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The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [137]

By Root 822 0
beside you at Iona.

My smoking44 blade did cleave Norwegian skulls.

Take heed of word from lover45 such as this:

Hot war, so fleetingly combusted up,

Doth hardly46 snuff itself back down again.

And look! Our arms have built for us high walls!

Sit circummured47 behind the winding Tweed,

Our uplands48 scoff at foemen’s bow and ax.

Say, Loth, what matter is that lack-brain prince

Who weens49 to term himself all Britain’s king?

MORDRED

What peace has man e’er joyed but paid in blood?

What dream wouldst thou my father dream abed,

Whilst puppy50 Arthur, king of laystalls,51 hopes

To trim aside two-thirds my promised birth?

LOTH

No more. I have no appetite to war.

Send embassy and vouch that Arthur’s king.

MORDRED

But not of Britain.

LOTH

England then, your will.

MORDRED

I will discharge it to your terms precise.

LOTH

Duke Mordred, heir, be satisfied.

MORDRED

I am.

Full correspondence to my lord’s desires

Is satisfaction to your loving son.

LOTH

Embrace me then your uncle-king of Scotland.

MORDRED

With fullest heart.

CONRANUS

It glads me.

[They embrace] Loth swoons

MORDRED

Physic,52 wine!

A cup, a drench53 of wine! [To Loth] How do you, sir?—

[To servant] You! See him to his chamber, I’ll anon.

Exeunt [but Mordred and Calvan]

Dear Calvan, brother, bearer of my trust.

Two embassies will we dispatch. First, you.

CALVAN

How frame54 my tongue?

MORDRED

To words of amity.

Ride to the Saxon force at York. Their chief,

Flame-bearded Colgerne, takes your embassy.

In York he swills and vows and kicks his dogs,

And burns up offal to his red-eyed gods—

The carrion fumes offending Christian sense55—

And seizes not his vantage. Whet him on.

In Mordred’s name give gold that he from York

Drive out to waste all ’round with Saxon blade.

But, brother, still our hands must clasp in darkness.

Teach Colgerne that our love blooms best in shade.

CALVAN

Such toadstool56 love I’ll passioning derive.57

Exit Calvan

Enter messenger

MORDRED

What messenger is there?

ALEXANDER

My lord.

MORDRED

Thy name?

ALEXANDER

’Tis Alexander, Duke. I come from Wick.

MORDRED

Great Alexander boasts a comely face.

Thou hast an air of gentle-seeming manners.

ALEXANDER

It please your grace, my mother taught me well.

MORDRED

Then come. We must needs teach thee new to speak

In terms of harsh defiance and contempt.

Exeunt

[ACT I,] SCENE IV1

[Location: The Tower of London]

Enter Gloucester, Bishop of Caerleon, Somerset, Norfolk, Cumbria, Kent, Derby

KENT

How? Are you then protector of the realm?

GLOUCESTER

With patience, lords, but for a single day.

The morrow when, at your hand, Caerleon,

Prince Arthur is in London’s abbey blest,

He will from flexure2 rise your perfect3 king,

And will no more require protector’s aid.

Today I rate4 the puissance5 of our arms,

For after morrow hie we back to war.

Prince Arthur wants the numbers, man and beast,

To make account of all your mighty ranks.

How stand your noble lance and common pike?

SOMERSET

But soft, Lord Gloucester waits upon our haste,

Foresees6 we will obey with no complaint.

Yet English barons joy long-customed rights

And freely choose ere kneel to any king,

Though he be Uter’s son or no.

GLOUCESTER

Or no?

NORFOLK

To be black Uter’s son makes not an heir.

By such a stamp7 ten thousand British kings

Do dance a-maypole, yoke the ox to coulter,8

Or skink9 the wine at table for my thirst,

Though none so like their sire as Arthur be,

Who with his mawks on beef and ling10 doth dine,

Who’d ’change all England for St. George’s field.11

SOMERSET

He’s born on George’s day, so ’tis like home.12, 13

GLOUCESTER

Ignoble, rude and slanderous babble, lords

Ill suits the love that’s due your sovereign prince.

NORFOLK

Come morrow, Gloucester, what names you the king?

GLOUCESTER

The king will have me England’s seneschal.

SOMERSET

You’ll hold the keys to all the postern gates14

Until the midnight king doth steal the guard.

GLOUCESTER

These hare-brained comments will find quittance, Dukes.

CUMBRIA

But who makes doubt of Arthur

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