The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (49 page)

And thou, to make a match of heaven,
⁷
wert always

second.

Too sadly true.

And when thou wert king of the woods and I was king

of the waters, or I king of the woods and thou of

waters, our pastance
⁸
was to act great deeds for the

the princess of the flowers. How fares thy gentle

sister? Still pleasant in her humors, the girl we

strived
⁹
to please?

No more a girl, but still doth ask in humility to be

remembered.

I remember no store of humility in her.

Your wit
¹⁰
is most royally acute. But you will observe

her alterations, for she rides to join with us anon. It

was her will, and her will is beyond my certain

manage.

You were my joy of younger days, good earl,

And now I swear upon this fruitful plain,

That you and I will be inseparate.

You deem this blasted,
¹¹
war-ripped turf so rich?

Ay, Cornwall! All our enemies are flown,

And we will in this loam plant seeds of peace.

A frantic look in this one’s eye.—What is’t?

My king, as you did by their bond require,

The Saxons lifted sail from Lincoln Wash.

But soon a change of wind did hale
¹²
them back.

Their priests addeemed
¹³
this blessed by pagan gods.

They spilled from ship anew upon our isle,

Contemptibly stepped back onto our sands.

They throw their eyes on gold and church and field,

They kill our countrymen and burn our land.

O, God! What scorn I do deserve from thee!

What villainy is this? What have I wrought?

What arrogant and idle prince am I!

And where were men to chide my fond, mad youth?

I should be scorned for my vain clemency.

I am not mocked enough! O sugar-prince,

A headstrong jade
¹⁴
that should be roughly spurred!

Let those who judge me weak be made at once

My chosen privy councillors.—Which way?

Towards Bath, my king.

We’ll cote
¹⁵
them ere they wash.

This crime has touched me; I am powder-hot.

To rear now post my word: our mercy’s pact

Refused, each prisoner’s throat is to be cut.

The tidings speak but Saxon perfidy,

Not Scot nor Pict. A moment’s calm, I beg.

I’ll not be tender pitying more, good duke.—

Exit messenger

My men, imperfect
¹⁶
is our bloody task

So follow me, unsheathe your late-hacked blade

And dispatch hell-born foes to hellish shade.

Exeunt

I have to all my texts submitted Loth,

To all my wit, invention, fancy, hopes,

To strong balsamo,
¹
leeches, pastes, and cuts.

Yet still he falters and outstreams his life.

It flows from ev’ry outlet, king. He fails.

The prince with retinue is back from war,

And surely wants the king his father’s ear.

Go learn if audience may yet be had.—

Exit Doctor

Good Mordred, Duke, we missed you here at court.

I bear hard news of noble death, war’s tithe.

The thanes
²
of Bute and Moray, Linlithgow,

And Douglas ride birlinns
³
to Colmekill’s shores.
⁴

Such heavy loss, so light an argument.

How light, my uncle? Tell. A crown? A throne?

A kingdom stole from thee stirs not thy gall?

A tyrant who doth threat thy land and clan?
⁵

Who torments lawful embassy, hates peace

And would lock Pict and Scot in steely yoke?

A petty prince thou told’st this court was weak,

Who wanted nought of us ’til thou like dog

Didst bite at him as would a bear and now

Dost whine what thou hast learnt of his sharp claws.

Speak troth, thou wert impatient of God’s will.

An God did wish thee sat on London’s throne,

He would not send thee home with thanesmen’s dooms.

At Lincoln, King, I fought beside your son.

Speak thou no more a word. He follows not?

Waits not upon thee nor presents to me?

Brave Hebrides gave battle like to none.

On horse and foot—

No more. I want no more.

But Scotland! King! We must record his deeds!

You weep that yet must gaze upon his valor!

Show mercy on my soul and heed my plea.

Art thou a man? But ope thy frighted ear

That I may teach thy tongue some noble words.

For God, who makes us labor for our cause,

Doth bid us praise each death as sacrifice,

Necessity, the proving of our right.

He wants not that we mourn His project’s cost,

But celebrate all blood that lifts us on.

Make red thy lily heart; my father’s come—

[
To Loth
] My king, you must prepare yourself at once.

But briefly: Calvan would that we should come

To London’s tower, thence to bring him home

In change for some few scarcely valued words

That Arthur would have spoke at him.
⁶

The hour of our strength will spring again,

We’ll seize anew the vantage in the strife.

Your father’s apoplexy, Prince, forbids

His travel e’en from here to castle gate.

[
Loth makes a sound or gesture
]

What? Would he speak? Explain these signs to me.

Or would he have me nearer to his ear?

His speech is off and on confused, and I

Cannot, I fear, know always his intent.

Make haste.

The Saxons did forswear their bail,

Set down again and now lay siege to Bath.

At Colgerne’s word?

It was.

On him the stain.

Yet should he bloody the usurper’s nose,

It does become the voice of God’s reply

To Arthur’s unconfinèd blasphemy.

Yet still we’ll pay for Calvan with our words.

The tidings like the tide do press and press

Against our bonny shore. What jocund word?

The bastard’s killed? Or Saxons fled to sea?

This battle cannot end but well for me,

With one or other of my foes defeat.

Thou, sirrah, canst not fail but please, so speak.

I bear no happy words and beg your grace.

I dare not speak.

You choose to speak or die.

I speak and die, or do in silence die.

’Tis thus we all do live, my boy. Now speak.

The Saxon treachery told to the king—

What king?

King Arthur, lord.

Say not “the king”

As he is none, or is but for a day.

Say rather “bastard” or “usurping swine.”