XVIII
KING ALFRED AND THE NEAT-HERD
Scene.—Interior of a Neat-Herd’s hut, near the river Parret, in Somersetshire.
Enter a Neat-Herd, followed by King Alfred, who is miserably clad and shivering from cold; he carries a bow and a few broken arrows. A log fire is burning smokily in a corner of the hut.
The Neat-Herd (scratching the back of his head). Reckon t’ old ’ooman ’ull be baäck zoon.
King Alfred. We are very hungry.
The Neat-Herd. Reckon t’ old ’ooman ’ull be baäck zoon. She be a baäking.
[The King sits down by the fire and warms himself. Enter the Neat-Herd’s Wife with much noise and bustle; she carries a batch of newly-kneaded loaves on a tray, which she puts down in front of the fire. The Neat-Herd says something to her in an undertone; she mutters something in answer about “strange folk.” Then she goes up to the King.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. If ye be a-staying here ye must make yournself useful.
The King (rising and bowing politely). We should be delighted to do anything in our power.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife (looking at the King with distrust, and talking very quickly). I’ze warrant ye be strange in these parts. (To her husband) I reckon we’ve no time to see after strange folk. We all be hungry, and it’s a mercy we’ve still got a morsel of bread in the house to keep the children from ztark ztarving, and that’s zo. But if he’ll look to t’ baätch whiles I zee to t’ cows, maybe ee’ll get a morsel for his pains. (To the King) Now do ee be zure, stranger, ye turn the baätch when they’re done a one side.
King Alfred (who has only partially understood what she has said). We shall be delighted. (He bows.)
The Neat-Herd’s Wife (to her husband). I reckon he do be daäft.
The Neat-Herd. He’s no daäft; he be strange.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. See ee turn the baätch.
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
[The Neat-Herd’s Wife goes out and slams the door.
[The King sits again by the fire and begins to mend his broken arrows; after a pause:
King Alfred. Do you care for verse?—poetry?
[The Neat-Herd scratches the back of his head, and after reflecting for some time:
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
King Alfred. Then we will repeat to you a few little things—mere trifles—we composed in the marshes during our leisure hours. (He looks pensively upwards.)
The King. That is a triolet.
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
The King. Here is another. It was written in dejection.
That is also a triolet—perhaps not quite so successful. (He looks at the Neat-Herd inquiringly.)
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
The King. We will now repeat to you a sonnet. It is adapted from Boëthius. It is called “Suspiria.”
[He passes his hand through his hair and looks upward towards the right.
Do you think the last rhyme weak? (The Neat-Herd does not answer.) We have also written a ballade, but we cannot remember all of it. It is addressed to Guthrum, King of the Danes. The Envoi, however, runs like this:
If we had a harp with us we would sing you the music, but we are sorry to say we lost it in the marsh yesterday.
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
Enter the Neat-Herd’s Wife
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. Be the baätch ready?
King Alfred. Oh yes, of course. We shall be delighted.
[He hurriedly lifts the tray with the loaves from the hearth and places it on the table.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. Drat th’ man! If they bain’t all burnt! Ye take strange folk to house, and aäsk un to mind the baätch and turn’t, and draät un if they doan’t forget to turn when they be burning. Ize warrant ye be ready enough to eat un when they be done! Drat the man if I haven’t half a mind to give un a beäting with th’ rolling-pin! Not a morsel shall ee get; good-for-nothing, idle vagabond, wastrel, ramscullion, thief, robber.
The Neat-Herd. Easy, old woman, ee be th’ King!
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. Well, and if that bain’t like a man, to let me tongue run on not knowing nothing neither! (Curtsying.) I’m zure I beg your Majesty’s humble pardon, and I’m zure I knew nothing and meänt no harm; and my man be that foolish not to tell a body that the King’s self be here, so homelike and all, taking pity on us poor folk. I’m zure as I meant no harm, and I do for to beg your Majesty’s pardon, and that I do, an’ right humbly.
The King. Do not mention it. We assure you it is not of the slightest consequence. It was exceedingly careless of us to burn your loaves—your admirably kneaded loaves. And we most humbly and sincerely apologise. We are, we are afraid, given to these fits, these sudden and unwarrantable fits of absent-mindedness.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. And me always a-wanting to see a real Dane, too! Only yesterday I zaid t’ Mary, “Mary,” I do zay, “the Danes be all over the country.” “Lord a-mercy,” she zay, “who be they?” “I bain’t zet eyes on one on un yet,” zay I, “but folks do zay as they be mighty pleasant folk,” zay I; and now to have the King of the Danes himself in my hut.... Well, who’d a thought as zuch a thing would coom to me an’ mine!
The Neat-Herd. Ye be mistaken, ye be. He bain’t the Danish King, he be t’other, he that wur th’ King of England—bor! Alfred as was—
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. What?
The Neat-Herd. Th’ King o’ England as was till th’ Danes coom ower! Alfred they called ’un!
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. He as be driven away, like?
The Neat-Herd. Oö! AR!
The Neat-Herd’s Wife (to the King). Oh, you be he, be you? Then ye ought to be ashamed of yoursel’, that ye ought, coming into strange folk’s houses at this time o’ day, and begging for bread; and then when they’ve pity on ye for your misery, and give ye the chance of turning an honest penny by a piece of work as mony a man’d be glad to get, and any child could ha’ done better, forgetting to turn th’ loaves and spoiling th’ whole baätch; an’ ye know well enow I can’t baäke again this week—not that I mind th’ baätch; but I can’t have ye here, nohow! Ye’d best be a-going, and that quick! Bor!
The King. But cannot you possibly let us remain here until to-morrow? We are in need of shelter for the night.
The Neat-Herd. Don’t be too ’ard on him, old ’ooman.
The Neat-Herd’s Wife. Be ye daäft? We’d ha’ the Danish soldiers, th’ archers, and th’ whole Danish army here in no time for a-sheltering a traitor like, and a rubbul. I reckon we’re honest folk, and loyal servants of the King, and we bain’t be going to shelter any gurt rubbul here. I’ze brought up to be loyal; I’ze warrant I’m a loyal servant till I do die. No rubbuls here. Out ye go, ye scurvy traitor, and that quick, ye knave, or else I’ll bring my rolling-pin to ye! Not that I grudge ye a morsel. There, ye may take one of them burnt cakes with ye, that ye may, and enjoy it, too. And now out with ye, avoor one o’ th’ neighbours caätch a sight on ye. Out, do ye ’ear me! out!
The King (sighing). Very well, we are going. (To himself) Nothing fails like failure, but perhaps a time will come. (He goes out peevishly, biting his nails.)
Curtain.