The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [141]
“Highness,” says I, “they’ll be wanting you in for
lessons,” I’d say, but no, I knew he’d stay by. “Or
tilting,” I’d say, “dancing,” and
the king—were not the king, then—the king, says he to me, “If it please,”
talk sweet and crisple4 up their coats with his light
fingers, “If it please, not to give out, leave me just to
see to Peritas, his leg ails, his gait’s not good.” Not for
long years, but back then, he knew better than thou
hast shown, could make ’em bark or hold mum at his
word. “Sing,” says he, and there they sing. “Mum
now,” says he, and all there’s no sound. “Sing! Mum!
Sing! Mum!” He’d weep when a boar or bear did the
the worst to one of his.
BOY
He’ll see worse things now, sure. All to war. No time now for hounds.
MASTER
Any other prince become any other king, I’d say thee
aye. But this boy loved his dogs, loved his games. And
then, now, see, he cannot but stop and admire every
maid or lady passes by. Say there’s a king who loves it so,
so strong as any pleasure-jack or apple-squire,5
who runs ’em to earth, prefers ’em to all war making,
mark it. Wants to miss the wars, sees no joy in the
noble slashing, the crying out, the gobbets of flesh
and man’s blood-sprays. Give ’em his choosing, say I,
he’ll visit his tib,6 have his will,7 then back in his slop,8
then he’ll be here, next us two, thou’lt see him, and
him calling for old Edgar and Lucius and stroking
Socrates’ long ears. And all us others, we’ll do what
the king will do, and not have to go to war. If he’s the
same boy, and why not? Who tells me he’s of another
sort now? For nothing: a drop of oil and a crown
makes not a man another sort.
BOY
I wot not,9 sir. There’s magic talk as well.
MASTER
Makes no puttock of a wren.10 Same
boy I loved, same boy. He’ll make no war when there’s peace to joy.
Watch, thou.
BOY
My mother’s brothers twain are pikemen in Sir
David’s company.
MASTER
A valiant, and Welsh as one might hope, God save him.
BOY
My mother would their hands were hers sooner their
arms lopped or hacked for Sir David.
MASTER
Might she see the kingdom commodated11 all to her
liking alone. Now wilt thou come, boy? There’s meat
to give out. Wouldst thou tarry12 on and on?
Exeunt
ACT II, SCENE II
[Location:] Below the Walls of York
Enter the King and his nobles and army. Alarum
ARTHUR
Now thick-walled York looms gray and cold above
And bristles all along like porpentine1
With spear and bolts that scent out English flesh.
My English friends, my English brothers now,
You hear my voice’s maiden call to arms,
To urge you on who want from me no urging,
And quicken ire of knights to martial wrath
Who were born fighting men ere I was born,
To lead you where you have already bled,
But I have not. What king is this who calls?
An York should be the first and last of me,
Let no man say I was not Uter’s son,
Nor valued more than he this bubble life.
But of our foemen, this cannot be said.
Who waits for us within, fell2 Englishmen?
This Saxon pride set sail o’er Humber’s tide3
And then conjoined4 to Pictish treachery
For but to cower, spent and quaking-shy,
Portcullised5 fast behind the walls of York,
As guilty lads will seek their mother’s skirts
When older boys they vex come for revenge.
But Arthur’s at the gate! ’Tis Britain’s fist
That hammers now upon the shiv’ring6 boards.
An English blood be thin as watery wine,
Then sheathe we now our swords and skulk away
With Saxon language tripping from our lips.
You’d con7 th’invader’s tongue? Absit omen.8
Let’s school them then in terms of English arms,
Decline and conjugate9 hard10 words—but hark!
Chambers11
She sighs with gentle pleading that we come!
Now wait no more to save her, nobles, in,
And pull those Saxon arms off English skin!
Alarum and chambers. Exeunt
[ACT II, SCENE III]
[Location: The road from York to Lincoln]
Enter Mordred, Calvan, and armies
MORDRED
Had cruel Diomedes on Deinos leapt1, 2
To melt our arms and singe our prideful cheeks,
Still less endamagement3 had this day wreaked
As Arthur did