Becket And Other Plays Part 33

BECKET.

Who hold With York, with York against me.

GRIM.

Well, my lord, A stranger monk desires access to you.

BECKET.

York against Canterbury, York against G.o.d!

I am open to him.

[_Exit_ GRIM.

_Enter_ ROSAMUND _as a Monk_.

ROSAMUND.

Can I speak with you Alone, my father?

BECKET.

Come you to confess?

ROSAMUND.

Not now.

BECKET.

Then speak; this is my other self, Who like my conscience never lets me be.

ROSAMUND (_throwing back the cowl_).

I know him; our good John of Salisbury.

BECKET.

Breaking already from thy noviciate To plunge into this bitter world again-- These wells of Marah. I am grieved, my daughter.

I thought that I had made a peace for thee.

ROSAMUND.

Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father.

Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper crept That thou wouldst excommunicate the King.

I could not eat, sleep, pray: I had with me The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower: I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it.

I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once, I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop; 'Pa.s.s on,' he said, and in thy name I pa.s.s'd From house to house. In one a son stone-blind Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother, Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine, Cried out against the cruelty of the King.

I said it was the King's courts, not the King; But she would not believe me, and she wish'd The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once, So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father.

BECKET.

Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King, I fear I was as cruel as the King.

ROSAMUND.

Cruel? Oh, no--it is the law, not he; The customs of the realm.

BECKET.

The customs! customs!

ROSAMUND.

My lord, you have not excommunicated him?

Oh, if you have, absolve him!

BECKET.

Daughter, daughter, Deal not with things you know not.

ROSAMUND.

I know _him_.

Then you have done it, and I call _you_ cruel.

JOHN OF SALISBURY.

No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop; For once in France the King had been so harsh, He thought to excommunicate him--Thomas, You could not--old affection master'd you, You falter'd into tears.

ROSAMUND.

G.o.d bless him for it.

BECKET.

Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury, Nor make me traitor to my holy office.

Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle, 'The King is sick and almost unto death.'

How could I excommunicate him then?

ROSAMUND.

And wilt thou excommunicate him now?

BECKET.

Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it.

And were it longer--well--I should not do it.

ROSAMUND.

Thanks in this life, and in the life to come.

BECKET.

Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste; Let this be thy last trespa.s.s. But one question-- How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey?

No fever, cough, croup, sickness?

ROSAMUND.

No, but saved From all that by our solitude. The plagues That smite the city spare the solitudes.

BECKET.

G.o.d save him from all sickness of the soul!

Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, May that save thee! Doth he remember me?

ROSAMUND.

I warrant him.

BECKET.

He is marvellously like thee.

ROSAMUND.

Liker the King.