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?
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!
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.
[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.
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]
Scene 2.
A street in London. Citizens, friars, priests, pass in devout manner, some bearing crucifixes.
First Cit. A day, a day, O, such a day!
Second Cit. 'Twill make a new page in our chronicles, the like ne'er read before.
Third Cit. Nay, when Saxon Edward came back from conquered Wales——
Fourth Cit. Ay, 'twas such a day of holy joy!
Second Cit. But not so general.
First Cit. And guards with arms kept order in the streets.
Third Cit. But now there's no authority abroad save that comes from our hearts. Surely the air is charged with drug of peace, and all men breathe it.
First Cit. Where meets the council? In the Tower chamber?
Third Cit. Nay, at Westminster palace.
Second Cit. That's three miles.
We must push on if we would see them enter.
[They move off]
First Friar. How meanly does it speak for this proud world
That when the devil lays his weapons by
And peace and love for one day reign o'er all,
That it should wonder at itself, and cry
"A miracle!"
Second Friar. In holy Edward's time,
The nuns of Beda joined the council in
Concerted praise, for 'twas their prayerful fast
Kept Heaven with the king and gave us Wales;
And 'twas decreed that ever on such days
The nuns from this most blest and ancient abbey
Should with the great assembly kneel in praise.
First Friar. And so they do this day. The legate, Gualo,
Sent invitation from the king.
Second Friar. The king?
This shows most well in him.
First Friar. If we haste on,
We'll see the sisters passing toward the palace.
Second friar. Let's forward then. God save so good a king!
[Exeunt. Curtain]
Scene 3.
The great hall in Westminster. Barons and prelates assembled. Rich surcoats open, revealing arms. Enter Henry and the earl of Kent.
Hen. My lords, is this the faith you keep with kings?
Then Heaven save me from it! Was 't not your will
This day all arms should hang upon the wall?
Yet you come here as though the trump had called
To sudden battle.
Canterbury. Hear, your majesty,
The cause for which we laid upon our souls
This seeming perjury, and you'll forgive
As Heaven, calling it no stain.
Hen. Sir, let
The movers of this saintly shift speak first.
You, Winchester? You, Albemarle? Canst preach
The lie away?
Alb. My honored liege, these swords,
Surer than bended knees, bespeak your safety.
Knowing that treachery oft defames the ranks
Of those who shine as the highpriests of God,
I and my brother barons came thus armed,
Thinking it better so to break our oaths
Than that false hands should break your kingly staff.
Hen. For my protection then you do offend?
Alb. For that alone, my liege, we wear this armor.
Hen. And you, lord bishop, guardian of our person
By prayer and Heavenly counsel,—who even in war
Should wear no sword but that of righteousness,—
Confess you with these warlike blades thy Lord
Unable to defend his own?
Win. My liege,
'Tis in His name, to work His equal justice,
We bear these weapons, sacred by our cause.
[Enter Gualo]
Gua. Your majesty, the nuns of Beda's abbey
Would enter now.
Cant. The nuns? What do they here?
Hen. You know, your grace, since blessed Edward's time
'T has been their privilege on days of prayer
To join their voices with the court and state.
Cant. A privilege, but never yet in practice.
Hen. The more is England's shame that has not seen
For so long past a day of general prayer
And utter peace. Not in our time, nor John's,
Nor Richard's 'fore him, nay, nor greater Henry's,
Might Beda's sisters claim this privilege.
Lord Cardinal, bid them in.
[Exit Gualo]
Alb. Nay, nay, my liege,
This is no place for women.
Hen. Are they not
Forever foremost in both prayer and peace?
By Heaven's King, they've more right here than we!
[Enter nuns, led by the abbess, who kneels before the king]
Hen. Rise, holy abbess.
Abb. Sovereign of England,
May Heaven's Sovereign protect thy youth!
And as thy hand is on thy sceptre laid
Feel there the Hand invisible from whence
Thy power comes, and know thy way as His.
[Henry bows his head. The abbess and nuns pass to a station apart and kneel]
Hen. Say on, lord bishop. Let us hear how priests
May break an oath and Heaven smile upon it.
Win. These papers, dearest liege, are warrant for us.
There is one here so steeped in guilt, the pope
Commands his sentence by our Spiritual Court;
And knowing crime so deep makes fierce defence,
We came thus armed.
Hen. Who of my subjects is so basely given
The pope must urge the sword of justice 'gainst him?
Win. He is so high in your esteem, my liege——
Hen. Now were he next ourself, our very love,
Excepting one, the noble earl of Kent,
Whom only calumny dare censure, we
Should yield him to thee.
Win. So? Then we did well
To wear these arms, for 'tis no less than Kent
Whom we accuse.
Hen. Kent? Ha! We'll hear your tale
That we may laugh at it.
Win. You'll sooner weep,
I fear. The princess Adelais, of France,
Is free of the infliction that impaired
Her noble mind, and through the pope makes suit
For the recovery of a son—her child
And the great Henry's. Gualo brings this letter,
Beneath the pope's own seal, to England's primate,
His grace of Canterbury. It is signed
By Geoffrey de Burgh, the father of your Kent,
And written five years back to Adelais,
In care of 's Holiness, with the request
That it be given her should she recover.
The purport is—her child has lived to be
A grace to manhood, but that he himself
Approaches death, and from his worthy son,
Hubert de Burgh, she may in proper time
Learn all a mother's heart would know.
Hen. Well plotted!
Win. And here's another paper that great Pembroke,
Dying, laid in my hands. It bears the seal
Of Henry Second, and tells how his son
And Adelais' is given to the charge
Of Geoffrey de Burgh, lord keeper of the Tower
And Dover Castle.
Hen. Keep your paper, sir!
Dost think that I'll believe these parchment tales
Of one whose stainless past the world may read?
Win. That precious past, sire, is the bed whereon
This deed's embossed. All he has done that's noble
Now serves to make this foul. Look at him now!
He has no word, but stands as one made stiff
By sin's confrontment.
Hen. Rather like the god
Was caught 'twixt the burning and the frozen worlds,
For so my too-warm love and your deep hate
Engulf him.
Win. Hear the end, my liege.
Hen. Go on,
If there's an end.
Win. This says that Henry's son,
Arrived at thirty years, shall take his place
'Mong English nobles as the Duke of Bedford,
And hold in fief five castles, herein named
Rockingham, Harle, Beham and Fotheringay,
With strongest Bedford as his ducal seat;
But if the child should die, his great estate
Shall to the church, and in the church's name
I call De Burgh to show the heir, or prove
That he is dead and by no hidden means.
Kent. The devil, sir, must pay you bounteous hire,
You sweat so in his service. Naught I know
Of ghostly Bedford, or ever heard of him,
Or that my father held a ward in charge.
Hen. We know you innocent.
Win. Then let him prove
His claim to these five castles. Two he holds,
And three were given in dowry with his sister
When she became the wife of Albemarle.
These must he yield, or show that Bedford lives,
Else will the church by force possess its own.
Alb. Mad Winchester! You plot too heavy here.
You know there are no stronger forts in England
Than these three castles that the countess brought me.
And you'd command their strength in wars against
The power of the barons! Yield these forts?
Not while I've breath to fight for what's my own!
Geoffrey de Burgh received them from great Henry
For secret, valiant service, such as knights
Have rarely given kings. Talk you of force?
My sword shall answer you. I will not yield,
And here declare a war! What say you, barons?
Pem. Your cause is ours, and here we draw our swords!
Alb. You hear, lord bishop. Moreover we must take
The person of the king, nor longer risk
His majesty with traitors. Come, my liege.
Cant. What! Take the king?
Win. While grace
In Heaven lives, we'll keep him from your clutch!
Alb. While we are barons and can lift a sword,
We will defy you and protect the king!
Hen. I am a monarch, and will go or stay
As I do please. Lord barons, not with you.
Pem. Ah, must we force you, sir?
Win. Not from our hands!
Alb. An you do stir, my lord of Winchester,
We'll wash these floors with blood!
Cant. The king is ours!
Alb. Swords write our title! Strike, my friends!
Hen. God, no!
Win. Stay, Albemarle! We do not well to waste
The life of England. If we yield the king,
Will you give up the castles?
Pem. [To Albemarle] Say you will.
The king once ours we'll keep the castles, too.
Alb. [To Winchester] Then rest it there. Give us the king, and take
The castles. [Aside] If you can. Ay, there'll be wars
Will make each stone of England mine. The rocks
And cliffs I'll mark with name of Albemarle!
Win. [To Henry] Think not I risk your dear and royal life.
I'll call out troops till trees do seem to walk
And cry for God and Henry! [To barons] To your care
We yield the king.
Pem. Then, Henry, come with us.
Hen. Plain Henry, now thy crown is gilt
Pem. We'll put
No pressure on your liberty save that
We must t' enforce our charter rights.
Win. De Burgh
Must to the Tower, there to await our judgment.
Lords Goly and De Vere, conduct him thither.
Goly. Come, sir. You will not move?
Kent. O, Margaret,
Your love divined too well! Now for the sword
You bade me bring, and he who first should lay
A hand upon me——
De Vere. Come!
Pem. [To the king] And you with us.
Kent. Hark, lamb, the wolves are at thee!
Goly. Must we move you?
Abb. [Coming down] Off with your hands, in warrior Michael's name!
Touch not De Burgh! And you—lord barons—you
Who blow the gentle fires of this new peace
With wind of your hot tempers—free the king,
And wait as fathers on his tender years!
Alb. I said, my lords, we should have prating here.
Abb. The midnight vision and long hours of prayer
Give us strange powers, and we see thoughts burn
In your intent would strike their fire against
The stars of war and light disaster o'er
A shuddering world. But you——
Alb. Back to your beads!
Abb. We'll count our heads in your fast dropping blood!
Wouldst try our swords and see if they be keen?
And if you scorn mine in a woman's hand,
Here is the hand shall bear it to your woe.
[Takes sword from under her cloak and gives it to Kent. All the
nuns rise, drop their cloaks and show themselves to be armed men.
The abbess throws off her hood and stands revealed as Margaret]
Hen. My guards!
Mar. Kent will not to Tower
While Margaret of Scotland is his wife.
Cant. Princess, the day is yours, and I, for one,
Thank Heaven 'tis so.
Win. And I.
Mar. Contentious lords,
Forget one hour that ye are baron-peers,
And churchmen clambering to the pinnacle
Topped with a cardinal's cap. Think ye are men
Of England, whose dear duty is to her,
And swear ye brothers as ye are her sons.
Down on your knees! Ask pardon of your king!
Win. [Kneeling] O, sovereign liege, in all I said and did
My conscience led me and my God did counsel.
If 'tis a sin to seek the punishment
Of one whom we believe has wronged your blood,
Then have we sinned indeed.
Hen. Wilt swear to drop
This charge 'gainst noble Kent, whose honest soul
Will cloak such guilt when north winds blow their frost
From bosom of the sun?
Win. I swear, my lord,
That your own lips shall be the first to make
Renewal of this charge.
Hen. Rise, Winchester.
You are forgiven, but not yet may take
Your old place in our heart.
[Albemarle and Pembroke kneel]
Alb. Were thoughts of men
Writ on the heart's red walls, this sword, my liege,
Should open mine that you might read me clear
Of all intent save truest care for thee.
Pem. And I, my king, sought but the good of England
In all too harshly crying for the rights
Of your long loyal barons.
Hen. Rise, my lords.
We hold you not attainted, but awhile
Must look with careful coldness on your love,
Till by your lives we test this swift repentance.
Alb. O sovereign merciful, we ask no more
Than thus to prove us true.
Hen. Now let this day
Be given as we intended, to His praise
Whose eye doth search the closet of the dark
As freely as the dayplains of the sun,
And reads the minds of men where kings must trust.
[Curtain]