The Tragedy of Arthur: A Novel (48 page)

Thou startled, priest, and near did feel my blade.

Confess and I will shrive you back to war

New-cleansed and shent.
¹²

But I must hoard my act.

The blackest sins I bear are sins I share,

So my conspirator must kneel with me.
¹³

And kings, what’s more, may whisper
¹⁴
but to popes,

Or to your lord, my Bishop Caerleon.

A friend, i’truth, and his stiff bishopric

I visit oft, where he and I partake

Of meals of fish and pear, ’til full to burst.
¹⁵

What priest can talk such filth upon his lord?

My blade will teach thee mannerly discourse!

[
He draws his sword
]

But Gloucester, nay! Slice not this royal meat,

Or wait until we change again our coats

So by my carbonado
¹⁶
you might whet

An appetite for vengeance in my men.

Is’t Arthur safely back to us from York,

And first of all his business is to sport?

But soft, let’s dress each one in rightful cloak,

[
They exchange armor
]

To each our own apparel and our mien.

Your time in York, O King, did serve its need,

Did rightly beg your absence from the field?

Good Duke, take pains not to omit my helm

Else company might think we swapped our heads.

You take me for a joint-stool,
¹⁷
King, then sit.

You welcome not my counsel, Majesty.

I clip it to my breast at dawn and dusk.

There’s none save you enthroned within my heart.

Then hear my words. Today was battle won—

Such joyous tidings, Duke, do glad me well.

By gross deception came this victory.

Your men believe you led them into war.

An if they so believe, then so I did.
¹⁸

But now, our royal transformation done,

We greet our men with fettered prisoners—

What guests have you, my English chivalry?

These bales
¹⁹
are but a tithing
²⁰
of our crop.

They wait their fate upon this lower world
²¹

And we our fortunes as you judge our worth.—

Hail, Gloucester, hail! At battle’s end you come

To fright the prisoners with your martial air.

Great lords of Britain, by your arms is peace,

So long extirped,
²²
replanted on our isle.

Hail Arthur! Hail Britain! To our king!

For two score years these knaves cast pestilence

From north and sea ’pon our abusèd land,

And crushed beneath their tread our wealth, our crop,

Our churches, beasts, and golden English corn.

I sweep my eye across these hanging
²³
looks,

These villain Saxons, Picts, and shamèd Scots.

With but a breath could our worse nature burst

And wash again this new-dried ground with blood.

O, Englishmen! Is there yet one of us

Who would not venge on Scotchman’s neck the cries

Most pitiful of murdered English babes?

What joys have they not thieved from out our homes?

My youthful days, my kingdom, and my sire:

All this I lost and this far past enough

T’excuse a slaughter of this murrained
²⁴
herd.

Anointed king, still I am but a man,

And men do long for blood to balm their wounds.

Then kill them all! For Arthur! Kill them all!

But do these cringing mice contain enough

Of blood to slake and chill our burning thirst?

Or will their cries not satisfy our hate,

But feed and thereby swell our hate’s desire,

While their own mothers, orphans, widows shrike
²⁵

In twisted tongues and curse us to their gods,

Demand our blood to wash their tear-stained cheeks?

There’s none so swift to carve this tendered flesh

As I, who look on them and grows hate-drunk.

But this eternal hatred is a pox,

Which e’en struck down and slew my father-king.

As royal touch can heal a man’s disease,
²⁶

It can as quick transform man’s hate to love,

And in a trice sweep winter from the land,

To reap the fruit of peace.

[
Aside
] What talk is this?

Let Colgerne, vassal now to Britain’s king,

To German lands with all his men repair

Without delay, but know that they will die

If e’er they do return.

[
Aside
] Have I my wits?

Familiarity did breed contempt;
²⁷

Disloignèd
²⁸
far, love ’twixt us may increase,

And by exampled English mercy shown

May Saxons now embrace our Lord. Cast off

By Lincoln Wash, and from our realm begone.

You will I know hold some as surety.

And not deny your iron men
²⁹
their prize.

I do intend precisely that, my duke.—

Here Mordred, thou didst wager dad’s own crown,

But frozen luck, thou lost it to thy betters.

To Pictland now and fetch thy father here

T’impress the wax of his remembrance, boy,

That he doth rule his Picts at Arthur’s pleasure.

In earnest of this love I bear for him,

We hold for now young Calvan to our breast

And in great London’s tower feast our guest.

Exeunt, manet
³⁰
Cumbria

Did e’er his father win such victory?

Did e’er his father cast away the like?

To clutch in mailèd fist his enemies,

Then careless drop them back into the fight?

This cock-a-prance!
³¹
This beadsman,
³²
preached of love,

Yet loved us not enow to preach of ransom.

Bright-armored
³³
Gloucester called his mind to it;

War counsel comes from one who shunned the brawl!

What man would wink at that one’s cowardice

Then heed the stratagems he would propose?

No oath adheres to such a paltry king,

But for the love I bore his poisoned sire.
Exit

Our late inspect
¹
of Britain’s sorrowing breadth

Shows us a land all brought to waste by war,

From hunger lamed, abandoned of the law.

Now plague and famine stalk our market towns,

And gripes
²
make claim of sovereignty for death

Where Arthur would establish gentler court.

Here is a worthy challenge for a king.

No Pendragon forepast
³
hath seen as I

The glory of a king is weighed on scale

By what prosperity his kingdom joys.

Watch Arthur now drive sickness, dearth, and war

From out his realm as I did whip the Scot.

Send men to learn what towns have stores of corn.

Set reeves to fix my law in every shire.
⁴

Strong fort each town on coast and northern line.

My dear, good Cornwall! Rise and let me kiss you!

My king, I bring all love and of more boot
⁵

Five thousand Cornish blades as you require.

Again, again, embrace me, Constantine, brave

Cornwall!
⁶
Now help me to remember, friend: when

were we last together?

’Twas Gloucestershire. Our fathers lived and we

did pass each day at swim and running. You ever

were the best.