The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel Read online

  The first to bear you tidings of the day?

  GLOUCESTER

  There’s none of any other, nor of thee.

  MESSENGER

  Were ten of us when we were sent from York

  To speed to you and Arthur heavy cheer.38

  GLOUCESTER

  Is’t he or I were meant to hear thee first?

  MESSENGER

  That wants a learnèd herald to unknot.

  ’Tis you, my lord, as you are lord protector,

  ’Tis he, my lord, for he is now your king.

  GLOUCESTER

  My king? How king? What of the king his sire?

  MESSENGER

  It is on this my embassy depends.

  He quaffed of water drawn from venomed well,

  Undone by filthy Saxon perfidy,39

  And yet, in litter40 sick, did he still lead.41,42

  With truncheon slipping from his fingers’ grasp

  He whispered terms of manage43 few men heard.

  But hoarsely forth he called, to no effect.

  And now on York’s high wall the Saxon flag

  Does whip, and Pictish44 Loth does claim our throne.

  GLOUCESTER

  Thus one man’s death so bolds the bashful north

  That borderers45 ally with farland46 troops

  Conspiring all to reach at Britain’s crown.

  MESSENGER

  Where waits the prince, my lord?

  GLOUCESTER

  The prince? The king

  Is there, below, at hunt.

  MESSENGER

  Shall I to him?

  GLOUCESTER

  Anon. Allow him yet one weightless breath.

  [Exit messenger]

  His office and the times will bide a trice.47

  The feared-desirèd day has startled us.

  Who waits?

  [Enter servant]

  SERVANT

  My lord?

  GLOUCESTER

  Go bid the master couple up the hounds

  And knot the slips,48 uncall this day’s last pleasures.

  Then send to all our friends across the Wye49

  To speed to London’s abbey, thence to York.

  We grieve a king, anoint his heir, and fight.

  Exeunt

  ACT I, SCENE II

  [Location: A field in Gloucestershire]

  Enter Arthur for Swain1 and Shepherdess

  SHEPHERDESS

  An it like thee, sit and watch my flock with me.

  There’s grass enough to rest a body on. And trees to booth2 thy white face,3 an it like thee.

  ARTHUR

  It likes me much, Joan. Ecce signum,4,5 here’s a cowslip6,7 for thy hair.

  SHEPHERDESS

  Itching,8 are you? I find my own flowers with none to help, thanks.

  ARTHUR

  Sweet goose, you speak true. But can you weave ’em to

  a crown? I was learnèd once in twisting stems in what what

  form I conceive. Would you a crown, Queen?

  SHEPHERDESS

  Thou namest me what?

  ARTHUR

  A queen, a royal lady of all these demesnes about.

  SHEPHERDESS

  Oh, and wouldst thou be my king then? There’s not a

  Jack sits before me promises less than empires for a

  kiss. And not a one but delivers me none.

  ARTHUR

  The wretches! But you stretch ’em no credit,9 my

  Joan, or more’s the pity. And now I am no common

  goat-herd. Find me so?

  SHEPHERDESS

  More pretty, true, but that’s a cloud in stag’s form,

  soon enough to turn to other shapes, if only grow its its

  horns a foot or two.10

  ARTHUR

  She’s witty wise enough to be a queen! All’s well for me

  then. Wouldst thou a ring of shoots for thy pretty

  hand? Shall I shape these flowers into our banns?11

  SHEPHERDESS

  Wouldst thou grudge it me?

  ARTHUR

  No man could, nor highest devoted nor basest knave.

  For lips as red I’d not begrudge an empire. But talk

  of kingdoms? Why is this willow not realm enough?

  Not vast enough for empire the sedge12 that holds

  that near bank? And sure this day and night are time

  enough for friends?

  SHEPHERDESS

  Sure there’s time enough for swains to talk a girl and

  find yet an hour of sun to run away by.

  ARTHUR

  None could be so dull to run, given taste of thy

  flowered company.

  SHEPHERDESS

  A ring of flowers is nothing to plight a troth13 for all a

  life.

  ARTHUR

  What girl’s tilly-vally14 prattle! What day are we?

  Come, tell.

  SHEPHERDESS

  ’Tis Monday, Jack. ’Tis sure ’twere only yesterday at

  morning the priest talked of such and other.

  ARTHUR

  Monday, then, ’tis Monday. And what knowest thou of

  Thursday still a-foot? Tell, sorceress, that I might

  know the future! Perhaps we’ll fly a Saxon army, or

  this overbold river o’er-wet the fields and town, or a

  pox to carry every third man to his end? So tell me,

  Joan, what knowest thou of Thursday next?

  SHEPHERDESS

  Turnmelon!15,16 Thinkest thou such serpent tongues

  as thine have ne’er hissed sweet to me? What know I

  of Thursday! Pah! I know I fear it not. I know it will

  will from this day be different so little as those two

  green grasses are the one the other. I know I’ll see it

  from this willow or that one there, where my bell-

  wether17 likes best the sweet clover. I’ll sit here

  Thursday, my flower-prince, upon this very throne.

  Can I so easy outsee thee by seeing that? Where

  wilt thou be Thursday? Afeard18 boy, doth Thursday

  next or ten years on danger thee to quaking?

  ARTHUR

  Ha! I do love thee, Joan. Nay, no day at thy side, afloat

  in this broad main19 of green can fright me. I tell

  thee, Joan, I know it, I’ll ne’er leave thy side. I

  cannot see a day, Thursday or other, when I would

  would not feel as I do now. I am a turtle,20 have no

  conceit21 of a time but this, a planted, growing,

  swelling seed forever.

  SHEPHERDESS

  Growing, swelling, aye, aye.22 Just words, no different

  if thou speakest or make mute that voice, the sun

  moves no fleeter for all thy wild tongue doth whip.

  ARTHUR

  Queen of wisdom! Chide me roughly, then! Close my

  vexing mouth, prison my rebel words under soft lock.

  Come, make fast my silence.

  [They kiss]

  Flourish, trumpets off, cries [of] “Arthur,” “Prince”

  SHEPHERDESS

  They call some royal name.

  ARTHUR

  Some hapless duke, bid to weigh some caitiff’s23 claim

  of law, or called to lead trembling boys to buffets

  ’gainst Saxon steel.

  Cries off

  SHEPHERDESS

  They seek him at an inch now. They will upon us.

  ARTHUR

  I bleed remorse for such a one as this, his days in

  chambers, closets,24 armor. I had fled by breakfast

  were I that cursed prince.

  SHEPHERDESS

  They come, they come, now nigh.25 Yet none of

  princely mien26 are by. Wherefore should they

  disturb our close quiet?

  ARTHUR

  Ah, ah, ah, unless thou art some lady playing atr />
  pastoral belike,27 beflowering her skirts! I see now,

  tricksy, thy flock are courtiers, thy ladies attendant

  linger above, enbranched and dressed in leaves and

  birds-nest. And there thy most lank-lean chamberlain28

  will slip loose at thy command to bite my ankles.

  Cries off

  SHEPHERDESS

  But still they come at us.

  ARTHUR

  Then I must needs flee ere your highness has me

  sequestered at your pleasure into a dungeon, or

  stretched an inch or two for my rude attentions.

  SHEPHERDESS

  Patch!29 Jackdaw!30 Whither away? Thou runnest,

  thou runnest.

  ARTHUR

  But from your sergeants at arms. If thou art not some

  hidden queen, be here for me an hour hence and I’ll

  to thee. Stand’st thou affected31 to swear it?

  SHEPHERDESS

  Wouldst flee? Then flee. Wherefore? But here, a

  token, and from thee.

  [They exchange tokens]

  ARTHUR

  An hour, an hour.

  SHEPHERDESS

  Lies and lies, but here I’ll be an hour on and an hour

  yet ’til folding,32 and days and days if thou wilt have

  me.

  Cries off

  ARTHUR

  An hour, but a single hour, Joan, I swear it.

  Exeunt

  ACT I, SCENE III

  [Location: the] Pictish court

  Flourish and trumpets. Enter Loth of Pictland in litter, Conranus of Scotland, Mordred of Rothesay,1 [Calvan], Alda,2,3 and others

  LOTH

  Too hot, my son, too hot.4

  MORDRED

  There were a time,

  My lord, such heat did blast5 from your own bile,

  When all did know King Loth of Pictland’s moods.

  For when but crabbed6 he havoc-shaked this isle,

  Provoked to whirling bangstry7 and dread force,

  He threw down Grampian8 mount to vent his gall.9

  Think I forgot what was to be your son?

  CONRANUS

  Leave off, fierce Duke, your father begs his rest.

  MORDRED

  Nay, Uncle, I’m the deathsman10 of repose.—

  [To Loth] Your vigor melts away too soon, great king.

  Think on your crown! Hold on11 with sovereign’s

  cares,

  Not fall away from temporal affairs,

  To forward12 dwell in heaven’s seigniory13

  While yet your shape doth fill that earthly seat,

  But bridle all events to your control.—

  [To Calvan] My brother, chafe14 your father’s icy hide

  With selfsame news was read to us below.15

  CALVAN

  Prince Arthur flies to London’s Roman tower16

  So soon as he doth make a potent head17

  And therewith at the Abbey butt18 the crown,

  From whence, with benison as Britain’s king,

  He purposes with fearful sway19 to York

  To venge his father’s death upon the Saxon.

  MORDRED

  To make a head! And post with sway! To venge!

  Who acts thus, Calvan? Say you? Mouldwarp20

  Arthur,

  Bescreened in Wales, now dares to ope his eye!

  That vain and liberal21 boy would stain the crown,

  Would brave the London air and Saxon blades,

  While valiant Pict and Scot—with whinyards22 sheathed

  And buttoned belts23 left hanging by the wall—

  Do ladylike sit fond and bluntly24 still.

  CONRANUS

  What though, if Arthur is of Uter’s seed?

  For legacy he gains but bonny25 strife.

  Long may he live as his dead sire did live,

  Distract26 by constant war ’gainst Saxony,

  Who’ll parallel27 the English king along

  For ev’ry season of the years whilst we,

  From Tweed to Tyne to Tees, extend our claim.

  Let o’ercharged28 Arthur bleed and hold his crown

  As northern tide flows unrelenting south.

  MORDRED

  You’d move our bound by modest ell29 or inch

  When Britain all, this island whole entire—

  All England, Wales, this Pictland, and your Scots—

  By one crown all is ringed, and that crown mine.

  CONRANUS

  Your father’s.

  MORDRED

  Aye, my father’s, aye, if he

  But stretch his gripping hand toward Arthur’s scalp.

  CONRANUS

  This wind of rhetoric racks not the heir.30

  MORDRED

  No lawful heir did sprout from Uter’s seed.

  By lust made frantic, stole that vicious king

  Into the absent Earl of Cornwall’s bed,

  And there did scratch with steel31 th’resisting itch.32

  The lady swelled with this false Prince of Wales