The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (55 page)

No golden-fingered Croesus
³⁸
holds such sums.

Then what? Is’t land he crave or privilege?

I’ll grant he is the Soldan of the Turks
³⁹

Or Duke of Africa.

Or Prince of Wales.

What sense is here?

There is no prince, no heir.

The queen is bursting ripe with coming child.

The queen has lost two breathless bloody heirs,

And may yet many false conceptions
⁴⁰
shed.

This Mordred knows. In change for his sworn arms,

Entail
⁴¹
to him your throne upon your death,

Conditionally
⁴²
no natural heir is born

By this or any queen your highness takes.

Or any? Cumbria, I’ll snap thy bones.

Cod up thy will
⁴³
and tame thy serpent’s tongue.

Thy care of queen is brotherly, my earl,

But hear with no more passion than a luce
⁴⁴

What wisdom here conceiveth: Mordred sure

Doth take me as my family’s dockèd tail.
⁴⁵

If for some mouth-made
⁴⁶
words he takes our part,

And after is my heir safe-born, what harm?

Thereafter I shall act my father’s rate
⁴⁷

And ready me eternally for war.

Go, smooth your sister’s mind of what we do.

It is a devil’s chance to play a kingdom

On th’unproofed vigor
⁴⁸
of an unborn prince!

Bold Cumbria, raise up what force we have,

And Gloucester, send our word to Mordred’s court.

Invite our momentary
⁴⁹
son and heir

To ride with us most lovingly to war.

Exeunt

Is no one waiting?

Majesty, you called?

Is there no word from Linmouth? Of the king?

There’s nothing, madam. Have you any wish?

The pain’s come? Will you I should call the wife?
¹

I have no word of my own battleground,

No more than aught we learn of Saxon wars.

Come, press my back.

Aye, sit.

Nay, standing’s best.

As comfort bids you, that’s the way.

O! O!

I cannot stand with ease.

As lief
²
you’d sit.

Perhaps upon my side.

So then, your side.

Is there then nothing for it?

Nothing now.

You yielded comfort nine full moons ago.

There, there, sit quiet now. You jar
³
the prince.

But sit now! You do move and move, my queen,

As yet I washed your younger muddied cheeks.

Is’t here you ache?

Just there, that’s well. Thou’rt kind.—

What ancient sage first wond’ring marked that line

Of moons ’twixt lover’s smile and labor’s cries?

’Twas known when Adam first leered eyes at Eve.

The king did riddle me afore he rode

And put to me this question wrapped in smiles:

“What burden is’t that cannot still be borne,

My queen, that day when it will no more bear?”

Quoth I, “My king, you riddle at your pleasure.”

Came he, “Nay, at my burden.” Mark’st thou, nurse?

It is a wife, a wife. He kissed me then,

And rode to war, and called me his own Guen.

And left your prince to start on his own ride.

Doth he yet kick and spur his heels at you?

He hath been still within an hour.
⁴

As under-ocean spouts do lend their breath

To beasts below the waves,
⁵
find air, my prince,

Come out and fill my hungry ears and arms

And fill the king with pride of you.—No word?

How is’t that we have nothing yet of him?

Would he not send to us? Not think on us,

Not wake
⁶
that we do think on him in broil?
⁷

Conceiveth he that we have no concern

In victory or death? But who hath more?

Now back you go, my girl, sit still and calm.

If Arthur lives, he makes of me a bargain

With strange a king from strange a northern land.

They wrangle
⁸
over my own bursting womb!

The king has luck, my boy’s in lusty health,

And cries out first for milk and then for scepter.

If th’child doth die, the other thanks his fortune.

Can such men be, that would raise kingdoms up

Upon a chrisom’s
⁹
grave?

Hush, hush, go to.

If Arthur dies, then so too dies his heir,

For Mordred will not stop at its small breaths

To puff him from the throne.
¹⁰
—I’ll fly with him

In peasant weeds
¹¹
and kerchief.—Arthur lives,

And child doth die, what then remains of me?

For heirs must rise or kingdoms surely fall,

And no king born can bear a barren queen.

You drop a case, my girl. I’ll tutor you.

If victory is won, the Saxons scourged,

’Twas you who took the day, heroic queen!

For by your lady’s womb were allies found:

Your king still lives, the child is born, and you

Are Linmouth’s rescuer, bold Guenhera.

I feel them both, those rival-friendly kings.

They counter-strive
¹²
to read their fates in me,

All futures vie in this discov’ry-space.
¹³

Wherefore he leaves me gnashing ignorant?

Is no one waiting there? Is no word come?

O! O!

There now it starts! So kings are born!

Come walk a ways with me in th’lower hall

And by that prompting urge our prince to fall.

Exeunt

And now does Arthur love me, says I am

A steady friend he loves above his life,
¹

Belovèd heir, his brother, almost son.

When Saxon lance did fling me from my horse,

King Arthur charged, restored me to my feet,

And shouted I was “Hector
²
born anew!”

He lies, I know. He cannot think me so.

He boasts more speed and brawn than I, and yet,

Today, his words did something make it so,

And I did smite the Saxon with more strength

For Arthur said I would, and so I did.

At battle’s end, whilst numbering the slain,

I ought have plunged a blade into his back,

But pleased was I to have his ear and eye,

To blush as he made me fair weather.
³

He seems to wish for nothing but that he

Should breathe his last and I should warm his throne.

I know he lies, and yet I thank his love.

The Saxons vanquished, off he posts
⁴
to court

And thence to rebel-factious Ireland’s shores,

’Gainst death and all oblivious enmity.
⁵

His kiss upon my cheek, I watch him fly,

And then do mind
⁶
his murder of my flesh.

Were I that king, I would send Mordred north

To wait his certain crown and wait and wait,

While queens do toil abed to thwart his rights.

By my assent he fashioneth complotment!
⁷

But I am I. I will not wait amort.
⁸

I will to London, there to greet my queen.

I’ll have her promise I am heir, and view

Her beauty, all renowned. Should Arthur die

In Ireland’s wars, she could become my queen.

By reputation’s whisper I have heard

That she is liberal
⁹
with gifts of love.

By Mordred’s holy seed might not we soon

Implant a prince ourselves to hold our claim

And with her womb prove Mordred’s right to rule.

Yes. Then will I obtain from England’s lords,

And vulgar tribune sorts who must be paid,

Such love, subjection, dread that may be bought.

Success made sure, I’ll turn resistant thought

To acting as a vengeful brother ought.

Exit