The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (47 page)

High words ride on high wind,
¹
I say. When they

would have your guts to stuff their pudding-bags,
²

they start at singing of Troy for us to love our labors

more.

I grant York was but first I ever knew of war. Never

had I chance until now, I was not able, but what I saw

in York’s turned
³
roads calls shame on talk like that.

A new warrior, la! And all the glories fall in for him.

And thou’rt equal to the king! Had his first taste at

York. Didst thou and he stand with shoulders

touching?

Why bend thy brows?
⁴
Do I go boasting? Nay. I

walked in tremble-knee’d, sure. But did I skirr?
⁵

When the dragon
⁶
belched fire and the ordnance
⁷

thundered, I stood firm. Knocked two Germans

down, I did. Lifted one his beaver back when I put

him on the turf. Put my blade through. I did, thus,

just pushed it through. Like when I would kill

coneys
⁸
with my brother, like that, some, tough, yet

not so tough, in truth. It goes in soft. I never cared to

look the coney in his eye neither, when time came.

Nor cared to look at this big yellow
⁹
one. Said

something in Saxonish, I suppose it was.

Like as not only giving thee “rest you merry.”
¹⁰

Think you so?

Or “fair fall you, valiant soldier.”

He may, he may have.

What block art thou? Needest thou be set to school in

Saxon talk to know he begged thee mercy or swore

out upon thy soul or cried for his new orphan or his

own Saxon mother in Saxonland, which is far from

York, I tell thee, too far to be wandering in hope of

friendly greetings. Hast thou hope he did forgive

thee? Honors thee thy valor? What tales to sing

thyself to bed withal!

No stories, but what I have seen I’ll sing: men do with

valor face death and all the doom beyond when for

their king they fight.

Bend, boy, bend thy head, thy battle-mate’s on hoof.

Gloucester for Arthur passes

His visor down, all silence.

A ghost, like. I first knew battle for his father. Thou

mightst have eaten butter had I stepped in cream.
¹¹

But this one fights the same as his sire, no fear at all in him.

Is he not flesh? Is he of other stuff and feels not a

blade peel off skin? His eyes are agates? They do not

jelly if an arrow pinch ’em? His bones so hard as will

not splinter out the skin as I saw Nick Safe’s arm do?

What serves this talk? To fright a man before a battle’s

fought is no victory, nor like to win us one. Every

fool can say the price to flesh, but marching in

withal, as our king there does march, that’s a lesson,

not to gabble subtle meant to void an army’s guts

afore the fight. What more corruption could a

canker
¹²
spread in corn or rose than that? Thou

mightst be a Saxon tongue to make us weak in heart.

A fig
¹³
for all thy corn and flowers, boy.

Thy breath stinks enough. A flower might cover o’er thy toothless mouth and worse.

That stink he borrowed of certain French

companions, all now burning night and day, and off

to powder tubs.
¹⁴

I’ll learn you both some Saxon words, you knaves.

I need no more words of thee, coward, nor can my nose take none.

Trumpets

Quiet now, the both. That’s Lincoln there and the trumpets sound.

After York, it will be nothing. I had some chance to be

at York at all. They’ll stand me a spigot at the Pard’s

Head,
¹⁵
if I tell my tale.

Again a fool, before and after a fool, a fool from claw

to beak. You sit mum, not you who tells it, you, the

man by you tells it and you sit mute as marble and

first you say it was not this, it was nothing, then you

say you want no talk, and then, when the noise for a

tale is up, then, then you say, “So. I’ll tell you how it

was at York, but it’s no tale I can tell swift, and—” and

you wait a time, you cough, and say, “Throat’s dry.”

Then old Francis opens wide the taps for a man who was at York.

Trumpets

That’s the trumpet of our company. To the walls and

later learn me more of this soldier science.

Exeunt

What dev’lish hag was mother to this fiend?

Yet Arthur holds the field, untouched by blades!

No man is he but war itself come down

To earth to look upon the death of souls.

We melt before his charge, our heart is broke!

No Uter, he: more war-like is the son.

He stalks full silent as with windpipe slit.

We are enow still armed and holding ranks

That with a voice to stir us to our task

We yet can thrash back south these enemies

And hoist our father’s arms on Lincoln’s walls.

But ope your throat and lust’ly call the fight!

Great Calvan’s words do fill my lungs with air:

On northmen, on! To arms, to arms, to th’fight!

In Arthur’s blood I’ll bathe my limbs tonight,

And Britain stride undoubted in my right!

Alarums and exeunt

The shamèd enemy displays his haunch!
¹

’Tis Lincoln now, not York, that English tongues

Will speak when they would conjure victory.

Four-fold the threat we doubted lurked in stealth,
²

The city was well-manned and fortified,

But Arthur’s greyhound-sight did note a gap

And lusty-blooded split it with his arm.

While Gloucester passed the battle’s day at rest.

By this proud flesh
³
upon my arms and face,

All striped these many years in England’s wars,

That seneschal is recreant
⁴
and base.

But softly, Cumbria, hold tongue. The king

Doth wave us off to solitary pray.

Exeunt

[
Gloucester unhelms and kneels
]

Deception ’pon deception preys and fats

Itself, the stronger to deceive anew.

’Twas ever thus, but now is Gloucester’s name

All shard bestrewn,
⁵
so Arthur’s fledgèd
⁶
name

Might tower
⁷
up to all the world’s esteem.

Because I winked at his small boyish deeds,

Now habit binds me tighter, cuts my flesh,

And I omit behaviors grosser still.

What kingdom have we won this day at war?

What rule deserve from such unhonest
⁸
toil?

[
Aside
] Why here’s a glass that shows one’s better face.

Were I of suppler knee, as there I seem,

I’d bow to earth my joints and plant my thanks.

Would this one here could reign instead of me,

A wise old king, resolved yet never rash.

I would I saw such pious king as this

When I do peer into my subjects’ eyes.

But no.

Imperfect is the glass of others’ eyes

Wherein we seek in hope of handsome glimpse

Yet find dim shapes, reversed and versed again,

Which will not ease our self-love’s appetites.

But let us make more pleasant now our thoughts:

I’ll hood myself and from my bloodied twin

[
Hooding himself
]

Glean news of Lincoln’s fate and mine.— [
To
Gloucester
] O, King!

Might errant
¹⁰
friar ease your soul’s distress?

In earth and blood you are o’er-crusted, still

The soul may be clean searched
¹¹
and truly healed.