PHILIP.

Wilt thou hold out for ever, Thomas Becket?

Dost thou not hear?

BECKET (_signs_).

Why--there then--there--I sign, And swear to obey the customs.

FOLIOT.

Is it thy will, My lord Archbishop, that we too should sign?

BECKET.

O ay, by that canonical obedience Thou still hast owed thy father, Gilbert Foliot.

FOLIOT.

Loyally and with good faith, my lord Archbishop?

BECKET.

O ay, with all that loyalty and good faith Thou still hast shown thy primate, Gilbert Foliot.

[BECKET _draws apart with_ HERBERT.

Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the Church?

I'll have the paper back--blot out my name.

HERBERT.

Too late, my lord: you see they are signing there.

BECKET.

False to myself--it is the will of G.o.d To break me, prove me nothing of myself!

This Almoner hath tasted Henry's gold.

The cardinals have finger'd Henry's gold.

And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness.

I see it, I see it.

I am no soldier, as he said--at least No leader. Herbert, till I hear from the Pope I will suspend myself from all my functions.

If fast and prayer, the lacerating scourge--

FOLIOT (_from the table_).

My lord Archbishop, thou hast yet to seal.

BECKET.

First, Foliot, let me see what I have sign'd.

[_Goes to the table_.

What, this! and this!--what! new and old together!

Seal? If a seraph shouted from the sun, And bad me seal against the rights of the Church, I would anathematise him. I will not seal.

[_Exit with_ HERBERT.

_Enter_ KING HENRY.

HENRY.

Where's Thomas? hath he sign'd? show me the papers!

Sign'd and not seal'd! How's that?

JOHN OF OXFORD.

He would not seal.

And when he sign'd, his face was stormy-red-- Shame, wrath, I know not what. He sat down there And dropt it in his hands, and then a paleness, Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, 'False to myself! It is the will of G.o.d!'

HENRY.

G.o.d's will be what it will, the man shall seal, Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's son-- Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate, I'll crush him as the subject. Send for him back.

[_Sits on his throne_.

Barons and bishops of our realm of England, After the nineteen winters of King Stephen-- A reign which was no reign, when none could sit By his own hearth in peace; when murder common As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, had fill'd All things with blood; when every doorway blush'd, Dash'd red with that unhallow'd pa.s.sover; When every baron ground his blade in blood; The household dough was kneaded up with blood; The millwheel turn'd in blood; the wholesome plow Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds, Till famine dwarft the race--I came, your King!

Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the East, In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' ears The flatteries of corruption--went abroad Thro' all my counties, spied my people's ways; Yea, heard the churl against the baron--yea, And did him justice; sat in mine own courts Judging my judges, that had found a King Who ranged confusions, made the twilight day, And struck a shape from out the vague, and law From madness. And the event--our fallows till'd, Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm again.

So far my course, albeit not gla.s.sy-smooth, Had prosper'd in the main, but suddenly Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated The daughter of his host, and murder'd him.

Bishops--York, London, Chichester, Westminster-- Ye haled this tonsured devil into your courts; But since your canon will not let you take Life for a life, ye but degraded him Where I had hang'd him. What doth hard murder care For degradation? and that made me muse, Being bounden by my coronation oath To do men justice. Look to it, your own selves!

Say that a cleric murder'd an archbishop, What could ye do? Degrade, imprison him-- Not death for death.

JOHN OF OXFORD.

But I, my liege, could swear, To death for death.

HENRY.

And, looking thro' my reign, I found a hundred ghastly murders done By men, the sc.u.m and offal of the Church; Then, glancing thro' the story of this realm, I came on certain wholesome usages, Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's day, Good royal customs--had them written fair For John of Oxford here to read to you.

JOHN OF OXFORD.

And I can easily swear to these as being The King's will and G.o.d's will and justice; yet I could but read a part to-day, because----

FITZURSE.

Because my lord of Canterbury----

DE TRACY.

Ay, This lord of Canterbury----

DE BRITO.

As is his wont Too much of late whene'er your royal rights Are mooted in our councils----

FITZURSE.

--made an uproar.

HENRY.

And Becket had my bosom on all this; If ever man by bonds of gratefulness-- I raised him from the puddle of the gutter, I made him porcelain from the clay of the city-- Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' love of him, Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, Church and Crown, Two sisters gliding in an equal dance, Two rivers gently flowing side by side-- But no!

The bird that moults sings the same song again, The snake that sloughs comes out a snake again.

Snake--ay, but he that lookt a fangless one, Issues a venomous adder.

For he, when having dofft the Chancellor's robe-- Flung the Great Seal of England in my face-- Claim'd some of our crown lands for Canterbury-- My comrade, boon companion, my co-reveller, The master of his master, the King's king.-- G.o.d's eyes! I had meant to make him all but king.

Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well have sway'd All England under Henry, the young King, When I was hence. What did the traitor say?

False to himself, but ten-fold false to me!

The will of G.o.d--why, then it is my will-- Is he coming?

MESSENGER (_entering_).

With a crowd of worshippers, And holds his cross before him thro' the crowd, As one that puts himself in sanctuary.

HENRY.

His cross!

ROGER OF YORK.

His cross! I'll front him, cross to cross.

[_Exit_ ROGER OF YORK.