saxon arms off English skin!

Alarum and chambers. Exeunt

Had cruel Diomedes on Deinos leapt
^1
,
2

To melt our arms and singe our prideful cheeks,

Still less endamagement
³
had this day wreaked

As Arthur did these hours in battled York.

No Christian, holy king is Arthur, nay:

He cruelly used our gentle embassy

As I did doubt he might,
⁴
though ’twas enough

To spur our father back to war-like mien
⁵

And dispatch force to force his will in York

Yet still doth shame now cloud our northern brows!

Five hard assaults I put to the usurping

Upspring
⁶
prince of English bastardy.

I rained upon him blows of sword and axe,

And through his beaver’s vents
⁷
I heard the sound

Of laughing boy or demon’s goblin mirth.

The southern gallants drew from him their heart.

“For Arthur, George, and Britain!” they all cried,

Not England’s name alone, but Britain’s rung.

And on his quartered shield he paints his hopes:

The red Welsh dragon flanks gold English lions,

And harps of Western Isles do play light airs

O’er fields of northern thistle.
⁸

Bannerets
⁹

And horses’ coats all colored with that boast!

Self-loving Arthur now doth rest a-bed,

While we escape the day by postern gate.
¹⁰

Yet all those buffets paid in York today

Are but an obolus of bloody debt

We’ll farm
¹¹
in Lincoln town. You, sirrah, here.

My lord, your will?

Go now to Lincoln’s walls,

Where Colgerne keeps his tenfold larger strength.

We will entice the foe by seeming weak

To follow thither and therein surprise.

Advise him us we hie
¹²
with Arthur’s force

Pursuing, thus he must lay gins
¹³
with guile.

[
Exit messenger
]

There death will knock from haughty Arthur’s pate

The diadem my father’s brow to deck.
¹⁴

Another man, another man!

[
Enter messenger
]

Your grace?

To kings of Scots and Picts make speedy haste,

Invite them to descend from highland nest,

And on spread wing to Lincoln fly like fate

T’assay
¹⁵
the crown I offer with all love.

Go, go!

Exit messenger

Now, Calvan, brother, Orkney’s prince,

To all the captains tell: ’twixt here and there

We leave no crumb, no watery drop but tears

Of those who’d us deny benevolence.

May Arthur find upon this road no bran,

No vivers
¹⁶
of the basest sort to chew,

Until he come to Lincoln, there to wash

His blazon’s quartered fancies
¹⁷
in red blood.

Exeunt