Queen Mary; and, Harold. Baron Alfred Tennyson Tennyson

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. [Exeunt.

      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.

       CROWD. Hush—hear!

       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. COURTENAY. Ah! 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? NOAILLES. To-night. 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.