The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [142]
No Christian, holy king is Arthur, nay:
He cruelly used our gentle embassy
As I did doubt he might,4 though ’twas enough
To spur our father back to war-like mien5
And dispatch force to force his will in York
Yet still doth shame now cloud our northern brows!
Five hard assaults I put to the usurping
Upspring6 prince of English bastardy.
I rained upon him blows of sword and axe,
And through his beaver’s vents7 I heard the sound
Of laughing boy or demon’s goblin mirth.
CALVAN
The southern gallants drew from him their heart.
“For Arthur, George, and Britain!” they all cried,
Not England’s name alone, but Britain’s rung.
And on his quartered shield he paints his hopes:
The red Welsh dragon flanks gold English lions,
And harps of Western Isles do play light airs
O’er fields of northern thistle.8
MORDRED
Bannerets9
And horses’ coats all colored with that boast!
Self-loving Arthur now doth rest a-bed,
While we escape the day by postern gate.10
Yet all those buffets paid in York today
Are but an obolus of bloody debt
We’ll farm11 in Lincoln town. You, sirrah, here.
FIRST MSG.
My lord, your will?
MORDRED
Go now to Lincoln’s walls,
Where Colgerne keeps his tenfold larger strength.
We will entice the foe by seeming weak
To follow thither and therein surprise.
Advise him us we hie12 with Arthur’s force
Pursuing, thus he must lay gins13 with guile.
[Exit messenger]
There death will knock from haughty Arthur’s pate
The diadem my father’s brow to deck.14
Another man, another man!
[Enter messenger]
SECOND MSG.
Your grace?
MORDRED
To kings of Scots and Picts make speedy haste,
Invite them to descend from highland nest,
And on spread wing to Lincoln fly like fate
T’assay15 the crown I offer with all love.
Go, go!
Exit messenger
Now, Calvan, brother, Orkney’s prince,
To all the captains tell: ’twixt here and there
We leave no crumb, no watery drop but tears
Of those who’d us deny benevolence.
May Arthur find upon this road no bran,
No vivers16 of the basest sort to chew,
Until he come to Lincoln, there to wash
His blazon’s quartered fancies17 in red blood.
Exeunt
[ACT II, SCENE IV]
[Location: The town hall of York]
[Enter] Arthur, Gloucester
ARTHUR
I did not know what joy awaited me
When dawn did break this morn, when I alone
Had never tasted of the feast of war.
Whilst other men did seem to shy and fright,
Full general in my greetings,1 I did leap
To gratulate2 each happy Saxon, Scot,
Or Pict I had good fortune there to meet.
I find no better way to sport than this.
The day is mine!
GLOUCESTER
And all our thanks to God.
But for the morrow, I’ll no wagers take.
ARTHUR
Refuse to rest your pounds upon my arm?3
GLOUCESTER
Were all of England York and all its sons
Were Arthur, Pluto’s wealth4 to any odds
I’d play and off to slumber vict’ry-ripe.5
But ’twixt pacific York and Pictish throne
Awaits no mead6 but cragged, ungentle path.
And proud the Saxons are to want a fleet,
So each and every foe will ask our care.7
ARTHUR
And so we shall design.
Enter Somerset, Norfolk, Cumbria, Kent, Derby
Good morrow, brothers!
SOMERSET
Great King, O rampant lion emperor!
CUMBRIA
My stomach wants for yet more bloody broil.8
Let fly! I’ll draw the culv’rin9 with my teeth.
NORFOLK
But majesty, ’twas you that ’mazed us all!
As evening dyed each Yorkish stone, I flagged:
My foot did slide through pools of Scottish gore
And on my back I lit. Two Saxon blades
Down toward me came, and I prepared my end.
But by my halidom10 St. George careered11
With Pictish blood across his bristled cheek,
His limbs still freshly sprung as bent green yew,12
He slashed through danger, holp13 me to my feet,
Then circled round and fought at every side.
My lord, bend I this ancient knee with love.
CUMBRIA
Now foes do run, King, whither turn our might?
ARTHUR
My nephew, King of Brittany in France,
I writ, and Constantine,14, 15 young Cornish earl,
His father placed in Cornwall’s seat by mine.
I bid them come take part at Lincoln’s feast
And there