Chapter 2
_Enter_ CAMBER _and_ DEBON.
CAMBER.
Nay, tell not me: no smoke of lies can smother The truth which lightens through thy lies: I see Whose trust it is that makes a liar of thee, And how thy falsehood, man, has faith for mother. What, is not thine the breast wherein my brother Seals all his heart up? Had he put in me Faith—but his secret has thy tongue for key, And all his counsel opens to none other. Thy tongue, thine eye, thy smile unlocks his trust Who puts no trust in man.
DEBON.
Sir, then were I A traitor found more perfect fool than knave Should I play false, or turn for gold to dust A gem worth all the gold beneath the sky— The diamond of the flawless faith he gave Who sealed his trust upon me.
CAMBER.
What art thou? Because thy beard ere mine were black was grey Art thou the prince, and I thy man? I say Thou shalt not keep his counsel from me.
DEBON.
Now, Prince, may thine old born servant lift his brow As from the dust to thine, and answer—Nay. Nor canst thou turn this nay of mine to yea With all the lightning of thine eyes, I trow, Nor this my truth to treason.
CAMBER.
God us aid! Art thou not mad? Thou knowest what whispers crawl About the court with serpent sound and speed, Made out of fire and falsehood; or if made Not all of lies—it may be thus—not all— Black yet no less with poison.
DEBON.
Prince, indeed I know the colour of the tongues of fire That feed on shame to slake the thirst of hate; Hell-black, and hot as hell: nor age nor state May pluck the fangs forth of their foul desire: I that was trothplight servant to thy sire, A king more kingly than the front of fate That bade our lives bow down disconsolate When death laid hold on him—for hope nor hire, Prince, would I lie to thee: nay, what avails Falsehood? thou knowest I would not.
CAMBER.
Why, thou art old; To thee could falsehood bear but fruitless fruit— Lean grafts and sour. I think thou wouldst not.
DEBON.
Wales In such a lord lives happy: young and bold And yet not mindless of thy sire King Brute, Who loved his loyal servants even as they Loved him. Yea, surely, bitter were the fruit, Prince Camber, and the tree rotten at root That bare it, whence my tongue should take today For thee the taste of poisonous treason.
CAMBER.
Nay, What boots it though thou plight thy word to boot? True servant wast thou to my sire King Brute, And Brute thy king true master to thee.
DEBON.
Yea. Troy, ere her towers dropped hurtling down in flame, Bare not a son more noble than the sire Whose son begat thy father. Shame it were Beyond all record in the world of shame, If they that hither bore in heart that fire Which none save men of heavenly heart may bear Had left no sign, though Troy were spoiled and sacked, That heavenly was the seed they saved.
CAMBER.
No sign? Though nought my fame be,—though no praise of mine Be worth men’s tongues for word or thought or act— Shall fame forget my brother Albanact, Or how those Huns who drank his blood for wine Poured forth their own for offering to Locrine? Though all the soundless maze of time were tracked, No men should man find nobler.
DEBON.
Surely none. No man loved ever more than I thy brothers, Prince.
CAMBER.
Ay—for them thy love is bright like spring, And colder toward me than the wintering sun. What am I less—what less am I than others, That thus thy tongue discrowns my name of king, Dethrones my title, disanoints my state, And pricks me down but petty prince?
DEBON.
My lord—
CAMBER.
Ay? must my name among their names stand scored Who keep my brother’s door or guard his gate? A lordling—princeling—one that stands to wait— That lights him back to bed or serves at board. Old man, if yet thy foundering brain record Aught—if thou know that once my sire was great, Then must thou know he left no less to me, His youngest, than to those my brethren born, Kingship.
DEBON.
I know it. Your servant, sire, am I, Who lived so long your sire’s.
CAMBER.
And how had he Endured thy silence or sustained thy scorn? Why must I know not what thou knowest of?
DEBON.
Why? Hast thou not heard, king, that a true man’s trust Is king for him of life and death? Locrine Hath sealed with trust my lips—nay, prince, not mine— His are they now.
CAMBER.
Thou art wise as he, and just, And secret. God requite thee! yea, he must, For man shall never. If my sword here shine Sunward—God guard that reverend head of thine!
DEBON.
My blood should make thy sword the sooner rust, And rot thy fame for ever. Strike.
CAMBER.
Thou knowest I will not. Am I Scythian born, or Greek, That I should take thy bloodshed on my hand?
DEBON.
Nay—if thou seest me soul to soul, and showest Mercy—
CAMBER.
Thou think’st I would have slain thee? Speak.
DEBON.
Nay, then I will, for love of all this land: Lest, if suspicion bring forth strife, and fear Hatred, its face be withered with a curse; Lest the eyeless doubt of unseen ill be worse Than very truth of evil. Thou shalt hear Such truth as falling in a base man’s ear Should bring forth evil indeed in hearts perverse; But forth of thine shall truth, once known, disperse Doubt: and dispersed, the cloud shall leave thee clear In judgment—nor, being young, more merciless, I think, than I toward hearts that erred and yearned, Struck through with love and blind with fire of life Enkindled. When the sharp and stormy stress Of Scythian ravin round our borders burned Eastward, and he that faced it first in strife, King Albanact, thy brother, fought and fell, Locrine our lord, and lordliest born of you,— Thy chief, my prince, and mine—against them drew With all the force our southern strengths might tell, And by the strong mid water’s seaward swell That sunders half our Britain met and slew The prince whose blood baptized its fame anew And left no record of the name to dwell Whereby men called it ere it wore his name, Humber; and wide on wing the carnage went Along the drenched red fields that felt the tramp At once of fliers and slayers with feet like flame: But the king halted, seeing a royal tent Reared, with its ensign crowning all the camp, And entered—where no Scythian spoil he found, But one fair face, the Scythian’s sometime prey, A lady’s whom their ships had borne away By force of warlike hand from German ground, A bride and queen by violent power fast bound To the errant helmsman of their fierce array. And her, left lordless by that ended fray, Our lord beholding loved, and hailed, and crowned Queen.
CAMBER.
Queen! and what perchance of Guendolen? Slept she forsooth forgotten?
DEBON.
Nay, my lord Knows that albeit their hands were precontract By Brute your father dying, no man of men May fasten hearts with hands in one accord. The love our master knew not that he lacked Fulfilled him even as heaven by dawn is filled With fire and light that burns and blinds and leads All men to wise or witless works or deeds, Beholding, ere indeed he wist or willed, Eyes that sent flame through veins that age had chilled.
CAMBER.
Thine—with that grey goat’s fleece on chin, sir? Needs Must she be fair: thou, wrapt in age’s weeds, Whose blood, if time have touched it not and stilled, The sun’s own fire must once have kindled,—thou Sing praise of soft-lipped women? doth not shame Sting thee, to sound this minstrel’s note, and gild A girl’s proud face with praises, though her brow Were bright as dawn’s? And had her grace no name For men to worship by? Her name?
DEBON.
Estrild.
CAMBER.
My brother is a prince of paramours— Eyes coloured like the springtide sea, and hair Bright as with fire of sundawn—face as fair As mine is swart and worn with haggard hours, Though less in years than his—such hap was ours When chance drew forth for us the lots that were Hid close in time’s clenched hand: and now I swear, Though his be goodlier than the stars or flowers, I would not change this head of mine, or crown Scarce worth a smile of his—thy lord Locrine’s— For that fair head and crown imperial; nay, Not were I cast by force of fortune down Lower than the lowest lean serf that prowls and pines And loathes for fear all hours of night and day.
DEBON.
What says my lord? how means he?
CAMBER.
Vex not thou Thine old hoar head with care to learn of me This. Great is time, and what he wills to be Is here or ever proof may bring it: now, Now is the future present. If thy vow Constrain thee not, yet would I know of thee One thing: this lustrous love-bird, where is she? What nest is hers on what green flowering bough Deep in what wild sweet woodland?
DEBON.
Good my lord, Have I not sinned already—flawed my faith, To lend such ear even to such royal suit?
CAMBER.
Yea, by my kingdom hast thou—by my sword, Yea. Now speak on.
DEBON.
Yet hope—or honour—saith I did not ill to trust the blood of Brute Within thee. Not prince Hector’s sovereign soul, The light of all thy lineage, more abhorred Treason than all his days did Brute my lord. My trust shall rest not in thee less than whole.
CAMBER.
Speak, then: too long thou falterest nigh the goal.
DEBON.
There is a bower built fast beside a ford In Essex, held in sure and secret ward Of woods and walls and waters, still and sole As love could choose for harbourage: there the king Keeps close from all men now these seven years since The light wherein he lives: and there hath she Borne him a maiden child more sweet than spring.
CAMBER.
A child her daughter? there now hidden?
DEBON.
Prince, What ails thee?
CAMBER.
Nought. This river’s name?
DEBON.
The Ley.
CAMBER.
Nigh Leytonstone in Essex—called of old By men thine elders Durolitum? There Are hind and fawn couched close in one green lair? Speak: hast thou not my faith in pawn, to hold Fast as my brother’s heart this love, untold And undivined of all men? must I swear Twice—I, to thee?
DEBON.
But if thou set no snare, Why shine thine eyes so sharp? I am overbold: Sir, pardon me.
CAMBER.
My sword shall split thine heart With pardon if thou palter with me.
DEBON.
Sir, There is the place: but though thy brow be grim As hell—I knew thee not the man thou art— I will not bring thee to it.
CAMBER.
For love of her? Nay—better shouldst thou know my love of him.
[_Exeunt_.