The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (57 page)

I have some royal heart, for this I met

And did not squeak. I have some royal gloss,

For that fair king doth see in me his twin.

If heart and gloss, though, yet I want the blood:

Elizabeth in truth did bear his son,

On selfsame day my own dam had a boy.
²⁹

My mother’s son lives still, for years, I hope,

While th’other met his end some weeks ago.

I came in hope of some small token, aye,

And once or twice my fancy rode a gallop

’Til I was knighted or endowed with land.

But this mad whirling rush of fortune’s wheel

Was all unlooked,
³⁰
and frights me a wild duck.

My wings are bating;
³¹
I ought fly to York,

Afore they learn how small a wren am I,

Yet something is that mews me up
³²
in court.

An I go now, all benefit is lost.

A day or two, perhaps, as Prince of Wales,

Whilst father is at war with duke beside,

Leaves vantage for good fortune to provide.
Exit

How empty now great Arthur’s halls do seem.

The king is led his host to Ireland, lord.

Where doth the queen reside in time of war?

At court, with all her ladies and the guard,

And those that dance to fill her empty hours.

Go greet her that her most well-willing friend,

The King of Britain—but for one—awaits.

Exit servant

[
Aside
] And he would see her down before him kneel
¹

And pledge her weeping vow to her next lord.

What court is this? And with how many kings?

Doth Arthur suffer them to share his throne?

Here is no call, no space, no time for you,
²

But all is answered for by us, sirrah,

And handsomely, and we will hold our place.

Off, off! The field’s yet ours for many months,

Commissions from the king to play for him

Upon return from Irish wars no less

Than comedy and tragedy, two each,

And to invent a tale with all his knights

Displayed on stage as heroes in a quest.

So, fly, avaunt,
³
ye paste-crowned, rat-robed king.

Make haste or we will drop you from the walls.

How bare, mechanical a king you make!

Art thou base interluder,
⁴
puffy
⁵
rogue?

Well, bow, O malapert,
⁶
to current
⁷
king.

Not thine to claim by wishing, paper prince.

Now I have in my days played Charlemagne

And Caesar, David, Herod, Priam, Jove,
⁹

And thou do aweless show thyself to me.

But lift from here, and turn the head. Look tall.

No, no, thou couldst be messenger, no more.

Let drop thy hands: why press and pull them so?

Thy manner calls to mind a washing fly.

I thank thee for this kingly lessoning,

Though yet thy days in court are few remaining.—

My lady, tell us what thou playest yet

For Arthur should he safe return from war?

Who from ambition did destroy his life.

Too dark to play for joyful king, too dark.

Too true, to speak more properly, too true.

La! Truth belongs in preachers’ sermon texts;

It ne’er yet paid a player’s wage, nor will.

But how? Are you more players yet or true?

A gathering of kings o’erwhelms the court,

But only gulls cannot distinguish blood

From players’ paints.
¹¹

Great queen, I am unarmed.

Your beauty cuts—

You carry yet a sword.

Your majesty?

You said you are unarmed.

I meant to speak as poets do, O Queen,

Of beauty, love, and your most perfect self.

All Britain swells with pride and hies to tell

The world how Guenhera, in loveliness,

Is queen above all history’s fairest names:

Nor Helen, Venus, nor Europa, none

May claim but meanest of similitude.

We thank you, King of Picts, for these your words

And ask of you what matter draws you south?

To fix between us the validity

That comprehends our nations’ league: that I

Am now your son, and you my loving dam,

And more, that should cruel war scythe Arthur down,

I will, made king, maintain you on your throne,

And take from “mother-queen” a needless word.
¹²

Thou seemest to misconster
¹³
Arthur’s will,

And place thyself, unasked, in other’s seat.

Now who art thou that steals into our court

Demanding audience of my mother fair,

And crooning
¹⁴
words of love and legacy?

But who is this stands by in diadem?

’Tis Philip, Prince of Wales, no less than son

First-born to Arthur, heir to Britain’s throne.

Another player and obscene to God?

Is no one here who speaks God’s holy truth?

The comedy would have our exits now,

Each by our rightful doors, O King of Picts.

Unkind, madame, and unadvisèd pert.
¹⁵

I came to offer you my loyalty

Until such time as God will have me king.

For God doth wish for my continuance:
¹⁶

He speaks in omens, acts, and lineage,

His will is seen in your own barren womb,

The which when planted with my hallowed seed,

And not corrupted by the bastard’s touch,

Will fruitfully bear forth a race of kings.

Yet kindness is not here with kindness met.

Instead, I find this painted treachery.

Your king, among his crimes, is now forsworn,

For he hath given that was never his.
¹⁷

Perforce my message alters now, my queen,

And you will be my guest without delay,

And with false prince reside in Pictland’s cold.

My men await: we leave at once. Make haste.

Or no? You draw?

We will conduct you now.

Nor orphan boy of Wales nor kersey king
¹⁸

Is like
¹⁹
to slow our swift velocity.

With such celerity as altered thee

From stamm’ring suitor to a damnèd churl.

Was it but yesterday thou wert sweet child?

Most cruelly you misjudge me, Guenhera.

Budge on, and you will learn in Pictish court

How true and honest kings do fearsome reign.

Exeunt

The welkin
¹
splits with shattering blue-gold fire,

lashing our skin with cold-forged nails, hammered

hard off heaven’s anvils.

It rains.

Aye, it rains.

Aye, would you left it there. Better rain than we

should see clear night and therein witness the comets,

blots, and disordered heavens. The book of God is

open for any who have eyes. Dark fires, fallen stars,

and bright midnights tell mischief.