LORDS AND LOVERS
AND
OTHER DRAMAS

BY
OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1906

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons
All rights reserved
Published, October, 1906

The Trow Press, New York

CONTENTS

LORDS AND LOVERS

PART I

CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY

• HENRY III, King of England
• EARL OF ALBEMARLE
• EARL OF PEMBROKE
• RICHFORD, son to Pembroke, afterwards Earl
• ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY
• BISHOP OF WINCHESTER
• CARDINAL GUALO
• HUBERT DE BURGH, afterwards Earl of Kent
• SIR ROLAND DE BORN
• STEPHEN GODFREY, a soldier
• GREGORY, a captain
• BALDUR, GODRIC, soldiers
• ORSON, a servant
• GERSA, an officer under De Burgh
• FRIAR SEBASTIAN
• LORD GOLY
• LORD DE VERE
• MARGARET, a Scottish princess
• ELEANOR, Countess of Albemarle, wife of Albemarle
• GLAIA, ward of De Burgh
• ELDRA, servant to Glaia
• Lords and ladies of the court, bishops, barons, priests, citizens, soldiers, &c.
• Time: 13th Century
• Scene: England

ACT I

Scene 1. Room in the earl of Pembroke's castle. Pembroke in bed. Richford and Albemarle attending.

Pem. The king has come?

Alb. He waits upon your grace

As a good servant; with demeanor speaks

True sorrow you are brought so low.

Pem. [Stoutly] Ha! Low?

Alb. Sir, but in body. Pembroke's mounting mind

Can never be struck down.

Pem. He's sad, you say?

Alb. In tears, your grace. He weeps more like a son

Than sovereign.

Pem. A son! Where is the son

Would weep for Pembroke?

Rich. Here, my dearest father!

Here are the tears would water thy affliction

Till it be washed from thy endangered body.

Here is the heart would give its younger blood

To make thine leap with health. Without you, sir,

I am no more than is the gaudy bloom

Of some stout tree the axe has brought to ground.

O, wilt forgive the many pains I've cost thee?

Pem. First touch my hand and swear by highest God

That you will serve the king.

Rich. O, slight condition!

I take this noble hand that ne'er was raised

'Gainst country, throne or God, and by that God,

I vow to serve the king.

Pem. For the last time

I'll trust and pardon you. If you make black

Your soul with violation of this oath,

I, safe beyond the stars, shall know it not,

Nor die again to think on 't. Men, weep not

That ye lack sons, but weep when your wives bear them!

Alb. I'll vouch for him, your grace.

Pem. Thanks, Albemarle.

Rich. Will you, my kindest father, say a word

To bring me to the graces of the king?

Pem. Ay, son.

Rich. Now, sir?

Pem. Nay, I'm not dying yet,

And wish to keep my last words for his ears.

There's holy magic in the passing tongue

That stamps its truth unrasurable. So

Would I grave Henry's heart.

Rich. But, sir——

Pem. I'll wait

My hour. Who comes with him?

Alb. The legate, Gualo,

To-day arrived from Rome.

Pem. And I not told?

Already I am dead. These ears, that kings

Engaged, are now contracted to the worm

Permits no forfeiture. Well, well, his message?

Alb. The cardinal assures us that the pope

Will cast his power with Henry. Though he loves

This praying Louis, well he knows our right.

Pem. The pope our friend? I thank thee, Heaven!

England, take up thy heart! Thou yet mayst hope!

[Enter bishop of Winchester]

Win. God save great Pembroke!

Pem. He alone can do it.

Lord Albemarle, and my new-graced son,

Will 't please you walk within?

Alb. We are your servants.

[Exeunt Richford and Albemarle, left]

Pem. Now, Winchester?

Win. You sent for me, your grace.

I have made haste.

Pem. Ay, you'd trot fast enough

To see me die.

Win. Nay, sir, I hope you've called

Me to your service.

Pem. So I have, my lord.

A task unfinished I must leave to you.

Here is the key to yonder cabinet.

Pray you unlock it ... and take out the packet

Your eye's now on.

Win. This, sir?

Pem. Ay, that is it.

'Twas Henry Second, grandsire of this Henry,

Gave me that packet. Sir, you know the tale

Of princess Adelais who journeyed here

As the betrothed of Richard, Henry's son.

Alack, she never was his bride. Some say

That Henry loved her ... I know not ... but she

Returned to France, her reason wandering.

"If she recover," said the king to me,

"Give her this packet; should she die, break seal

And learn what you shall do." She did not die,

Nor can I say she lives, so sad her state.

Her age was bare fifteen when she left England,

Her face a lily and her eyes a flood;

She now must be midway her fifth decade,

A time, I've heard, when subtle changes work

Within the mind. A beauteous soul! O God,

Restore her now, or lift her e'en to thee!

... Take you the packet, and the king's command.

But first your oath. Deceit has sapped my faith

So oft I could believe the devil himself

Wears gown and mitre. Peter des Roches, will you

Be true?

Win. I swear by Heaven.

Pem. That is done,

As well as't can be done. Call in my son

And Albemarle.

Win. My lords!

[Re-enter Richford and Albemarle]

Pem. Now let us talk

Of England. O, this fleet, this fleet, rigged out

By warlike Constance in monk Louis' name!

I see it nearing now, leaping the waves,

On, on, and none to meet it! Cowards all.

What do ye here, ye three, loitering about

A sick man's bed? A man almost a corpse.

I would not have a servant waste himself

To give me drink while England needs his sword.

Rich. My father lord, we have our men abroad

Rousing the country for a stout defence.

To meet the French with our poor ships were madness;

But let them land we'll give them such a rap——

Pem. What? Land your enemy? O, fools and cowards!

... I've given my life for England. Now you'll cast

My heart-dear bargain into Louis' hand

As 'twere a snood slipped from an easy maid.

Fool man! to puff his days out jousting Fate,

Who waits but his bare death to start her mock

Of horrid pleasantries. Then does she make

Dice of the miser's bones, carousal cups

Of the ascetic's skull, a hangman's scoff

Of clerics' prayer-fed sons; and proudest sires,

Who sentried their blue blood, peer back through dust

To see all Babylon pour to their line.

And now she'll bid my war-ghost eyes behold

The land held with my life become a field

For foes at holiday!

Win. Compose yourself, your grace.

Pem. Gualo has come, but where is he will set

This power its task, and play it for this isle?

I can not say that wisdom dies with me,

But I could wish more proof of sager mind

Than e'er I've had from this small audience.

Lord Bishop, you are left custodian

Of Henry's ripening youth.

Win. Nor shall I fail

To be your worthy heir in this high duty,

For still I shall consult with your great spirit,

Praying your ghost be mover of my deeds.

Pem. I've spoken to the king. He'll give you love

For love. But who shall be lord chancellor?

There's little choice. And yet there's one, De Burgh,

If camp and field could spare him——

Alb. Sir, a man

No older than our sons?

Pem. By your good leave,

Age is no patent to respect and place

If virtue go not with it. Whitened hairs

Make honor radiant, but vice thereby

Is viler still. Ay, there are some——

Rich. Peace, father,

And save thy strength for us.

Pem. Ah, son, I've been

A careless holder all my life, and still

With my last hour play spendthrift. Well, here be

Three friends of England—Gualo makes a fourth—

And trusting you I ease my bones to death.

[Enter attendant with a letter, which he gives to Pembroke]

Pem. [After reading] De Burgh! O gallant soul!

Now am I young!

With forty ships he'll meet the fleet of France!

I live again, for courage is not dead!

[Sinking] Nay—help—ah, I am gone. I'll hasten on

And plead in Heaven for his victory.

[Seems to die]

Alb. Ah ... dead?

Rich. In truth.

Win. I'll go and tell the king.

[Aside, going] My joyful tears he will translate to grief,

And think I weep a friend's death, not a foe's

Whose only act of friendship was to die. [Exit]

Alb. How now, my lord? Does your good purpose hold?

Rich. It has the falling sickness, Albemarle,

And now lies low as earth.

Alb. Then set thy foot

Upon it that it rise no more.

Rich. 'Tis done.

Alb. What fools are they who think that dying men

Speak oracles to pivot action on,

When death's decay so blurs each fading sense

They know but darkly of the world about,

And of realities all plain to us

Build visions substanceless to gull our faith.

Grant that they do take note of things unseen,

'Tis with their faces to another world,

And what they speak is strange and ill advice

To us whose work is still 'mong men of earth.

Rich. You need not clear your way to me. I've not

A scruple in my soul would trip a gnat.

Speak out your heart.

Alb. You are great Pembroke now.

But Richford took an oath to serve the king.

Rich. And he—is Louis.

Alb. Till we find hour fit

To cast his yoke and take a sovereign

Of our election.

Rich. Royal Albemarle!

Alb. Here stand we then. De Burgh we count as dead.

Le Moine has orders to strike off his head

Soon as he's taken. Now we get the king

To Dover fort, on pretence to defend it.

There the besieging French will take him prisoner,

And ship him straight to Calais—or to Heaven.

Pem. [Half rising] Devils! dogs! beasts!

Now these devoted bones

Will never lie at peace in English earth.

My country! Must the foreign foot be set

Once more upon thy neck, and thine own sons

Pour sulphur to thy wounds? The king! the king!

What, vipers, do you hear? Call in the king!

Alb. We must not, sir.

Pem. Ho, here! The king!

[Rises from bed, starts forward and falls back speechless. Enter Henry, Gualo, Winchester, and attendants. Albemarle and Richford stand together. Pembroke dies pointing to them and gazing at the king.]

Hen. My lords, what does this mean?

Alb. This noble man

Wished much to say a word of grace for me

And his forgiven son. Alas, black death

Has stolen the balm that might have eased our way

Into your heart.

Hen. Fear not, my lords. I'll trust you,

Even as he wished. [Kneels by bed]

O, Pembroke, couldst thou leave me?

[Curtain]

Scene 2. Before Dover castle. Night. Hubert de Burgh walking and listening.

Hub. But forty ships! But forty slit-sailed drabs

Of storm and watery danger to meet all France

Fresh-winged upon the sea! And yet no word

Nor stir of help. Methinks were I the king,

Or Pembroke with his power in my mouth,

Each English road should be ablaze to-night

With swift flint-striking hoofs. Now to our shore

Puffs up the wave may prove oblivion's maw,

And drink these Dover cliffs as they were sands,

Yet England sleeps, with one lone heart at watch.

[Sound of horse approaching] Nay, two, for Roland comes.

[Enter Roland de Born, dismounted]

Rol. You, Hubert?

Hub. Ay.

You bring no aid?

Rol. The king is powerless.

Pembroke is dead. The barons to covert slink,

Saying their loyalty binds them to fight

No farther than the shore. The bishops smirk

Beneath their mitres, roll their eyes and cry

"God and great Rome, deliver us!" which means

Deliver us to Louis, king of monks

And darling of the pope.

Hub. And Albemarle?

Rol. Stands by the king, and ready with his men

To meet the foe on land, but not a soul

Will send to sea.

Hub. Dissembler! Well he knows

A victory on the sea means England lost,

So many traitor hearts will league with France

And sell their country for one castle more.

Rol. What now? We've little time. 'Tis almost day.

The moon is down, and the raw, rising air

Sucks in approaching light. What must be done?

Hub. The Cinque Ports yield me forty ships.

With these

I'll meet Le Moine.

Rol. O, Hubert, Hubert!

Hub. Ay,

My men are all aboard and waiting me.

The garrison I leave to you. Hold it

For honor and the king, nor yield to save

So poor a thing as my unlucky head

Should I go foul at sea. You'll be the first

The victors will besiege.

Rol. My friend!