Lords and Lovers, and Other Dramas

HENRY III, King of England
EARL OF KENT
EARL OF ALBEMARLE
EARL OF PEMBROKE
ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
BISHOP OF WINCHESTER
LORD WYNNE
COUNT DE ROUILLET, attending Adelais
STEPHEN GODFREY, a soldier
ORSON, a servant to Glaia
ADELAIS, a princess of France
MARGARET, wife of Kent
ELEANOR, wife of Albemarle
GLAIA, ward of Kent
ELDRA, servant to Glaia
Lords and ladies of the court, barons, prelates, guards, attendants, &c.

Time: 13th Century
Scene: England

ACT I

Scene 1. Autumn in Greenot woods near Glaia's cottage. Table, seats, mugs and ale. Enter Eldra with a plate of cakes.

Eld. [Putting plate on table] It's the very day and hour he'll be coming, and he's not the man to count leaves by the roadside. He likes my cookin', as I've had proof, and he looks so cunnin' at me lately I could swear he was fallin' in love all over again. And I'm picking up my looks, I must say. Ay, there's nothin' like a soft tongue for keepin' a woman young. I feel 'most like a lassie, though he did say some words at first that made my heart sore, not knowing me after ten years away. And he's that handsome yet,—since he's shaved off the beard that got so between us I didn't know my own good man that married me in Dummerlie kirk on as sweet a Sunday morn as you ever see, and the priest in a new frock from Wappington, as the housekeeper told me herself—La, I forgot my lady!

[Runs out. Stephen steps from behind a shrub]

Ste. So, mistress, you've known me all the time, have you? And me playin' the fool courtin' my own wife that was ready to jump into my arms at the drop o' a hat! But I'll play you a game, my lady!

[Re-enter Eldra]

Eld. O, Mr. Stephen!

Ste. Ho, Madam Prune-face! A sweet mornin', now ain't it, but a bit briskish as suits the season.

Eld. Prune-face! By my lady's glass, I've not a wrinkle yet as big as the hair on a bat's wing! Plague take the eyes o' him that says it as shouldn't!

Ste. Well, well, I meant no harm, but mickle it takes to pinch a bruise. I brought a message to your lady from Sir Roland——

Eld. Sir Roland? He's a lord now——

Ste. Ay, 'tween the king and Hubert they've made him a lord.

Eld. Hubert! You mean his grace, the earl of Kent?

Ste. He's still my friend, Meggy. The earldom is nothing between Hubert and old friends. And I'm a-climbing too. I've had an advancement, which I don't mind telling you about, but I'll have a bit o' your brew first and a dozen or so o' them cakes, seein' you took the trouble. I could never disappoint a woman as had put herself out for me. [Sits at table]

Eld. [Pouring ale] It has been a long stretch since you were this way, sir.

Ste. Eh? Has it? Well, I don't wonder you think so in this sort o' a place. Not much goin' or comin' round here! But time don't hang wi' Stephen. There's ridin' and fightin' an' the lassies to comfort——

Eld. I thought you were honest. You've bragged enough!

Ste. As honest as a soldier, my dear,—and that ought to content any woman. [Eldra sits at table] Yes, sit if you like. I'm not overproud, though your place is behind a man o' my rank when he's at table. I know I've eaten wi' you and drunk wi' you, but I've had an advancement, Meggy, I've had an advancement. [Takes sip of ale and puts it down] Costmary! Well, let 'em as likes it drink it.

Eld. 'Tis nice and balsamy. I thought you'd like it, and saved it o' purpose.

Ste. Dose me wi' tansy and be done!

[Eldra turns her head to wipe away a tear and Stephen gulps the ale]

Ste. [Bites a cake and puts it down] Poh!

Eld. Don't you like it?

Ste. If I don't mind a lie for manners' sake, I do, but if I've more respect for truth than manners, I don't. Ain't your hand a little out?

Eld. I thought they were extra nice, sir. I'm sure they rose like feathers.

Ste. And may blow away for me! But come, don't hang your head, Meggy. You're too old for that.

Eld. My name is Eldra, sir.

Ste. I know, I know, but I told you that was the name o' my dear lass that's dead and gone——

Eld. Dead and gone?

Ste. That's what I said. If she ain't dead, she's where I can't get her, which is all the same to a soldier, so I've about made up my mind to give over lookin' for her. Lord, don't cry, little chicken! You are a soft one. Cryin' to think I've lost such a jewel o' a lass, but I'll tell you something to make you think better of it. There is somebody up in old Scotland that I think I'll fetch down for the comfort o' Stephen—as bonny a woman as a man need want, wi' enough siller laid up from her old daddy to make a soldier a gentleman. Lizzie o' Logan——

Eld. Oh-h!

Ste. The qualms again? Now devil take a woman as gets queasy just when a man wants to be friendly and talk things over.

Eld. [Aside] Liz o' Logan! My cousin as was always jealous and wanted my Stephen!

Ste. Hey, Meggy! [She runs out, left] Ha, ha, ha! Poor little woman! I'm a villain. I'm twenty villains. [Eldra steals back unseen and hears him] To treat my bonny sweet wife so! The cunningest darling that ever said yes to a soldier! I'll make it all right when she comes back, and won't there be a smackin' o' lips! [Eldra makes signs of joy and revenge and disappears] Where has she gone? Run off to cry her sweet eyes out, I'll warrant! I'll go find her.

[Exit, left. Eldra and Orson come on, rear]

Ors. O, is it true? My faithful heart is blest at last? My rival indeed vanquished? And I—I am your adored one?

Eld. Yes, but don't be a bigger fool than you can help.

Ors. Fool, ma'am?

Eld. There, there, I mean don't forget that you are a man of dignity——

Ors. Ah! Don't trouble yourself.

Eld. And cosset me before folks, like a bumpkin with his first lass.

Ors. I'll be patient—before company. Though I should just like to show that man of blood what my rights are now. But you mean it, Eldra? This is not another jade's trick?

Eld. 'Tis true—always barring that my man don't come back to claim me.

Ors. The fishes keep him! [Re-enter Stephen] Ah!

Eld. [Whispers sweetly to Orson, then discovers Stephen] O, here he is! Now, Orson, I know you'll be friends wi' Mr. Stephen. Just to please me now. You see, sir, Orson's been courtin' me many a year, and I had just about give in like a weak woman, when you came and got me all upset somehow, lookin' so much like my man who was drowned at sea, an' his own name too. I did lose my head so at times I could 'a' sworn you were my very man, but what you said about Liz o' Logan brought me to my right mind again, and Orson is willing to make up, and I'm sure we can all be friends, only me and Orson won't be presumin', an' shame take me to think I ever looked so high as a king's man wi' an advancement—though Orson is a man of dignity now—and—sit down, Orson! [Sits at table and pours ale for herself and Orson] We take a snip together about this time every mornin'. Orson's got no quarrel with the ale cost, and he does love my raisin' o' bread and cake.

Ors. And who doesn't let him starve in a ditch! We don't ask you to sit, Mister Stephen. We know our place, and hope you know yours.

Eld. Ay, a king's man must keep his head high.

Ors. High, my love?

Eld. I mean with an advancement.

Ors. 'Tis well. You know me, Eldra.

Eld. I hope I do, Orson.

Ors. And you must own, my dear, that you came to your right mind in very good time.

Eld. I'm reasonably thankful, Orson. I know what it is to be a soldier's wife.

Ors. They lie not between linen, I warrant you.

Eld. Linen? An they get muslin without begging it, they may thank fortune!

Ors. With never a silk smock for the fair.

Eld. Silk smock? An a new one comes before the old one drops off they may say their prayers for it!

Ors. But we'll be snug enough, my dear.

Eld. That we will!

Ors. And winter coming on. Ah!

Eld. True enough.

Ors. A good fire.

Eld. Yes, my love.

Ors. A little mulled sack, if the night be wet.

Eld. Indeed, my dear! And a hot posset for your cold, curdled with sweet wine.

Ors. Humph! A little tart, I beg you, to give it spice.

Eld. Well, our tastes won't quarrel. I know a wife's place.

Ors. By my life, you do! O, 'tis a merry day! Would I were not a man of dignity now! [Pats her]

Eld. Orson!

Ors. I mean—O, come! 'Tis a merry day! Give us a song, mister soldier!

Ste. I'll give you the devil!

Ors. How, sir? You seem disturbed. Perhaps your reflections are not so happy as mine. It may be your mistress has not such an adoring and adorable eye—can not feast you with her cheeks—[kisses Eldra]—regale you with her lips—[kisses her]

Ste. Scoundrel! Kiss my wife? [Takes him by collar and throws him aside]

Eld. My Stephen!

Ste. My Eldra!

Eld. [Running to his arms] I knew it was you!

Ste. I knew it was you!

Eld. Why didn't you tell me?

Ste. Why didn't you tell me?

Ors. As a man of dignity now, I should like to ask why you didn't tell me!

Ste. [Dancing up and down stage with Eldra] Ay, Orson, 'tis a merry day! Come, come! Here's a good ale for all. To you, Orson! [Drinks] And let the song go 'round!

[All sing]

Ho, Autumn time, O, Autumn time,

When every wind is jolly,

And pip and pear drop in their prime

For tooth of fun and folly!

When Hobnail's store is ripe for raids,

And grapes go to the pressing,

And apple checks are like a maid's

When Jack would be a-kissing!

Ho, hips and haws for vagabonds,

With russets for who'll dare,

And hazels by the meadow ponds,

Brown-sweet for barefoot's fare!

The pettychaps beflit the larch,

The rocks from barn-top scold,

And summer rogues are on the march

For quarters 'gainst the cold.

Ho, Autumn time, O, Autumn time!

When every wind is jolly,

And pip and pear drop in their prime

For tooth of fun and folly!

Eld. Hist! My lady is coming with her knight.

Ste. What knight? Nobody should be coming here but the earl of Kent and my lord of Wynne. Come, lass, what knight?

Eld. O, now it's out, you must be as mum as a dumb man's grave. My lady has a lover, and a sweet young knight he is, too, who rides out every week just for a peep at her. List! You can hear them now, just over the hedge.

Ste. And the master doesn't know! By Heaven, the man's a villain, and I'm a traitor to my lord of Kent if I don't wring his neck!

Eld. Stephen! Stephen!

Ors. Hold, sir!

Ste. Off with you! I'd drag him out an 'twere the king himself! [Leaps through the hedge and pulls the king through] God's mercy! I am dead! It is the king!

[All kneel to the king. Glaia comes through the hedge]

Gla. The king?

Hen. 'Tis true. I am that wretched man,

Your sovereign. [Kneels]

Ste. [Aside] Kneel to a woman! Nay,

Not Stephen! [Rises]

Hen. Speak, sweet, and say that I'm forgiven!

Gla. My Henry I'll forgive, but not the king.

Hen. No pity for the king? O, take him, too,

Fair Glaia, crown and all! [Rises] Look not away,

Nor down, nor up, nor anywhere but here.

Say thou'lt forgive, we'll instantly to court,

For there's a spirit sits within this hour,

Like silent wisdom in a lovely face,

That gives me confidence. We'll to the court!

I know thou art a maid of noble blood.

For thou'rt indexed with rank's unerring sign,

And dearly limned by Nature for a queen.

Weep not, my sweet, thy lover is a king,

And by my soul, and these dear wildered eyes,

And by the life in these blue wandering veins,

[kissing her hand]

These azure rivers in a lily field—

I'll lift thee high as is the English throne!

[Exeunt the king and Glaia]

Ste. Now there'll be a broil at court to please all the witches on the island.

Eld. And 'twas you dropped the devil's meat into the pot. O, woe, woe, woe! That I should live to see my lady wed the king!

Ste. Well, worse could 'a' happened. The king might have had me hung, and it's bad luck to be a widow twice to the same man. I'm for the court to keep both eyes open for what sport befalls.

Eld. Sport? O, the poor lord of Wynne! What will he do now? May be 'tis sent on him for worshippin' my lady like the Holy Virgin. Sport? O, that you should be my husband and a villain! Up with you, Orson! There's work for such poor servants as we be.

Ors. Servant, ma'am? Dost not think that this high connection of my lady's will make me lord chamberlain to——

Eld. Ay, thou'lt get thy right place, I hope, though it be lord footman to a donkey! Come along with you both!

[Exeunt. Re-enter the king and Glaia]

Gla. I can't believe it yet, your majesty.

Hen. Nay, Henry, love. The name you gave me first.

By that alone I'll live upon your lips.

Gla. I should be gay,—alack, I am half sad.

A sort of music here is gone. Mayhap

I loved my brother better than the king.

Hen. Thy brother? Call me that no more. My bride!

The sleeping angel I would kiss awake,

For waking thou art human and can love.

Ah, Glaia, none doth know how I have dreamed,

For kings must give up all just to be kings—

How oft at night I've left the palace world

To find me lodging in the sweeter air

Where spirits hold their gentle pageantries,

And meet the winds that blow from destiny

Pregnant with fortune for my famished soul,—

While they who stood about the royal bed,

Whose stealthful eyes held me in silken jail,

Knew not my body lay untenanted

And they but guarded clay. And everywhere

'Twas thee I sought, my Glaia. When you came,

I looked, and knew that I need dream no more.

Gla. And thou art no more sad? I make thee happy?

Hen. When I am with thee 'tis continual Spring,

For in my heart is such sweet jugglery

Each winter-ragged month doth put on May.

Gla. It makes me fear to be so much to thee.

O, Henry, leave me,—leave me here a child

That never shall be woman,—ne'er shall seek

The bitter knowledge of the human world.

[A fawn comes to her from the wood. She fondles it]

See, brother! I would ope no book less pure

Than these large eyes. Ah, me, was ever soul

So full of earth as mine? I can love nothing

But woods and streams, and these unspeaking things

That reasonless may build no dream of God.

My Henry, why this fear that if I go

From this dear world I'll come to it no more?

Hen. Cast off the doubt—and here I trample it.

We shall come often to this home of peace.

But, Glaia, let us go. The hours run fast,

And eve must find me at the court.

Gla. The court?

There does my rival in my lover speak.

There speaks my enemy, for in the court

I shall find that will make these fears all plain.

Hen. Fear nothing now! I see thou knowest how

To please me best, making me woo thee o'er

And o'er again, for naught could be more sweet!

[Exeunt. Curtain]

Scene 2. Room in Westminster palace. The earl of Kent and countess of Albemarle talking.

Kent. Why do you doubt? You've ever trusted me.

La. Alb. Ay, while you were all man.

Kent. So am I now.

La. Alb. Nay, you are one half woman, being married.

A wife's the key may ope her husband's heart

To all the world. She is the pick and pry

To every lock of trust, and weasels through

His secrets spite all seals. Swear, Hubert, swear

That Margaret shall not know!

Kent. Have I not sworn?

How many times will you demand my oath?

La. Alb. A thousand thousand will not bring me peace!

Kent. Ah, Eleanor, why desolate your days

With this wild fear? 'Tis Heaven you've sinned against,

Not man. Look thou above for condemnation.

The world is harsh to virtue, not to sin.

See how the daughter of the earl of Valence,

John's one-time mistress, proudly holds her head,

Nor lacks for fawning followers? And mark

How Rosamond's two sons have fixed their line

Fast 'mong our English peers. If you would dare

To bring sweet Glaia forth, I do not doubt

The court would welcome her as princess born.

La. Alb. But Albemarle! He never would forgive!

Christine of Valence was not wife to him,

Else would her mimic court be dungeon close,

And racks, not lovers, kiss her dainty fingers.

You've never seen his rage! O, swear again

You'll set securest watch on act and tongue,

Nor let——

Kent. Here is your lord with Winchester.

La. Alb. O!

Kent. Come, I'll satisfy you, Eleanor.

[Exeunt, right. Winchester and Albemarle enter rear]

Win. The name of Kent erases church and state

And king. Fortune grows doting, and would make

A darling of this man.

Alb. She'll change her love,

Doubt not.

Win. 'Tis time. New favors upon him light

As birds on fruity branches. Castles and estates

Are but as feathers every wind brings in.

Dost not begin to fear him?

Alb. You are pleasant.

I fear? When I could lend him half my power,

And yet o'erbear him? In the north there are

One thousand leaders holding swords of me!

Win. I'm answered then?

Alb. Ay, sir. Though not from love

To Kent, nor hate to you, do I deny you.

But I'll not stand the champion of a wanton,

Though royal daughter of a royal sire.

The knightly Albemarles have never stooped

To lift adultery from its miry bed

And set its colors on their virtuous helm.

Win. Now, by your leave, the half of England comes

Into the world by left hand of the priest,

Yet fight and pray as well as you or I,

Nor bates a jot their honor in men's eyes.

Alb. You have my answer. When I'm ready for 't,

I'll tumble Kent to earth in my own fashion,

And not by means that sets French Adelais

On virtue's pinnacle, a star of gilt

To falsely glitter in the eye of dames

And set them wandering with their vanities

Till they forget the way to their true lords.

Win. [Musing] I'm writing a court history, your grace.

'Twas John, I think, who set your countess' father

On fortune's road.

Alb. Nay, 'twas the king before him,

Henry the Second.

Win. [Going] Well, my wary lord,

I have no bruise to nurse, and meet the blow

Befalls from any point.

Alb. What do you say?

Win. I say, my lord, I'll strike as pleases me,

And you keep cover as you will. [Exit]

Alb. A bruise?

Keep cover? Gods! And I stood still! The dog!

I'll after him and take him by the throat!

[Re-enter lady Albemarle, right]

La. Alb. What said our ancient enemy?

Alb. Enough!

He angered me!

La. Alb. But what the cause, my lord?

Alb. He'll quash the claim the church makes to my castles

If I will aid in bringing Kent to trial

On charge of Adelais, who sojourns here

To push her old appeal. I will not do 't!

La. Alb. Thanks that you shield my brother, by whose rise

You droop.

Alb. I shield your brother? When his name

Is Kent? Nay, you mistake me. I refused

Because this princess was no more nor less

Than Henry Second's mistress, and the son,

Whose death is laid to Kent, was the vile fruit

Of wantonness. A princess! I'd forgive

A milkmaid false, but error in the great

Is so bestarred by its exalted place

That those beneath mistake what is so lustered

For the true sun.

La. Alb. Hast seen the king, my lord?

Alb. I say 'tis guilt of such a heinous sort,

So foully odorous and so far bestrewn,

The sea o'errunning Britain could not wash

The island free of it!

La. Alb. 'Tis very wrong.

Alb What! Set this princess over all your heads

As she were halo-browed, that you might pray

Her saintly patronage for your loose hopes?

La. Alb. Indeed, it is not well.

Alb. Well? By my life,

Our English dames are running mad enough,

And must be duchesses because—look ye—

They're wantons to a king! Out on your kind!

[Aside, slowly] "'Twas John, I think, who set your countess' father

On fortune's road." You've been a handsome woman—

Could foot right well on Venus' heels. My soul,

There's beauty in you yet to draw an eye

O'er the picket of defence!

La. Alb. My lord, I pray you——

Alb. 'Tis well that our young Richard has my eye,

And trick of walk, and way of sudden speech,

Else I'd suspect a cuckoo in the nest,

For all your dainty strictures and high head!

La. Alb. For Christ's sake, Albemarle——

Alb. Ay, had he not

My very shoulder hitch and swelling neck

This night I'd drag him to the eastern tower

And hurl him to the Thames!

La. Alb. My God!

Alb. For you

I'd pay out my estate in hire of men

To spend their lives devising drawn-out pains

That death might feed and grow upon itself!

La. Alb. Ah, sir, no need. I'm dead now with your words.

Alb. The king is entering. Look up, my dame.

I rage to think you could be false, and not

Because you are. Come, where's your blood, my lady?

Those frosted cheeks are not the royal color.

Smile and I'll pardon you. I know you true.

[Aside] But when we're home again we'll talk somewhat

Of those same favors granted to your father.

[Enter Pembroke, Winchester, and others. Pembroke and Winchester talk apart]

Pem. But where is Gualo? He is friend to Kent.

Win. Shipped back to Rome.

Pem. Well done!

Win. That is made sure.

And now I'll push the claim of Adelais

With all the power pillared by the church.

Pem. Henry will never yield. He wraps the earl

So close in love 'twill shake the throne to part them.

There's no path to the king not barriered

By Kent's unceasing watch.

Win. I'll drop a canker

Will eat a way for us. Ah, here they come.

Pem. Arm-locked as king and king; and eye to eye,

Like lovers changing souls.

[Enter Henry, Kent, Lord Wynne. Lords and ladies, among whom is Margaret, enter behind them]

Hen. [To Kent] I fear to tell you, Hubert, even you.

Kent. I do not fear to hear it, whate'er you do

So well becomes a throne.

Hen. You promise then

Your fullest pardon?

Kent. Your open deeds, my lord,

Bear such a noble front I should not fear

To clap a lusty "ay" to all you've done

In secret.

Hen. Thank you, Kent. And Roland, too,—

Our good lord Wynne—must echo you with pardon,

For I have touched him when he felt me not,

And shortly he must look upon his wound.

Wynne. I do not fear to see it. You've taught me, sir,

The wounds you give me carry their own heal.

Hen. But this is deep.

Wynne. The richer then the balm.

Hen. Then out, poor Henry, with thy heart's misdeed.

[Turns to the court]

Listen, my lords,—my gracious court,—to you

I make appeal. Is any here who holds

Me in such wintry and removed regard

He would not grant my heart its choice in love?

[Surprise and silence]

Win. Your wisdom, sire, that sets the cap of age

Upon the curls of youth, gives us excuse

To bid you choose at will your royal mate.

If I speak not for all, we'll hear dissent.

[Silence]

This silence warrants you to woo and speed.

Hen. That I have done, and now can show to you

This jewel of my choice that late I found

Deep hidden from the world. So fixed my love,

I can not wait to wander through the ways

A king comes to betrothal, and shall win

Your quick assent, even now, by bringing her

To your commending eyes.

[Exit Henry]

A lord. What does he mean?

Is this some princely revel?

Another lord. It may be,

And our part is to smile.

Win. [To Pembroke] Mark you earl Kent?

He changes face.

Pem. And his pale friend, lord Wynne,

Turns corpse on 's feet.

Win. Ha! Is it possible

They were not privy to this kingly move?

[Re-enter Henry, leading Glaia]

Hen. Here, dear my lords! Look on my choice and say

That here might come Rome's vestals to repair

Their tapers dim. Is she not royal, friends?

See how her eyes look bravely into yours,

Though on her cheek a sweet timidity

Doth couch in coral. Now commend me, all!

And Hubert, earl of Kent, say whence is she,

And what her parentage? For all I know

Is that I found her bowered in Greenot woods.

Kent. My God!

Hen. O, Hubert, muffle up the storm

Rides on your brow, and smile upon my love!

Kent. Believe me, sire, she can not be your wife.

Hen. Not be my wife? Unsay the words, dear Hubert.

You mean, perhaps, she's humbler born than I—

The daughter of a duke—an earl—a lord—

Ay, say a knight that bravely bore his shield,

And all the gap 'twixt her degree and mine

Her native graces will bridge o'er and make

Her way unto my throne.

Kent. [Kneeling] O, king beloved,

You must believe me! She can not be yours!

Hen. Then, Heaven, turn foul, thou dost not shine for me!

Rise, Hubert, rise, for I must love you still,

Though you have robbed me of the sun and stars.

Kent. [Rises] My noblest sovereign!

Hen. Now let me hear

Why this ne'er mated dove can not be mine,

And I'll attend thee patient as the dead

Do list their requiem.

Kent. Sire, I am pledged.

Such sacred oaths are warders at my lips

That angels would turn pale in Heaven to hear

Their violation.

Hen. Oaths? We must not hear?

Kent. Not from my lips. It may be from another's

In better time.

Hen. In better time? By Heaven,

You shall uncover here her history,

And I myself shall say if she may be

My own or no!

Kent. Thy mercy on a man

In one hour old!

Hen. You are the torturer!

O, Hubert, Hubert, I am on my knees!

Kent. Sire, give me leave to go, and take this maid,

So long my care that I must keep her still.

Come, Glaia—child—'tis Hubert takes thy hand.

My sovereign lord, I go with sorrow hence.

I would my tongue were torn from its curst root

Than speak you woe,—but do not hope, my liege,

Your husband hand can ever touch this maid.

The thought to ague shakes my soul!

[Exit Kent with Glaia. Margaret would follow, but is detained by lady Albemarle, who is half swooning. Winchester kneels and kisses the king's robe]

Win. My king,

Thou'rt still beloved.

Hen. Ah, what canst say to one

So pinioned by distress that he must lose

His dearest friend or dearest love?

Win. My lord, if friendship may have leave to speak

As fits its holy bond and name——

Hen. O, speak!

Say anything!

Win. Too long you have been wronged.

Did not Kent win by stealth the Scottish princess,

Your promised bride? Consorting his base blood

With royalty?—which was his secret aim,

And all his burning love for Margaret

But feigned and politic to gain your pity.

Again he's at your heart! And hopes once more

To bear himself to high success. If not,

With face assumed and sorrowing he'll melt

You to forgiveness.

Mar. Listen not, my liege!

Hen. [To Winchester] Is this your comfort?

Mar. Sire, he slanders love

As true as God's to men, who says my lord

Is false!

Win. Her pride would say as much, my liege.

As for this maid,—whom majesty might choose,

And all the kingdom feel itself adorned,—

She's either heir to vast and rich estates,

Or Kent dotes on her with such jealous love

He will not yield her even to his king.

And both these reasons, sire, I urge as one

T' explain his stout refusal to make known

What honesty would haste to shout aloud.

Wynne. Who says that Kent, in friendship or in love,

E'er sought his gain, doth foully lie!

Win. This man

Is Kent's own creature.

Hen. Ah, that's not his sin.

He loves my Glaia, and would make her his.

Wynne. Yes, sire, I love her,—you are right so far,—

But, sovereign lord, I would expect as soon

To pottle with an angel at an inn

As make her mine. Though Hubert spurred my suit——

Hen. He favored you!

Wynne. He set no bars between us.

Hen. Ah, you could wed her—let the king go beg!

Alb. Away, you perked-up villain! Out of this!

Wynne. When you come with me, sir, that I may slit

The tongue that fouls my name!

Alb. My hot-mouthed sir,

I'll leave his majesty to teach you better manners.

Hen. And here I do, with a ne'er-ending lesson.

Roland de Born, so lately lord of Wynne,

Thou'rt banished from our realms, not to return,

Though thou shouldst live to see more years than yet

Man ever numbered his.

Wynne. Is this your will?

Hen. In truth, 'tis nothing else!

Wynne. Then, sire, farewell.

Some men are fashioned men by circumstance—

Shaped by what wind blows on them. In their veins

The heavens croak or sing. Does the sky frown,

They're muddy and befouled,—it smiles, and straight

Fair weather's in their blood, sporting its flag

In their new countenance. Not I, my lords!

Nay, on the winds my soul shall leave its shape,

And where I venture I am what I am,

A knight of England, loyal to his king. [Exit]

Alb. Death to his arrogance!

Pem. This judgment, sire,

Is much too modest.

Win. Hear us now, my liege,

For you have heard too little these months past.

Hen. My lords, I am too faint and troubled now

To understand if you be friends or foes,

Or if the earl of Kent be false to me;

But come, and what you choose to speak, I'll hear.

... Glaia, art gone from me? Ah, who would live?

The winds of doom are sold by Lapland witches,

Who mix the compass points and blow us foul

When we have paid our fortune to go fair.

[Exeunt Henry and lords. Lady Albemarle and Margaret are left alone]

Mar. Why do you keep me so?

La. Alb. Where would you go?

Mar. Where else but to my lord?

La. Alb. You shall not go.

O, stay with me! One moment, Margaret!

Mar. Another? Nay, you're better. I must go.

O, Eleanor, didst hear that Winchester?

Foul murderer of honor—Hubert's honor!

Can these be tongues of men?... And Roland banished!

La. Alb. Canst think of him?

Mar. He's Hubert's friend. Who now

Will stand by him?

La. Alb. You, Margaret, and I.

Mar. Yes—let me go!

La. Alb. What will you say to him?

Mar. Beg him not let his bitter thoughts usurp

Quite all his heart, but leave a little room

That e'er so small will make me ample heaven.

La. Alb. You will not ask of Glaia?

Mar. Ask? Dost think

That I must ask?

La. Alb. He will not tell thee!

Mar. Not?

I am his heart. His veins run not with health

Except as I know how they course, and beat

Concordantly. Doubt not he'll tell me all.

La. Alb. He shall not tell thee!

Mar. Madam, you are strange.

La. Alb. Ay, Margaret, and strangest to myself.

O, he is true! Dear God, I know he's true!

Mar. Make it no question then. For by the sun,

And heaven's starry clock that now goes by,

You shall not say he's false to Margaret!

La. Alb. To you? Ha! false to you? Dost think my thoughts

Must ever web round you?

Mar. [Going] You are his sister.

La. Alb. What, are you gone? Forgive me, Margaret.

Mar. Ah, you forget that I am suffering too.

La. Alb. You suffer? You?

Mar. You have a husband, madam.

La. Alb. I have. Let me remember him. Ha, ha!

You suffer, icicle? What do you know of pain

But as the lookers on about a pit

See one at bottom dying? As curious eyes

Regard the writhing heretic at stake?

Or say, as angels flying heavenward turn

To give one grudged tear unto the damned?

That is your pain, you pure, proud Margaret!

... O, madness, seize me!

Mar. By my fears you have

No need to pray for 't.

La. Alb. Conscience, where dost sleep?

Let me tread by nor rouse thee.

Mar. Eleanor?

La. Alb. Whence are those floods of fire? O, Hubert, save me!

Mar. Dear Eleanor, be calm. I did not think

You loved your brother so.

La. Alb. What's that you say?

Ah, yes, 'tis Margaret. Go to him now.

Ask of this maid—then blazon all—all—all!

Mar. Come with me, Eleanor.

La. Alb. Drive home the knife

Now threats his heart!

Mar. Come with me, come!

La. Alb. 'Tis fit

His wife should do it!

Mar. Come, dear Eleanor.

[Exeunt, right. Henry, Winchester, Albemarle, Pembroke, enter rear]

Win. We're glad you are convinced, my lord.

Hen. Glad, sir?

Glad that one half my heart is mottled, foul,

Diseased, and must be cut away, though I

Die with the cleaving? Ay, I am convinced.

Win. And give consent that Kent be made to answer

The charge of Adelais?

Hen. Be 't as you please.

Pem. 'Twere best to haste in this, ere all the shires

Misled in love by Kent, hear of his danger.

Win. I have the warrant here. It lacks your seal,

My liege.

Hen. [Quickly sealing it] Now it does not. Here splits my heart,

And half falls with thee, Hubert.

[Winchester comforts him. Albemarle and Pembroke talk apart]

Pem. In fewest words,

What purpose you?

Alb. To ride at once to north,

And through my agents stir up a rebellion

Against the king, whom we must make appear

Kent's sole remover, for he now 's become

The idol of the witless multitude,

With whose hot sanction we may move 'gainst Henry

And roll his head as fast as Kent's to hell.

Pem. But you must see the trial.

Alb. So I aim.

But if I'm blocked therein, I look to you

To keep me stationed in my feudal rights,

And what you venture for me I'll make good

With forty thousand men, or horse or foot.

Hen. Where is lord Wynne? Inquire if he has gone?

Alb. He'll trouble you no more, for if my servants

Be to me loyal they've set him toward the sea.

Hen. You're pert in my own matters. I bethought me

I would recall his sentence. He is noble,

And I have done him wrong. Why press about me?

Ye are devils all! Call me the earl of Kent.

Win. He is not here, my lord.

Hen. Give me the warrant.

Quick, sir! I'll have it back! I'll take more time!

Win. 'Tis gone, my liege.

Hen. Gone? Is the devil your post?

Pem. We pray your pardon, sire.

Hen. Could you not give

One little hour to old friends taking leave,

Though one is a poor king? Away from me!

Win. Dear majesty, beloved above all kings,

Let not your frown unpay again the service

Your smile even now rewarded. 'Tis too much,

Howe'er we have endured, to ask our silence

While Kent doth rob thee of a fairer queen

Than ever made a court seem gaudy poor

By her rich self. Must we stand humbly back,

That he may please his bosom with her beauty,

And bury in his lust what forth should shine

Thine and a happy England's constant sun?

Pem. No doubt, my liege, we shall remove each bar

That shuts you from your love, and please ourselves

The most in pleasing you.

Hen. O, make her mine,

And all you wish, if kings have power o'er fate.

Will come to pass. I trust you—yet—and yet—

Who can be true when Huberts are found false?

[Curtain]

Lords and Lovers, and Other Dramas

About This Book

ACT I

Scene 2. Room in Westminster palace. The earl of Kent and countess of Albemarle talking.

ACT II

Scene 1. A room in the earl of Kent's palace. An inner room rear, cut off by curtains. Kent alone.