The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (58 page)

Beshrew the sky. I would fain have some ground, e’en

the most saggish
²
wet. I have sailed enough until I

die. This ship seems fast to be my tomb. From out

out Southampton, round Cornish tail to Ireland, but

do we walk on Irish sands? No sooner anchors drop

than off the ocean floor rebound and we sail

through Orkney ice thence round again to

Yorkshire. Like Sisyphus, for all of time, we’ll sail.
³

Is there no end? We sail and fight and sail again to

fight. I have no more stomach to fill of this.

Be satisfied we did not fight. The Irishman will offer

friendship, then turn and bite when back is shown.

We only show our back and leave the Irish standing,

for the king did lose his errant queen meantime.

Inconsiderate, say I.

He had kept her clapped up close, she would not stray

so.
⁴

D’ye think the sky is lit to warn us? Or tell we will be

punished for his sins? His father was not wed to his

dam. Perhaps we cannot win more, whatever valor’s

shown. I would go home. I would be off this pitching

boat!

I like thee now thy fire’s cooled from time thou wert

glory’s bawcock.
⁵

I am not afraid.

Then thou art no man. The noise is there to fear.

I am not fearing. Not much. I only would stop. My

guts do dance.

And half the men’s step live to dance with thine.

There’s a devil’s fever aboard our merry squiff,
⁶
and

and we will set to land with fewer hands than took to

took to Ireland.

I will not number nor make plaint of the count nor any

mischance yet to come, if we but greet the land.

Humber’s mouth! Humber’s mouth!—Strike her!
⁷

Then here is land for thee and I wish thee every joy

awaiting, Bell. Here’s land as thou wouldst wish, but

thou’lt soon call back the ship, for up there is

nought but the cannon’s jaws set to prattling.

I’ll up, beshrew the cannon, beshrew the rain.

The cold-forged nails.

Aye, the nails, beshrew the nails, I’ll be gladly wet in

the first boat that drops and points toward the green.

And we behind you, lad. Lead on.

Exeunt

Our backs are pressed to th’raging Humber’s waves;

There is no way but forward, as in life.

Our feet are pulled into this water-turf,

So eager is some fate to see us earthed.

What chronicle will soon be writ of us

In this so yielding and unyielding ooze?

Is this the promised end to such a realm

As I had built upon my father’s wars?

If Arthur’s story ends in quaggy
¹
field,

How will it play and how best fill a stage?

Some sermoner
²
for epilogue intones:

“Deserving nought of fortune’s gifts to him,

He squandered them in rage and lust and haste.”

It is not right for right:
³
the stain of birth

Was ne’er forgot nor ne’er forgave in me,

No matter I upraised a gloried realm.

No vantage e’er was granted me but I

Must front
⁴
battalions of others’ wills:

The rival kings and discontented lords!

I could have fled to France, or shepherd’s life,

And this gray night be lost with Guenhera.

’Twere offered me anew, I would abjure.

Abjuring, I would choose to live in peace.

In peace, I might escape this grip of shame,

A shame that I have failed to be myself,

And yet that self can only be a king,

So abjuration is forbidden me.

I am no author of my history.

What man knows aught of his own chronicle?

Or kens
⁵
what ill tomorrow hides for him?

So let us greet headlong—if mud allows—

Such end as heaven will: I will not wait.

My lords, well met this night for promenade!

I was but now considering my joy

To find myself again with you beside.

How shall we to the queen, by foot or boat,

Or dangling each from tercel-gentle’s
⁶
talons?

My king, our pikes stand recklessly enranked.

We yield all vantage an we fight from here.

Nor hoof nor boot might hope to leave this field:

Advance in mud or else retire in waves.

We want for arrows and our carriages

Of culverin are sunken to their caps.
⁷

I would a fletcher
⁸
and a gardener,

Good friends, appear from air, or heaven’s car
⁹

Might tumble from above to scorch this mud.

But Constantine, my queen, thy sister, weeps

For thee and me an arrow’s weak flight hence.

If any here do quail at mud, then go

With love and venge my death another day.

Come dawn—if sun can pierce these Yorkish clouds—

I will alone trudge through this birdlime muck,

Encouched up to the chest if God desire,

To fetch my queen and heir, and give the fico
¹⁰

To these o’ertopping
¹¹
dung-breathed caterans.
¹²
—

Be brief, good men, you interrupt our work

Wherein we plot your havoc and despair.

You brave good humor, King, despite of war,

And we from Mordred bring yet more relief.

Aware that you most dangerously are placed,

And wishing in his love for you no ill,

He offers you your bastard and your queen.

’Tis well: he yields to us. We do accept.

Go set them free and we will spare your lives.

Nay: interchangeably, you abdicate.

You must forsake your child, and he his rights,

The queen forsake her rights, and any birth.

All this does Mordred grant you in your peril.

Else menaces most pitiless fell war,

The end of which you will not live to see,

And ere the first blow’s struck, the queen will die.

I abdicate or Mordred slaughters her?

Is’t he who whets his blade against her throat?

And you will gladly serve such king as this?

What men are you that speak a tyrant’s words?

You will pay forfeit of your embassy.

But hesitate to anger, King, and know

We are o’ermanned
¹³
and fever gnaws our ranks.

Must I unqueen the queen to buy her life,

Unking the king, depose myself for Picts?

A kingdom for a queen? In chess perhaps.

I give no faith in this that if we yield,

The queen will live or we will leave this field.

’Tis sure there be more queens to woo and wed

And other heirs that you can litter out.

Nay, Mordred dare not spill such holy blood.—

[
To Ambassadors
] Go tell your king I’ll front him brow to brow

And singly
¹⁴
fight with him by lance or sword,

With queen and all this island at the prize.

Good Constantine, enough: we are engirt.
¹⁵

Content ourselves, my brothers, this must be.

I would lose kingdoms, e’en my own, for her,

And ne’er would kill her in my wilful pride.—

[
To Ambassadors
] He must grant terms protecting all my men.

To all who yield he swears his clemency.