Becket And Other Plays Part 20

JOHN OF OXFORD.

There's York, my liege.

HENRY.

But England scarce would hold Young Henry king, if only crown'd by York, And that would stilt up York to twice himself.

There is a movement yonder in the crowd-- See if our pious--what shall I call him, John?-- Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suzerain, Be yet within the field.

JOHN OF OXFORD.

I will. [_Exit_.

HENRY.

Ay! Ay!

Mince and go back! his politic Holiness Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch again, And we shall hear him presently with clapt wing Crow over Barbarossa--at last tongue-free To blast my realms with excommunication And interdict. I must patch up a peace-- A piece in this long-tugged at, threadbare-worn Quarrel of Crown and Church--to rend again.

His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals, Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me For the moment. So we make our peace with him.

[Enter_ Louis.

Brother of France, what shall be done with Becket?

LOUIS.

The holy Thomas! Brother, you have traffick'd Between the Emperor and the Pope, between The Pope and Antipope--a perilous game For men to play with G.o.d.

HENRY.

Ay, ay, good brother, They call you the Monk-King.

LOUIS.

Who calls me? she That was my wife, now yours? You have her Duchy, The point you aim'd at, and pray G.o.d she prove True wife to you. You have had the better of us In secular matters.

HENRY.

Come, confess, good brother, You did your best or worst to keep her Duchy.

Only the golden Leopard printed in it Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did we convene This conference but to babble of our wives?

They are plagues enough in-door.

LOUIS.

We fought in the East, And felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail, And push'd our lances into Saracen hearts.

We never hounded on the State at home To spoil the Church.

HENRY.

How should you see this rightly?

LOUIS.

Well, well, no more! I am proud of my 'Monk-King,'

Whoever named me; and, brother, Holy Church May rock, but will not wreck, nor our Archbishop Stagger on the slope decks for any rough sea Blown by the breath of kings. We do forgive you For aught you wrought against us.

[HENRY _holds up his hand_.

Nay, I pray you, Do not defend yourself. You will do much To rake out all old dying heats, if you, At my requesting, will but look into The wrongs you did him, and restore his kin, Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury, Be, both, the friends you were.

HENRY.

The friends we were!

Co-mates we were, and had our sport together, Co-kings we were, and made the laws together.

The world had never seen the like before.

You are too cold to know the fashion of it.

Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious-- Most gracious.

_Enter_ BECKET, _after him,_ JOHN OF OXFORD, ROGER OF YORK, GILBERT FOLIOT, DE BROC, FITZURSE, _etc_.

Only that the rift he made May close between us, here I am wholly king, The word should come from him.

BECKET (_kneeling_).

Then, my dear liege, I here deliver all this controversy Into your royal hands.

HENRY.

Ah, Thomas, Thomas, Thou art thyself again, Thomas again.

BECKET (_rising_).

Saving G.o.d's honour!

HENRY.

Out upon thee, man!

Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no.

Knights, bishops, earls, this London sp.a.w.n--by Mahound, I had sooner have been born a Mussulman-- Less clashing with their priests-- I am half-way down the slope--will no man stay me?

I dash myself to pieces--I stay myself-- Puff--it is gone. You, Master Becket, you That owe to me your power over me-- Nay, nay-- Brother of France, you have taken, cherish'd him Who thief-like fled from his own church by night, No man pursuing. I would have had him back.

Take heed he do not turn and rend you too: For whatsoever may displease him--that Is clean against G.o.d's honour--a shift, a trick Whereby to challenge, face me out of all My regal rights. Yet, yet--that none may dream I go against G.o.d's honour--ay, or himself In any reason, choose A hundred of the wisest heads from England, A hundred, too, from Normandy and Anjou: Let these decide on what was customary In olden days, and all the Church of France Decide on their decision, I am content More, what the mightiest and the holiest Of all his predecessors may have done Ev'n to the least and meanest of my own, Let him do the same to me--I am content.

LOUIS.

Ay, ay! the King humbles himself enough.

BECKET.

(_Aside_) Words! he will wriggle out of them like an eel When the time serves. (_Aloud_.) My lieges and my lords, The thanks of Holy Church are due to those That went before us for their work, which we Inheriting reap an easier harvest. Yet--

LOUIS.

My lord, will you be greater than the Saints, More than St. Peter? whom--what is it you doubt?

Behold your peace at hand.

BECKET.

I say that those Who went before us did not wholly clear The deadly growths of earth, which h.e.l.l's own heat So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd Heaven.

Yet they did much. Would G.o.d they had torn up all By the hard root, which shoots again; our trial Had so been less; but, seeing they were men Defective or excessive, must we follow All that they overdid or underdid?

Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter Denying Christ, who yet defied the tyrant, We hold by his defiance, not his defect.

O good son Louis, do not counsel me, No, to suppress G.o.d's honour for the sake Of any king that breathes. No, G.o.d forbid!

HENRY.

No! G.o.d forbid! and turn me Mussulman!

No G.o.d but one, and Mahound is his prophet.

But for your Christian, look you, you shall have None other G.o.d but me--me, Thomas, son Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. Out!

I hear no more. [_Exit_.

LOUIS.

Our brother's anger puts him, Poor man, beside himself--not wise. My lord, We have claspt your cause, believing that our brother Had wrong'd you; but this day he proffer'd peace.

You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord, We that are kings are something in this world, And so we pray you, draw yourself from under The wings of France. We shelter you no more.

[_Exit_.

JOHN OF OXFORD.