The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (41 page)

Wouldst thou grudge it me?

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 sedge
¹²
that holds

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

enough for friends?

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

find yet an hour of sun to run away by.

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

flowered company.

A ring of flowers is nothing to plight a troth
¹³
for all a

life.

What girl’s tilly-vally
¹⁴
prattle! What day are we?

Come, tell.

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

morning the priest talked of such and other.

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?

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-

wether
¹⁷
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? Afeard
¹⁸
boy, doth Thursday

next or ten years on danger thee to quaking?

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

in this broad main
¹⁹
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

conceit
²¹
of a time but this, a planted, growing,

swelling seed forever.

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.

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”

They call some royal name.

Some hapless duke, bid to weigh some caitiff’s
²³
claim

of law, or called to lead trembling boys to buffets

’gainst Saxon steel.

Cries off

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

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.

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

princely mien
²⁶
are by. Wherefore should they

disturb our close quiet?

Ah, ah, ah, unless thou art some lady playing at

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 chamberlain
²⁸

will slip loose at thy command to bite my ankles.

Cries off

But still they come at us.

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.

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

thou runnest.

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 affected
³¹
to swear it?

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

token, and from thee.

[
They exchange tokens
]

An hour, an hour.

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

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

Exeunt

Too hot, my son, too hot.
⁴

There were a time,

My lord, such heat did blast
⁵
from your own bile,

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

For when but crabbed
⁶
he havoc-shaked this isle,

Provoked to whirling bangstry
⁷
and dread force,

He threw down Grampian
⁸
mount to vent his gall.
⁹

Think I forgot what was to be your son?

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

Nay, Uncle, I’m the deathsman
¹⁰
of repose.—

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

Think on your crown! Hold on
¹¹
with sovereign’s

cares,

Not fall away from temporal affairs,

To forward
¹²
dwell in heaven’s seigniory
¹³

While yet your shape doth fill that earthly seat,

But bridle all events to your control.—

[
To Calvan
] My brother, chafe
¹⁴
your father’s icy hide

With selfsame news was read to us below.
¹⁵

Prince Arthur flies to London’s Roman tower
¹⁶

So soon as he doth make a potent head
¹⁷

And therewith at the Abbey butt
¹⁸
the crown,

From whence, with benison as Britain’s king,

He purposes with fearful sway
¹⁹
to York

To venge his father’s death upon the Saxon.

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

Who acts thus, Calvan? Say you? Mouldwarp
²⁰

Arthur,

Bescreened in Wales, now dares to ope his eye!

That vain and liberal
²¹
boy would stain the crown,

Would brave the London air and Saxon blades,

While valiant Pict and Scot—with whinyards
²²
sheathed

And buttoned belts
²³
left hanging by the wall—

Do ladylike sit fond and bluntly
²⁴
still.

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

For legacy he gains but bonny
²⁵
strife.

Long may he live as his dead sire did live,

Distract
²⁶
by constant war ’gainst Saxony,

Who’ll parallel
²⁷
the English king along

For ev’ry season of the years whilst we,

From Tweed to Tyne to Tees, extend our claim.

Let o’ercharged
²⁸
Arthur bleed and hold his crown

As northern tide flows unrelenting south.