QUEEN MARY and HAROLD
ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE
QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA HAROLD: A DRAMA
QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA.
QUEEN MARY. PHILIP, King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain. THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. REGINALD POLE, Cardinal and Papal Legate. SIMON RENARD, Spanish Ambassador. LE SIEUR DE NOAILLES, French Ambassador. THOMAS CRANMER, Archbishop of Canterbury. SIR NICHOLAS HEATH, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. EDWARD COURTENAY, Earl of Devon. LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral. LORD WILLIAMS OF THAME. LORD PAGET. LORD PETRE. STEPHEN GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. EDMUND BONNER, Bishop of London. THOMAS THIRLBY, Bishop of Ely. SIR THOMAS WYATT SIR THOMAS STAFFORD Insurrectionary Leaders. SIR RALPH BAGENHALL. SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL. SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD. SIR WILLIAM CECIL. SIR THOMAS WHITE, Lord Mayor of London. THE DUKE OF ALVA THE COUNT DE FERIA attending on Philip. PETER MARTYR. FATHER COLE. FATHER BOURNE. VILLA GARCIA. SOTO. CAPTAIN BRETT ANTHONY KNYVETT Adherents of Wyatt. PETERS, Gentleman of Lord Howard. ROGER, Servant to Noailles. WILLIAM, Servant to Wyatt. STEWARD OF HOUSEHOLD to the Princess Elizabeth. OLD NOKES and NOKES. MARCHIONESS OF EXETER, Mother of Courtenay. LADY CLARENCE LADY MAGDALEN DACRES Ladies in Waiting to the Queen. ALICE to the Princess Elizabeth. MAID OF HONOUR JOAN TIB two Country Wives.
Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshalmen, etc.
SCENE I.—ALDGATE RICHLY DECORATED.
MARSHALMAN. Stand back, keep a clear lane! When will her Majesty pass, sayst thou? why now, even now; wherefore draw back your heads and your horns before I break them, and make what noise you will with your tongues, so it be not treason. Long live Queen Mary, the lawful and legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth! Shout, knaves!
CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary!
FIRST CITIZEN. That's a hard word, legitimate; what does it mean?
SECOND CITIZEN. It means a bastard.
THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, it means true-born.
FIRST CITIZEN. Why, didn't the Parliament make her a bastard?
SECOND CITIZEN. No; it was the Lady Elizabeth.
THIRD CITIZEN. That was after, man; that was after.
FIRST CITIZEN. Then which is the bastard?
SECOND CITIZEN. Troth, they be both bastards by Act of Parliament and Council.
THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, the Parliament can make every true-born man of us a bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make thee a bastard? thou shouldst know, for thou art as white as three Christmasses.
OLD NOKES (dreamily). Who's a-passing? King Edward or King Richard?
THIRD CITIZEN. No, old Nokes.
OLD NOKES. It's Harry!
THIRD CITIZEN. It's Queen Mary.
OLD NOKES. The blessed Mary's a-passing! [Falls on his knees.
NOKES. Let father alone, my masters! he's past your questioning.
THIRD CITIZEN. Answer thou for him, then thou'rt no such cockerel thyself, for thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry the Seventh.
NOKES. Eh! that was afore bastard-making began. I was born true man at five in the forenoon i' the tail of old Harry, and so they can't make me a bastard.
THIRD CITIZEN. But if Parliament can make the Queen a bastard, why, it follows all the more that they can make thee one, who art fray'd i' the knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten at the toes, and down at heels.
NOKES. I was born of a true man and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue upon it; but I and my old woman 'ud burn upon it, that would we.
MARSHALMAN. What are you cackling of bastardy under the Queen's own nose? I'll have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the Rood I will.
FIRST CITIZEN. He swears by the Rood. Whew!
SECOND CITIZEN. Hark! the trumpets.
[The Procession passes, MARY and ELIZABETH riding side by side, and disappears under the gate.
CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary! down with all traitors! God save her Grace; and death to Northumberland! [Exeunt.
Manent TWO GENTLEMEN.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. By God's light a noble creature, right royal!
SECOND GENTLEMAN. She looks comelier than ordinary to-day; but to my mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. I mean the Lady Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a daughter in her service who reported it) that she met the Queen at Wanstead with five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' some say they be much divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet sister, and kiss'd not her alone, but all the ladies of her following.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, that was in her hour of joy; there will be plenty to sunder and unsister them again: this Gardiner for one, who is to be made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out of his cage to worry Cranmer.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. And furthermore, my daughter said that when there rose a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke even of Northumberland pitifully, and of the good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child who had but obeyed her father; and furthermore, she said that no one in her time should be burnt for heresy.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Well, sir, I look for happy times.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. There is but one thing against them. I know not if you know.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. I suppose you touch upon the rumour that Charles, the master of the world, has offer'd her his son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. I trust it is but a rumour.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. She is going now to the Tower to loose the prisoners there, and among them Courtenay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood, of splendid feature, whom the council and all her people wish her to marry. May it be so, for we are many of us Catholics, but few Papists, and the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Was she not betroth'd in her babyhood to the Great Emperor himself?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, but he's too old.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. And again to her cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal; but I hear that he too is full of aches and broken before his day.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, the Pope could dispense with his Cardinalate, and his achage, and his breakage, if that were all: will you not follow the procession?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. No; I have seen enough for this day.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, I shall follow; if I can get near enough I shall judge with my own eyes whether her Grace incline to this splendid scion of Plantagenet.
SCENE II.—A ROOM IN LAMBETH PALACE.
CRANMER. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, Geneva, Basle—our Bishops from their sees Or fled, they say, or flying—Poinet, Barlow, Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the Deans Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells— Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more; So they report: I shall be left alone. No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly.
Enter PETER MARTYR.
PETER MARTYR. Fly, Cranmer! were there nothing else, your name Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters Patent That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane.
CRANMER. Stand first it may, but it was written last: Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd Before me: nay, the Judges had pronounced That our young Edward might bequeath the crown Of England, putting by his father's will. Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me. The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand, Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine, Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield His Church of England to the Papal wolf And Mary; then I could no more—I sign'd. Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, She cannot pass her traitor council by, To make me headless.
PETER MARTYR. That might be forgiven. I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own The bodily presence in the Eucharist, Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice: Your creed will be your death.
CRANMER. Step after step, Thro' many voices crying right and left, Have I climb'd back into the primal church, And stand within the porch, and Christ with me: My flight were such a scandal to the faith, The downfall of so many simple souls, I dare not leave my post.
PETER MARTYR. But you divorced Queen Catharine and her father; hence, her hate Will burn till you are burn'd.
CRANMER. I cannot help it. The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me. 'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.'—'Tis written, 'They shall be childless.' True, Mary was born, But France would not accept her for a bride As being born from incest; and this wrought Upon the king; and child by child, you know, Were momentary sparkles out as quick Almost as kindled; and he brought his doubts And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him He did believe the bond incestuous. But wherefore am I trenching on the time That should already have seen your steps a mile From me and Lambeth? God be with you! Go.
PETER MARTYR. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against Their superstition when they slander'd you For setting up a mass at Canterbury To please the Queen.
CRANMER. It was a wheedling monk Set up the mass.
PETER MARTYR. I know it, my good Lord. But you so bubbled over with hot terms Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly!
CRANMER. I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn!
PETER MARTYR. They have given me a safe conduct: for all that I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you, Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, and fly.
CRANMER. Fly and farewell, and let me die the death. [Exit PETER MARTYR.
Enter OLD SERVANT.
O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Officers Are here in force to take you to the Tower.
CRANMER. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go. I thank my God it is too late to fly.
SCENE III.—ST. PAUL'S CROSS.
FATHER BOURNE in the pulpit. A CROWD. MARCHIONESS OF EXETER, COURTENAY. The SIEUR DE NOAILLES and his man ROGER in front of the stage. Hubbub.
NOAILLES. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace?
ROGER. Ay, sir.
NOAILLES. 'There will be no peace for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head.'
ROGER. Ay, sir.
NOAILLES. And the other, 'Long live Elizabeth the Queen!'
ROGER. Ay, sir; she needs must tread upon them.
NOAILLES. Well. These beastly swine make such a grunting here, I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying.
ROGER. Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what the shaveling has to say for himself.
BOURNE.—and so this unhappy land, long divided in itself, and sever'd from the faith, will return into the one true fold, seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen hath——
CROWD. No pope! no pope!
ROGER (to those about him, mimicking BOURNE).—hath sent for the holy legate of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy absolution which——
FIRST CITIZEN. Old Bourne to the life!
SECOND CITIZEN. Holy absolution! holy Inquisition!
THIRD CITIZEN. Down with the Papist! [Hubbub.
BOURNE.—and now that your good bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the faith— [Hubbub.
NOAILLES. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd, And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, Begin with him.
ROGER (goes). By the mass, old friend, we'll have no pope here while the Lady Elizabeth lives.
GOSPELLER. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that swearest by the mass?
ROGER. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old leaven sticks to my tongue yet.
FIRST CITIZEN. He says right; by the mass we'll have no mass here.
VOICES OF THE CROWD. Peace! hear him; let his own words damn the Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee—tear him down!
BOURNE.—and since our Gracious Queen, let me call her our second Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true temple——,
FIRST CITIZEN. Virgin Mary! we'll have no virgins here—we'll have the Lady Elizabeth!
[Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs.
MARCHIONESS OF EXETER. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him! They love thee, and thou canst not come to harm.
COURTENAY (in the pulpit). Shame, shame, my masters! are you English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one?
CROWD. A Courtenay! a Courtenay!
[A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage.
NOAILLES. These birds of passage come before their time: Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there.
ROGER. My masters, yonder's fatter game for you Than this old gaping gurgoyle: look you there— The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen! After him, boys! and pelt him from the city.
[They seize stones and follow the Spaniards. Exeunt on the other side MARCHIONESS OF EXETER and ATTENDANTS.
NOAILLES (to ROGER). Stand from me. If Elizabeth lose her head— That makes for France. And if her people, anger'd thereupon, Arise against her and dethrone the Queen— That makes for France. And if I breed confusion anyway— That makes for France. Good-day, my Lord of Devon; A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob!
COURTENAY. My mother said, Go up; and up I went. I knew they would not do me any wrong, For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles.
NOAILLES. You look'd a king.
COURTENAY. Why not? I am king's blood.
NOAILLES. And in the whirl of change may come to be one.
NOAILLES. But does your gracious Queen entreat you kinglike?
COURTENAY. 'Fore God, I think she entreats me like a child.
NOAILLES. You've but a dull life in this maiden court, I fear, my Lord?
COURTENAY. A life of nods and yawns.
NOAILLES. So you would honour my poor house to-night, We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows, The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison, Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more—we play.
COURTENAY. At what?
NOAILLES. The Game of Chess.
COURTENAY. The Game of Chess! I can play well, and I shall beat you there.
NOAILLES. Ay, but we play with Henry, King of France, And certain of his court. His Highness makes his moves across the Channel, We answer him with ours, and there are messengers That go between us.
COURTENAY. Why, such a game, sir, were whole years a playing.
NOAILLES. Nay; not so long I trust. That all depends Upon the skill and swiftness of the players.
COURTENAY. The King is skilful at it?
NOAILLES. Very, my Lord.
COURTENAY. And the stakes high?
NOAILLES. But not beyond your means.
COURTENAY. Well, I'm the first of players, I shall win.
NOAILLES. With our advice and in our company, And so you well attend to the king's moves, I think you may.
COURTENAY. When do you meet?
COURTENAY (aside). I will be there; the fellow's at his tricks— Deep—I shall fathom him. (Aloud) Good morning, Noailles. [Exit COURTENAY.
NOAILLES. Good-day, my Lord. Strange game of chess! a King That with her own pawns plays against a Queen, Whose play is all to find herself a King. Ay; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, That, with an ass's, not a horse's head, Skips every way, from levity or from fear. Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner And Simon Renard spy not out our game Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that anyone Suspected thee to be my man?
ROGER. Not one, sir.
NOAILLES. No! the disguise was perfect. Let's away. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. ELIZABETH. Enter COURTENAY.
COURTENAY. So yet am I, Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. Pah! The Queen is ill advised: shall I turn traitor? They've almost talked me into it: yet the word Affrights me somewhat: to be such a one As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your age, And by your looks you are not worth the having, Yet by your crown you are. [Seeing ELIZABETH. The Princess there? If I tried her and la—she's amorous. Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral? I do believe she'd yield. I should be still A party in the state; and then, who knows—
ELIZABETH. What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon?
COURTENAY. Has not the Queen—
ELIZABETH. Done what, Sir?
COURTENAY. —made you follow The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox?— You, The heir presumptive.
ELIZABETH. Why do you ask? you know it.
COURTENAY. You needs must bear it hardly.
ELIZABETH. No, indeed! I am utterly submissive to the Queen.
COURTENAY. Well, I was musing upon that; the Queen Is both my foe and yours: we should be friends.
ELIZABETH. My Lord, the hatred of another to us Is no true bond of friendship.
COURTENAY. Might it not Be the rough preface of some closer bond?
ELIZABETH. My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower, Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, You spent your life; that broken, out you flutter Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle Upon this flower, now that; but all things here At court are known; you have solicited The Queen, and been rejected.
COURTENAY. Flower, she! Half faded! but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet As the first flower no bee has ever tried.
ELIZABETH. Are you the bee to try me? why, but now I called you butterfly.
COURTENAY. You did me wrong, I love not to be called a butterfly: Why do you call me butterfly?
ELIZABETH. Why do you go so gay then?
COURTENAY. Velvet and gold. This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon To take my seat in; looks it not right royal?
ELIZABETH. So royal that the Queen forbad you wearing it.
COURTENAY. I wear it then to spite her.
ELIZABETH. My Lord, my Lord; I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to you.—
COURTENAY. I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam, A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin.
ELIZABETH. She hears you make your boast that after all She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord.
COURTENAY. How folly? a great party in the state Wills me to wed her.
ELIZABETH. Failing her, my Lord, Doth not as great a party in the state Will you to wed me?
COURTENAY. Even so, fair lady.
ELIZABETH. You know to flatter ladies.
COURTENAY. Nay, I meant True matters of the heart.
ELIZABETH. My heart, my Lord, Is no great party in the state as yet.
COURTENAY. Great, said you? nay, you shall be great. I love you, Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close?
ELIZABETH. Can you, my Lord?
COURTENAY. Close as a miser's casket. Listen: The King of France, Noailles the Ambassador, The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be. If Mary will not hear us—well—conjecture— Were I in Devon with my wedded bride, The people there so worship me—Your ear; You shall be Queen.
ELIZABETH. You speak too low, my Lord; I cannot hear you.
COURTENAY. I'll repeat it.
ELIZABETH. No! Stand further off, or you may lose your head.
COURTENAY. I have a head to lose for your sweet sake.
ELIZABETH. Have you, my Lord? Best keep it for your own. Nay, pout not, cousin. Not many friends are mine, except indeed Among the many. I believe you mine; And so you may continue mine, farewell, And that at once.
Enter MARY, behind.
MARY. Whispering—leagued together To bar me from my Philip.
ELIZABETH (seeing the QUEEN). Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord. I trust that he will carry you well to-day, And heal your headache.
COURTENAY. You are wild; what headache? Heartache, perchance; not headache.
ELIZABETH (aside to COURTENAY). Are you blind?
[COURTENAY sees the QUEEN and exit. Exit MARY.
Enter LORD WILLIAM HOWARD.
HOWARD. Was that my Lord of Devon? do not you Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen. She fears the Lords may side with you and him Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous. And if this Prince of fluff and feather come To woo you, niece, he is dangerous everyway.
ELIZABETH. Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle.
HOWARD. But your own state is full of danger here. The disaffected, heretics, reformers, Look to you as the one to crown their ends. Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you; Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, Speak not thereof—no, not to your best friend, Lest you should be confounded with it. Still— Perinde ac cadaver—as the priest says, You know your Latin—quiet as a dead body. What was my Lord of Devon telling you?
ELIZABETH. Whether he told me anything or not, I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. Quiet as a dead body.
HOWARD. You do right well. I do not care to know; but this I charge you, Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor (I count it as a kind of virtue in him, He hath not many), as a mastiff dog May love a puppy cur for no more reason Than that the twain have been tied up together, Thus Gardiner—for the two were fellow-prisoners So many years in yon accursed Tower— Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece, He hath no fence when Gardiner questions him; All oozes out; yet him—because they know him The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet (Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people Claim as their natural leader—ay, some say, That you shall marry him, make him King belike.
ELIZABETH. Do they say so, good uncle?
HOWARD. Ay, good niece! You should be plain and open with me, niece. You should not play upon me.
ELIZABETH. No, good uncle.
GARDINER. The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment.
ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?
GARDINER. I think she means to counsel your withdrawing To Ashridge, or some other country house.
ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?
GARDINER. I do but bring the message, know no more. Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself.
ELIZABETH. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the word Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave Permission of her Highness to retire To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there.
GARDINER. Madam, to have the wish before the word Is man's good Fairy—and the Queen is yours. I left her with rich jewels in her hand, Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make A farewell present to your Grace.
ELIZABETH. My Lord, I have the jewel of a loyal heart.
GARDINER. I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal. [Bows low and exit.
HOWARD. See, This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon. Well, well, you must obey; and I myself Believe it will be better for your welfare. Your time will come.
ELIZABETH. I think my time will come. Uncle, I am of sovereign nature, that I know, Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within me Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour Peals—but this fierce old Gardiner—his big baldness, That irritable forelock which he rubs, His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes Half fright me.
HOWARD. You've a bold heart; keep it so. He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor; And so take heed I pray you—you are one Who love that men should smile upon you, niece. They'd smile you into treason—some of them.
ELIZABETH. I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea. But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince, And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek In that lone house, to practise on my life, By poison, fire, shot, stab—
HOWARD. They will not, niece. Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea— Or will be in a moment. If they dared To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil.
ELIZABETH. To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost a sister.
HOWARD. But why say that? what have you done to lose her? Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen.
SCENE V.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
MARY with PHILIP'S miniature. ALICE.
MARY (kissing the miniature). Most goodly, King-like and an Emperor's son,— A king to be,—is he not noble, girl?
ALICE. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks, I have seen goodlier.
MARY. Ay; some waxen doll Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike; All red and white, the fashion of our land. But my good mother came (God rest her soul) Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, And in my likings.
ALICE. By your Grace's leave Your royal mother came of Spain, but took To the English red and white. Your royal father (For so they say) was all pure lily and rose In his youth, and like a lady.
MARY. O, just God! Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough To sicken of his lilies and his roses. Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn! And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness, The false archbishop fawning on him, married The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic Ev'n as she is; but God hath sent me here To take such order with all heretics That it shall be, before I die, as tho' My father and my brother had not lived. What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, Now in the Tower?
ALICE. Why, Madam, she was passing Some chapel down in Essex, and with her Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, To him within there who made Heaven and Earth? I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace What Lady Jane replied.
MARY. But I will have it.
ALICE. She said—pray pardon me, and pity her— She hath harken'd evil counsel—ah! she said, The baker made him.
MARY. Monstrous! blasphemous! She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit ALICE). No—being traitor Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child. We do not kill the child for doing that His father whipt him into doing—a head So full of grace and beauty! would that mine Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be, My love, for thy sake only. I am eleven years older than he is. But will he care for that? No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, But love me only: then the bastard sprout, My sister, is far fairer than myself. Will he be drawn to her? No, being of the true faith with myself. Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain Would treble England—Gardiner is against him; The Council, people, Parliament against him; But I will have him! My hard father hated me; My brother rather hated me than loved; My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin, Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer: Give me my Philip; and we two will lead The living waters of the Faith again Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old, To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!
Who waits, sir?
USHER. Madam, the Lord Chancellor.
MARY. Bid him come in. (Enter GARDINER.) Good morning, my good Lord.
GARDINER. That every morning of your Majesty May be most good, is every morning's prayer Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner.
MARY. Come you to tell me this, my Lord?
GARDINER. And more. Your people have begun to learn your worth. Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts, Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission Of half that subsidy levied on the people, Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you. I'd have you yet more loved: the realm is poor, The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw Part of our garrison at Calais.
MARY. Calais! Our one point on the main, the gate of France! I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart, But do not lose me Calais.
GARDINER. Do not fear it. Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. That I may keep you thus, who am your friend And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak?
MARY. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry Prince Philip, if all England hate him? That is Your question, and I front it with another: Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer.
GARDINER. My answer is, I wear beneath my dress A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted, And when I walk abroad, the populace, With fingers pointed like so many daggers, Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip; And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me, Because they think me favourer of this marriage.
MARY. And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor.
GARDINER. But our young Earl of Devon—
MARY. Earl of Devon? I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court; I made him Earl of Devon, and—the fool— He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans, And rolls himself in carrion like a dog.
GARDINER. More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds, Sickening himself with sweets.
MARY. I will not hear of him. Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor, And shall control them.
GARDINER. I will help you, Madam, Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful. You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again, And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks To God and to your Grace: yet I know well, Your people, and I go with them so far, Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church.
MARY (showing the picture). Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant? Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle?
GARDINER. Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty. And when your Highness talks of Courtenay— Ay, true—a goodly one. I would his life Were half as goodly (aside).
MARY. What is that you mutter?
GARDINER. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip, And be stepmother of a score of sons! The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha! For Philip—
MARY. You offend us; you may leave us. You see thro' warping glasses.
GARDINER. If your Majesty—
MARY. I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ I'll none but Philip.
GARDINER. Hath your Grace so sworn?
MARY. Ay, Simon Renard knows it.
GARDINER. News to me! It then remains for your poor Gardiner, So you still care to trust him somewhat less Than Simon Renard, to compose the event In some such form as least may harm your Grace.
MARY. I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud. I know it a scandal.
GARDINER. All my hope is now It may be found a scandal.
MARY. You offend us.
GARDINER (aside). These princes are like children, must be physick'd, The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office, It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool. [Exit.
MARY. Who waits?
USHER. The Ambassador from France, your Grace.
MARY (sits down). Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles.
NOAILLES (entering). A happy morning to your Majesty.
MARY. And I should some time have a happy morning; I have had none yet. What says the King your master?
NOAILLES. Madam, my master hears with much alarm, That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain— Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness, That if this Philip be the titular king Of England, and at war with him, your Grace And kingdom will be suck'd into the war, Ay, tho' you long for peace; wherefore, my master, If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill, Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you.
MARY. Why some fresh treaty? wherefore should I do it? Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain All former treaties with his Majesty. Our royal word for that! and your good master, Pray God he do not be the first to break them, Must be content with that; and so, farewell.
NOAILLES (going, returns). I would your answer had been other, Madam, For I foresee dark days.
MARY. And so do I, sir; Your master works against me in the dark. I do believe he holp Northumberland Against me.
NOAILLES. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace. Why should he move against you?
MARY. Will you hear why? Mary of Scotland,—for I have not own'd My sister, and I will not,—after me Is heir of England; and my royal father, To make the crown of Scotland one with ours, Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride; Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. See then: Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, Would make our England, France; Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, Would be too strong for France. Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we, One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear. That is your drift. You play at hide and seek. Show me your faces!
NOAILLES. Madam, I am amazed: French, I must needs wish all good things for France. That must be pardon'd me; but I protest Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight Than mine into the future. We but seek Some settled ground for peace to stand upon.
MARY. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council. Have you seen Philip ever?
NOAILLES. Only once.
MARY. Is this like Philip?
NOAILLES. Ay, but nobler-looking.
MARY. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor?
NOAILLES. No, surely.
MARY. I can make allowance for thee, Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king.
NOAILLES. Make no allowance for the naked truth. He is every way a lesser man than Charles; Stone-hard, ice-cold—no dash of daring in him.
MARY. If cold, his life is pure.
NOAILLES. Why (smiling), no, indeed.
MARY. Sayst thou?
NOAILLES. A very wanton life indeed (smiling).
MARY. Your audience is concluded, sir.
You cannot Learn a man's nature from his natural foe.
USHER. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace. [Exit.
Enter SIMON RENARD.
MARY (rising to meet him). Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised Long since, a formal offer of the hand Of Philip?
RENARD. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me. I know not wherefore—some mischance of flood, And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave And wind at their old battle: he must have written.
MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word. Which in his absence had been all my wealth. Strange in a wooer!
RENARD. Yet I know the Prince, So your king-parliament suffer him to land, Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.
MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot First presses into some more costly stone Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike; I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. Let the great angel of the church come with him; Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail! God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea, And here at land among the people! O Renard, I am much beset, I am almost in despair. Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; But for our heretic Parliament—
RENARD. O Madam, You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles, Bad you go softly with your heretics here, Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides, When Henry broke the carcase of your church To pieces, there were many wolves among you Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den. The Pope would have you make them render these; So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel! These let them keep at present; stir not yet This matter of the Church lands. At his coming Your star will rise.
MARY. My star! a baleful one. I see but the black night, and hear the wolf. What star?
RENARD. Your star will be your princely son, Heir of this England and the Netherlands! And if your wolf the while should howl for more, We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. I do believe, I have dusted some already, That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.
MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince, Renard?
RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high Is to be lied about.
MARY. They call him cold, Haughty, ay, worse.
RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows Some of the bearing of your blue blood—still All within measure—nay, it well becomes him.
MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father?
RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.
MARY. Is this like him?
RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. This is a daub to Philip.
MARY. Of a pure life?
RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, The text—Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever Looketh after a woman,' would not graze The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, Chaste as your Grace!
MARY. I am happy in him there.
RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam, So that your sister were but look'd to closer. You have sent her from the court, but then she goes, I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, But hatch you some new treason in the woods.
MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping, And then if caught, to the Tower.
RENARD. The Tower! the block! The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest When the head leapt—so common! I do think To save your crown that it must come to this.
MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this.
RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower— Why, when you put Northumberland to death, The sentence having past upon them all, Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley, Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown?
MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father. Spite of her tears her father forced it on her.
RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign, He slew not him alone who wore the purple, But his assessor in the throne, perchance A child more innocent than Lady Jane.
MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor.
RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come Till she be gone.
MARY. Indeed, if that were true— For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church— But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen Of mine own heart, which every now and then Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain— My father on a birthday gave it me, And I have broken with my father—take And wear it as memorial of a morning Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me As hopeful.
RENARD (aside). Whew—the folly of all follies Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud) Madam, This chains me to your service, not with gold, But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, Philip is yours. [Exit.
MARY. Mine—but not yet all mine.
USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty.
MARY. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. No, say I come. (Exit USHER.) I won by boldness once. The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders. I would not; but a hundred miles I rode, Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together, Struck home and won. And when the Council would not crown me—thought To bind me first by oaths I could not keep, And keep with Christ and conscience—was it boldness Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen, Cast myself down upon my knees before them, And those hard men brake into woman tears, Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion Gave me my Crown.
Girl; hast thou ever heard Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court?
ALICE. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never.
ALICE. Never, your Grace.
MARY. See that you neither hear them nor repeat!
ALICE (aside). Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such. Ay, and repeated them as often—mum! Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again?
RENARD. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence Before I chanced upon the messenger Who brings that letter which we waited for— The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. It craves an instant answer, Ay or No.
MARY. An instant Ay or No! the Council sits. Give it me quick.
ALICE (stepping before her). Your Highness is all trembling.
MARY. Make way. [Exit into the Council Chamber.
ALICE. O, Master Renard, Master Renard, If you have falsely painted your fine Prince; Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God No woman ever love you, Master Renard. It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night As tho' the nightmare never left her bed.
RENARD. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever Sigh for a beard?
ALICE. That's not a pretty question.
RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden, A pretty man for such a pretty maiden.
ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then?
RENARD. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan A kindled fire.
ALICE. According to the song.
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em, His friends—as Angels I received 'em, His foes—the Devil had suborn'd 'em.
RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden. I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure—who else? and yet, They are all too much at odds to close at once In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.
ALICE. How deathly pale!—a chair, your Highness [Bringing one to the QUEEN.
RENARD. Madam, The Council?
MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine.
[Sinks into chair, half fainting.
SCENE I.—ALINGTON CASTLE.
SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay, Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using, (I have known a semi-madman in my time So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
News abroad, William?
WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear?
WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again. Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call As yet for me; so in this pause, before The mine be fired, it were a pious work To string my father's sonnets, left about Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, To grace his memory.
WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.
WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted the wine.
WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.
WILLIAM. Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. [Exit.
WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace, To read and rhyme in solitary fields, The lark above, the nightingale below, And answer them in song. The sire begets Not half his likeness in the son. I fail Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down. [He writes.
WILLIAM. There is news, there is news, and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up, and your worship a-top of it.
WYATT. Inverted Aesop—mountain out of mouse. Say for ten thousand ten—and pothouse knaves, Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.
Enter ANTONY KNYVETT.
WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt, Tear up that woman's work there.
WYATT. No; not these, Dumb children of my father, that will speak When I and thou and all rebellions lie Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know For ages.
KNYVETT. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant, Wing'd for a moment.
WYATT. Well, for mine own work, [Tearing the paper. It lies there in six pieces at your feet; For all that I can carry it in my head.
KNYVETT. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders.
WYATT. I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders, And sonnet-making's safer.
KNYVETT. Why, good Lord, Write you as many sonnets as you will. Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, ears, brains? This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain, The hardest, cruellest people in the world, Come locusting upon us, eat us up, Confiscate lands, goods, money—Wyatt, Wyatt, Wake, or the stout old island will become A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them—more— All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no glory Like his who saves his country: and you sit Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge, By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, As a good soldier.
WYATT. You as poor a critic As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek, Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony! You know I know all this. I must not move Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. I fear the mine is fired before the time.
KNYVETT (showing a paper). But here's some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it. Look; can you make it English? A strange youth Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 'Wyatt,' And whisking round a corner, show'd his back Before I read his face.
WYATT. Ha! Courtenay's cipher. [Reads. 'Sir Peter Carew fled to France: it is thought the Duke will be taken. I am with you still; but, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath no force for resistance. Move, if you move, at once.'
Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken? Down scabbard, and out sword! and let Rebellion Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; not that; But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign. Who are those that shout below there?
KNYVETT. Why, some fifty That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope To hear you speak.
WYATT. Open the window, Knyvett; The mine is fired, and I will speak to them.
Men of Kent; England of England; you that have kept your old customs upright, while all the rest of England bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause that hath brought us together is not the cause of a county or a shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have called me to be your leader. I know Spain. I have been there with my father; I have seen them in their own land; have marked the haughtiness of their nobles; the cruelty of their priests. If this man marry our Queen, however the Council and the Commons may fence round his power with restriction, he will be King, King of England, my masters; and the Queen, and the laws, and the people, his slaves. What? shall we have Spain on the throne and in the parliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the law-bench; Spain in all the great offices of state; Spain in our ships, in our forts, in our houses, in our beds?
CROWD. No! no! no Spain!
WILLIAM. No Spain in our beds—that were worse than all. I have been there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain.
A PEASANT. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's Grace?
WYATT. No, my friend; war for the Queen's Grace—to save her from herself and Philip—war against Spain. And think not we shall be alone—thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. The King of France is with us; the King of Denmark is with us; the world is with us—war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God! the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her. Look at the New World—a paradise made hell; the red man, that good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; and here, nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more—only this, their lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward to London! If ye love your liberties or your skins, forward to London!
CROWD. Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt!
WYATT. But first to Rochester, to take the guns From out the vessels lying in the river. Then on.
A PEASANT. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend, Is not half-waked; but every parish tower Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed With indraughts and side-currents, in full force Roll upon London.
CROWD. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward!
KNYVETT. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth?
WYATT. I'll think upon it, Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Or Lady Jane?
WYATT. No, poor soul; no. Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance That I shall never look upon you more.
KNYVETT. Come, now, you're sonnetting again.
WYATT. Not I. I'll have my head set higher in the state; Or—if the Lord God will it—on the stake.
SIR THOMAS WHITE (The Lord Mayor), LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, ALDERMEN and CITIZENS.
WHITE. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards.
HOWARD. Ay, all in arms.
[Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall.
Why do they hurry out there?
WHITE. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple, Your apple eats the better. Let them go. They go like those old Pharisees in John Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards, Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. When will her Grace be here?
HOWARD. In some few minutes. She will address your guilds and companies. I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. But help her in this exigency, make Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man This day in England.
WHITE. I am Thomas White. Few things have fail'd to which I set my will. I do my most and best.
HOWARD. You know that after The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him With all his men, the Queen in that distress Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, Feigning to treat with him about her marriage— Know too what Wyatt said.
WHITE. He'd sooner be, While this same marriage question was being argued, Trusted than trust—the scoundrel—and demanded Possession of her person and the Tower.
HOWARD. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord, As hostages.
WHITE. I know it. What do and say Your Council at this hour?
HOWARD. I will trust you. We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council, The Parliament as well, are troubled waters; And yet like waters of the fen they know not Which way to flow. All hangs on her address, And upon you, Lord Mayor.
WHITE. How look'd the city When now you past it? Quiet?
HOWARD. Like our Council, Your city is divided. As we past, Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look'd As grim and grave as from a funeral. And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, With execrating execrable eyes, Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother, Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back, She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy she held Mimick'd and piped her 'Wyatt,' as red as she In hair and cheek; and almost elbowing her, So close they stood, another, mute as death, And white as her own milk; her babe in arms Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart, And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic, Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd shoulder Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast, A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay, Nay the Queen's right to reign—'fore God, the rogues— Were freely buzzed among them. So I say Your city is divided, and I fear One scruple, this or that way, of success Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen In this low pulse and palsy of the state, Bad me to tell you that she counts on you And on myself as her two hands; on you, In your own city, as her right, my Lord, For you are loyal.
WHITE. Am I Thomas White? One word before she comes. Elizabeth— Her name is much abused among these traitors. Where is she? She is loved by all of us. I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter, If she should be mishandled.
HOWARD. No; she shall not. The Queen had written her word to come to court: Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter, And fearing for her, sent a secret missive, Which told her to be sick. Happily or not, It found her sick indeed.
WHITE. God send her well; Here comes her Royal Grace.
Enter GUARDS, MARY and GARDINER. SIR THOMAS WHITE leads her to a raised seat on the dais.
WHITE. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks For your most princely presence; and we pray That we, your true and loyal citizens, From your own royal lips, at once may know The wherefore of this coming, and so learn Your royal will, and do it.—I, Lord Mayor Of London, and our guilds and companies.
MARY. In mine own person am I come to you, To tell you what indeed ye see and know, How traitorously these rebels out of Kent Have made strong head against ourselves and you. They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain: That was their pretext—so they spake at first— But we sent divers of our Council to them, And by their answers to the question ask'd, It doth appear this marriage is the least Of all their quarrel. They have betrayed the treason of their hearts: Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, Place and displace our councillors, and use Both us and them according as they will. Now what I am ye know right well—your Queen; To whom, when I was wedded to the realm And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof, Not ever to be laid aside, I wear Upon this finger), ye did promise full Allegiance and obedience to the death. Ye know my father was the rightful heir Of England, and his right came down to me Corroborate by your acts of Parliament: And as ye were most loving unto him, So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me. Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone Should seize our person, occupy our state, More specially a traitor so presumptuous As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with A public ignorance, and, under colour Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks To bend the laws to his own will, and yield Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, To make free spoil and havock of your goods. Now as your Prince, I say, I, that was never mother, cannot tell How mothers love their children; yet, methinks, A prince as naturally may love his people As these their children; and be sure your Queen So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem This love by you return'd as heartily; And thro' this common knot and bond of love, Doubt not they will be speedily overthrown. As to this marriage, ye shall understand We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, And set no foot theretoward unadvised Of all our Privy Council; furthermore, This marriage had the assent of those to whom The king, my father, did commit his trust; Who not alone esteem'd it honourable, But for the wealth and glory of our realm, And all our loving subjects, most expedient. As to myself, I am not so set on wedlock as to choose But where I list, nor yet so amorous That I must needs be husbanded; I thank God, I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt But that with God's grace, I can live so still. Yet if it might please God that I should leave Some fruit of mine own body after me, To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, And it would be your comfort, as I trust; And truly, if I either thought or knew This marriage should bring loss or danger to you, My subjects, or impair in any way This royal state of England, I would never Consent thereto, nor marry while I live; Moreover, if this marriage should not seem, Before our own High Court of Parliament, To be of rich advantage to our realm, We will refrain, and not alone from this, Likewise from any other, out of which Looms the least chance of peril to our realm. Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince Stand fast against our enemies and yours, And fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord, I leave Lord William Howard in your city, To guard and keep you whole and safe from all The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these rebels, Who mouth and foam against the Prince of Spain.
VOICES. Long live Queen Mary! Down with Wyatt! The Queen!
WHITE. Three voices from our guilds and companies! You are shy and proud like Englishmen, my masters, And will not trust your voices. Understand: Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, And finds you statues. Speak at once—and all! For whom? Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will; The Queen of England—or the Kentish Squire? I know you loyal. Speak! in the name of God! The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent? The reeking dungfork master of the mace! Your havings wasted by the scythe and spade— Your rights and charters hobnail'd into slush— Your houses fired—your gutters bubbling blood—
ACCLAMATION. No! No! The Queen! the Queen!
WHITE. Your Highness hears This burst and bass of loyal harmony, And how we each and all of us abhor The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath To raise your Highness thirty thousand men, And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea That might have leapt upon us unawares. Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all, With all your trades, and guilds, and companies.
CITIZENS. We swear!
MARY. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city. [Exit MARY attended.
WHITE. I trust this day, thro' God, I have saved the crown.
FIRST ALDERMAN. Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in command Of all her force be safe; but there are doubts.
SECOND ALDERMAN. I hear that Gardiner, coming with the Queen, And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow, As if to win the man by flattering him. Is he so safe to fight upon her side?
FIRST ALDERMAN. If not, there's no man safe.
WHITE. Yes, Thomas White. I am safe enough; no man need flatter me.
SECOND ALDERMAN. Nay, no man need; but did you mark our Queen? The colour freely play'd into her face, And the half sight which makes her look so stern, Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of hers, To read our faces; I have never seen her So queenly or so goodly.
WHITE. Courage, sir, That makes or man or woman look their goodliest. Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block.
BAGENHALL. The man had children, and he whined for those. Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, else Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner? The Queen stands up, and speaks for her own self; And all men cry, She is queenly, she is goodly. Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor here, By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day, Should look more goodly than the rest of us.
WHITE. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart and hand, And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent. Ha! ha! sir; but you jest; I love it: a jest In time of danger shows the pulses even. Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself, Tho' all the world should bay like winter wolves.
BAGENHALL. Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.
WHITE. The man should make the hour, not this the man; And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt, And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, And he will play the Walworth to this Wat; Come, sirs, we prate; hence all—gather your men— Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark; I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames, And see the citizens arm'd. Good day; good day. [Exit WHITE.
BAGENHALL. One of much outdoor bluster.
HOWARD. For all that, Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his wealth A fountain of perennial alms—his fault So thoroughly to believe in his own self.
BAGENHALL. Yet thoroughly to believe in one's own self, So one's own self be thorough, were to do Great things, my Lord.
HOWARD. It may be.
BAGENHALL. I have heard One of your Council fleer and jeer at him.
HOWARD. The nursery-cocker'd child will jeer at aught That may seem strange beyond his nursery. The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men, Makes enemies for himself and for his king; And if he jeer not seeing the true man Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool; And if he see the man and still will jeer, He is child and fool, and traitor to the State. Who is he? let me shun him.
BAGENHALL. Nay, my Lord, He is damn'd enough already.
HOWARD. I must set The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph.
BAGENHALL. 'Who knows?' I am for England. But who knows, That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope, Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen?
SCENE III.—LONDON BRIDGE.
Enter SIR THOMAS WYATT and BRETT.
WYATT. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved against us Thou cried'st 'A Wyatt!' and flying to our side Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett. Have for thine asking aught that I can give, For thro' thine help we are come to London Bridge; But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot.
BRETT. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or wings.
WYATT. Last night I climb'd into the gate-house, Brett, And scared the gray old porter and his wife. And then I crept along the gloom and saw They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river. It roll'd as black as death; and that same tide Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to smile And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest, Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the piers. But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard By torchlight, and his guard; four guns gaped at me, Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied me there And made them speak, as well he might have done, Their voice had left me none to tell you this. What shall we do?
BRETT. On somehow. To go back Were to lose all.
WYATT. On over London Bridge We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ordnance On the White Tower and on the Devil's Tower, And pointed full at Southwark; we must round By Kingston Bridge.
BRETT. Ten miles about.
WYATT. Ev'n so. But I have notice from our partisans Within the city that they will stand by us If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow.
Enter one of WYATT'S MEN.
MAN. Sir Thomas, I've found this paper; pray your worship read it; I know not my letters; the old priests taught me nothing.
WYATT (reads). 'Whosoever will apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt shall have a hundred pounds for reward.'
MAN. Is that it? That's a big lot of money.
WYATT. Ay, ay, my friend; not read it? 'tis not written Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper! [Writes 'THOMAS WYATT' large. There, any man can read that. [Sticks it in his cap.
BRETT. But that's foolhardy.
WYATT. No! boldness, which will give my followers boldness.
Enter MAN with a prisoner.
MAN. We found him, your worship, a plundering o' Bishop Winchester's house; he says he's a poor gentleman.
WYATT. Gentleman! a thief! Go hang him. Shall we make Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes?
BRETT. Sir Thomas—
WYATT. Hang him, I say.
BRETT. Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon.
WYATT. Ay, and I warrant this fine fellow's life.
BRETT. Ev'n so; he was my neighbour once in Kent. He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled out All that he had, and gentleman he was. We have been glad together; let him live.
WYATT. He has gambled for his life, and lost, he hangs. No, no, my word's my word. Take thy poor gentleman! Gamble thyself at once out of my sight, Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away! Women and children!
Enter a Crowd of WOMEN and CHILDREN.
FIRST WOMAN. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas, pray you go away, Sir Thomas, or you'll make the White Tower a black 'un for us this blessed day. He'll be the death on us; and you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spitting, and he'll smash all our bits o' things worse than Philip o' Spain.
SECOND WOMAN. Don't ye now go to think that we be for Philip o' Spain.
THIRD WOMAN. No, we know that ye be come to kill the Queen, and we'll pray for you all on our bended knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye kill the Queen here, Sir Thomas; look ye, here's little Dickon, and little Robin, and little Jenny—though she's but a side-cousin—and all on our knees, we pray you to kill the Queen further off, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen Or here or there: I come to save you all, And I'll go further off.
CROWD. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, and we'll pray for you on our bended knees till our lives' end.
WYATT. Be happy, I am your friend. To Kingston, forward!
SCENE IV.—ROOM IN THE GATEHOUSE OF WESTMINSTER PALACE.
MARY, ALICE, GARDINER, RENARD, LADIES.
GARDINER. Their cry is, Philip never shall be king.
MARY. Lord Pembroke in command of all our force Will front their cry and shatter them into dust.
ALICE. Was not Lord Pembroke with Northumberland? O madam, if this Pembroke should be false?
MARY. No, girl; most brave and loyal, brave and loyal. His breaking with Northumberland broke Northumberland. At the park gate he hovers with our guards. These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the guards.
MESSENGER. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the guards And gone to Ludgate.
GARDINER. Madam, I much fear That all is lost; but we can save your Grace. The river still is free. I do beseech you, There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor.
MARY. I pass to Windsor and I lose my crown.
GARDINER. Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the Tower.
MARY. I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower.
CRIES without. The traitor! treason! Pembroke!
LADIES. Treason! treason!
MARY. Peace. False to Northumberland, is he false to me? Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die The true and faithful bride of Philip—A sound Of feet and voices thickening hither—blows— Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, And I will out upon the gallery.
LADIES. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying.
MARY. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not fear. [Goes out on the gallery. The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard Truly; shame on them! they have shut the gates!
Enter SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL.
SOUTHWELL. The porter, please your Grace, hath shut the gates On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms, If this be not your Grace's order, cry To have the gates set wide again, and they With their good battleaxes will do you right Against all traitors.
MARY. They are the flower of England; set the gates wide.
COURTENAY. All lost, all lost, all yielded! A barge, a barge! The Queen must to the Tower.
MARY. Whence come you, sir?
COURTENAY. From Charing Cross; the rebels broke us there, And I sped hither with what haste I might To save my royal cousin.
MARY. Where is Pembroke?
COURTENAY. I left him somewhere in the thick of it.
MARY. Left him and fled; and thou that would'st be King, And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself Will down into the battle and there bide The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those That are no cowards and no Courtenays.
COURTENAY. I do not love your Grace should call me coward.
Enter another MESSENGER.
MESSENGER. Over, your Grace, all crush'd; the brave Lord William Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley Was taken prisoner.
MARY. To the Tower with him!
MESSENGER. 'Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was one Cognisant of this, and party thereunto, My Lord of Devon.
MARY. To the Tower with him!
COURTENAY. O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the Tower, I shall grow into it—I shall be the Tower.
MARY. Your Lordship may not have so long to wait. Remove him!
COURTENAY. La, to whistle out my life, And carve my coat upon the walls again! [Exit COURTENAY guarded.
MESSENGER. Also this Wyatt did confess the Princess Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto.
MARY. What? whom—whom did you say?
MESSENGER. Elizabeth, Your Royal sister.
MARY. To the Tower with her! My foes are at my feet and I am Queen.
[GARDINER and her LADIES kneel to her.
GARDINER (rising). There let them lie, your foot-stool! (Aside.) Can I strike Elizabeth?—not now and save the life Of Devon: if I save him, he and his Are bound to me—may strike hereafter. (Aloud.) Madam, What Wyatt said, or what they said he said, Cries of the moment and the street—
MARY. He said it.
GARDINER. Your courts of justice will determine that.
RENARD (advancing). I trust by this your Highness will allow Some spice of wisdom in my telling you, When last we talk'd, that Philip would not come Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk, And Lady Jane had left us.
MARY. They shall die.
RENARD. And your so loving sister?
MARY. She shall die. My foes are at my feet, and Philip King.
SCENE I.—THE CONDUIT IN GRACECHURCH,
Painted with the Nine Worthies, among them King Henry VIII. holding a book, on it inscribed 'Verbum Dei'.
Enter SIR RALPH BAGENHALL and SIR THOMAS STAFFORD.
BAGENHALL. A hundred here and hundreds hang'd in Kent. The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last, And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd them. In every London street a gibbet stood. They are down to-day. Here by this house was one; The traitor husband dangled at the door, And when the traitor wife came out for bread To still the petty treason therewithin, Her cap would brush his heels.
STAFFORD. It is Sir Ralph, And muttering to himself as heretofore. Sir, see you aught up yonder?
BAGENHALL. I miss something. The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone.
STAFFORD. What tree, sir?
BAGENHALL. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir, That bears not its own apples.
STAFFORD. What! the gallows?
BAGENHALL. Sir, this dead fruit was ripening overmuch, And had to be removed lest living Spain Should sicken at dead England.
STAFFORD. Not so dead, But that a shock may rouse her.
BAGENHALL. I believe Sir Thomas Stafford?
STAFFORD. I am ill disguised.
BAGENHALL. Well, are you not in peril here?
STAFFORD. I think so. I came to feel the pulse of England, whether It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it?
BAGENHALL. Stafford, I am a sad man and a serious. Far liefer had I in my country hall Been reading some old book, with mine old hound Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask of wine Beside me, than have seen it: yet I saw it.
STAFFORD. Good, was it splendid?
BAGENHALL. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, pearls, That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold, Could make it so.
STAFFORD. And what was Mary's dress?
BAGENHALL. Good faith, I was too sorry for the woman To mark the dress. She wore red shoes!
STAFFORD. Red shoes!
BAGENHALL. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash'd in blood, As if she had waded in it.
STAFFORD. Were your eyes So bashful that you look'd no higher?
BAGENHALL. A diamond, And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, Who hath not any for any,—tho' a true one, Blazed false upon her heart.
STAFFORD. But this proud Prince—
BAGENHALL. Nay, he is King, you know, the King of Naples. The father ceded Naples, that the son Being a King, might wed a Queen—O he Flamed in brocade—white satin his trunk-hose, Inwrought with silver,—on his neck a collar, Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging down from this The Golden Fleece—and round his knee, misplaced, Our English Garter, studded with great emeralds, Rubies, I know not what. Have you had enough Of all this gear?
STAFFORD. Ay, since you hate the telling it. How look'd the Queen?
BAGENHALL. No fairer for her jewels. And I could see that as the new-made couple Came from the Minster, moving side by side Beneath one canopy, ever and anon She cast on him a vassal smile of love, Which Philip with a glance of some distaste, Or so methought, return'd. I may be wrong, sir. This marriage will not hold.
STAFFORD. I think with you. The King of France will help to break it.
BAGENHALL. France! We have once had half of France, and hurl'd our battles Into the heart of Spain; but England now Is but a ball chuck'd between France and Spain, His in whose hand she drops; Harry of Bolingbroke Had holpen Richard's tottering throne to stand, Could Harry have foreseen that all our nobles Would perish on the civil slaughter-field, And leave the people naked to the crown, And the crown naked to the people; the crown Female, too! Sir, no woman's regimen Can save us. We are fallen, and as I think, Never to rise again.
STAFFORD. You are too black-blooded. I'd make a move myself to hinder that: I know some lusty fellows there in France.
BAGENHALL. You would but make us weaker, Thomas Stafford. Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd, And strengthen'd Philip.
STAFFORD. Did not his last breath Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the charge Of being his co-rebels?
BAGENHALL. Ay, but then What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing: We have no men among us. The new Lords Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner buys them With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, no courage! Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Northumberland, The leader of our Reformation, knelt And blubber'd like a lad, and on the scaffold Recanted, and resold himself to Rome.
STAFFORD. I swear you do your country wrong, Sir Ralph. I know a set of exiles over there, Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out At Philip's beard: they pillage Spain already. The French King winks at it. An hour will come When they will sweep her from the seas. No men? Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man? Is not Lord William Howard a true man? Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black-blooded: And I, by God, believe myself a man. Ay, even in the church there is a man— Cranmer. Fly would he not, when all men bad him fly. And what a letter he wrote against the Pope! There's a brave man, if any.
BAGENHALL. Ay; if it hold.
CROWD (coming on). God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Bagenhall, I see The Tudor green and white. (Trumpets.) They are coming now. And here's a crowd as thick as herring-shoals.
BAGENHALL. Be limpets to this pillar, or we are torn Down the strong wave of brawlers.
CROWD. God save their Graces!
[Procession of Trumpeters, Javelin-men, etc.; then Spanish and Flemish Nobles intermingled.
STAFFORD. Worth seeing, Bagenhall! These black dog-Dons Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long-face there, Looks very Spain of very Spain?
BAGENHALL. The Duke Of Alva, an iron soldier.
STAFFORD. And the Dutchman, Now laughing at some jest?
BAGENHALL. William of Orange, William the Silent.
STAFFORD. Why do they call him so?
BAGENHALL. He keeps, they say, some secret that may cost Philip his life.
STAFFORD. But then he looks so merry.
BAGENHALL. I cannot tell you why they call him so.
[The KING and QUEEN pass, attended by Peers of the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off.
CROWD. Philip and Mary, Philip and Mary! Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary!
STAFFORD. They smile as if content with one another.
BAGENHALL. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home.
[KING and QUEEN pass on. Procession.
FIRST CITIZEN. I thought this Philip had been one of those black devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow beard.
SECOND CITIZEN. Not red like Iscariot's.
FIRST CITIZEN. Like a carrot's, as thou say'st, and English carrot's better than Spanish licorice; but I thought he was a beast.
THIRD CITIZEN. Certain I had heard that every Spaniard carries a tail like a devil under his trunk-hose.
TAILOR. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! Lord! they be fine; I never stitch'd none such. They make amends for the tails.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Tut! every Spanish priest will tell you that all English heretics have tails.
FIFTH CITIZEN. Death and the Devil—if he find I have one—
FOURTH CITIZEN. Lo! thou hast call'd them up! here they come—a pale horse for Death and Gardiner for the Devil.
Enter GARDINER (turning back from the procession).
GARDINER. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the Queen?
MAN. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the crowd I cannot lift my hands unto my head.
GARDINER. Knock off his cap there, some of you about him! See there be others that can use their hands. Thou art one of Wyatt's men?
MAN. No, my Lord, no.
GARDINER. Thy name, thou knave?
MAN. I am nobody, my Lord.
GARDINER (shouting). God's passion! knave, thy name?
MAN. I have ears to hear.
GARDINER. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear. Find out his name and bring it me (to ATTENDANT).
ATTENDANT. Ay, my Lord.
GARDINER. Knave, thou shalt lose thine ears and find thy tongue, And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. [Coming before the Conduit. The conduit painted—the nine worthies—ay! But then what's here? King Harry with a scroll. Ha—Verbum Dei—verbum—word of God! God's passion! do you know the knave that painted it?
ATTENDANT. I do, my Lord.
GARDINER. Tell him to paint it out, And put some fresh device in lieu of it— A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha? There is no heresy there.
ATTENDANT. I will, my Lord; The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am sure (Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorantly, And not from any malice.
GARDINER. Word of God In English! over this the brainless loons That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul, Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out and flare Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles burnt. The bible is the priest's. Ay! fellow, what! Stand staring at me! shout, you gaping rogue!
MAN. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am hoarse.
GARDINER. What hast thou shouted, knave?
MAN. Long live Queen Mary!
GARDINER. Knave, there be two. There be both King and Queen, Philip and Mary. Shout!
MAN. Nay, but, my Lord, The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip.
GARDINER. Shout, then, Mary and Philip!
MAN. Mary and Philip!
GARDINER. Now, Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout for mine! Philip and Mary!
MAN. Must it be so, my Lord?
GARDINER. Ay, knave.
MAN. Philip and Mary!
GARDINER. I distrust thee. Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. What is thy name?
GARDINER. What else?
GARDINER. Where dost thou live?
MAN. In Cornhill.
GARDINER. Where, knave, where?
MAN. Sign of the Talbot.
GARDINER. Come to me to-morrow.— Rascal!—this land is like a hill of fire, One crater opens when another shuts. But so I get the laws against the heretic, Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, And others of our Parliament, revived, I will show fire on my side—stake and fire— Sharp work and short. The knaves are easily cow'd. Follow their Majesties. [Exit. The crowd following.
BAGENHALL. As proud as Becket.
STAFFORD. You would not have him murder'd as Becket was?
BAGENHALL. No—murder fathers murder: but I say There is no man—there was one woman with us— It was a sin to love her married, dead I cannot choose but love her.
STAFFORD. Lady Jane?
CROWD (going off). God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Did you see her die?
BAGENHALL. No, no; her innocent blood had blinded me. You call me too black-blooded—true enough Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine. If ever I cry out against the Pope Her dark dead blood that ever moves with mine Will stir the living tongue and make the cry.
STAFFORD. Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died?
BAGENHALL. Seventeen—and knew eight languages—in music Peerless—her needle perfect, and her learning Beyond the churchmen; yet so meek, so modest, So wife-like humble to the trivial boy Mismatch'd with her for policy! I have heard She would not take a last farewell of him, She fear'd it might unman him for his end. She could not be unmann'd—no, nor outwoman'd— Seventeen—a rose of grace! Girl never breathed to rival such a rose; Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. She came upon the scaffold, And said she was condemn'd to die for treason; She had but follow'd the device of those Her nearest kin: she thought they knew the laws. But for herself, she knew but little law, And nothing of the titles to the crown; She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands, And trusted God would save her thro' the blood Of Jesus Christ alone.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. Then knelt and said the Misere Mei— But all in English, mark you; rose again, And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven, Said, 'You will give me my true crown at last, But do it quickly;' then all wept but she, Who changed not colour when she saw the block, But ask'd him, childlike: 'Will you take it off Before I lay me down?' 'No, madam,' he said, Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound, She, with her poor blind hands feeling—'where is it? Where is it?'—You must fancy that which follow'd, If you have heart to do it!
CROWD (in the distance). God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them! Why, she's grown bloodier! when I last was here, This was against her conscience—would be murder!
BAGENHALL. The 'Thou shall do no murder,' which God's hand Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out pale— She could not make it white—and over that, Traced in the blackest text of Hell—'Thou shall!' And sign'd it—Mary!
STAFFORD. Philip and the Pope Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming To bring us absolution from the Pope. The Lords and Commons will bow down before him— You are of the house? what will you do, Sir Ralph?
BAGENHALL. And why should I be bolder than the rest, Or honester than all?
STAFFORD. But, sir, if I— And oversea they say this state of yours Hath no more mortice than a tower of cards; And that a puff would do it—then if I And others made that move I touch'd upon, Back'd by the power of France, and landing here, Came with a sudden splendour, shout, and show, And dazzled men and deafen'd by some bright Loud venture, and the people so unquiet— And I the race of murder'd Buckingham— Not for myself, but for the kingdom—Sir, I trust that you would fight along with us.
BAGENHALL. No; you would fling your lives into the gulf.
STAFFORD. But if this Philip, as he's like to do, Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us A Spanish province; would you not fight then?
BAGENHALL. I think I should fight then.
STAFFORD. I am sure of it. Hist! there's the face coming on here of one Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare you well, You'll hear of me again.
BAGENHALL. Upon the scaffold.
SCENE II.—ROOM IN WHITEHALL PALACE.
MARY. Enter PHILIP and CARDINAL POLE.
POLE. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Benedicta tu in mulieribus.
MARY. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest thanks. Had you a pleasant voyage up the river?
POLE. We had your royal barge, and that same chair, Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. Our silver cross sparkled before the prow, The ripples twinkled at their diamond-dance, The boats that follow'd, were as glowing-gay As regal gardens; and your flocks of swans, As fair and white as angels; and your shores Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed In ever-closing fog, were much amazed To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames; Our voyage by sea was all but miracle; And here the river flowing from the sea, Not toward it (for they thought not of our tides), Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide— In quiet—home your banish'd countryman.
MARY. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin.
POLE. A dizziness.
MARY. And how came you round again?
POLE. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life; And mine, a little letting of the blood.
MARY. Well? now?
POLE. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant Had but to touch the ground, his force return'd— Thus, after twenty years of banishment, Feeling my native land beneath my foot, I said thereto: 'Ah, native land of mine, Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine, That hastes with full commission from the Pope To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return As Peter, but to bless thee: make me well.' Methinks the good land heard me, for to-day My heart beats twenty, when I see you, cousin. Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death, How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate! And Mary would have risen and let him in, But, Mary, there were those within the house Who would not have it.
MARY. True, good cousin Pole; And there were also those without the house Who would not have it.
POLE. I believe so, cousin. State-policy and church-policy are conjoint, But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. But all is well; 'twas ev'n the will of God, Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now, Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 'Hail, Daughter of God, and saver of the faith. Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui!'
MARY. Ah, heaven!
POLE. Unwell, your Grace?
MARY. No, cousin, happy— Happy to see you; never yet so happy Since I was crown'd.
POLE. Sweet cousin, you forget That long low minster where you gave your hand To this great Catholic King.
PHILIP. Well said, Lord Legate.
MARY. Nay, not well said; I thought of you, my liege, Ev'n as I spoke.
PHILIP. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget Waits to present our Council to the Legate. Sit down here, all; Madam, between us you.
POLE. Lo, now you are enclosed with boards of cedar, Our little sister of the Song of Songs! You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting here Between the two most high-set thrones on earth, The Emperor's highness happily symboll'd by The King your husband, the Pope's Holiness By mine own self.
MARY. True, cousin, I am happy. When will you that we summon both our houses To take this absolution from your lips, And be regather'd to the Papal fold?
POLE. In Britain's calendar the brightest day Beheld our rough forefathers break their Gods, And clasp the faith in Christ; but after that Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest day?
MARY. Then these shall meet upon St. Andrew's day.
Enter PAGET, who presents the Council. Dumb show.
POLE. I am an old man wearied with my journey, Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. To Lambeth?
PHILIP. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer. It was not meet the heretic swine should live In Lambeth.
MARY. There or anywhere, or at all.
PHILIP. We have had it swept and garnish'd after him.
POLE. Not for the seven devils to enter in?
PHILIP. No, for we trust they parted in the swine.
POLE. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope. Farewell, your Graces.
PHILIP. Nay, not here—to me; I will go with you to the waterside.
POLE. Not be my Charon to the counter side?
PHILIP. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord Chancellor goes.
POLE. And unto no dead world; but Lambeth palace, Henceforth a centre of the living faith.
[Exeunt PHILIP, POLE, PAGET, etc.
MARY. He hath awaked! he hath awaked! He stirs within the darkness! Oh, Philip, husband! now thy love to mine Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw, That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love. The second Prince of Peace— The great unborn defender of the Faith, Who will avenge me of mine enemies— He comes, and my star rises. The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands, The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, And all her fieriest partisans—are pale Before my star! The light of this new learning wanes and dies: The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade Into the deathless hell which is their doom Before my star! His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind! His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down! His faith shall clothe the world that will be his, Like universal air and sunshine! Open, Ye everlasting gates! The King is here!— My star, my son!
Enter PHILIP, DUKE OF ALVA, etc.
Oh, Philip, come with me; Good news have I to tell you, news to make Both of us happy—ay, the Kingdom too. Nay come with me—one moment!
PHILIP (to ALVA). More than that: There was one here of late—William the Silent They call him—he is free enough in talk, But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, Sometime the viceroy of those provinces— He must deserve his surname better.
ALVA. Ay, sir; Inherit the Great Silence.
PHILIP. True; the provinces Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled; Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind, All hollow'd out with stinging heresies; And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight; You must break them or they break you.
ALVA (proudly). The first.
PHILIP. Good! Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine?
Enter THREE PAGES.
FIRST PAGE. News, mates! a miracle, a miracle! news! The bells must ring; Te Deums must be sung; The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe!
SECOND PAGE. Ay; but see here!
FIRST PAGE. See what?
SECOND PAGE. This paper, Dickon. I found it fluttering at the palace gates:— 'The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog!'
THIRD PAGE. These are the things that madden her. Fie upon it!
FIRST PAGE. Ay; but I hear she hath a dropsy, lad, Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it.
THIRD PAGE. Fie on her dropsy, so she have a dropsy! I know that she was ever sweet to me.
FIRST PAGE. For thou and thine are Roman to the core.
THIRD PAGE. So thou and thine must be. Take heed!
FIRST PAGE. Not I, And whether this flash of news be false or true, So the wine run, and there be revelry, Content am I. Let all the steeples clash, Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day.
SCENE III.—GREAT HALL IN WHITEHALL.
At the far end a dais. On this three chairs, two under one canopy for MARY and PHILIP, another on the right of these for POLE. Under the dais on POLE'S side, ranged along the wall, sit all the Spiritual Peers, and along the wall opposite, all the Temporal. The Commons on cross benches in front, a line of approach to the dais between them. In the foreground, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL and other Members of the Commons.
FIRST MEMBER. St. Andrew's day; sit close, sit close, we are friends. Is reconciled the word? the Pope again? It must be thus; and yet, cocksbody! how strange That Gardiner, once so one with all of us Against this foreign marriage, should have yielded So utterly!—strange! but stranger still that he, So fierce against the Headship of the Pope, Should play the second actor in this pageant That brings him in; such a cameleon he!
SECOND MEMBER. This Gardiner turn'd his coat in Henry's time; The serpent that hath slough'd will slough again.
THIRD MEMBER. Tut, then we all are serpents.
SECOND MEMBER. Speak for yourself.
THIRD MEMBER. Ay, and for Gardiner! being English citizen, How should he bear a bridegroom out of Spain? The Queen would have him! being English churchman How should he bear the headship of the Pope? The Queen would have it! Statesmen that are wise Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, To their own model.
SECOND MEMBER. Statesmen that are wise Take truth herself for model. What say you? [To SIR RALPH BAGENHALL.
BAGENHALL. We talk and talk.
FIRST MEMBER. Ay, and what use to talk? Philip's no sudden alien—the Queen's husband, He's here, and king, or will be—yet cocksbody! So hated here! I watch'd a hive of late; My seven-years' friend was with me, my young boy; Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm behind. 'Philip!' says he. I had to cuff the rogue For infant treason.
THIRD MEMBER. But they say that bees, If any creeping life invade their hive Too gross to be thrust out, will build him round, And bind him in from harming of their combs. And Philip by these articles is bound From stirring hand or foot to wrong the realm.
SECOND MEMBER. By bonds of beeswax, like your creeping thing; But your wise bees had stung him first to death.
THIRD MEMBER. Hush, hush! You wrong the Chancellor: the clauses added To that same treaty which the emperor sent us Were mainly Gardiner's: that no foreigner Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, army; That if the Queen should die without a child, The bond between the kingdoms be dissolved; That Philip should not mix us any way With his French wars—
SECOND MEMBER. Ay, ay, but what security, Good sir, for this, if Philip——
THIRD MEMBER. Peace—the Queen, Philip, and Pole. [All rise, and stand.
Enter MARY, PHILIP, and POLE.
[GARDINER conducts them to the three chairs of state. PHILIP sits on the QUEEN'S left, POLE on her right.
GARDINER. Our short-lived sun, before his winter plunge, Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's Day.
MARY. Should not this day be held in after years More solemn than of old?
PHILIP. Madam, my wish Echoes your Majesty's.
POLE. It shall be so.
GARDINER. Mine echoes both your Graces'; (aside) but the Pope— Can we not have the Catholic church as well Without as with the Italian? if we cannot, Why then the Pope. My lords of the upper house, And ye, my masters, of the lower house, Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved?
VOICES. We do.
GARDINER. And be you all one mind to supplicate The Legate here for pardon, and acknowledge The primacy of the Pope?
VOICES. We are all one mind.
GARDINER. Then must I play the vassal to this Pole. [Aside.
[He draws a paper from under his robes and presents it to the KING and QUEEN, who look through it and return it to him; then ascends a tribune, and reads.
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, And Commons here in Parliament assembled, Presenting the whole body of this realm Of England, and dominions of the same, Do make most humble suit unto your Majesties, In our own name and that of all the state, That by your gracious means and intercession Our supplication be exhibited To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as Legate From our most Holy Father Julius, Pope, And from the Apostolic see of Rome; And do declare our penitence and grief For our long schism and disobedience, Either in making laws and ordinances Against the Holy Father's primacy, Or else by doing or by speaking aught Which might impugn or prejudice the same; By this our supplication promising, As well for our own selves as all the realm, That now we be and ever shall be quick, Under and with your Majesties' authorities, To do to the utmost all that in us lies Towards the abrogation and repeal Of all such laws and ordinances made; Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, As persons undefiled with our offence, So to set forth this humble suit of ours That we the rather by your intercession May from the Apostolic see obtain, Thro' this most reverend Father, absolution, And full release from danger of all censures Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into, So that we may, as children penitent, Be once again received into the bosom And unity of Universal Church; And that this noble realm thro' after years May in this unity and obedience Unto the holy see and reigning Pope Serve God and both your Majesties.
VOICES. Amen. [_All sit.
[He again presents the petition to the_ KING _and_ QUEEN, _who hand it reverentially to_ POLE.
POLE (sitting). This is the loveliest day that ever smiled On England. All her breath should, incenselike, Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of Him Who now recalls her to His ancient fold. Lo! once again God to this realm hath given A token of His more especial Grace; For as this people were the first of all The islands call'd into the dawning church Out of the dead, deep night of heathendom, So now are these the first whom God hath given Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism; And if your penitence be not mockery, Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice Over one saved do triumph at this hour In the reborn salvation of a land So noble. [A pause. For ourselves we do protest That our commission is to heal, not harm; We come not to condemn, but reconcile; We come not to compel, but call again; We come not to destroy, but edify; Nor yet to question things already done; These are forgiven—matters of the past— And range with jetsam and with offal thrown Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. [A pause. Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us By him who sack'd the house of God; and we, Amplier than any field on our poor earth Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold, With heaven for earth.