Mordred and Hildebrand: A Book of Tragedies

ACT III.

SCENE I.—(A deserted camp.) Enter Henry alone.

Hen. What is a king’s weak royalty to this Power

That lifts the crowns from kings and plucks them down

From earth-built majesties? I yesterday

Who wore a crown and called me Emperor

To these dominions, held a people’s fear,

To bind or loose betwixt my hollow hands,

Made and unmade, held life and death in fee,

Made dukedoms tremble at my royal coming,

And at my beck squadroned the earth with armies,

Am at his word a lonely, outcast man,

A stranger to the lordships of command,

Holding less power than doth my meanest subject.

Then did all eyes but follow at my glance,

All hands lift to the twitching of my thumb.

Did I but hate, a thousand scabbards clanged

To do me vengeance. Had I a single longing,

A myriad hearts trembled to beat my bidding.

But now I am so mean earth’s very slaves

Might pass me by, nor think to do me reverence.

What is this one man’s Power, this mighty Will,

That lifts its hand, saith suddenly yea or nay,

And peoples forget their duty to their lords,

And nobles forfeit reverence for their kings

And all of royalty’s golden splendor is wrecked

And shattered like a rainbow in a storm!

O Gregory, O Gregory, thou awful man,

Didst thou but speak I might become a clod,

Or weed or senseless turf beneath thy feet.

Enter the Bishop of Bamburg and a noble.

Hen. Come now and strip me, let my very life

But follow my royalty.

Bam. O, my poor Liege!

Lord. Yea, they have left him lone enough indeed.

Damn this Pope’s cursing.

Hen. Why call me Liege? The king hath gone, my Lord.

He went out yesterday when Gregory’s curse

Filled all this precinct. I am only Henry,

A leprous, palsied, outcast, damnéd man.

Where are my servants? Have they fled me too?

Bam. They have, my Liege!

Hen. Gregory thou mighty monster, what art thou?

Thou art not God, for God at least is kind.

Thou art not nature, its workings are too slow

For such a sudden miracle. Why dost thou not

Take even my sight and hearing? It ’mazes me

Those be not fled. Yea, even my Taste and Smell,

What blasphemous Ministers these that do my bidding

Against thy mighty word. Take all, take all,

And let me die.

Bam. Sire, lose not your courage. Even yet,

A few of us for love of Heaven and thee,

Defy this haughty prelate. Shake at Rome

Defiance of her curses. Though a million curs,

With tail twixt legs flee at a bit of writing,

Forget that they are men because one man,

Who thinks him God, would shake with his poor thunders

The cowards of Europe; know that there be yet

A few hearts left thee. Gregory takes thy crown,

He hath not got thy manhood, that obeys

The laws of thine own nature. Show this priest,

This blasphemous usurper of our humanities,

That he may strip the moss but leave the tree

Of all thy kingship standing.

Lord. Yea, my Liege, some swords be left thee yet.

Hen. And ye still own me? Fear ye not this curse,

That blacks the world, the very earth I stand on;

Unkings me all, annuls my fatherhood,

Blasts all mine organs, refts me from my kind.

The very heaven must shut from me its light,

The stars no more look kindly, Night no more

Give me her holy balm, sweet, blessed sleep.

No friend, nor child, nor wife, this drives me out

Beyond the human. Say ye even yet

That ye do own me? This doth much amaze me.

Bam. We love thee yet and own thy majesty,

And kneel to thy allegiance.

Hen. If this were real, Henry’s heart could weep

With human gladness, but ’tis merely fancy.

You’d shrivel up like podshells were you men.

The very ground I stand on is accursèd.

No more may flowers therefrom, but only thorns

And noisesome weeds proceed. Away! away!

Ere ye be cursèd.

Bam. He seemeth distracted.

Lord. This curse doth lie full heavy of a truth.

Damn that Pope, if I but get to Rome

There’ll be two Popes. I’ll slice him i’ the middle.

Yea, I’ll create a fleshy schism ’twill bother

These damned, lewd priests to reckon.

Bam. My Lord, great Henry, hearken to thy friend,

’Tis Bamburg, he who loved thee as a child.

Dost know me?

Hen. It seemeth I know thee Bamburg, or ought to know,

Did not this haze of Hell o’erweight me down.

I thought thee fled. Why dost thou stand with me?

Knowest thou not that I am one accursed?

Bam. Hath nature no pity?

Hen. Were it the Queen alone who fled I’d bear it.

I never treated her as she deserved.

She was too kind, I used her brutal, Bamburg,

I used her brutal, she who was so kind.

Her voice was soft, but this my heart forgot

In that forced marriage. Had she fled alone

I had not minded, but the ones I loved,

The men I made and builded, raised them up,

Who drank my cup, took honors from my hand,

And made the heavens ring with their acclaims

Were I victorious: that all these should melt

Like some magician’s smoke at Gregory’s word;

’Tis monstrous; yea, so monstrous, that meseems

The heavens be turned to iron and yon cold sun

Be but a tearless socket turned upon me;

And Pity and Mercy all those kindly ministers

Fled from the universe where Henry stands,

Yea, Bamburg, had the mighty Lord of all

Such power of unrelenting as this Gregory,

The very fountains of nature would dry up,

The kindly elements refuse their office,

And morn and even, noon and cooling night

With blessed dews and sunlight, cease to be;

Till earth would stand one shrivelled chaos under

The pitiless heaven that looks on Henry now.

Bam. ’Tis the Queen that we be come about my Liege,

’Tis she hath sent us.

Hen. To mock my sorrow with false courtesies,

To note my shame and carry to her ears

My misery. O iron Ones, have ye

No mercy left?

Bam. Nay, nay, my Liege, curse not but hearken me,

The noble woman we call Germany’s Queen.

Sendeth unto Henry, greeting thus:

Though thou hast not an army thou hast love,

Though thou hast not a subject, yet a king

To her alone, her king of kingly men;

Though thou art cursed she still will keep to thee.

Hen. Oh Bamburg, this is worse than cursing, can kind Heaven

Hold such a blessing for a wretch like Henry?

Bam. It can and doth, Her Majesty waits without.

Hen. O, Bamburg I cannot see her, her true love,

Would so shame all my falseness all mine ill,

It seems her love would slay me.

[Enter Margaret.