Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards: a Tragedy

Act I.

A hall in the Palace: a curtain drawn midway across it.

Enter ALBOVINE and NARSETES.

ALBOVINE.

This is no matter of the wars: in war Thy king, old friend, is less than king of thine, And comrade less than follower. Hast thou loved Ever—loved woman, not as chance may love, But as thou hast loved thy sword or friend—or me? Thou hast shewn me love more stout of heart than death. Death quailed before thee when thou gav’st me life, Borne down in battle.

NARSETES.

Woman? As I love Flowers in their season. A rose is but a rose.

ALBOVINE.

Dost thou know rose from thistle or bindweed? Man, Speak as our north wind speaks, if harsh and hard— Truth.

NARSETES.

White I know from red, and dark from bright, And milk from blood in hawthorn-flowers: but not Woman from woman.

ALBOVINE.

How should God our Lord, Except his eye see further than his world? For women ever make themselves anew, Meseems, to match and mock the maker. Friend, If ever I were friend of thine in fight, Speak, and I bid thee not speak truth: I know Thy tongue knows nought but truth or silence.

NARSETES.

Is it A king’s or friend’s part, king, to bid his friend Speak what he knows not? Speak then thou, that I May find thy will and answer it.

ALBOVINE.

I am fain And loth to tell thee how it wrings my heart That now this hard-eyed heavy southern sun Hath wrought its will upon us all a year And yet I know not if my wife be mine.

NARSETES.

Thy meanest man at arms had known ere dawn Blinked on his bridal birthday.

ALBOVINE.

Did I bid thee Mock, and forget me for thy friend—I say not, King? Is thy heart so light and lean a thing, So loose in faith and faint in love? I bade thee Stand to me, help me, hold my hand in thine And give my heart back answer. This it is, Old friend and fool, that gnaws my life in twain— The worm that writhes and feeds about my heart— The devil and God are crying in either ear One murderous word for ever, night and day, Dark day and deadly night and deadly day, Can she love thee who slewest her father? I Love her.

NARSETES.

Thy wife should love thee as thy sire’s Loved him. Thou art worth a woman—heart for heart.

ALBOVINE.

My sire’s wife loved him? Hers he had not slain. Would God I might but die and burn in hell And know my love had loved me!

NARSETES.

Is thy name Babe? Sweet are babes as flowers that wed the sun, But man may be not born a babe again, And less than man may woman. Rosamund Stands radiant now in royal pride of place As wife of thine and queen of Lombards—not Cunimund’s daughter. Hadst thou slain her sire Shamefully, shame were thine to have sought her hand And shame were hers to love thee: but he died Manfully, by thy mightier hand than his Manfully mastered. War, born blind as fire, Fed not as fire upon her: many a maid As royal dies disrobed of all but shame And even to death burnt up for shame’s sake: she Lives, by thy grace, imperial.

ALBOVINE.

He or I, Her lord or sire, which hath most part in her, This hour shall try between us.

Enter ROSAMUND.

ROSAMUND.

Royal lord, Thy wedded handmaid craves of thee a grace.

ALBOVINE.

My sovereign bids her bondman what she will.

ROSAMUND.

I bid thee mock me not: I may ask thee Aught, and be heard of any save my lord.

ALBOVINE.

Go, friend.

Speak now. Say first what ails thee?

ROSAMUND.

Me?

ALBOVINE.

Thy voice was honey-hearted music, sweet As wine and glad as clarions: not in battle Might man have more of joy than I to hear it And feel delight dance in my heart and laugh Too loud for hearing save its own. Thou rose, Why did God give thee more than all thy kin Whose pride is perfume only and colour, this? Music? No rose but mine sings, and the birds Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not How heavy sounds her note now?

ROSAMUND.

Sire, not I. But sire I should not call thee.

ALBOVINE.

Surely, no. I bade thee speak: I did not bid thee sing: Thou canst not speak and sing not.

ROSAMUND.

Albovine, I had at heart a simple thing to crave And thought not on thy flatteries—as I think not Now. Knowest thou not my handmaid Hildegard Free-born, a noble maiden?

ALBOVINE.

And a fair As ever shone like sundawn on the snows.

ROSAMUND.

I had at heart to plead for her with thee.

ALBOVINE.

Plead? hast thou found her noble maidenhood Ignobly turned unmaidenlike? I may not Lightly believe it.

ROSAMUND.

Believe it not at all. Wouldst thou think shame of me—lightly? She loves As might a maid whose kin were northern gods The fairest-faced of warriors Lombard born, Thine Almachildes.

ALBOVINE.

If he loves not her, More fool is he than warrior even, though war Have wakened laughter in his eyes, and left His golden hair fresh gilded, when his hand Had won the crown that clasps a boy’s brows close With first-born sign of battle.

ROSAMUND.

No such fool May live in such a warrior; if he love not Some loveliness not hers. No face as bright Crowned with so fair a Mayflower crown of praise Lacked ever yet love, if its eyes were set With all their soul to loveward.

ALBOVINE.

Ay?

ROSAMUND.

I know not A man so fair of face. I like him well. And well he hath served and loves thee.

ALBOVINE.

Ay? The boy Seems winsome then with women.

ROSAMUND.

Hildegard Hath hearkened when he spake of love—it may be, Lightly.

ALBOVINE.

To her shall no man lightly speak. Thy maiden and our natural kin is she. Wilt thou speak with him—lightly?

ROSAMUND.

If thou wilt, Gladly.

ALBOVINE.

The boy shall wait upon thy will.

ROSAMUND.

My heart is heavier than this heat that weighs With all the weight of June on us. I know not Why. And the feast is close on us. I would This night were now to-morrow morn. I know not Why.

Enter ALMACHILDES.

Ah! What would you?

ALMACHILDES.

Queen, our lord the king Bade me before thee hither.

ROSAMUND.

Truth: I know it. Thou art loved and honoured of our lord the king. Dost thou, whom honour loves before thy time, Love?

ALMACHILDES.

Ay: thy noble handmaid, Hildegard. I know not if she love me.

ROSAMUND.

Thou shalt know. But this thou knowest: I may not give thee her.

ALMACHILDES.

I would not take her from the Lord God’s hand If hers were given against her will to mine.

ROSAMUND.

A man said that: a manfuller than men Who grip the loveless hands of prisoners. Well It must be with the bride whose happier hand Lies fond and fast in thine. Our Hildegard, Being free and noble as Albovine and we, Born one with us in race and blood, and thence Our equal in our sole nobility, Must well be won by noble works, and love Whose light is one with honour’s.

ALMACHILDES.

Queen, may I Perchance not win it? I know not.

ROSAMUND.

Nay, nor I. Soon may we know; they are entering toward the feast.

Re-enter ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

Thine hand: I hold the whitest in the world. Sit thou, boy, there, beside sweet Hildegard.

Bring me the cup. Queen, thou shalt pledge with me A health to all this kingdom and its weal Even from the bowl that here to hold in hand Assures me lord of Lombardy and thine By right and might of battle and of God— The skull that was thy father’s: so shalt thou Drink to me with thy father.

ROSAMUND.

Sire, my lord, The life my sire, who gave thee up his life, Gave me, and fostered till thou hadst given him death, Is all now thine. Thy will be done. I drink To thee, who art all this kingdom and its weal, All health and honour that of right should be, With all good things I wish thee.

ALBOVINE.

Wish me well, And God must give me what thou wilt. Good friends, My warriors and my brethren, hath not he Given me to wife the best one born of man And loveliest, and most loving? Silent, sirs? Wherefore?

ROSAMUND.

Thou shouldst not ask it. Bid the cup Go blithely round.

ALBOVINE.

By Christ and Thor, it shall. What ails the boy there? Almachildes!

ALMACHILDES.

King, Nought ails me.

ALBOVINE.

Nor thy maiden?

ALMACHILDES.

King, nor her.

ALBOVINE.

Fall then to feasting. Bear the cup away. Some savour of the dust of death comes from it. Sweet, be not wroth nor sad.

ROSAMUND.

I am blithe and fain, Sire; and I loved thee never more than now.

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