ARTHUR
A friend, i’truth, and his stiff bishopric
I visit oft, where he and I partake
Of meals of fish and pear, ’til full to burst.15
GLOUCESTER
What priest can talk such filth upon his lord?
My blade will teach thee mannerly discourse!
[He draws his sword]
ARTHUR
But Gloucester, nay! Slice not this royal meat,
Or wait until we change again our coats
So by my carbonado16 you might whet
An appetite for vengeance in my men.
GLOUCESTER
Is’t Arthur safely back to us from York,
And first of all his business is to sport?
ARTHUR
But soft, let’s dress each one in rightful cloak,
[They exchange armor]
To each our own apparel and our mien.
GLOUCESTER
Your time in York, O King, did serve its need,
Did rightly beg your absence from the field?
ARTHUR
Good Duke, take pains not to omit my helm
Else company might think we swapped our heads.
GLOUCESTER
You take me for a joint-stool,17 King, then sit.
You welcome not my counsel, Majesty.
ARTHUR
I clip it to my breast at dawn and dusk.
There’s none save you enthroned within my heart.
GLOUCESTER
Then hear my words. Today was battle won—
ARTHUR
Such joyous tidings, Duke, do glad me well.
GLOUCESTER
By gross deception came this victory.
Your men believe you led them into war.
ARTHUR
An if they so believe, then so I did.18
But now, our royal transformation done,
[Enter nobles with prisoners including Mordred, Calvan, and Colgerne]
We greet our men with fettered prisoners—
What guests have you, my English chivalry?
CUMBRIA
These bales19 are but a tithing20 of our crop.
They wait their fate upon this lower world21
And we our fortunes as you judge our worth.—
Hail, Gloucester, hail! At battle’s end you come
To fright the prisoners with your martial air.
ARTHUR
Great lords of Britain, by your arms is peace,
So long extirped,22 replanted on our isle.
ALL
Hail Arthur! Hail Britain! To our king!
ARTHUR
For two score years these knaves cast pestilence
From north and sea ’pon our abusèd land,
And crushed beneath their tread our wealth, our crop,
Our churches, beasts, and golden English corn.
I sweep my eye across these hanging23 looks,
These villain Saxons, Picts, and shamèd Scots.
With but a breath could our worse nature burst
And wash again this new-dried ground with blood.
O, Englishmen! Is there yet one of us
Who would not venge on Scotchman’s neck the cries
Most pitiful of murdered English babes?
What joys have they not thieved from out our homes?
My youthful days, my kingdom, and my sire:
All this I lost and this far past enough
T’excuse a slaughter of this murrained24 herd.
Anointed king, still I am but a man,
And men do long for blood to balm their wounds.
ALL
Then kill them all! For Arthur! Kill them all!
ARTHUR
But do these cringing mice contain enough
Of blood to slake and chill our burning thirst?
Or will their cries not satisfy our hate,
But feed and thereby swell our hate’s desire,
While their own mothers, orphans, widows shrike25
In twisted tongues and curse us to their gods,
Demand our blood to wash their tear-stained cheeks?
There’s none so swift to carve this tendered flesh
As I, who look on them and grows hate-drunk.
But this eternal hatred is a pox,
Which e’en struck down and slew my father-king.
As royal touch can heal a man’s disease,26
It can as quick transform man’s hate to love,
And in a trice sweep winter from the land,
To reap the fruit of peace.
CUMBRIA
[Aside] What talk is this?
ARTHUR
Let Colgerne, vassal now to Britain’s king,
To German lands with all his men repair
Without delay, but know that they will die
If e’er they do return.
CUMBRIA
[Aside] Have I my wits?
ARTHUR
Familiarity did breed contempt;27
Disloignèd28 far, love ’twixt us may increase,
And by exampled English mercy shown
May Saxons now embrace our Lord. Cast off
By Lincoln Wash, and from our realm begone.
GLOUCESTER
You will I know hold some as surety.
And not deny your iron men29 their prize.
ARTHUR
I do intend precisely that, my duke.—
Here Mordred, thou didst wager dad’s own crown,
But frozen luck, thou lost it to thy betters.
To Pictland now and fetch thy father here
T’impress the wax of his remembrance, boy,
That he doth rule his Picts at Arthur’s pleasure.
In earnest of this love I bear for him,
We hold for now young Calvan to our breast
And in great London’s tower feast our guest.
Exeunt, manet30 Cumbria
CUMBRIA
Did e’er his father win such victory?
Did e’er his father cast away the like?
To clutch in mailèd fist his enemies,
Then careless drop them back into the fight?
This cock-a-prance!31 This beadsman,32 preached of love,
Yet loved us not enow to preach of ransom.
Bright-armored33 Gloucester called his mind to it;
War counsel comes from one who shunned the brawl!
What man would wink at that one’s cowardice
Then heed the stratagems he would propose?
No oath adheres to such a paltry king,
But for the love I bore his poisoned sire. Exit
[ACT II, SCENE VIII]
[Location: Arthur’s camp at Lincoln]
Enter Arthur, Gloucester, servants, messengers
ARTHUR
Our late inspect1 of Britain’s sorrowing breadth
Shows us a land all brought to waste by war,
From hunger lamed, abandoned of the law.
Now plague and famine stalk our market towns,
And gripes2 make claim of sovereignty for death
Where Arthur would establish gentler court.
Here is a worthy challenge for a king.
No Pendragon forepast3 hath seen as I
The glory of a king is weighed on scale
By what prosperity his kingdom joys.
Watch Arthur now drive sickness, dearth, and war
From out his realm as I did whip the Scot.
Send men to learn what towns have stores of corn.
Set reeves to fix my law in every shire.4
Strong fort each town on coast and northern line.
Enter Constantine [Cornwall]
My dear, good Cornwall! Rise and let me kiss you!
CORNWALL
My king, I bring all love and of more boot5
Five thousand Cornish blades as you require.
ARTHUR
Again, again, embrace me, Constantine, brave
Cornwall!6 Now help me to
remember, friend: when
were we last together?
CORNWALL
’Twas Gloucestershire. Our fathers lived and we
did pass each day at swim and running. You ever
were the best.
ARTHUR
And thou, to make a match of heaven,7 wert always
second.
CORNWALL
Too sadly true.
ARTHUR
And when thou wert king of the woods and I was king
of the waters, or I king of the woods and thou of
waters, our pastance8 was to act great deeds for the
the princess of the flowers. How fares thy gentle
sister? Still pleasant in her humors, the girl we
strived9 to please?
CORNWALL
No more a girl, but still doth ask in humility to be
remembered.
ARTHUR
I remember no store of humility in her.
CORNWALL
Your wit10 is most royally acute. But you will observe
her alterations, for she rides to join with us anon. It
was her will, and her will is beyond my certain
manage.
ARTHUR
You were my joy of younger days, good earl,
And now I swear upon this fruitful plain,
That you and I will be inseparate.
CORNWALL
You deem this blasted,11 war-ripped turf so rich?
ARTHUR
Ay, Cornwall! All our enemies are flown,
And we will in this loam plant seeds of peace.
Enter messenger
A frantic look in this one’s eye.—What is’t?
MESSENGER
My king, as you did by their bond require,
The Saxons lifted sail from Lincoln Wash.
But soon a change of wind did hale12 them back.
Their priests addeemed13 this blessed by pagan gods.
They spilled from ship anew upon our isle,
Contemptibly stepped back onto our sands.
They throw their eyes on gold and church and field,
They kill our countrymen and burn our land.
ARTHUR
O, God! What scorn I do deserve from thee!
What villainy is this? What have I wrought?
What arrogant and idle prince am I!
And where were men to chide my fond, mad youth?
I should be scorned for my vain clemency.
I am not mocked enough! O sugar-prince,
A headstrong jade14 that should be roughly spurred!
Let those who judge me weak be made at once
My chosen privy councillors.—Which way?
MESSENGER
Towards Bath, my king.
ARTHUR
We’ll cote15 them ere they wash.
This crime has touched me; I am powder-hot.
To rear now post my word: our mercy’s pact
Refused, each prisoner’s throat is to be cut.
GLOUCESTER
The tidings speak but Saxon perfidy,
Not Scot nor Pict. A moment’s calm, I beg.
ARTHUR
I’ll not be tender pitying more, good duke.—
Exit messenger
My men, imperfect16 is our bloody task
So follow me, unsheathe your late-hacked blade
And dispatch hell-born foes to hellish shade.
Exeunt
[ACT II, SCENE IX]
[Location: The Pictish Court]
Enter Doctor and Conranus
DOCTOR
I have to all my texts submitted Loth,
To all my wit, invention, fancy, hopes,
To strong balsamo,1 leeches, pastes, and cuts.
Yet still he falters and outstreams his life.
It flows from ev’ry outlet, king. He fails.
Enter Mordred, with train.
CONRANUS
The prince with retinue is back from war,
And surely wants the king his father’s ear.
Go learn if audience may yet be had.—
Exit Doctor
Good Mordred, Duke, we missed you here at court.
MORDRED
I bear hard news of noble death, war’s tithe.
The thanes2 of Bute and Moray, Linlithgow,
And Douglas ride birlinns3 to Colmekill’s shores.4
CONRANUS
Such heavy loss, so light an argument.
MORDRED
How light, my uncle? Tell. A crown? A throne?
A kingdom stole from thee stirs not thy gall?
A tyrant who doth threat thy land and clan?5
Who torments lawful embassy, hates peace
And would lock Pict and Scot in steely yoke?
CONRANUS
A petty prince thou told’st this court was weak,
Who wanted nought of us ’til thou like dog