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
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
know the future! Perhaps we’ll fly a Saxon army, or
this overbold river o’er-wet the fields and town, or a
pox to carry every third man to his end? So tell me,
Joan, what knowest thou of Thursday next?
SHEPHERDESS
Turnmelon!15,16 Thinkest thou such serpent tongues
as thine have ne’er hissed sweet to me? What know I
of Thursday! Pah! I know I fear it not. I know it will
will from this day be different so little as those two
green grasses are the one the other. I know I’ll see it
from this willow or that one there, where my bell-
wether17 likes best the sweet clover. I’ll sit here
Thursday, my flower-prince, upon this very throne.
Can I so easy outsee thee by seeing that? Where
wilt thou be Thursday? Afeard18 boy, doth Thursday
next or ten years on danger thee to quaking?
ARTHUR
Ha! I do love thee, Joan. Nay, no day at thy side, afloat
in this broad main19 of green can fright me. I tell
thee, Joan, I know it, I’ll ne’er leave thy side. I
cannot see a day, Thursday or other, when I would
would not feel as I do now. I am a turtle,20 have no
conceit21 of a time but this, a planted, growing,
swelling seed forever.
Growing, swelling, aye, aye.22 Just words, no different
if thou speakest or make mute that voice, the sun
moves no fleeter for all thy wild tongue doth whip.
ARTHUR
Queen of wisdom! Chide me roughly, then! Close my
vexing mouth, prison my rebel words under soft lock.
Come, make fast my silence.
[They kiss]
Flourish, trumpets off, cries [of] “Arthur,” “Prince”
SHEPHERDESS
They call some royal name.
ARTHUR
Some hapless duke, bid to weigh some caitiff’s23 claim
of law, or called to lead trembling boys to buffets
’gainst Saxon steel.
Cries off
SHEPHERDESS
They seek him at an inch now. They will upon us.
ARTHUR
I bleed remorse for such a one as this, his days in
chambers, closets,24 armor. I had fled by breakfast
were I that cursed prince.
SHEPHERDESS
They come, they come, now nigh.25 Yet none of
princely mien26 are by. Wherefore should they
disturb our close quiet?
ARTHUR
Ah, ah, ah, unless thou art some lady playing at
pastoral belike,27 beflowering her skirts! I see now,
tricksy, thy flock are courtiers, thy ladies attendant
linger above, enbranched and dressed in leaves and
birds-nest. And there thy most lank-lean chamberlain28
will slip loose at thy command to bite my ankles.
Cries off
SHEPHERDESS
But still they come at us.
ARTHUR
Then I must needs flee ere your highness has me
sequestered at your pleasure into a dungeon, or
stretched an inch or two for my rude attentions.
SHEPHERDESS
Patch!29 Jackdaw!30 Whither away? Thou runnest,
thou runnest.
ARTHUR
But from your sergeants at arms. If thou art not some
hidden queen, be here for me an hour hence and I’ll
to thee. Stand’st thou affected31 to swear it?
SHEPHERDESS
Wouldst flee? Then flee. Wherefore? But here, a
token, and from thee.
[They exchange tokens]
ARTHUR
An hour, an hour.
SHEPHERDESS
Lies and lies, but here I’ll be an hour on and an hour
yet ’til folding,32 and days and days if thou wilt have
me.
Cries off
ARTHUR
An hour, but a single hour, Joan, I swear it.
Exeunt
ACT I, SCENE III
[Location: the] Pictish court
Flourish and trumpets. Enter Loth of Pictland in litter, Conranus of Scotland, Mordred of Rothesay,1 [Calvan], Alda,2,3 and others
LOTH
Too hot, my son, too hot.4
MORDRED
There were a time,
My lord, such heat did blast5 from your own bile,
When all did know King Loth of Pictland’s moods.
For when but crabbed6 he havoc-shaked this isle,
Provoked to whirling bangstry7 and dread force,
He threw down Grampian8 mount to vent his gall.9
Think I forgot what was to be your son?
CONRANUS
Leave off, fierce Duke, your father begs his rest.
MORDRED
Nay, Uncle, I’m the deathsman10 of repose.—
[To Loth] Your vigor melts away too soon, great king.
Think on your crown! Hold on11 with sovereign’s
cares,
Not fall away from temporal affairs,
To forward12 dwell in heaven’s seigniory13
While yet your shape doth fill that earthly seat,
But bridle all events to your control.—
[To Calvan] My brother, chafe14 your father’s icy hide
With selfsame news was read to us below.15
CALVAN
Prince Arthur flies to London’s Roman tower16
So soon as he doth make a potent head17
And therewith at the Abbey butt18 the crown,
From whence, with benison as Britain’s king,
He purposes with fearful sway19 to York
To venge his father’s death upon the Saxon.
MORDRED
To make a head! And post with sway! To venge!
Who acts thus, Calvan? Say you? Mouldwarp20
Arthur,
Bescreened in Wales, now dares to ope his eye!
That vain and liberal21 boy would stain the crown,
Would brave the London air and Saxon blades,
While valiant Pict and Scot—with whinyards22 sheathed
And buttoned belts23 left hanging by the wall—
Do ladylike sit fond and bluntly24 still.
CONRANUS
What though, if Arthur is of Uter’s seed?
For legacy he gains but bonny25 strife.
Long may he live as his dead sire did live,
Distract26 by constant war ’gainst Saxony,
Who’ll parallel27 the English king along
For ev’ry season of the years whilst we,
From Tweed to Tyne to Tees, extend our claim.
Let o’ercharged28 Arthur bleed and hold his crown
As northern tide flows unrelenting south.
MORDRED
You’d move our bound by modest ell29 or inch
When Britain all, this island whole entire—
All England, Wales, this Pictland, and your Scots—
By one crown all is ringed, and that crown mine.
CONRANUS
Your father’s.
MORDRED
Aye, my father’s, aye, if he
But stretch his gripping hand toward Arthur’s scalp.
CONRANUS
This wind of rhetoric racks not the heir.30
MORDRED
No lawful heir did sprout from Uter’s seed.
By lust made frantic, stole that vicious king
Into the absent Earl of Cornwall’s bed,
And there did scratch with steel31 th’resisting itch.32
The lady swelled with this false Prince of Wales