Becket And Other Plays Part 29

_Enter_ FITZURSE.

FITZURSE.

Give her to me.

ELEANOR.

The Judas-lover of our pa.s.sion-play Hath track'd us. .h.i.ther.

FITZURSE.

Well, why not? I follow'd You and the child: he babbled all the way.

Give her to me to make my honeymoon.

ELEANOR.

Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind, Dark even from a side glance of the moon, And oublietted in the centre--No!

I follow out my hate and thy revenge.

FITZURSE.

You bad me take revenge another way-- To bring her to the dust.... Come with me, love, And I will love thee.... Madam, let her live.

I have a far-off burrow where the King Would miss her and for ever.

ELEANOR.

How sayst thou, sweetheart?

Wilt thou go with him? he will marry thee.

ROSAMUND.

Give me the poison; set me free of him!

[ELEANOR _offers the vial_.

No, no! I will not have it.

ELEANOR.

Then this other, The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make Thy body loathsome even to thy child; While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own, It must be broken for him.

ROSAMUND.

O I see now Your purpose is to fright me--a troubadour You play with words. You had never used so many, Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child....

No.... mercy! No! (_Kneels_.)

ELEANOR.

Play!... that bosom never Heaved under the King's hand with such true pa.s.sion As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, Which it will quench in blood! Slave, if he love thee, Thy life is worth the wrestle for it: arise, And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee!

The worm! shall I let her go? But ha! what's here?

By very G.o.d, the cross I gave the King!

His village darling in some lewd caress Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own.

By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! I warrant Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times Never to leave him--and that merits death, False oath on holy cross--for thou must leave him To-day, but not quite yet. My good Fitzurse, The running down the chase is kindlier sport Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee?

Come hither, man; stand there. (_To Rosamund_) Take thy one chance; Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse; Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him For thy life and thy son's.

ROSAMUND (_rising_).

I am a Clifford, My son a Clifford and Plantagenet.

I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I Would bow to such a baseness as would make me Most worthy of it: both of us will die, And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven, And shriek to all the saints among the stars: 'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England!

Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, Whose doings are a horror to the east, A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle--nay, Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father-- Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen-- Strike!

I challenge thee to meet me before G.o.d.

Answer me there.

ELEANOR (_raising the dagger_).

This in thy bosom, fool, And after in thy b.a.s.t.a.r.d's!

_Enter_ BECKET _from behind. Catches hold of her arm_.

BECKET.

Murderess!

[_The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause_.

ELEANOR.

My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, But having now admired it long enough, We find that it is mightier than it seems-- At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it.

BECKET.

And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death To wail in deathless flame.

ELEANOR.

Nor you, nor I Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he Gainsays by next sunrising--often ready To tear himself for having said as much.

My lord, Fitzurse--

BECKET.

He too! what dost thou here?

Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den?

One downward plunge of his paw would rend away Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee.

Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, And make thee a world's horror.

FITZURSE.

My lord, I shall Remember this.

BECKET.

I _do_ remember thee; Lest I remember thee to the lion, go.

[_Exit_ FITZURSE.

Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath.

ELEANOR.

Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me?

But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high.

Well--well--too costly to be left or lost.

[_Picks up the dagger_.

I had it from an Arab soldan, who, When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at Our unfamiliar beauties of the west; But wonder'd more at my much constancy To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen, From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord, G.o.d's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us.

I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt.

What excellent workmanship. In our poor west We cannot do it so well.

BECKET.

We can do worse.

Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat; I heard your savage cry.

ELEANOR.