The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (54 page)

Tut,
⁶
Cumbria! Be not a puling
⁷
boy.

My lord, if I do reign, then let me reign.

O, gentle tyrant, mercy on my head.

Once only do I wink,
⁸
or else seem weak.

Now, Crier, speak!

As token of accused, uncertain state,

Bear willow branch as sign of love forsworn

And fennel leaf that honors lovers true.

She gives two branches

At trial’s end, shall one remain on you.

[
Reading
]

Imprimis:
⁹
The Earl of Cumbria did, upon St. Lambert’s

Day,
¹⁰
speak love to Rosamunde, a lady of this court,

and did move her with his words.
Item:
He having

purchased with words this melting heart, the same

earl did lead the lady to a bosky covert.
¹¹

Item:
This same earl did, at mellay
¹²
two days later,

wear no token of the lady in his helm or on his

person and, when he did smite Sir Stephen to the

ground, asked not the lady’s favor. Thus reads the

charge of most uncourteous love.

The lady stands withal. Her case is plain.

And black th’unmitigated
¹³
crime we hear.

If guilt is found then we pronounce the doom:

To Rosamunde forsworn you’ll pay a sonnet.

Its two and dozen branches
¹⁴
will support

Perfumèd buds of love that you affect,

As every lady here can see in you.

Good Cumbria, what answer do you make?

Will you not ban
¹⁵
this childish tick-tack,
¹⁶
King?

Discharge your servant from this vanity,

This swarm of tomboy-geese,
¹⁷
and swift restore

This wayward court to manly empery.
¹⁸

Kneel, slave, to thy dread queen and tame thy tongue,

Which were more sharp, thy neck had felt its edge.
¹⁹

Compose thy fourteen lines to this poor maid,

Or suffer my compulsatory
²⁰
wrath.

Such moody men ill suit our quiet court.

The both of you I hold as rudesbys,
²¹
both:

Yes, king, who would o’erbear in his queen’s name,

But doing so o’erbears that queen you serve.

Thy sonnet is become a plump ballade,
²²

Good earl, and scowls will yield thee yet more verse.

For peevish king, on thee falls heavy doom:

A masque
²³
for Martinmas
²⁴
upon the theme

Of queenly wisdom.

King, the court must void

And council sit at once to hear my news.

My duke, why haste and noise in ladies’ hour?

This sorts
²⁵
not with our majesty, dear friend.

My king, there is but now delivered word.

Off Devon’s Linmouth coast a forest sprouts,

A wood at sea, but in its rise and fall

Distinct from landed trees that left and right

Do rock. And from each countless, tow’ring mast

Clap Saxon pennons: wolves and demi-fiends.

Unfinished yet are that coast’s daunting walls,

And force more vast than any we have known

Now wets its tongue on English blood and tears.

We stand amazed at how it comes again,

And summer blue grows black by Saxon clouds.

Dear ladies, pray excuse our shifting key;

We must unwilling now hear other tunes.

An hour yet, King, to see our matter’s end.

How sweet, my love, to count each grain of time

Then turn th’hour-glass around again whilst thou

Dost sift the virtues in thy manuals.
²⁶

I feel remorse that we must turn to war

And bid you lead your ladies from the court.

Unhappily we yield, my fearful liege,

But only if we may convene anon.

Enough! There can be no more talk. Now, go!

Exeunt all ladies

Speak, Gloucester, Cumbria, all men of war:

What ready force might we in haste array?

King, we are taken tardy by a phoenix

That we did reckon so much heaped-up ash.
²⁷

These conquered Saxons practiced sorcery

That from their ruined state did plenish up
²⁸

So titely
²⁹
their annihilated strength.

No sorcery but your soft mercy, king,

When for their scabby pagan vows at York

You set them back on sea to breed and then

At Bath did qualm to slay but half their ranks

And loosed their weeping bearing boys to fly.

At Linmouth they repay your gentleness

While you do wail of clouds and sorcery!

Withhold thine indignation, Cumbria,

And bow thy head in fear of thy king’s rage.

Nay, nay, a king may rightly be rebuked.

’Twas youthful will to be unlike my sire

Provoked me to such bounty unadvised—

An Devon’s bulwarks are imperfect still,

I fear to know our count of ready men.

Forsooth, scant thousand are trained up in arms.

To that add peasant ranks with knife and fork.
³⁰

My power, nearest Linmouth in its day,

Was all brought north to fortify the Tyne.

The Saxons find us lame, they will bestrut
³¹

As far as London ere we give them fight.

What help can we account from northern lands?

The Pict will lend sworn arms at your command

But only if he fears your swift reproof.

He knelt in Abbey’s echoes, kissed my ring.

Sure I doubt nothing of his fast reply.

Send now to him. Command his every pick.
³²

This reasons shallow, King. He bent his knees

When Arthur’s power waxed, and Pictland’s throne

Was filled as Arthur would.

And now?

And now

Nor fear of you nor love for you hath he,

But grudgeful holds you Calvan’s slaughterer,

And will no bloody aid deliver you

But smiling tarry as your England burns.

Though Britain joys first peace sith Roman days,

And harvests more can feed each mewling babe,

Though churches toll and tithe, and stalls
³³
are full,

Though our court’s glories ring to Muscovy,

Barbarians flow across the land like rats,

For Mordred, goat o’the moors, doth fear not me.

I’ll open up that cur from throat to paunch—

Might we in France an ally find?

Sure not.

Not when their offered love was cast away

And you must wed where no alliance was.

What game is this? Why come they yet again?

Your prideful realm is built on women’s dreams.

Surprised are you this peace lasts but a day?

That on our shores again these devils wash?

Beshrew
³⁴
the tide that does not plaud
³⁵
your court!
³⁶

There never will be day until the last,

Without some foeman come t’unsheathe his sword.

There’s only war. ’Tis man’s inheritance.

No peace, but now and then an instant’s breath

Made sweeter still by certain brevity.

’Twas this your father Uter taught to me.

He taught me nought, nor this nor other words.

As Mordred makes us beg that is our right,

What ransom must we pay the proditor?
³⁷

What treasure yield to purchase love from him?