Becket and other plays | Page 4

Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to hold out thy hand. Meanwhile the revenues are mine. A-hawking, a-hawking! If I sit, I grow fat. [_Leaps over the table, and exit_.
BECKET. He did prefer me to the chancellorship, Believing I should ever aid the Church-- But have I done it? He commends me now From out his grave to this archbishoprick.
HERBERT. A dead man's dying wish should be of weight.
BECKET. His should. Come with me. Let me learn at full The manner of his death, and all he said. [Exeunt HERBERT and BECKET.
ELEANOR. Fitzurse, that chart with the red line--thou sawest it--her bower.
FITZURSE. Rosamund's?
ELEANOR. Ay--there lies the secret of her whereabouts, and the King gave it to his Chancellor.
FlTZURSE. To this son of a London merchant--how your Grace must hate him.
ELEANOR. Hate him? as brave a Soldier as Henry and a goodlier man: but thou-- dost thou love this Chancellor, that thou hast sworn a voluntary allegiance to him?
FlTZURSE. Not for my love toward him, but because he had the love of the King. How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of three kings behind him, outroyalling royalty? Besides, he holp the King to break down our castles, for the which I hate him.
ELEANOR. For the which I honour him. Statesman not Churchman he. A great and sound policy that: I could embrace him for it: you could not see the King for the kinglings.
FlTZURSE. Ay, but he speaks to a noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a churl as if he were a noble.
ELEANOR. Pride of the plebeian!
FlTZURSE. And this plebeian like to be Archbishop!
ELEANOR. True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the Papacy. Archbishop? I can see further into a man than our hot-headed Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do not then charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor.
FlTZURSE. Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled, but the back methought was Rosamund--his paramour, thy rival. I can feel for thee.
ELEANOR. Thou feel for me!--paramour--rival! King Louis had no paramours, and I loved him none the more. Henry had many, and I loved him none the less--now neither more nor less--not at all; the cup's empty. I would she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies; but I fear this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Rival!--ay, and when the King passes, there may come a crash and embroilment as in Stephen's time; and her children--canst thou not--that secret matter which would heat the King against thee (_whispers him and he starts_). Nay, that is safe with me as with thyself: but canst thou not--thou art drowned in debt--thou shalt have our love, our silence, and our gold--canst thou not--if thou light upon her--free me from her?
FITZURSE. Well, Madam, I have loved her in my time.
ELEANOR. No, my bear, thou hast not. My Courts of Love would have held thee guiltless of love--the fine attractions and repulses, the delicacies, the subtleties.
FITZURSE. Madam, I loved according to the main purpose and intent of nature.
ELEANOR. I warrant thee! thou wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs cracked-- enough of this. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever she goes; track her, if thou canst, even into the King's lodging, that I may (_clenches her fist_)--may at least have my cry against him and her,--and thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, what shall I call it, affect her thine own self.
FITZURSE. Ay, but the young colt winced and whinnied and flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying about her, and this Becket, her father's friend, like enough staved us from her.
ELEANOR. Us!
FITZURSE. Yea, by the Blessed Virgin! There were more than I buzzing round the blossom--De Tracy--even that flint De Brito.
ELEANOR. Carry her off among you; run in upon her and devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful to herself and to the King, as she is to me.
FITZURSE. I and all would be glad to wreak our spite on the rose-faced minion of the King, and bring her to the level of the dust, so that the King--
ELEANOR. Let her eat it like the serpent, and be driven out of her paradise.

ACT ONE.
SCENE I.--BECKET'S _House in London. Chamber barely furnished_. BECKET unrobing. HERBERT OF BOSHAM and SERVANT.
SERVANT. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest?
BECKET. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out With this day's work, get thee to