LORDS AND LOVERS
AND
OTHER DRAMAS

BY
OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1906

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons
All rights reserved
Published, October, 1906

The Trow Press, New York

CONTENTS

LORDS AND LOVERS:
PART I[1]
PART II[71]
THE SHEPHERD[135]
THE SIEGE[207]

LORDS AND LOVERS

PART I

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

ACT I

Scene 1. Room in the earl of Pembroke's castle. Pembroke in bed. Richford and Albemarle attending.

Pem. The king has come?

Alb. He waits upon your grace

As a good servant; with demeanor speaks

True sorrow you are brought so low.

Pem. [Stoutly] Ha! Low?

Alb. Sir, but in body. Pembroke's mounting mind

Can never be struck down.

Pem. He's sad, you say?

Alb. In tears, your grace. He weeps more like a son

Than sovereign.

Pem. A son! Where is the son

Would weep for Pembroke?

Rich. Here, my dearest father!

Here are the tears would water thy affliction

Till it be washed from thy endangered body.

Here is the heart would give its younger blood

To make thine leap with health. Without you, sir,

I am no more than is the gaudy bloom

Of some stout tree the axe has brought to ground.

O, wilt forgive the many pains I've cost thee?

Pem. First touch my hand and swear by highest God

That you will serve the king.

Rich. O, slight condition!

I take this noble hand that ne'er was raised

'Gainst country, throne or God, and by that God,

I vow to serve the king.

Pem. For the last time

I'll trust and pardon you. If you make black

Your soul with violation of this oath,

I, safe beyond the stars, shall know it not,

Nor die again to think on 't. Men, weep not

That ye lack sons, but weep when your wives bear them!

Alb. I'll vouch for him, your grace.

Pem. Thanks, Albemarle.

Rich. Will you, my kindest father, say a word

To bring me to the graces of the king?

Pem. Ay, son.

Rich. Now, sir?

Pem. Nay, I'm not dying yet,

And wish to keep my last words for his ears.

There's holy magic in the passing tongue

That stamps its truth unrasurable. So

Would I grave Henry's heart.

Rich. But, sir——

Pem. I'll wait

My hour. Who comes with him?

Alb. The legate, Gualo,

To-day arrived from Rome.

Pem. And I not told?

Already I am dead. These ears, that kings

Engaged, are now contracted to the worm

Permits no forfeiture. Well, well, his message?

Alb. The cardinal assures us that the pope

Will cast his power with Henry. Though he loves

This praying Louis, well he knows our right.

Pem. The pope our friend? I thank thee, Heaven!

England, take up thy heart! Thou yet mayst hope!

[Enter bishop of Winchester]

Win. God save great Pembroke!

Pem. He alone can do it.

Lord Albemarle, and my new-graced son,

Will 't please you walk within?

Alb. We are your servants.

[Exeunt Richford and Albemarle, left]

Pem. Now, Winchester?

Win. You sent for me, your grace.

I have made haste.

Pem. Ay, you'd trot fast enough

To see me die.

Win. Nay, sir, I hope you've called

Me to your service.

Pem. So I have, my lord.

A task unfinished I must leave to you.

Here is the key to yonder cabinet.

Pray you unlock it ... and take out the packet

Your eye's now on.

Win. This, sir?

Pem. Ay, that is it.

'Twas Henry Second, grandsire of this Henry,

Gave me that packet. Sir, you know the tale

Of princess Adelais who journeyed here

As the betrothed of Richard, Henry's son.

Alack, she never was his bride. Some say

That Henry loved her ... I know not ... but she

Returned to France, her reason wandering.

"If she recover," said the king to me,

"Give her this packet; should she die, break seal

And learn what you shall do." She did not die,

Nor can I say she lives, so sad her state.

Her age was bare fifteen when she left England,

Her face a lily and her eyes a flood;

She now must be midway her fifth decade,

A time, I've heard, when subtle changes work

Within the mind. A beauteous soul! O God,

Restore her now, or lift her e'en to thee!

... Take you the packet, and the king's command.

But first your oath. Deceit has sapped my faith

So oft I could believe the devil himself

Wears gown and mitre. Peter des Roches, will you

Be true?

Win. I swear by Heaven.

Pem. That is done,

As well as't can be done. Call in my son

And Albemarle.

Win. My lords!

[Re-enter Richford and Albemarle]

Pem. Now let us talk

Of England. O, this fleet, this fleet, rigged out

By warlike Constance in monk Louis' name!

I see it nearing now, leaping the waves,

On, on, and none to meet it! Cowards all.

What do ye here, ye three, loitering about

A sick man's bed? A man almost a corpse.

I would not have a servant waste himself

To give me drink while England needs his sword.

Rich. My father lord, we have our men abroad

Rousing the country for a stout defence.

To meet the French with our poor ships were madness;

But let them land we'll give them such a rap——

Pem. What? Land your enemy? O, fools and cowards!

... I've given my life for England. Now you'll cast

My heart-dear bargain into Louis' hand

As 'twere a snood slipped from an easy maid.

Fool man! to puff his days out jousting Fate,

Who waits but his bare death to start her mock

Of horrid pleasantries. Then does she make

Dice of the miser's bones, carousal cups

Of the ascetic's skull, a hangman's scoff

Of clerics' prayer-fed sons; and proudest sires,

Who sentried their blue blood, peer back through dust

To see all Babylon pour to their line.

And now she'll bid my war-ghost eyes behold

The land held with my life become a field

For foes at holiday!

Win. Compose yourself, your grace.

Pem. Gualo has come, but where is he will set

This power its task, and play it for this isle?

I can not say that wisdom dies with me,

But I could wish more proof of sager mind

Than e'er I've had from this small audience.

Lord Bishop, you are left custodian

Of Henry's ripening youth.

Win. Nor shall I fail

To be your worthy heir in this high duty,

For still I shall consult with your great spirit,

Praying your ghost be mover of my deeds.

Pem. I've spoken to the king. He'll give you love

For love. But who shall be lord chancellor?

There's little choice. And yet there's one, De Burgh,

If camp and field could spare him——

Alb. Sir, a man

No older than our sons?

Pem. By your good leave,

Age is no patent to respect and place

If virtue go not with it. Whitened hairs

Make honor radiant, but vice thereby

Is viler still. Ay, there are some——

Rich. Peace, father,

And save thy strength for us.

Pem. Ah, son, I've been

A careless holder all my life, and still

With my last hour play spendthrift. Well, here be

Three friends of England—Gualo makes a fourth—

And trusting you I ease my bones to death.

[Enter attendant with a letter, which he gives to Pembroke]

Pem. [After reading] De Burgh! O gallant soul!

Now am I young!

With forty ships he'll meet the fleet of France!

I live again, for courage is not dead!

[Sinking] Nay—help—ah, I am gone. I'll hasten on

And plead in Heaven for his victory.

[Seems to die]

Alb. Ah ... dead?

Rich. In truth.

Win. I'll go and tell the king.

[Aside, going] My joyful tears he will translate to grief,

And think I weep a friend's death, not a foe's

Whose only act of friendship was to die. [Exit]

Alb. How now, my lord? Does your good purpose hold?

Rich. It has the falling sickness, Albemarle,

And now lies low as earth.

Alb. Then set thy foot

Upon it that it rise no more.

Rich. 'Tis done.

Alb. What fools are they who think that dying men

Speak oracles to pivot action on,

When death's decay so blurs each fading sense

They know but darkly of the world about,

And of realities all plain to us

Build visions substanceless to gull our faith.

Grant that they do take note of things unseen,

'Tis with their faces to another world,

And what they speak is strange and ill advice

To us whose work is still 'mong men of earth.

Rich. You need not clear your way to me. I've not

A scruple in my soul would trip a gnat.

Speak out your heart.

Alb. You are great Pembroke now.

But Richford took an oath to serve the king.

Rich. And he—is Louis.

Alb. Till we find hour fit

To cast his yoke and take a sovereign

Of our election.

Rich. Royal Albemarle!

Alb. Here stand we then. De Burgh we count as dead.

Le Moine has orders to strike off his head

Soon as he's taken. Now we get the king

To Dover fort, on pretence to defend it.

There the besieging French will take him prisoner,

And ship him straight to Calais—or to Heaven.

Pem. [Half rising] Devils! dogs! beasts!

Now these devoted bones

Will never lie at peace in English earth.

My country! Must the foreign foot be set

Once more upon thy neck, and thine own sons

Pour sulphur to thy wounds? The king! the king!

What, vipers, do you hear? Call in the king!

Alb. We must not, sir.

Pem. Ho, here! The king!

[Rises from bed, starts forward and falls back speechless. Enter Henry, Gualo, Winchester, and attendants. Albemarle and Richford stand together. Pembroke dies pointing to them and gazing at the king.]

Hen. My lords, what does this mean?

Alb. This noble man

Wished much to say a word of grace for me

And his forgiven son. Alas, black death

Has stolen the balm that might have eased our way

Into your heart.

Hen. Fear not, my lords. I'll trust you,

Even as he wished. [Kneels by bed]

O, Pembroke, couldst thou leave me?

[Curtain]

Scene 2. Before Dover castle. Night. Hubert de Burgh walking and listening.

Hub. But forty ships! But forty slit-sailed drabs

Of storm and watery danger to meet all France

Fresh-winged upon the sea! And yet no word

Nor stir of help. Methinks were I the king,

Or Pembroke with his power in my mouth,

Each English road should be ablaze to-night

With swift flint-striking hoofs. Now to our shore

Puffs up the wave may prove oblivion's maw,

And drink these Dover cliffs as they were sands,

Yet England sleeps, with one lone heart at watch.

[Sound of horse approaching] Nay, two, for Roland comes.

[Enter Roland de Born, dismounted]

Rol. You, Hubert?

Hub. Ay.

You bring no aid?

Rol. The king is powerless.

Pembroke is dead. The barons to covert slink,

Saying their loyalty binds them to fight

No farther than the shore. The bishops smirk

Beneath their mitres, roll their eyes and cry

"God and great Rome, deliver us!" which means

Deliver us to Louis, king of monks

And darling of the pope.

Hub. And Albemarle?

Rol. Stands by the king, and ready with his men

To meet the foe on land, but not a soul

Will send to sea.

Hub. Dissembler! Well he knows

A victory on the sea means England lost,

So many traitor hearts will league with France

And sell their country for one castle more.

Rol. What now? We've little time. 'Tis almost day.

The moon is down, and the raw, rising air

Sucks in approaching light. What must be done?

Hub. The Cinque Ports yield me forty ships.

With these

I'll meet Le Moine.

Rol. O, Hubert, Hubert!

Hub. Ay,

My men are all aboard and waiting me.

The garrison I leave to you. Hold it

For honor and the king, nor yield to save

So poor a thing as my unlucky head

Should I go foul at sea. You'll be the first

The victors will besiege.

Rol. My friend!

Hub. Tut, man,

The sea's a good safe bed. Come in. Some wine

Will take the night-chill from your blood. In, in!

[Exeunt. Curtain]

Scene 3. Within the castle. Stephen, Baldur, Godric, and other soldiers talking and drinking.

Ste. [Draining his glass] As good liquor as ever wet an oath since Noah was a vintner.

Bal. Vintner? An you put him in the trade the bishop will have you up for it.

Ste. A groat for your bishop, and that off your grandam's eyes! I'm no little king Henry pulled to mincemeat by his bishops and barons. "I'll take off your mitre," roars he to his bishop. "An you take off my mitre, I'll clap on a helmet, by the lord," says my bishop. "I'll have your castle!" shouts he to his baron. "An you take my castle, I'll give you London tower," says master baron. Ay, and he would, with the keeper thrown in.

Bal. And you too, if you bite not a bit from your tongue.

Ste. By the mass, I'll drink the king's ale, and I'll take the king's money, but I'll fight for none but Hubert de Burgh!

God. And he for the king—so you.

Ste. I care not how you make it. De Burgh is my master. I'll fight for him and with him and after him, but I'll wear a red sword for no bishop or baron or little king Harry in Christendom!

Bal. That may be so with more of us than you, but stop your mouth with good ale and let words alone.

Ste. And I'll go with him to the French court and pull Louis off the king's stool!

[Sings]

Hear, boys, hear! O, hear our captain call!

We'll away, boys, away!

For the love o' the sword and the love o' the money,

We'll on to the wars, my brave fellows all,

An they take our Jack they will leave our Johnny.

Away, boys, away!

[Enter Hubert and Roland]

Hub. What cheer, my men? A fair morning for brave hearts. Can you keep this castle for me till I've had a bout at sea?

A soldier. That we can, sir!

Ste. I'll go with you, sir, by your leave. The castle will wait for us, I give you my word, sir.

Hub. You have seen the bottom of your glass too often to-night, Stephen.

Ste. God bless you, sir, there's where a soldier keeps his oath to serve God and his country, and he can't look it over too often. Take me wi' you, sir, and I'll prove you who lifts his glass the highest will wave his sword the longest. [Kneels] I was your father's soldier, sir, and hope to die yours.

Hub. Nay, I must leave trusty souls behind me. Let those who love me least fight under my eye, but I'll trust nay good Stephen around the world.

Ste. [Rising] Ay, sir! Rain arrows, hail bullets, we'll keep the castle against all weather!

Hub. [Presenting Roland] Then here's your brave captain. Follow him now, and farewell, good fellows—farewell, all!

[Soldiers start out slowly, following Roland]

An old soldier. [Turning] But you'll come again, sir?

Another. Ay, we'll see you back?

Another. An you come or come not, I kiss my sword to you, Hubert de Burgh, the bravest knight in all England!

Hub. Why, my hearts, would you start the liquor in my eyes? I go where there's brine enough. Twelve hours' sail with fortune will bring me back—but if I come not, remember your king!

[Exeunt soldiers]

They know 'tis death—they know 'tis death.

And what

Is that? We are all guests in God's great house,

The Universe, and Death is but his page

To show us to the chamber where we sleep.

What though the bed be dust, to wake is sure;

Not birds but angels flutter at the eaves

And call us, singing.

[Enter Gersa]

Gersa, what success?

Ger. The bags are all aboard, sir.

Hub. And portioned to every vessel?

Ger. Ay, sir.

Hub. Well despatched?

Ger. The men heaved as though the sacks held all the pope's treasury and they were to take their pay out of it.

Hub. Yet they found the contents not so heavy as gold, I hope.

Ger. Nor so light as feathers, sir.

Hub. But I pray they'll fly as well, and more to the purpose. Aboard with you now. I'll not be long behind you.

[Exit Gersa]

If this, my careful stratagem, should fail,

God help the friendless boy on England's throne!

Now Pembroke's noble strength must e'en to coffin;

And Isabel across the sea cares not,

But happier in a gentler husband's love

Takes little thought of John of England's heir,

Who has his father's beauty, not his heart,—

Just so much of that proud and guilty blood

As makes him kingly nor corrupts his own.

... But, come, my soul! Prepare thee for a world

Of rarer breath, lest thou too rudely go

To th' high conclave of spirits. Father?

[Enter friar Sebastian]

Fr. Seb. Son,

Art ready for the sacrament?

Hub. I lack

A prayer of thine to make me so. Give me

Such blessing as you'd lay upon me were

Death couchant for my heart, and on my brow

Drop thou the holy unguent that doth fit

The body for the last touch of the soul.

Fr. Seb. My love is to thy mortal frailty bound,

And first I'll bless thee as an earthly father,

Praying that thou mayst smite thine enemies.

[Re-enter Roland]

Rol Your pardon, Hubert. Lady Albemarle

Is here, and begs for instant sight of you.

Hub. My sister? I will see her.

[Exit Roland] Wait you, father.

The world must still intrude on Heaven's affairs.

[Exit friar through large folding doors rear as lady Albemarle enters left]

La. Alb. Brother! Is Glaia here?

Hub. She is. But why

This eagerness?

La. Alb. My lord says that you go

To meet the French. Is 't true?

Hub. In one hour's time

I count myself at sea.

La. Alb. Then what—O, where

Shall I hide Glaia?

Hub. Hide? Is 't evermore hide

That spotless maid, born but to be a star

To human eyes?

La. Alb. Nay, born to be my shame,

And constant, killing fear!

Hub. She will be safe.

Roland de Born, who now will guard this castle,

Holds Glaia as the heart in his own body.

Ay, she is safe,—but if the danger nears,

She'll be conducted back to Greenot woods——

La. Alb. Roland de Born? What knows he?

Hub. Only this,

That Glaia, weary of skies, rests foot on earth.

La. Alb. He does not love her, Hubert? Say not that!

Hub. Thy daughter is so honored.

La. Alb. No!

Hub. She has

His noble love, and he my happy wish

That he may make her wife.

La. Alb. Then thou art false,

And I look on my grave.

Hub. What, Eleanor?

La. Alb. You know my place, and how I queen the court,

A virtuous mark that lords point out to wives,

Bidding them walk as Albemarle's good dame.

Now let me take my seat on the lowest step,

And none too humble to mock me going up.

Hub. What's this to do with Roland's love for Glaia?

La. Alb. O, let them scorn! Tis nothing! But my husband—

Brother, I never dreamed thy cruelty

Would give me to his vengeance.

Hub. Cruelty?

La. Alb. O, see me at his feet—bleeding and broken——

Hub. Not while I wear a sword! But how have I

Disturbed thee? What have said? I've threshed my words,

But find no devil in them.

La. Alb. O, this Roland,

If he wive Glaia must ferret out my shame—

Pry her life ope—who is she?—whence she came?—

Till all my secret blushes 'fore his eye.

Hub. Though he learn all, thy honor in his breast

Is safe as gem that at earth's centre burns.

La. Alb. Nay, I'll not live! You know not Albemarle!

He'll scourge me through the court in rags to match

My tattered virtue,—then the rack—fire—screws—

The Scotch boot—O, the world's not dear enough

To purchase so. I will not live!

Hub. I swear

That Roland cares so much for Glaia's birth

As to be glad she's born. And at my word

He will receive her questionless and dumb,

Nor ever doubt, or weigh his promised faith.

La. Alb. Why, is there such a man in all the world?

Hub. He sees her as one looks upon a rose,

And thinks not of the mould that bore it, or what

The tale that dews and winds could tell.

La. Alb. 'Tis strange.

Hub. As strange as truth.

La. Alb. I must—I do believe you.

Hub. And bless his suit?

La. Alb. Ay, let him wed her straight.

What waits he for? Let her be lost in him,

This rare, this unmatched wonder of a man,

And I will cast this shadow from my life,

Heave off the weight that seventeen years I've borne,

And walk the lighter, for I've known what 'tis

To step high 'neath a load. O, let them wed

As soon as may be, Hubert. Why not now?

Hub. He waits to win her heart.

La. Alb. Cares he for that?

You can command her, Hubert.

Hub. But will not.

She is a plant of Nature's tenderest love,

And must be won to bloom by softest airs,

Else shall we risk the gentle life and see

No buds unfold.

La. Alb. I understand her not,

Nor try. She is a part of strangest days,

That like to burning dreams bewilder as

They scar the recollection. She's more kin

To those strange creatures of the wood that peeped

About my shelter when she lay a babe

Than to my blood. Yet she is mine—my daughter.

Hub. Wilt you not see her?

La. Alb. No.

Hub. You will find her up.

La. Alb. Why should I see her? Give a stranger's kiss,

And hear her stiffly say "Your ladyship"?

If she would love me!

Hub. Do not weep.

La. Alb. You think

I do not suffer.

Hub. I've no wish to think so.

La. Alb. I'm nearly mad at times! But I must go.

Hub. [Hesitating] How is—the princess?

La. Alb. Margaret? O, well,

But every day more full of starts and whims.

Last night the king was with us——

Hub. Ah, the king?

La. Alb. She gave him stinted welcome. Then my lord

Came in with news of the advancing fleet,

And danger to the throne, concluding with

Your aim to put to sea, and at that point

She swooned quite prettily and pleased the king.

Hub. She swooned?

La. Alb. Most properly, the king being by

To know it was for him.

Hub. O—ay, for him!

La. Alb. Who else? I hope they'll soon be wed.

Hub. Be wed?

Henry is young.

La. Alb. But old enough being king.

And Albemarle is pressing for the marriage.

'Tis now ten years since Margaret came from Scotland

To be his charge. A pretty child—do you

Remember? But now grown from beauty, pale

And fanciful. You've seen the change?

Hub. To me

She never changes but to show herself

More beautiful.

La. Alb. You have not seen it? Pah!

Now I must go. Good brother, fare you well.

You've given me comfort. [Kisses him]

Hub. Farewell, Eleanor.

[Exit lady Albemarle]

Art gone, my sister, and no word of love

For one who looks on death? It is the fear

That keeps so constant with her makes her hard

And unlike woman—unlike Margaret.

... Last night the king was with her—and she swooned.

But not for him. By Heaven, 'twas not for him!

[Sits by table, bowing his head upon it]

O Margaret! Not one dear word? Not one?

[Enter Margaret, veiled]

Mar. Ah! [Steps toward him, throwing off her veil] Hubert?

Hub. [Starting up] Princess! Here? You here?

Mar. Couldst think I'd let thee go till I had said

"God save thee" to thy face?

Hub. You risk too much!

Mar. Risk, Hubert?

Hub. O, what have you done?

Mar. What done?

Hub. The king will think——

Mar. The king will think as I do,

That 'tis most natural to pay adieu

To friends.

Hub. But Albemarle——

Mar. Approves our friendship.

I do not understand.

Hub. Yet you came veiled.

Mar. 'Twas early—and the air was pricking chill.

I—thought—do you go soon?

Hub. That you should come!

Mar. Soon, Hubert?

Hub. Ay, at once.

Mar. At once. Why then,

Farewell.

Hub. Stay! Ah—I mean—why did you come?

Mar. My soul! I think I came that you might wish

Me back again. Was it so wrong of me?

Are we not friends? And if I came in hope

To ease adieu with unction of a tear

I know none else would shed——

Hub. O, Margaret!

Pray God that I deserve this! Now I go

So light I'll hardly need my ship's good wings

To bear me.

Mar. The earl doubts not your victory.

How many ships go with you?

Hub. All we have.

The ports hold not a single vessel from me.

Mar. And the enemy's? I hope they are enough

To make your victory noble.

Hub. I've no doubt

They count up bravely.

Mar. Not too many, sir!

Hub. The battle will not shame me.

Mar. But how many?

Hub. As yet we have no word but rumor's.

Mar. Ah!

Tell me you'll win.

Hub. Then help me by not doubting.

Mar. I must not doubt—for if—I did——

Hub. What then?

Mar. Nay, I'll not stay to tell you. I must go.

I keep you from the battle and your fame.

You have forgiven me my morning ride?

Faith, but you frowned!

Hub. I thought how many eyes

Were on the king's betrothed.

Mar. Choose better words,

My friend. I am not yet the king's betrothed,

And I—had you the time——

Hub. Nay, all my life

Is yours.

Mar. Hear then. I will not wed the king.

Hub. A princess can not choose.

Mar. Then I'll not be

A princess!

Hub. Margaret!

Mar. A princess? Nay,

I'll be no more a woman, if that means

To cage my soul in circle of a court

And fawn on turnkey humor for my life!

Scotland is lost to me. I'll not go there

To meet my dangerous brother's wrath. No, no!

But there are forests—I can fly to them,

And dig my food from Nature's generous earth,

Thrive on her berries, drink from her clear streams,

Sleep 'neath the royal coverlet of her leaves,

And make some honest friends 'mong her kind creatures

That we call dumb because, forsooth, they speak

By eye and touch and gibber not as we!

... So silent, sir? Come, will you not advise me?...

There was a day before the day of kings

When maidens looked where'er their hearts had sped

And found them mates who had no need of crowns

To make them royal, and such a day the world

May see again, but I, alack, must breathe

The present time, and crave the help of state

And craft and gold to get me married! O,

The judgment angel gathering up our clay

Will know this period by its broken hearts!

... Hast not a word? Now should I wed the king?

Hub. He is a gentle youth, and in your care

Would blossom brave in virtues.

Mar. Nay——

Hub. All hope

For this poor land lies in your grace.

Mar. Ah, Hubert,

Where is there woman strong enough to save

Fair Henry from his flatterers? Not here.

Wouldst cast me to the pool where he must drown?

Hub. Where canst thou hide thy beauty, Margaret?

This is wild talk of forests. Where couldst flee?

What land would shelter thee from England's love

And Scotland's rage? My own—my Margaret—

Where could we go?

Mar. O, Hubert, we?

Hub. I'm mad.

Peace to thee, maiden. I go to my ships.

Mar. Forgive me! I'll be gone.

[Re-enter Gersa]

Hub. What! Not aboard?

Ger. Your pardon, sir. We have confirmed reports

The French outnumber us by triple count.

Eighty large ships, the double of our own,

Besides two score of galleons and small vessels

That in themselves would match us. And 'tis sure

Le Moine, the pirate, leads the fleet.

Hub. Are all

Now ready?

Ger. Ay, we wait for you.

Hub. Grant me

A bare half hour—no—not so much. I shall

O'ertake you ere you reach your ship.

[Exit Gersa. Hubert turns to Margaret and finds that she has fainted]

My lady!

Is this, too, for the king?

Mar. [Reviving] You shall not go!

Hub. I must—and now. Let me but press your hand——

Mar. No, no, my lips! Hubert, let us be true.

Death watches now and will report all lies

To Heaven. Now I must see you go from me,

Out of my eyes as stars go from the sky,

And never, never see you come again,

Let me once hear you say you love me, Hubert,

And all the years that I must weep for thee

I'll keep the words as a sweet golden bell

To sound whene'er my ears want music.

Hub. Thou art the king's.

Mar. Nay, I will lay my head

Upon the block, ere pillow it by his.

Hub. Then we'll be mad together, Margaret.

To go one step in this is to go farthest.

Ah, yesterday I saw a knight I loved

Sink in his blood; but when he called the name

Of his dear bride, and died as it made sweet

His lips, I thought of you and envied him.

And now, so soon, his fortune is my own.

[Calls] Come, father! [To Margaret] Art afraid?

Mar. Ah, yes, afraid

That I may lose thee!

Hub. Is it hell, or Heaven?

[Re-enter friar Sebastian]

Good father, when two souls have kissed so close

They in each other lose the form of self,

And neither body knows its own again,

Wouldst join them mortally, that being one

They can not go amiss?

Fr. Seb. If they be free,

My son, to take the vows.

Hub. Thou knowest us.

Fr. Seb. I've blessed ye both as children.

Mar. I am free

By my soul's right, and though a princess born,

Here choose my lord.

Fr. Seb. My daughter, thou art noble,

And must be written fair though envy keep

The beadroll of thy faults, but 'tis poor rank

Not thee stoops to this choice.

Mar. I know it, father.

Though it should cost my fortune, name and place,

I'd give them all to be his wife one hour.

Fr. Seb. Then, by my sacred vows, as I believe

Love is from Heaven, and 'tis God himself

Who fosters its sweet growth through all the blood

Till action, thought, yea, life, do hang upon it,

I'll bind ye in the dear eternal bonds,

And bless your union with the holy feast.

Come in with me. [Exit, rear]

Hub. [Embracing her] 'Tis Heaven, Margaret!

[Curtain]

ACT II
Scene 1. Within Dover castle. Same room as in act first. Enter Glaia followed by Eldra.

Eld. O, my lady, up all night, and now 'tis barely day you must be going!

Gla. My good Eldra, you would teach my shadow constancy, for you follow me without let or leave from the sun.

Eld. I follow not you but my orders, mistress. Sir Roland says that I must not leave you.

Gla. The gates are all locked. Does he think me a bird to fly over the walls?

Eld. That he does! The bonniest bird that ever sang in Greenot woods. Isn't Sir Roland a man, my lady?

Gla. By his cap and feather, I should not doubt it.

Eld. But a man you may look at, my lady!

Gla. Pray God I may, madam, for 'tis sad to be young and blind.

Eld. Ay, but when I look at Sir Roland I could sing again the song that got me a husband.

Gla. What song? I think you got him with your fair face and honest mind, and he took the song by way of grace with meat.

Eld. True, mistress, I was a fair, canny lass over the border.

Gla. And a fair, canny dame you are now, Eldra. But what was the song?

Eld. It was back summat ten jaunts o' the sun from Lammas to Lammas. I was standing on the rock hills over Logan frith wi' the green woods behind me an' lookin' out to sea. The waves were runnin' high, and the brine in my face gave me such a spirit that in a minute my bonnet was off and I was singing at the top of my voice—

O braw, braw knight, come down the glen

And awa' to kirk wi' me!

And Heaven send us seven stout sons

To fight for our king on the sea!

It's a long ballad, but it's out o' my mind now, and who should come up behind me but my man that was to be, and 'twas set then and there we must go to the kirk come Sunday. Ay, it got me a husband, but never a son, for only six months away he was drowned at sea—the very sea that I'd sung so brave t-to——

Gla. Don't cry. He will come sailing back some day with a fortune in his pocket. I don't believe he was drowned.

Eld. I care not what's in his pocket, ma'am, if he bring me love in his heart.

Gla. That he will, I am sure. Where is Orson?

Eld. Bathing his knees in gooseoil, my lady. You kept him at prayers all night for Sir Hubert.

Gla. Why, did we not share his watch?

Eld. Yes, mistress, but when you fell asleep we had not the heart to wake you.

Gla. O, ho! I fell asleep, did I?

Eld. I should hope you did, my lady. For my part I winked but once, and when I woke up you were——

Gla. Asleep?

Eld. No, but you were praying so chipper that I knew you were just at it.

Gla. O, false woman! Do you think I could sleep when Hubert is on the sea? Call Orson to me.

Eld. Orson! Orson!

[Enter Orson, walking stiffly]

Gla. Why, Orson, you carry as much dignity as a watchman that has just let in a duke.

Ors. Mock not affliction got in your service, my lady.

Gla. My service? When did I tell you to sleep all night on your knees?

Ors. Sleep? Sleep, lady?

Gla. Ay, sleep. You are a knave. Bring me my lute.

Ors. Muttering] Sleep! There's thanks for you! [Exit]

Eld. Mistress, you must not play your lute here. The king's men are not like Sir Hubert's, and your voice will quick tell 'em there's a bird in the bower.

Gla. I am not afraid. What are men but creatures like ourselves?

Eld. Like ourselves? La, my lady!

Gla. There's no harm in them. You are a foolish dame.

[Re-enter Orson]

[Taking lute] Good Orson, I am sorry if your knees are stiff. You may have the unguent that Sir Roland brought me from Palestine. Go, Eldra, and get it for him.

Eld. [Aside] An I give him not gooseoil with a dash of cinnamon, I'm no good servant to my mistress. [Exeunt Eldra and Orson]

Gla. I do not like this castle with Hubert away. Sir Roland makes it a prison. If I could get out I should try to find my way to Greenot woods. The doves are nesting now, and the little brown fawns are specked with snow. [Plays lute and sings]

O, lady, let the roses blow

In thy pale cheeks for this—

That I may to that garden go

And pluck them with a kiss.

My roses are all plucked, she said,

No more shall ever grow,

For cold is he and low his head

Whose dear love made them blow.

Then lay she down where slept her lord

Upon the silver heather;

Then sighed the knight, nor said he word,

But left the twa together.

[Enter the king, dressed in black. He gazes at Glaia]

Gla. What is your name, boy?

Hen. Henry.

Gla. Henry? That is the king's name. Are you his soldier?

Hen. I fight for him.

Gla. Ah, me!

Hen. Is it not brave to fight?

Gla. But kings are wicked

To buy their kingdoms with their subjects' lives.

Two days ago they brought a noble knight

Into the castle, bloody and quite dead,

And when I cried, my Hubert whispered "Hush,

'Tis for the king." Hubert is now at sea—

Mayhap this moment dies—and for the king.

And 'twas last night I heard Sir Roland say

"We'll hold the castle till each man is down,"

All for the king. And now you fight for him.

I hate the king!

Hen. O, do not say that.

Gla. Why?

Hen. Because he loves you.

Gla. He has never seen me.

You're merry, boy.

Hen. But good kings love their subjects

Before they know them.

Gla. O! Is Henry good?

Hen. He prays to be so.

Gla. Let him pray, lest he

Grow old in evil like his father, John.

Who is your father, Henry?

Hen. He is dead.

Gla. Ah! But you have a mother.

Hen. Far away,

And one who loves me little.

Gla. Now I'll sigh

No more for parents, since I know that they

May die, or prove unkind. I have no kin.

But Hubert loves me.

Hen. Lady——

Gla. I am Glaia.

That is all I know, but Hubert says

Some day he'll tell me more. I do not care.

I love to be a mystery to myself.

Hen. [Aside] She's nobly born, and kept from her estate;

But how should she be honest Hubert's charge?

Gla. What say you, Henry?

Hen. 'Tis so strange to find

An angel housing in this black-browed castle,

Converting war's grim seat to paradise.

Hast always lived here?

Gla. O, behind these walls?

No, I've a home deep in the happy forest.

I do not like this place—these huge black rocks

Piled up so high, with caves i' the ground, and holes

To shoot out arrows. I walk on tiptoe here,

Afraid I'll wake the ghosts that sleep i' the corners.

But in the forest I can shout and run,

And everything I wake will laugh and sing.

Hen. Where is this happy place?

Gla. I can not tell.

'Twas night when we came here, and Hubert says

That none must know the way. I wonder why.

Do you live in a castle?

Hen. When I'm not

At wars.

Gla. O me, I would not live in one

To please——

Hen. The king?

Gla. No, not to please the king.

Hen. If he were lonely, Glaia?

Gla. Lonely? O,

He is to wed the princess Margaret.

Are you not glad? He'll not be lonely then.

She's fair and good, they say.

Hen. But not as you.

Her princess feet like well the solid earth.

She is a flower that sips of sun and dew.

But feedeth most from root-cups firm in ground;

While you are made of music, love, and air,—

A being of the sky—a lover's star,

Although he be a king. The grace of heaven

About your beauty plays, and drops as soft

Upon my eyes as light from the lark's wing.

But I must leave you now. Sweet, take this gift.

[Gives her his jewelled belt]

And know my name and place are worthy yours,

Though you should be a princess, as I think.

See, here's a jewel in this belt. I dare

To part with it, though wise men say my life

Is safe but when I wear it. 'Tis the stone

Of Wales, and blessed by magic of the seers

That in that country dwell.

Gla. Then keep it. Ay,

You must.

Hen. No, no! I have a fear some harm

Will touch you, me away. Keep you the charm,

And I will take your lute. In lonely hours

I'll touch the chords and think thou'rt listening. [Exit]

Gla. A lovely boy! O me, these dreadful wars!

Eldra's a goose to call the king's men rude.

I wish he had not gone. I'll play again

And see who'll come. Ah, now I have no lute.

No matter, I will sing.

[Sings]

O, sweet the day and fair the May,

But Love he laid him down to weep——

[Enter Gregory]

Greg. A pixy sure!

Sweet apparition, wilt fly if I approach?

Then here I'll stand, and from this point remote

As frosty Hebrid from the golden East,

Adore thy seeming substance! Ah, no answer?

Advance then, valiant Gregory, and explore.

Flesh? 'S light, 'tis flesh! A very woman, too.

A silent woman. Heavenly miracle!

With lips like twin strawberries 'neath one leaf.

The very manner of them begs a kiss.

I' faith, they shall not beg.

Gla. You would not kiss me!

Greg. You wrong me, duck. Why, I'm a man of mirth

A soldier, sweet. And would not kiss? Now, now!

You take me for a ghost—or starve-bone saint.

I am not padded—I fill out my coat

And owe but for the cloth. A man, my chick!

Shalt have a kiss.

Gla. O, help me, Eldra! Help!

[Stephen runs in, seizes Gregory and shakes him about]

Ste. [Pricking him with his sword] Shalt have a kiss, he shall! A man, my chick!

I fill my coat, I do.'

Greg. Hold, sir! I am

An officer of the king!

Ste. Why then, shalt have

More kisses! 'S blood! I thought thee but a scrub.

A king's man, sir, shall have more ceremony.

[Pricks him around the room. Enter Roland]

Rol. Stephen! Brawling here? You know the orders.

Ste. Orders, I take it, sir, don't count in such a case extraordinary.

Rol. Your extraordinary cases have become quite usual, Stephen.

Ste. Be you the judge, sir. This gay blood here was troubling the lady——

Rol. Glaia! Then he dies! [Drawing his sword]

Ste. Orders, orders, sir!

Gla. He did not touch me, Roland.

Rol. Touch thee? If he

No more than looked at thee death is enough.

But had he touched thee——

Gla. Art thou cruel, Roland?

I thought thee gentle. Wouldst thou make me hate thee?

Rol. You shall not hate me, Glaia. [Sheathes his sword] Let him live.

But take him from my sight. [Exeunt Stephen and Gregory]

Gla. O, Roland, now

I love thee!

Rol. Love me, Glaia?

Gla. Next to Hubert.

Rol. O, next to Hubert.

Gla. And the boy.

Rol. The boy?

Gla. Henry his name is. Such a pretty youth!

He gave me this,—and see, this jewel here

Is all so precious that it guards the life

Of whoso wears it. He must like me well

To give it me. Dost think he likes me, Roland?

Rol. [Aside] O God, the king! ... Give me the baldric, Glaia.

I will return it, for I know the youth.

In truth, I've seen him wear this very belt.

'Twas wrong to take it, Glaia. He belongs

So wholly to the king that you can have

No portion of his love, lest he betray

Himself and thee. Go, get you ready, child,

To leave this place. For you 'tis full of dangers.

Gla. Back to the woods? O happiness! But I—

Ah, must we go so soon?

Rol. It was your prayer.

Gla. But then—I had not—strange! Why is it, Roland,

'Tis not so merry going as I thought?

Is't not a little lonely in the woods?

And yet it never seemed so. Will you come

To see me, Roland?

Rol. Do you want me, Glaia?

Gla. O, yes, dear Roland! And you'll bring the boy?

I want to ask if he will be my brother.

Rol. You must not see him. Go and get you ready.

[Exit Glaia]

O, wretched me, to love so frail a thing!

Fragile and pure, thou art not for this world,

Where the same winds that bring thee breath must blow

Thy gentle life out.

[Re-enter the king]

Sovereign liege,

Count it not boldness if I dare to guess

Your presence here. You come, my lord, to find

This precious property. [Gives him the belt]

I know 'tis prized,

And hold me happy that it met my eye

Before another's.

Hen. Gentle Roland, thanks.

I need not ask if you found aught with this

More precious still.

Rol. Nothing that majesty

Might without blushing claim.

Hen. Thank you again.

[Aside] I've found the lover! ... Is there news from sea?

Rol. Uncertain news, that I was on my way

To give to you. Report cries victory

For Hubert, but 'tis chance improbable

That he should win, so take a breath, your highness,

Ere you believe.

Hen. The lords must know of this!

Rol. Your majesty, I have a suit to thee.

Hen. A victory!

Rol. If you do hold him dear

Who, by report, has won this doubtful battle,

That saves your kingdom and sets fast your crown,

I beg you hear me!

Hen. Speak, but be not slow,

Good Roland.

Rol. Sire, De Burgh has enemies

Who seek his downfall, for his honesty

Stands rock-like 'tween the throne and treachery.

'Twas they who wrought to send him feebly forth

'Gainst odds so great they left no chance of life

Save by God's love and favor. If he wins,

The victor's garland and his king's reward

Will further urge their hate to villainy.

Hen. Who are these foes?

Rol. The earl of Albemarle,

Pembroke and Winchester.

Hen. My very staff!

What proof hast thou?

Rol. I've nothing for your eye.

But in my heart there is a testament

That makes me bold to name them. I would risk

All but my soul to save you such a friend

And virtuous servant as De Burgh, You may

Condemn me——

Hen. First, I'll watch these lords.

But be they false, where, where shall I find friends?

Rol. 'Mong those who fight your battles, sire, nor fear

To die to save a king.

[Exit]

Hen. [Seating himself in an alcove]

I see a king

Must take some thought to keep his crown on 's head.

Eld. Dear man, you can't deny it! 'Twas you saved my mistress. But for my good man drowned at sea I'd love you, sweeting.

Ste. And if you love me it must be by way of kiss and part, for my good wife is still in the world, I've reason to think, and some day I shall run plumb into her bonny white arms. But a kiss, my lass, with a penny to the priest, can do a soldier no harm, and you'll always find me obliging in everything except matrimony.

Eld. Out! Away! You old father Longbeard! You Johnny Hump-back!

Ste. Hump! 'Tis the squint in your eye, my dearie! I'm as straight as a poplar in the king's court.

Eld. Squint, sir? May be so, for I'm thinkin' o' my braw handsome man, an' 'twould make a straight eye squint to see you standin' in his place, it would.

Ste. An' I'm thinkin' o' my bonny little girl, as plump and tender as a partridge at her first nest, and out upon you, my fine, fat waddler!

Eld. An my man were here you'd drop to your fours and go like a beast for shame, you would. The prettiest figure 'tween here and Jerusalem! He had an arm! He could sling a sword! And such a leg! Dick Lion-heart never shaped a trimmer stocking. Hair like a raven fannin' the wind! An eye like Sallydeen's! For all the world a black coal with a fire in the middle. No watery peepers like present company's. An his eyes were stars in heaven I could point 'em out!

Ste. O, my sweet wench that's a waitin' for me! When shall I see her comin' with her head up like a highland doe, an' cheeks as red as my grandam's nightcap? I think o' her now as she stood on the high rocks over Logan's frith singin' the song that made the sugar-water start in my heart. And straight I must gallop wi' her to the kirk— Hey, what's the matter, old lady?

Eld. Nothin'—nothin', sir,—just one o' my qualms.

Ste. Do you have 'em ordinary? A pity now. My lass, an she lived a thousand years, would not he qualmsy.

Eld. [Aside] 'Tis Stephen, my own man! And he doesn't know me! O, I am changed from his ain lassie! He despises me! Waddler! O!

Ste. Chirk up, old duck. When I find my lass——

[Re-enter Orson]

Ors. Mistress Eldra, what do you gabbling here and my lady calling you?

[Exit Eldra with Orson]

Ste. Eldra? By Pharo's ghost! Let me see—ten years. It might be—yes—her very complexion—the pert eye—the little foot—the canny twitch to her lips—and her man drowned at sea. Well, I'm pickled. She has built up such a Solomon's glory picture o' me that plain Stephen Godfrey will never get another chance. He had an arm! Ha! Did I? An eye like Sallydeen! A leg like Lion-heart! Ha! [Struts up and down] But now I'm father Longbeard. Well, I'll shave off this weeping willow tree anyhow.

[Re-enter Eldra]

Eld. Good sir, are you here yet?

Ste. [Aside] Good sir! Methinks I grow in favor. Ay, sweet madam.

Eld. [Aside] He's lookin' softer now. Well a day, this is a world. Here they brought me and the lady Glaia to make sure we would be safe, and now they're taking us back for the same reason. Ay me, and a lonely, dreary place it is we're goin' to, with never a civil gentleman like yourself to sit out the night wi' a stoop o' ale an' cakes o' my own raisin'.

Ste. My good madam, if you will give me the tip o' the road, I'll not be a slow traveller when the business of war will let an honest soldier course to his liking.

Eld. O, 'tis secret, sir. My lady is hid away for some reason of God or the devil, and I'll not be so false as to let a stranger on the track.

Ste. Am I a stranger, madam? Did not my good arm no more than an hour ago procure me warrant for better treatment? Come! As you say, there'll be lonely times, and a discreet companion who knows how to keep his tongue behind his teeth will not come amiss on a rainy day.

Eld. [Aside] How can it be harm to tell my own man when the good priest said we were one flesh? 'Twill only be tellin' my own ears. Well, sir, if you'll swear by St. Peter's thumb and the crucifix you'll never let anybody know——

Ste. By St. Peter's thumb and the crucifix—and your black eyes, too—I swear!

Eld. Then take the straight road to—O, I'm afraid!

Ste. Courage, my pretty! There's not a cricket to hear you.

Eld. The straight road to Greenot woods, and two miles in the forest where the brook crosses, ride up the stream half a mile to a tall red ash standin' alone, and three miles by the path to the right brings you to the place you'll find me. Now I've done it! No, don't thank me for bein' a fool.

Ste. Nay, a woman, dearie.

Eld. I must run to my mistress.

[Exit Eldra, Stephen following]

Hen. [Coming forward] Go, Stephen with the Lion's leg. You'll haste

If I be not before you. Am I bound

To Margaret? By others' mouths, perhaps.

But certain not at all by oath of mine.

[Enter friar Sebastian]

What holy gloom comes here? Friar Sebastian,

One time the counsellor to Isabel.

Do you not know me, father?

Fr. Seb. [Kneeling] Gracious king!

Hen. Nay, rise and bless me.

Fr. Seb. Hear, my sovereign.

This meeting is not chance. I sought thee here

To tell what palsies me to think on.

Hen. Speak,

Then think of it no more.

Fr. Seb. 'Tis said De Burgh

Has gained the victory 'gainst all expectance.

I know that he was sure he went to death,

Else had he never put unto his lips

The rose that bloomed for one so high above him.

But dreaded death is yet full gracious, sire,

And sanctions rights too bold for life to claim.

Hen. Did Hubert wrong me, father?

Fr. Seb. Alas, my king!

Hen. Come, drop your burden even to my heart

That I may know its weight.

Fr. Seb. Sire, in the hour

That he spent last on land, I married him

To a most noble lady.

Hen. Married? Ha!

Nor asked consent of me? Not one

"By your good leave, my king"?

Fr. Seb. If in my words

So soon you find affront to majesty,

I dare not tell you more.

Hen. Nay, I'll forgive him.

Remembering his service 'twere too stern

To make contention of his marriage.

Fr. Seb. Though he should banish all the woes of England,

Make sorrow alien, and a tear unknown,

Yet has he wronged a king. Though happy mothers

Drop on their knees and let no hour pass by

Without its prayer for him, still has he wronged

A king!

Hen. Wilt never speak because you speak

So much?

Fr. Seb. Here let me lie, and pray your grace

For two long troubled hearts. When I have spoken

Then set thy foot upon my priestly head,

But spare them, spare them, sire!

Hen. Up! Rise, I say,

From this debasement. We shall take good care

To shield your holiness. Now speak!

Fr. Seb. One word

Will tell you—one.

Hen. [Taking a seat] And how much time will 't take

To say that word?

Fr. Seb. It is the name of her

Whom knightly Hubert made his wife.

Hen. Is it

A long name, father?

Fr. Seb. [On his knees] It is Margaret.

Hen. [Rising] Of Scotland?

Fr. Seb. [Covering his head] Ay, my liege.

Hen. [Aside] Deliverance!

Rise, father, rise, and learn that even a king

Is noble enough to suffer and forgive.

Fr. Seb. Have I my ears? Are these your words, my lord?

Or does some pitying angel alchemize

Them into sounds more fit to reach my weak

And trembling age?

Hen. You hear even as I speak.

'Tis true that Hubert pitched his love full high.

Good manners had not o'ershot the royal bow;

But take my word no harm shall come to him.

Fr. Seb. He'll need a friend, my liege, for dangers stride

In wake of this rash marriage.

Hen. Leave them

To me. I'll try my fledgling wit in this.

Where is the cardinal?

Fr. Seb. I' the western hall.

Hen. Here come the lords. But first I'll speak with Gualo.

[Exeunt Henry and friar Sebastian, left. At right, enter Albemarle, Winchester and Pembroke]

Pem. [To Albemarle] He has not yet confirmed you chancellor?

Alb. No need, so short his reign.

Win. We should have news.

By this the battle's done. I wonder now

How far is Hubert's head on its long journey

To ocean's bottom?

Alb. May it please your grace,

We think 'tis best that you stay with the king.

If all desert him 'twill look foul in us,

And it will take an honest English face

To keep the people with us.

Win. True, my lord.

And I will stay with him, for I have gone

A little deeper in his heart than you,

And can best turn him to advance our plot.

Pem. While we ride forth to call men to defence—

In truth to give them hand and foot to Louis—

You wait here with the king——

Win. I understand.

And you not coming up, perforce be taken.

Then Henry may lay by his crown, or keep 't

To please his jailer's peeping mammets, or bribe

His turnkey for a slug of meat.

Alb. The jail

Where he must lie is small and needs no keeper;

For who go in so well contented are

They're never known to set foot forth again.

Win. Must go so far? Well, as you please, my lords.

[Re-enter Henry, with Cardinal Gualo and attendants]>

Alb. God save your majesty!

Hen. My faithful friends,

Well met.

Win. Ah, still in black, my liege?

Hen. Why not,

My lord? When my poor father in the flesh

Was struck by death they dressed me in this hue;

And heavier cause have I to wear it now,

When he who gave my soul its dearest light—

My father in nobility above

The blood or happy chance of birth—is gone

To come no more.

Win. But, good, my liege, am I

So little worth that with a strange misfit

I wear his dignity?

Hen. The worthier

You are to wear 't you'll teach me to regret

His goodness lost, and be more pleased to see

How I prize virtue dead, guessing thereby

How dear is living virtue to my soul.

Pem. [Aside to Albemarle] Does he suspect?

Alb. 'Twould trouble us. There are

Some captains in the fort would make a way

For his escape.

Hen. You've had no news, my lords?

Alb. We yet wait word, but rest you easy, sire.

Our fleet is safe and proudly bearing home.

Hen. Your faith is strong.

Alb. I have no doubt, my lord.

Hen. Were it not well to take this time to plan

De Burgh's reward?

Alb. Ay, 'twere, your majesty.

Hen. What say you, my lord cardinal? You first.

How should we grace his triumph? With what honor?

Gualo. None is too great. I'd place him next the throne.

What think your lordships?

Alb. As yourself, my lord.

[Aside to Pembroke] Best humor him.

Gualo. Then further I may speak.

The earl of Kent, who lately met his death,

Has left no heir to his vast lands and name.

I think that God did so provide this place

For honor of De Burgh. And more than this,

Let him be made the great lord chancellor,

And chief justiciary of this troubled realm.

Alb. [Aside to Pembroke] Agree. No matter. Gualo's eye is on us.

Win. You speak in happy time, lord cardinal,

And we embrace your meaning heartily.

Hen. This easy payment of so great a debt

Inclines me to forget the dangerous way

De Burgh comes by his honor. We must keep

That ever in our hearts, my worthy lords,

Lest we grow jealous of his climbing fortune.

Alb. I hope we've memories, sire, and honest ones.

Hen. Well, to forfend the bating of his praise

In my poor mind, I'll give a lasting proof

Of how I hold him, and here forfeit right

To Margaret's hand in favor of De Burgh.

Alb. My liege! The princess?

Hen. He is now an earl;

And if I not complain, should any here?

Alb. But, sire——

Pem. [Aside to Albemarle] Submit! 'Tis only for an hour.

Alb. Pardon me that I thought to save you, sire

From such dear sacrifice.

Hen. 'Tis fit we make it,

And ask your fair approval, Albemarle.

Alb. And here I give it, my too gracious king.

[To an attendant] Whist! Are the horses saddled?

Att. Ready, sir.

[Enter Gregory]

Hen. Well, captain, well?

Greg. The princess Margaret

And lady Albemarle are at the gates.

Alb. My countess gads for news of her brave brother.

Hen. A worthy quest. [To Gregory] See them refreshed and lodged,

But bid them keep their chamber for a time.

[Exit Gregory]

Alb. [To Pembroke] Where are our messengers?

Can they be lost?

Pem. We should have heard by now. There's something wrong.

[Enter an attendant]

Att. Your majesty, a messenger!

Hen. From sea?

[Enter Gersa]

Ger. The king! Where is the king?

Alb. Pray use your eyes.

Ger. [Kneeling] Your majesty.

Hen. Arise. Your message?

Ger. Sire,

Hubert de Burgh is at the port.

Alb. [Aside] How now?

Ger. With all his ships but five.

Pem. [To Winchester] But five? What's here?

Win. A witch i' the pot, your lordships.

Ger. For those five

There's fifty of the French gone to the bottom.

The rest are scattered wide, with crippled sails

Begging the winds for mercy.

Hen. Hark, my lords!

Divinity is here. [To Gersa] How was this done?

What know you of the battle?

Ger. When we met

The opposing fleet, we crept by swift and silent,

As to escape the fight. So near we coursed

We heard the jeers cast on us as we passed.

Well by, we turned, and with the wind at back,

Bore down full sail and grappled.

Hen. Here were men!

Ger. Then, sire, we cut the lime-sacks on our decks——

Hen. Lime-sacks?

Ger. Which gave out smarting clouds that rose——

Hen. Now here were fools!

Ger. Sire, you forget the wind.

The sweeping breeze took up the stinging lime,

Clearing our decks, but wrapping round our foes,

Blinding all eyes.

Hen. St. George!

Ger. 'Twas easy then

To hook our vessels to the great French ships,

Cut down their rigging and make way at will

O'er the wallowing crew.

Pem. Must we believe this tale?

Hen. Goes it against your wish?

Pem. Nay, but 'tis strange.

Ger. [To Henry] One hundred knights, eight hundred officers,

Now wait their doom from you. Le Moine was found

Hid in his ship, and offered mighty sums

For his vile life, but Fitzroy closed the parley

By striking off his head.

Alb. What? Le Moine dead?

Hen. Why so amazed, my lord of Albemarle?

Did you not prophesy a victory?

Alb. True, true, my liege, but this surpasses all

My hope of it. Call it a miracle,

Not victory.

Gualo. Call it whate'er you will,

The Lord of Hosts was with this noble knight.

Hen. Not knight, but the right noble earl of Kent,

And for his life our grand justiciary.

[To Gersa] Thou art the mavis to a happy dawn.

Come, sing again. [Talks aside with him]

Win. [To Albemarle and Pembroke] Your lordships, do you ride?

Alb. What tone is this?

Win. A tone you'll tune to, sir.

Didst think me such a fool to stay and fall

With Henry into Louis' hands? Nay, I've

No wish to enter that small cell of earth

Which needs no turnkey, as you say.

Alb. What, sir?

Win. No, by the Lord! At the first castle where

You planned to stop I had my servants laid

To take you prisoners. It stirs my blood

That you should think I came to the bishopric

By a fool's wit. Now Rome is at my back,

And Henry king! But I'll make peace with you,

For I foresee a power in De Burgh

That warns me not to scorn even traitor strength.

Alb. Ay, we've no fear you'll let this sudden turn

Cut off our fortunes.

Hen. Come, my lords. Come, all!

We'll to the gates to greet the earl of Kent!

[Exeunt. Curtain]

ACT III
Scene 1. Same as in act second. The king, Pembroke, Albemarle, Winchester, and other lords entering.

Hen. The barons are assembling. On to London,

And call the council. I will join you there.

The revenues long promised shall be paid.

At last I am a king! Will post, my lords?

Night shuffles toward the morn.

Pem. You'll not forget

Your barons' suit, my liege.

Hen. Bring the petition.

I'll look at it, and then—will what I will. [Exit]

Alb. What new-gown cock is this?

Pem. Will what I will!

And post you, sirs!

Win. The child that hung at knees

Now stands on the great shoulders of De Burgh,

And ports himself a giant o'er our heads.

Pem. Ha, so! This wedge of love 'twixt you and Henry

Quite thrusts you out.

Win. True, sir, but I've in mind

A plot will reach as high as Kent's new head,

Which, with your sworn and loyal aid, I'll push

To fullest stature.

Pem. You have my oath, my lord.

Win. And bond more sure—your spurring need to prick

Kent's swelling strength. But you, lord Albemarle—

The mighty Kent is brother to your wife,

Which now may count somewhat to lift your fortunes.

Alb. And when didst see my fortunes lie so low

As need the hoisting hand of friend or kin?

Nay, our ambitions swear us enemies!

I stand as free, my lord, as any here.

Win. Then hear my plan. You know I carry all

With the archbishop.

Pem. True. If Winchester would

Trust Canterbury to find way.

Win. Through him

We'll call this council in the name of Rome,

To kill the canker in the bud of peace

So lately ventured in the track of war,

And sound abroad that on this holy day

All weapons, armor, and gross sign of blood

Shall be laid by. I will persuade the king

His dignity is touched to be so quick

To fill his purse before he says his prayers,

And that 'tis wise to throw this goodly bait

To hook the common love. Now to this meeting

Let every prelate bear most righteous arms,

And every baron look well to his sword;

Then when the unsuspecting king appears,

Close companied no doubt by his new earl,

That mushroom minion we will dare accuse

And crop his power as we prize our safety.

Pem. But will not Kent oppose this swordless worship?

Win. Nay, he's afflicted with true piety,

And in the addling flush of high success

Is mellow with the good love of the world.

All men are honest now! Trust me, he'll bait

At what his judgment yesterday had scorned.

Alb. But what have we t' advance with show of right

Against him?

Win. Gualo brings the axe—although

He knows it not—that shall behead De Burgh.

Trust me, my lords, and soon you shall know more.

Alb. Work as you will, for while he is in power

We are but puppets and I dance not well.

Win. I'll ride with Gualo, and begin our move.

Then on to Canterbury. Fare you well,

Till morning bring our bold designs together. [Exit]

Alb. How, Pembroke? Seest the gull in this?

Pem. It needs

No second sight, my lord. The barons' arms

Outnumber all the feeble prelacy.

Alb. Thinks we'll stop with Kent when Henry stands

Defenceless 'fore us? Come! We too must ride.

Pem. Proud Poitevin! He plots to lose his head,

And give this land a king indeed!

Alb. My Pembroke!

[Exeunt. An attendant opens the large doors, rear, lady Albemarle and the princess Margaret enter]

La. Alb. What! no one here? We have not seen a soul

But the poor fool who brought us food and wine.

I'll not endure it! Are we prisoners?

Mewed up these hours, when all about there's stir

As Fate changed hands and rumbled destiny.

Such clattering, shifting, revel, and "To horse!"

And we mope here like toothless dames that long

Have lost the world!

Att. Your ladyship, the king

Will see you here.

La. Alb. That's better. He shall beg

My pardon. [Seats herself]

Mar. How canst think of things so slight

When even now your brother may be lost?

La. Alb. I lose no kingdom with him. That's your theme,

And, lord, you don't neglect it.

Mar. [Walking away from her] O, for word!

Surely some word has come!

La. Alb. Would I were home!

'Twas you, my lady, put this journey on me

With prating of my duty to my brother.

But I know why you came.

Mar. O me, you know?

La. Alb. That does not mark me wise. A fool might guess.

Mar. O, I am lost! Dear lady, be my friend!

La. Alb. Why such a fluttering like a lass in folly?

The king was here, and 'twas mere wit in you

To follow after, making me your foil.

Mar. The king?

La. Alb. Ay, ay, the king! I understand

Your cry about my brother.

Mar. O!

La. Alb. Why such an "O!"

As though you'd swallow all the air i' the room

And kill me with vacuity.

Mar. Ah, madam!

La. Alb. You'll not have long to wait. He'll be here soon.

Mar. O, then you think he's safe?

La. Alb. I think he's safe?

Why should he not be safe?

Mar. Could I believe it!

La. Alb. His truest lords are with him. Albemarle

Himself is guard sufficient.

Mar. Albemarle?

He is not with your brother!

La. Alb. Brother? Pah!

How you draw off and on, as 'twere a shame

To love a king!

Mar. The king? Ah—I——

La. Alb. You ask

If he is safe, and I say safe enough,

Then drops the curtain of your modesty,

And you cry of my brother. Faith, you'll have

Me set about with this till I believe

My brother is the king of England!

Mar. O,

I'm wretched, wretched!

La. Alb. Patience! He'll be here.

True, 'tis most beggarly of him to lag,

But do not doubt he'll come.

Mar. He will not come.

O, never, never, never!

La. Alb. Foolish lass!

He can not stay away from you—his wife.

I might as well be out with 't soon as late.

Mar. O, lady—countess—if you e'er had need

Of gentle friends——

La. Alb. I know not what to do

With this strange piece of daintiness. Up, mistress!

How will you blush when Henry calls you wife,

If I, in play, can throw you on your knees?

Mar. Henry? God pity me! I am so racked!

La. Alb. Thou art a fool! Up, girl, there's some one comes.

If 't be the king! Quick now, and smooth your face.

If he should wonder at this trace of tears,

I'll tell him why you wept.

Mar. You could not be

So cruel!

La. Alb. Cruel? How? 'Twill please him well

To hear you wept for him.

Mar. For him?

[Enter attendant]

Att. The king.

La. Alb. Now, now, be still. He comes.

[Enter Henry]

Hen. My duty to

My fair and honored guests. And my first suit

Is for your pardon that I come so late;

My next is still for pardon I must haste

Unto my third, and pray the lady Margaret

For word with her alone.

La. Alb. I will withdraw,

My lord.

Hen. [To attendants] Attend the countess.

Mar. O! dear Heaven!

Hen. Are you at prayers, sweet lady?

Mar. Say I am,

Can women pray too much, who need so oft

The soft protection of the holy skies?

Hen. Have I been slack in care? Ah, Margaret,

Let youth excuse neglect the past may know.

In future——

Mar. O, thou hast been all I wish!

Hen. All? All, Margaret? You've been in England

Ten years or more, and understand, I think,

Why you, a child, were sent unto our court.

Mar. My lord, when peace was made with Scotland's king,

I was included in the arbitrament,

But am uncertain of the precise terms,

Though I dare think there was no mention made

Of marriage.

Hen. There was a dowry paid

To English coffers.

Mar. Dowry? Ah, was 't not

A dainty serving of too humble pie?

Mere specious covering for indemnity

Proud Scotland would not pay by such a name?

Hen. May be, but 'twas held wise to join the kingdoms

By current of our blood.

Mar. True at that time

'Twas best for England to make closer ties

Wi' the north, but now is Scotland on her knees,

And you have naught to fear if you should choose

To set aside my claim.

Hen. The people's eyes

Are on you as their queen.

Mar. They will approve

As readily if you make other choice.

Hen. Then 't seems we both are free to follow love

In any court we please.

Mar. In truth, my lord!

Hen. And you reject me?

Mar. I am not so bold——

Hen. But, lady, in the world's mouth you will be

My cast off love, for who is there so wise

As to believe you would refuse a king?

Mar. I care not, sir! What is the world to me?

O, let it think as 'twill, if only——

Hen. Ah,

If only you are saved from me? But, madam,

I can not flip the world away as you.

It is my field of tourney where I joust

For fame and tender reputation.

I must not let men point to you and say

"See Henry's fool!" You shall be wed at once

Unto the lord most powerful in England

Who yet is free.

Mar. O, sir——

Hen. The earl of Kent.

Mar. Your majesty, be merciful!

Hen. I am.

Mar. My knees were bending to you thankfully,

But you have changed their purpose to a prayer

For veriest pity. The earl of Kent, my lord?

An old, fierce man, who scorns the name of love?

Hen. To you he will be kind. I'll stake my crown,

Once wed to him you'll thank me for this day,

And swear you'd choose him yours from all the world.

He's in the castle now. I'll send him here,

For I'm in haste to bring the marriage on.

Wait here, sweet Margaret.

[Opens doors rear, and she passes slowly through]

Mar. Kill me, my lord!

Hen. Now, by these tears, you'll live to bless me yet,

For from my heart I swear you're better wed

Than if you chose the king.

[Closes doors and calls attendant]

Ho, there!

[Enter attendant] I'll see

The earl of Kent. Bid him come in.

[Exit attendant] 'Tis cruel,

But right they should be punished who forgot

A king to please themselves.

[Enter Hubert]

Hub. Your majesty!

Hen. How now, my chancellor? Methinks this day

Should mark the high note of thy singing heart.

But thou art gloomy, as weighing still thy chance

Against the flocking French. Canst not be merry

If Henry bids thee, Hubert?

Hub. Ah, my lord,

I little thought to have escaped the foe.

Hen. Is that to grieve on, man? By Heaven, I'll think

It would have pleased you better to have sunk

My fleet and not the enemy's. Come, come!

What think you of the fortune we've assigned you?

Art satisfied?

Hub. O, 'tis not to be borne!

Hen. I' faith, thou 'rt plain.

Hub. O, dear my liege, I mean——

Hen. Well, sir, I have another blessing for thee

May prove more welcome. How wouldst like a wife

Of royal blood? I will not tell her name,

But take my word that were my heart not bound

I'd look her way for fetters. She is fair,

Ay, perfect as the lily plucked to grace

A Lord's day altar, yet is proud enough

To hold your new-dropped dignities above

The mire and brambles of the common way;

And all this, sir, shall be your wedded wife.

Hub. My lord——

Hen. Nay, do not thank me. Ah, at last

I've touched the key of gratitude. Indeed,

My Hubert, you are pale with this new joy.

I almost, fear to tell you she is there—

Within that room—and waiting your approach.

Hub. My royal lord—I beg——

Hen. No, not a word

Of thanks.

Hub. Not thanks! There's something else to say!

Hen. What, sir? Wouldst still play hang-lip at thy fortune?

Hub. Hear me, your majesty!

Hen. Nay, I will speak.

Sir, I have done what monarchs seldom do,

Proclaimed my general worthy of his hire,

And paid it, too, and these sour looks from you

Are as the poisonous leaves in a fair garland

Marking it for decay. I've yielded much

Unto your noble merit, but no more

Will yield to your proud humor!

Hub. Hear, my lord——

Hen. No words! There is the door. Go in and find

The lady that must be your wife, or down

Come all your brave new honors to the ground!

[Opens door and forces him through. Margaret is lying on the floor, her face hidden]

Hub. O, Heaven! 'Tis Margaret!

Mar. O! [Leaps up, gazes at Hubert and runs to his arms] Hubert,

Hubert!

[The king closes the doors upon them]

Hen. The midnight's past. I must away to Glaia,

And by the sunrise at her window sing.

My lords are set toward London. None shall know,

Save Cupid's self, how far I ride to-night.

[Curtain]

ACT IV
Scene 1. Near the cottage in Greenot woods. Henry, with lute, singing.

Ope, throw ope thy bower door,

And come thou forth, my sweet!

'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er,

And mating hearts should meet.

The stars have fled and left their grace

In every blossom's lifted face,

And gentle shadows fleck the light

With tender memories of the night.

Sweet, there's a door to every shrine;

Wilt thou, as morning, open thine?

Hark! now the lark has met the clouds,

And rains his sheer melodious flood;

The green earth casts her mystic shrouds

To meet the flaming god!

Alas, for me there is no dawn

If Glaia come not with the sun.

[Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches]

Gla. 'Tis you!

Hen. [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland,

Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned.

Gla. How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false?

Nay, I'm too glad thou 'rt come to question so.

'Tis easy to forgive the treachery

That opes our gates to angels.

Hen. O, I'm loved?

Gla. Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you,

And I rose early, for I love to say

Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan

And loath to go away, as though they know

The fickle world is thinking of the sun,

And all their gentle service of the night

Is quite forgot.

Hen. And what didst think of me?

Gla. That could you come and see this beauteous wood,

Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace,

You'd be content to live awhile with me,

Leave war's red step to follow living May

Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood

To each decaying root; and rest by springs

Where waters run to sounds less rude than song,

And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies.

Hen. The only springs I seek are in your eyes

That nourish all the desert of myself.

Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews,

And start fair summer in this waste of me!

Gla. Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love?

Hen. See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose?

What do I know of it but that 'tis fair?

And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews

And goes to some sweet country of the sky.

So cloud-like dost thou move before my love,

From beauty coming that I may not see,

To beauty going that I can but dream.

O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand,

This miracle of warm, unmelting snow,

This lily bit of thee that in my clasp

Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote—

Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows

And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown!

Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare

The darkest shadow of defeat that broods

O'er sceptres and unfriended kings.

Gla. Why talk

Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry.

For if you love me you will stay with me.

Hen. Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top

Review the sunny graces of the world,

Plucking the smilingest to dearer love,

Until the heart becomes the root and spring

Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet

As these bright children of the wedded sun

And dewy earth!

Gla. I knew you'd stay, my brother!

You'll live with me!

Hen. But there's a world not this,

O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch,

Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood,

Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop

That rims the forehead of a king,—a world

Where trampling armies and sedition's march

Cut off the flowers of descanting love

Ere they may sing their perfect word to man,

And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies,

Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths——

Gla. O, do not tell me, do not think of it!

Hen. I must. There is my world, and there my life

Must grow to gracious end, if so it can.

If thou wouldst come, my living periapt,

With virtue's gentle legend overwrit,

I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek,

Pure lily cloister of a praying rose,

E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear

Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia?

Gla. Into that world? No, thou shall stay with me.

Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah,

The whispering winds do never counsel false,

And senatorial trees droop not their state

To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be

Your minister, the seasons your envoys

And high ambassadors, bearing from His court

The mortal olive of immortal love.

Hen. To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia,

To bind me here; and if you love me true,

You will not ask me where I go or stay,

But that your feet may stay or go with mine.

Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips

That all their life have ripened for this kiss.

[Kisses her]

O ruby purities! I would not give

Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran

Stored with the honey of a thousand suns

Through the slow measure of as many years!

Gla. Do brothers talk like that?

Hen. I think not, sweet.

Gla. But you will be my brother?

Hen. We shall see.

Gla. And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear

All that you love in me is born of these

Wild innocences that I live among,

And far from here, all such sweet value lost,

I'll be as others are in your mad world,

Or wither mortally, even as the sprig

A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough.

Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be

Dear playmates ever, never growing old,—

Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace

Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us

To come at will.

Hen. No, Glaia. Even now

I must be gone. I came for this—to say

I'd come again, and bid you watch for me.

A tear? O, love! One moment, then away!

[Exeunt. Curtain]