The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [134]
On me will lie the blame an36 he’s not meet.37
The censure is on Gloucester’s weary duke
Who sacrificed his name to make this prince.
What king forged I? All England will be judge.
Enter messenger
Short-winded, boy?
MESSENGER
Aye, save your grace. Am I
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