The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (53 page)

If she whelps
⁵
a prince, what’s that make for Tom, the

boy of Joan? And Phoebe’s boy? Not princes are

they, sure?

With beagles, ’tis no matter, sith, by law, the sire’s

good qualities hold strong into the pups. A bad dam

makes no harm upon the litter. Good sire means good

pups: good head, hard tooth, strong croup,
⁶
there’s

thy father, there’s thy pup. People: ’tis not so. Take

Tom, thou sayest, and mark: his dam found that

Silvius
^7
,
8
to wed her, so Tom’s no prince, or is no

more, if he were. And, mark his face and colors, he’s

more to his dam or even Silvius than he do

resemble—thou know’st the word.
⁹
Though Silvius is

fat and gross enough in breadth to stick a cross-

passage
¹⁰
while that Tom be slender as—
¹¹
’tis not for

us. Now Phoebe’s got no husband, so the church says

her boy’s an orphan.

She calls him her own prince, says he’ll have a

kingdom in the sky.

She’d be kinder yet to handle him as a good dog and

not talk such. Mark Agnes there. Does she spend her

days in thinking on what heaven holds for her? Does

she think on yesterday’s meat or tomorrow’s rain? And

d’ye know one so content to sleep and bark? Peace,

boy. The king has made us peace, we leave him his in

turn.

The sun is almost lifted up.

Come then, couple ’em, show me thou knowest which

hound suits each huntsman’s will. Not Argos,

though. Give him yet another day to lick that leg.

Exeunt

These months in court have emptied me of heart.

We are now imbecile
¹
and womanish.

I counsel thee, O Norfolk, fear what comes,

How haughty proud is Arthur of his court.

Immortal glories he proclaims and scorns

His father’s attributes as barbarous.

’Tis fools who hope their world will never end,

That only ancient kingdoms durst
²
expire.

But search dull tomes of crumbled nations past,

And learn that soon before each empire’s death

Was manly virtue banished from within.

Now Arthur sets us all to scholarship

Of kingdoms and their ruin: England’s next.

Great Cumbria lends voice to all my fears.

Each folly doth insist it is first-born

And nothing owes to madness gone before:

Our court’s decay
³
is nothing like to Rome’s,

’Tis true, yet still will lead us to our end.

I doubted
⁴
Arthur’s realm would slave to lust,

But not to see this meacock
⁵
court of wives.

His youthful passions are reversed left-right,

So lust remains, yet only for the queen.

The queen is all. Her crotchets
⁶
are his toil.

He shapes each man of us into his like.

We are no men but play at manliness.

From inside we are hollowed empty armor.

The court abounds of players and of tales.

Once mighty battle ranks reform to dance.

Now fablers win his love; all deeds are thought.

This dandled
⁷
king was ne’er a martial lord,

His brows do frown on those who counsel arms.

He longs for heaven’s peace brought down to earth,

And does beguile himself to credit too

That England’s enemies should find delight

To sit and mazèd
⁸
wonder at his arts,

Whilst all our forces till and sell and sleep,

And will in battle’s heat abrook
⁹
no pains.

The queen had but a single holy task:

She tarried long at it, then bore no heir.

King Arthur yet forgives her useless womb.

Whilst each
¹⁰
her bloody mischance cheers our foes

He claps her words, proclaims each one conceitful.
¹¹

Were I King Mordred, great, at least, in hate,
¹²

Or Childebert, whose daughter we did scorn,

I would rain plague and war upon this land.

Doth Gloucester not advise the king our foes

Admire
¹³
at us, wide-lipped
¹⁴
as rav’ning
¹⁵
dogs?

There will be death upon our kingdom’s gates.

This minstrels’ court will run with English blood.

O, Arthur’s queen and Gloucester is his maid:

He wants but clout
¹⁶
and tire
¹⁷
to serve this hive.

Unjust to bees who know of war.
¹⁸

What duty can we owe to folly’s prince?

But soft, my earl. Be chary of such thought.

Our fealty’s
¹⁹
not chosen, nor can be

Withdrawn when grievance burns our gorge with bile.

This king is king by God’s own will, not ours.

Let contemplation wander on a path

Where action need not follow wingèd thought.

I speak not of King Arthur’s case today,

But of the gen’ral, philosophical.

If any king doth die, by loving hand,

And kingdom thence be saved ere sands run out,

Then violence diverts no will of God

But acts it forth, as if one were His hand.

But, Cumbria, this is no end of it.

That next king, stern and measured to your taste,

Must every moment fear another blade

From one erroneously reading signs

And thus misprising
²⁰
all of God’s desires.

There is no end to contemplation’s path.

Assassins breed assassins swift as hares.

We must bear under folly and dispose

The ends of kings t’the king of all our ends.

I pray you, Earl, to let such thinkings go.

Your learning suits a university.

Our virtue will prevail by fearless words

And force of great example. Now, farewell.

Farewell, my friend. I will take heed of this.

Exit Norfolk
.

To see the conflagration in the spark,

But, from some conscience-words of little heft,

Not dare prevent the scorching of our realm,

Would tear my heart from me as with a hook.

I want nor crown nor vulgar admiration,

And could in innocence play regicide

As shallow Arthur has too long played king.

Come, hand, couldst thou perform this hellish act?

But think upon’t. In mind’s eye perceive

The moment when: the start of fear, the cry,

The stream of blood, the man betrayed who looks

Into your eye in want of answers there,

The sacrifice of your eternal soul

Which you do willing give to devil’s clutch

No matter all your right and high intent.

But no, I turn and dare not follow this.

What affect’s this? I scarcely know this frost:

Is’t cowardice I feel ice o’er my heart?

It is. I see our end, but cannot start.

And so do kingdoms fall by vice’s art,

When righteous men in conscience stand apart.

Exit

My lords, give way. All men must bend the knee.

For now the ladies reign their hour in court,

And I dispose of all our sovereignty

Into these paler hands to bear law’s scales.—

My queen, in whom I have re-breathed
²
my heir,
³

Abdico meum regnum
.
⁴

Loving friend,

God thank thy faith in gentler sex’s wisdom,

Which we now sharp
⁵
upon the wheel of law.

Speak, Crier, read the charges to the court!

But where’s the Earl of Cumbria, who’s charged?

Go, send for him at once to stand before.