No More Learning

It means the lifting of the house of Alfgar.

GAMEL. Too small! a comet would not show for that!

ALDWYTH. Not small for thee, if thou canst compass it.

GAMEL. Thy love?

ALDWYTH. As much as I can give thee, man;
This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant;
Stir up thy people: oust him!

GAMEL. And thy love?

ALDWYTH. As much as thou canst bear.

GAMEL. I can bear all,
And not be giddy.

ALDWYTH. No more now: to-morrow.



SCENE II. --IN THE GARDEN. THE KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. SUNSET.


EDITH. Mad for thy mate, passionate nightingale. . . .
I love thee for it--ay, but stay a moment;
_He_ can but stay a moment: he is going.
I fain would hear him coming! . . . near me . . . near.
Somewhere--To draw him nearer with a charm
Like thine to thine.
(_Singing_. )

Love is come with a song and a smile,
Welcome Love with a smile and a song:
Love can stay but a little while.
Why cannot he stay? They call him away:
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong;
Love will stay for a whole life long.

_Enter_ HAROLD.

HAROLD. The nightingales in Havering-at-the-Bower
Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's prayers
Were deafen'd and he pray'd them dumb, and thus
I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale!
[_Kissing her_.

EDITH. Thou art my music! Would their wings were mine
To follow thee to Flanders! Must thou go?

HAROLD. Not must, but will. It is but for one moon.

EDITH. Leaving so many foes in Edward's hall
To league against thy weal. The Lady Aldwyth
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd on thee,
She stammer'd in her hate; I am sure she hates thee,
Pants for thy blood.

HAROLD. Well, I have given her cause--
I fear no woman.

EDITH. Hate not one who felt
Some pity for thy hater! I am sure
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised
The convent and lone life--within the pale--
Beyond the passion. Nay--she held with Edward,
At least methought she held with holy Edward,
That marriage was half sin.

HAROLD. A lesson worth
Finger and thumb--thus (_snaps his fingers_). And my answer to it--
See here--an interwoven H and E!
Take thou this ring; I will demand his ward
From Edward when I come again. Ay, would she?
She to shut up my blossom in the dark!
Thou art _my_ nun, thy cloister in mine arms.

EDITH (_taking the ring_).
Yea, but Earl Tostig--

HAROLD. That's a truer fear!
For if the North take fire, I should be back;
I shall be, soon enough.

EDITH. Ay, but last night
An evil dream that ever came and went--

HAROLD. A gnat that vext thy pillow! Had I been by,
I would have spoil'd his horn. My girl, what was it?

EDITH. Oh! that thou wert not going!
For so methought it was our marriage-morn,
And while we stood together, a dead man
Rose from behind the altar, tore away
My marriage ring, and rent my bridal veil;
And then I turn'd, and saw the church all fill'd
With dead men upright from their graves, and all
The dead men made at thee to murder thee,
But thou didst back thyself against a pillar,
And strike among them with thy battle-axe--
There, what a dream!

HAROLD. Well, well--a dream--no more!

EDITH. Did not Heaven speak to men in dreams of old?

HAROLD. Ay--well--of old. I tell thee what, my child;
Thou hast misread this merry dream of thine,
Taken the rifted pillars of the wood
For smooth stone columns of the sanctuary,
The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer
For dead men's ghosts. True, that the battle-axe
Was out of place; it should have been the bow. --
Come, thou shalt dream no more such dreams; I swear it,
By mine own eyes--and these two sapphires--these
Twin rubies, that are amulets against all
The kisses of all kind of womankind
In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back
To tumble at thy feet.

EDITH. That would but shame me,
Rather than make me vain. The sea may roll
Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living rock
Which guards the land.

HAROLD. Except it be a soft one,
And undereaten to the fall. Mine amulet . . .
This last . . . upon thine eyelids, to shut in
A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt see
My grayhounds fleeting like a beam of light,
And hear my peregrine and her bells in heaven;
And other bells on earth, which yet are heaven's;
Guess what they be.

EDITH. He cannot guess who knows.
Farewell, my king.

HAROLD. Not yet, but then--my queen.
[_Exeunt_.
_Enter_ ALDWYTH _from the thicket_.

ALDWYTH. The kiss that charms thine eyelids into sleep,
Will hold mine waking. Hate him? I could love him
More, tenfold, than this fearful child can do;
Griffyth I hated: why not hate the foe
Of England? Griffyth when I saw him flee,
Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the blood
That should have only pulsed for Griffyth, beat
For his pursuer. I love him or think I love him.
If he were King of England, I his queen,
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him. --
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest the king
Should yield his ward to Harold's will. What harm?
She hath but blood enough to live, not love. --
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play
The craftier Tostig with him? fawn upon him?
Chime in with all? 'O thou more saint than king! '
And that were true enough. 'O blessed relics! '
'O Holy Peter! ' If he found me thus,
Harold might hate me; he is broad and honest,
Breathing an easy gladness . . . not like Aldwyth . . .
For which I strangely love him. Should not England
Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that part
The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar
By such a marrying? Courage, noble Aldwyth!
Let all thy people bless thee!
Our wild Tostig,
Edward hath made him Earl: he would be king:--
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the bone. --
I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom
I play upon, that he may play the note
Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and Harold
Hear the king's music, all alone with him,
Pronounced his heir of England.
I see the goal and half the way to it. --
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake
Of England's wholeness--so--to shake the North
With earthquake and disruption--some division--
Then fling mine own fair person in the gap
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering,
A scape-goat marriage--all the sins of both
The houses on mine head--then a fair life
And bless the Queen of England.

MORCAR (_coming from the thicket_).
Art thou assured
By this, that Harold loves but Edith?

ALDWYTH. Morcar!
Why creep'st thou like a timorous beast of prey
Out of the bush by night?

MORCAR. I follow'd thee.

ALDWYTH. Follow my lead, and I will make thee earl.

MORCAR. What lead then?

ALDWYTH. Thou shalt flash it secretly
Among the good Northumbrian folk, that I--
That Harold loves me--yea, and presently
That I and Harold are betroth'd--and last--
Perchance that Harold wrongs me; tho' I would not
That it should come to that.

MORCAR. I will both flash
And thunder for thee.

ALDWYTH. I said 'secretly;'
It is the flash that murders, the poor thunder
Never harm'd head.

MORCAR. But thunder may bring down
That which the flash hath stricken.

ALDWYTH. Down with Tostig!
That first of all--And when doth Harold go?

MORCAR. To-morrow--first to Bosham, then to Flanders.

ALDWYTH. Not to come back till Tostig shall have shown
And redden'd with his people's blood the teeth
That shall be broken by us--yea, and thou
Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and dream thyself
Their chosen Earl.
[_Exit_ ALDWYTH.

MORCAR. Earl first, and after that
Who knows I may not dream myself their king!




ACT II.


SCENE I. --SEASHORE. PONTHIEU. NIGHT.

HAROLD _and his_ MEN, _wrecked_.


HAROLD. Friends, in that last inhospitable plunge
Our boat hath burst her ribs; but ours are whole;
I have but bark'd my hands.

ATTENDANT. I dug mine into
My old fast friend the shore, and clinging thus
Felt the remorseless outdraught of the deep
Haul like a great strong fellow at my legs,
And then I rose and ran. The blast that came
So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly--
Put thou the comet and this blast together--

HAROLD. Put thou thyself and mother-wit together.
Be not a fool!

_Enter_ FISHERMEN _with torches_, HAROLD _going
up to one of them_, ROLF.

Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp!
Wolf of the shore! dog, with thy lying lights
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of thine!

ROLF. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the black herring-pond behind
thee. We be fishermen; I came to see after my nets.

HAROLD. To drag us into them. Fishermen? devils!
Who, while ye fish for men with your false fires,
Let the great Devil fish for your own souls.

ROLF. Nay then, we be liker the blessed Apostles; _they_ were fishers
of men, Father Jean says.

HAROLD.
I had liefer that the fish had swallowed me,
Like Jonah, than have known there were such devils.
What's to be done?
[_To his_ MEN--_goes apart with them_.

FISHERMAN. Rolf, what fish did swallow Jonah?

ROLF. A whale!

FISHERMAN. Then a whale to a whelk we have swallowed the King of
England. I saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, when I was down in the
fever, _she_ was down with the hunger, and thou didst stand by her and
give her thy crabs, and set her up again, till now, by the patient
Saints, she's as crabb'd as ever.

ROLF. And I'll give her my crabs again, when thou art down again.

FISHERMAN. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou to Count Guy; he is hard at
hand. Tell him what hath crept into our creel, and he will fee thee as
freely as he will wrench this outlander's ransom out of him--and why
not? for what right had he to get himself wrecked on another man's
land?

ROLF. Thou art the human-heartedest, Christian-charitiest of all
crab-catchers. Share and share alike!
[_Exit_.

HAROLD (_to_ FISHERMAN).
Fellow, dost thou catch crabs?

FISHERMAN. As few as I may in a wind, and less than I would in a calm.
Ay!

HAROLD. I have a mind that thou shalt catch no more.

FISHERMAN. How?

HAROLD. I have a mind to brain thee with mine axe.

FISHERMAN. Ay, do, do, and our great Count-crab will make his nippers
meet in thine heart; he'll sweat it out of thee, he'll sweat it out of
thee. Look, he's here! He'll speak for himself! Hold thine own, if
thou canst!

_Enter_ GUY, COUNT OF PONTHIEU.

HAROLD. Guy, Count of Ponthieu?

GUY. Harold, Earl of Wessex!

HAROLD. Thy villains with their lying lights have wreck'd us!

GUY. Art thou not Earl of Wessex?

HAROLD. In mine earldom
A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush,
And leave them for a year, and coming back
Find them again.

GUY. Thou art a mighty man
In thine own earldom!

HAROLD. Were such murderous liars
In Wessex--if I caught them, they should hang
Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew
Winging their only wail!

GUY. Ay, but my men
Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of God;--
What hinders me to hold with mine own men?

HAROLD. The Christian manhood of the man who reigns!

GUY. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubliettes
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him hence!
[_To one of his_ ATTENDANTS.
Fly thou to William; tell him we have Harold.



SCENE II. --BAYEUX. PALACE.

COUNT WILLIAM _and_ WILLIAM MALET.


WILLIAM. We hold our Saxon woodcock in the springe,
But he begins to flutter. As I think
He was thine host in England when I went
To visit Edward.

MALET. Yea, and there, my lord,
To make allowance for their rougher fashions,
I found him all a noble host should be.

WILLIAM. Thou art his friend: thou know'st my claim on England
Thro' Edward's promise: we have him in the toils.
And it were well, if thou shouldst let him feel,
How dense a fold of danger nets him round,
So that he bristle himself against my will.

MALET. What would I do, my lord, if I were you?

WILLIAM. What wouldst thou do?

MALET. My lord, he is thy guest.

WILLIAM. Nay, by the splendour of God, no guest of mine.
He came not to see me, had past me by
To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the fate
Which hunted _him_ when that un-Saxon blast,
And bolts of thunder moulded in high heaven
To serve the Norman purpose, drave and crack'd
His boat on Ponthieu beach; where our friend Guy
Had wrung his ransom from him by the rack,
But that I slept between and purchased him,
Translating his captivity from Guy
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits
My ransom'd prisoner.

MALET. Well, if not with gold,
With golden deeds and iron strokes that brought
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close
Than else had been, he paid his ransom back.

WILLIAM. So that henceforth they are not like to league
With Harold against _me_.

MALET. A marvel, how
He from the liquid sands of Coesnon
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armour'd Normans up
To fight for thee again!

WILLIAM. Perchance against
Their saver, save thou save him from himself.

MALET. But I should let him home again, my lord.

WILLIAM. Simple! let fly the bird within the hand,
To catch the bird again within the bush!
No.
Smooth thou my way, before he clash with me;
I want his voice in England for the crown,
I want thy voice with him to bring him round;
And being brave he must be subtly cow'd,
And being truthful wrought upon to swear
Vows that he dare not break. England our own
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my dear friend
As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt have
Large lordship there of lands and territory.

MALET. I knew thy purpose; he and Wulfnoth never
Have met, except in public; shall they meet
In private? I have often talk'd with Wulfnoth,
And stuff'd the boy with fears that these may act
On Harold when they meet.

WILLIAM. Then let them meet!

MALET. I can but love this noble, honest Harold.

WILLIAM. Love him! why not? thine is a loving office,
I have commission'd thee to save the man:
Help the good ship, showing the sunken rock,
Or he is wreckt for ever.

_Enter_ WILLIAM RUFUS.

WILLIAM RUFUS. Father.

WILLIAM. Well, boy.

WILLIAM RUFUS. They have taken away the toy thou gavest me,
The Norman knight.

WILLIAM. Why, boy?

WILLIAM RUFUS. Because I broke
The horse's leg--it was mine own to break;
I like to have my toys, and break them too.

WILLIAM. Well, thou shalt have another Norman knight!

WILLIAM RUFUS. And may I break his legs?

WILLIAM. Yea,--get thee gone!

WILLIAM RUFUS. I'll tell them I have had my way with thee.
[_Exit_.

MALET. I never knew thee check thy will for ought
Save for the prattling of thy little ones.

WILLIAM. Who shall be kings of England. I am heir
Of England by the promise of her king.

MALET. But there the great Assembly choose their king,
The choice of England is the voice of England.

WILLIAM. I will be king of England by the laws,
The choice, and voice of England.

MALET. Can that be?

WILLIAM. The voice of any people is the sword
That guards them, or the sword that beats them down.
Here comes the would-be what I will be . . . king-like . . .
Tho' scarce at ease; for, save our meshes break,
More kinglike he than like to prove a king.

_Enter_ HAROLD, _musing, with his eyes on the ground_.

He sees me not--and yet he dreams of me.
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day?
They are of the best, strong-wing'd against the wind.

HAROLD (_looking up suddenly, having caught but the last word_).
_Which_ way does it blow?

WILLIAM. Blowing for England, ha?
Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quarters here.
The winds so cross and jostle among these towers.

HAROLD. Count of the Normans, thou hast ransom'd us,
Maintain'd, and entertain'd us royally!

WILLIAM. And thou for us hast fought as loyally,
Which binds us friendship-fast for ever!

HAROLD. Good!
But lest we turn the scale of courtesy
By too much pressure on it, I would fain,
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home with us,
Be home again with Wulfnoth.

WILLIAM. Stay--as yet
Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can strike,
But walk'd our Norman field, scarce touch'd or tasted
The splendours of our Court.

HAROLD. I am in no mood:
I should be as the shadow of a cloud
Crossing your light.

WILLIAM. Nay, rest a week or two,
And we will fill thee full of Norman sun,
And send thee back among thine island mists
With laughter.

HAROLD. Count, I thank thee, but had rather
Breathe the free wind from off our Saxon downs,
Tho' charged with all the wet of all the west.

WILLIAM. Why if thou wilt, so let it be--thou shalt.
That were a graceless hospitality
To chain the free guest to the banquet-board;
To-morrow we will ride with thee to Harfleur,
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf
For happier homeward winds than that which crack'd
Thy bark at Ponthieu,--yet to us, in faith,
A happy one--whereby we came to know
Thy valour and thy value, noble earl.
Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee,
Provided--I will go with thee to-morrow--
Nay--but there be conditions, easy ones,
So thou, fair friend, will take them easily.

_Enter_ PAGE.

PAGE. My lord, there is a post from over seas
With news for thee. [_Exit_ PAGE.

WILLIAM. Come, Malet, let us hear!

[_Exeunt_ COUNT WILLIAM _and_ MALET.

HAROLD. Conditions? What conditions? pay him back
His ransom? 'easy '--that were easy--nay--
No money-lover he! What said the King?
'I pray you do not go to Normandy. '
And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too
With bitter obligation to the Count--
Have I not fought it out? What did he mean?
There lodged a gleaming grimness in his eyes,
Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls oppress me,
And yon huge keep that hinders half the heaven.
Free air! free field!
[_Moves to go out.