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The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [156]

By Root 795 0
that left and right

Do rock. And from each countless, tow’ring mast

Clap Saxon pennons: wolves and demi-fiends.

Unfinished yet are that coast’s daunting walls,

And force more vast than any we have known

Now wets its tongue on English blood and tears.

ARTHUR

We stand amazed at how it comes again,

And summer blue grows black by Saxon clouds.

Dear ladies, pray excuse our shifting key;

We must unwilling now hear other tunes.

GUENHERA

An hour yet, King, to see our matter’s end.

ARTHUR

How sweet, my love, to count each grain of time

Then turn th’hour-glass around again whilst thou

Dost sift the virtues in thy manuals.26

I feel remorse that we must turn to war

And bid you lead your ladies from the court.

GUENHERA

Unhappily we yield, my fearful liege,

But only if we may convene anon.

ARTHUR

Enough! There can be no more talk. Now, go!

Exeunt all ladies

Speak, Gloucester, Cumbria, all men of war:

What ready force might we in haste array?

GLOUCESTER

King, we are taken tardy by a phoenix

That we did reckon so much heaped-up ash.27

ARTHUR

These conquered Saxons practiced sorcery

That from their ruined state did plenish up28

So titely29 their annihilated strength.

CUMBRIA

No sorcery but your soft mercy, king,

When for their scabby pagan vows at York

You set them back on sea to breed and then

At Bath did qualm to slay but half their ranks

And loosed their weeping bearing boys to fly.

At Linmouth they repay your gentleness

While you do wail of clouds and sorcery!

GLOUCESTER

Withhold thine indignation, Cumbria,

And bow thy head in fear of thy king’s rage.

ARTHUR

Nay, nay, a king may rightly be rebuked.

’Twas youthful will to be unlike my sire

Provoked me to such bounty unadvised—

An Devon’s bulwarks are imperfect still,

I fear to know our count of ready men.

GLOUCESTER

Forsooth, scant thousand are trained up in arms.

To that add peasant ranks with knife and fork.30

CORNWALL

My power, nearest Linmouth in its day,

Was all brought north to fortify the Tyne.

ARTHUR

The Saxons find us lame, they will bestrut31

As far as London ere we give them fight.

What help can we account from northern lands?

CUMBRIA

The Pict will lend sworn arms at your command

But only if he fears your swift reproof.

ARTHUR

He knelt in Abbey’s echoes, kissed my ring.

Sure I doubt nothing of his fast reply.

Send now to him. Command his every pick.32

CUMBRIA

This reasons shallow, King. He bent his knees

When Arthur’s power waxed, and Pictland’s throne

Was filled as Arthur would.

ARTHUR

And now?

CUMBRIA

And now

Nor fear of you nor love for you hath he,

But grudgeful holds you Calvan’s slaughterer,

And will no bloody aid deliver you

But smiling tarry as your England burns.

ARTHUR

Though Britain joys first peace sith Roman days,

And harvests more can feed each mewling babe,

Though churches toll and tithe, and stalls33 are full,

Though our court’s glories ring to Muscovy,

Barbarians flow across the land like rats,

For Mordred, goat o’the moors, doth fear not me.

I’ll open up that cur from throat to paunch—

Might we in France an ally find?

GLOUCESTER

Sure not.

Not when their offered love was cast away

And you must wed where no alliance was.

ARTHUR

What game is this? Why come they yet again?

CUMBRIA

Your prideful realm is built on women’s dreams.

Surprised are you this peace lasts but a day?

That on our shores again these devils wash?

Beshrew34 the tide that does not plaud35 your court!36

There never will be day until the last,

Without some foeman come t’unsheathe his sword.

There’s only war. ’Tis man’s inheritance.

No peace, but now and then an instant’s breath

Made sweeter still by certain brevity.

’Twas this your father Uter taught to me.

ARTHUR

He taught me nought, nor this nor other words.

As Mordred makes us beg that is our right,

What ransom must we pay the proditor?37

What treasure yield to purchase love from him?

GLOUCESTER

No golden-fingered Croesus38 holds such sums.

ARTHUR

Then what? Is’t land he crave or privilege?

I’ll grant he is the Soldan of the Turks39

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