



Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders









BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS

BY

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE




CONTENTS


BECKET
THE CUP
THE FALCON
THE PROMISE OF MAY



BECKET


TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE.

MY DEAR SELBORNE,

_To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this
dramatic memorial of your great predecessor;--which, altho' not
intended in its present form to meet the exigencies of our modern
theatre, has nevertheless--for so you have assured me--won your
approbation.

Ever yours_,

TENNYSON.




_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_.

HENRY II. (_son of the Earl of Anjou_).
THOMAS BECKET, _Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of
    Canterbury_.
GILBERT FOLIOT, _Bishop of London_.
ROGER, _Archbishop of York_.
       _Bishop of Hereford_.
HILARY, _Bishop of Chichester_.
JOCELYN, _Bishop of Salisbury_.
JOHN OF SALISBURY |
HERBERT OF BOSHAM | _friends of Becket_.
WALTER MAP, _reputed author of 'Golias,' Latin poems against
    the priesthood_.
KING LOUIS OF FRANCE.
GEOFFREY, _son of Rosamund and Henry_.
GRIM, _a monk of Cambridge_.
SIR REGINALD FITZURSE |
SIR RICHARD DE BRITO  | _the four knights of the King's_
SIR WILLIAM DE TRACY  | _household, enemies of Becket_.
SIR HUGH DE MORVILLE  |
DE BROC OF SALTWOOD CASTLE.
LORD LEICESTER.
PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA.
TWO KNIGHT TEMPLARS.
JOHN OF OXFORD (_called the Swearer_).
ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE, _Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France)_.
ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD.
MARGERY.

_Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc_.




PROLOGUE.

_A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the Hall. Roofs of a City seen
thro' Windows_.

HENRY _and_ BECKET _at chess_.


HENRY.
So then our good Archbishop Theobald
Lies dying.

BECKET.
I am grieved to know as much.

HENRY.
But we must have a mightier man than he
For his successor.

BECKET.
                   Have you thought of one?

HENRY.
A cleric lately poison'd his own mother,
And being brought before the courts of the Church,
They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.
I would have hang'd him.

BECKET.
                         It is your move.

HENRY.
                                          Well--there.    [_Moves_.
The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time
Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutch'd the crown;
But by the royal customs of our realm
The Church should hold her baronies of me,
Like other lords amenable to law.
I'll have them written down and made the law.

BECKET.
My liege, I move my bishop.

HENRY.
                            And if I live,
No man without my leave shall excommunicate
My tenants or my household.

BECKET.
                            Look to your king.


HENRY.
No man without my leave shall cross the seas
To set the Pope against me--I pray your pardon.

BECKET.
Well--will you move?

HENRY.
                     There.    [_Moves_.

BECKET.
                            Check--you move so wildly.

HENRY.
There then!    [_Moves_.

BECKET.
    Why--there then, for you see my bishop
Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.

HENRY (_kicks over the board_).
Why, there then--down go bishop and king together.
I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy
Upon the game I should have beaten thee,
But that was vagabond.

BECKET.
                       Where, my liege? With Phryne,
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?

HENRY.
My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;
And yet she plagues me too--no fault in her--
But that I fear the Queen would have her life.

BECKET.
Put her away, put her away, my liege!
Put her away into a nunnery!
Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound
By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more
Than that of other paramours of thine?

HENRY.
How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?

BECKET.
How should I know?

HENRY.
                   That is my secret, Thomas.

BECKET.
State secrets should be patent to the statesman
Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king
Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.

HENRY.
Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.
I would to God thou wert, for I should find
An easy father confessor in thee.

BECKET.
St. Denis, that thou shouldst not. I should beat
Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten it.

HENRY.
Hell take thy bishop then, and my kingship too!
Come, come, I love thee and I know thee, I know thee,
A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts,
A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish,
A dish-designer, and most amorous
Of good old red sound liberal Gascon wine:
Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou flatter it?

BECKET.
That palate is insane which cannot tell
A good dish from a bad, new wine from old.

HENRY.
Well, who loves wine loves woman.

BECKET.
                                  So I do.
Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers;
And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head,
The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers
Are all the fairer.

HENRY.
                    And thy thoughts, thy fancies?

BECKET.
Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd
Off from the game.

HENRY.
                   Save for some once or twice,
When they ran down the game and worried it.

BECKET.
No, my liege, no!--not once--in God's name, no!

HENRY.
Nay, then, I take thee at thy word--believe thee
The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall.
And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife,
Not Eleanor--she whom I love indeed
As a woman should be loved--Why dost thou smile
So dolorously?

BECKET.
               My good liege, if a man
Wastes himself among women, how should he love
A woman, as a woman should be loved?

HENRY.
How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one?
Come, I would give her to thy care in England
When I am out in Normandy or Anjou.

BECKET.
My lord, I am your subject, not your--

HENRY.
                                       Pander.
God's eyes! I know all that--not my purveyor
Of pleasures, but to save a life--her life;
Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire.
I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas,
A nest in a bush.

BECKET.
                  And where, my liege?

HENRY (_whispers_).
                                       Thine ear.

BECKET.
That's lone enough.

HENRY (_laying paper on table_).
                    This chart here mark'd '_Her Bower_,'
Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood,
A hundred pathways running everyway,
And then a brook, a bridge; and after that
This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze,
And then another wood, and in the midst
A garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line--
The rest you see is colour'd green--but this
Draws thro' the chart to her.

BECKET.
                              This blood-red line?

HENRY.
Ay! blood, perchance, except thou see to her.

BECKET.
And where is she? There in her English nest?

HENRY.
Would God she were--no, here within the city.
We take her from her secret bower in Anjou
And pass her to her secret bower in England.
She is ignorant of all but that I love her.

BECKET.
My liege, I pray thee let me hence: a widow
And orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons--

HENRY.
Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in England.

BECKET.
Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself.

HENRY.
Whatever come between us?

BECKET.
                          What should come
Between us, Henry?

HENRY.
                    Nay--I know not, Thomas.

BECKET.
What need then? Well--whatever come between us.    [_Going_.

HENRY.
A moment! thou didst help me to my throne
In Theob