Chapter 3

_An eastward room in the Palace_.

_Enter_ ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

This sun—no sun like ours—burns out my soul. I would, when June takes hold on us like fire, The wind could waft and whirl us northward: here The splendour and the sweetness of the world Eat out all joy of life or manhood. Earth Is here too hard on heaven—the Italian air Too bright to breathe, as fire, its next of kin, Too keen to handle. God, whoe’er God be, Keep us from withering as the lords of Rome— Slackening and sickening toward the imperious end That wiped them out of empire! Yea, he shall.

_Enter_ HILDEGARD.

HILDEGARD.

The queen would wait upon your majesty.

ALBOVINE.

Bid her come in. And tell her ere she come I wait upon her will.

[_Exit_ HILDEGARD.]

What would she now?

_Enter_ ROSAMUND.

By Christ, how fair thou art! I never saw thee So like the sun in heaven: no rose on earth Might think to match thee.

ROSAMUND.

All I am is thine.

ALBOVINE.

Mine? God might come from heaven to worship thee. Thine eyes outlighten all the stars: thy face Leaves earth no flower to worship.

ROSAMUND.

How should earth Worship her children? Nought it is in me, My lord’s dear love it is, that makes me seem Fair.

ALBOVINE.

How thou liest thou knowest not. Rosamund, What hast thou done to be so beautiful?

ROSAMUND.

The sun has left thine eyes half blind.

ALBOVINE.

I dare not Kiss thee, or stare straight-eyed against the sun.

ROSAMUND.

Kiss me. Who knows how long the lord of life May spare us time for kissing? Life and love Are less than change and death.

ALBOVINE.

What ghosts are they? So sweet thou never wast to me before. The woman that is God—the God that is Woman—the sovereign of the soul of man, Our fathers’ Freia, Venus crowned in Rome, Has lent my love her girdle; but her lips Have robbed the red rose of its heart, and left No glory for the flower beyond all flowers To bid the spring be glad of.

ROSAMUND.

Summer and spring May cleanse and heal the heart of man no more Than winter may, or withering autumn. Sire, Husband and lord, I have a woful word To speak against a man beloved of thee, A man well worth all glory man may give— Against thine Almachildes.

ALBOVINE.

Has the boy Transgressed again in awless heat of speech And kindled wrath in thee against him—thee, Who stood’st between my wrath and him?

ROSAMUND.

I would His were no more transgression than of speech. He hath wronged—I bid thee ask of me no more— A noble maiden. Till her shame be healed, Her name is dead upon my lips and his, Who is yet not all ignoble.

ALBOVINE.

He shall die Except he wed her, and she will to wed.

ROSAMUND.

That surely will she.

ALBOVINE.

Bid him hither.

ROSAMUND.

See, There strides he through the sunshine toward the shade. How light and high he steps! He sees thee. Bid him— Beckon him in.

ALBOVINE.

He knows mine eye. He comes.

ROSAMUND.

Obedient as a hound is.

ALBOVINE.

As a man That knows the law of loyal manhood.

ROSAMUND.

Ay? God send it be so.

_Enter_ ALMACHILDES.

ALMACHILDES.

Queen and king, I am here. What would you?

ALBOVINE.

Truth. Hast thou not borne thyself Toward any soul on earth disloyally Ever?

ALMACHILDES.

Never.

ALBOVINE.

I would not say thou liest.

ALMACHILDES.

Do not: the lie should burn thy lips up, king.

ALBOVINE.

Thou hast wrought no wrong toward man or woman?

ALMACHILDES.

None.

ALBOVINE.

Speak thou: thou hast heard him answer me.

ROSAMUND.

I have heard. No wrong it may be with the serfs of hell To cast upon a woman for a curse Shame: to defile the spirit and shrine of love, Put out the sunlike eyes of maidenhood And leave the soul dismantled. Has not he So sinned?—Hast thou wrought no such work as this? The king has heard thy silence.

ALMACHILDES.

Queen and king, I have done no wrong, but right. I have chosen my bride, And made her mine by gentle grace of hers Lest wrong should come between us. Now no man May think to unwed us: king nor queen may cross This wedded love of ours: no thwart or stay May sunder us till heaven and earth turn hell.

ALBOVINE.

I deemed not thee dishonourable: and thy queen Now knows thee true as I did. Rosamund, Forgive and give him back his bride.

ROSAMUND.

I will, King.

ALBOVINE.

Boy, thy queen hath shown thee grace; be thou Thankful. I leave thee here to yield her thanks.

[_Exit_.

ALMACHILDES.

Queen, I would die to serve and thank thee.

ROSAMUND.

Die? So young and glad and glorious? Thou shalt not Die. Was thy bride’s face bright to look upon When last night’s moon and stars illumined it?

ALMACHILDES.

Thou knowest I might not look upon it.

ROSAMUND.

No. Thou hast never loved before?

ALMACHILDES.

I have loathed, not loved, The loveless harlots clasped of all the camp: I have followed wars and visions all my days Even till my love’s eyes lit and stung to life The soul within my body. Till I loved, I knew not woman.

ROSAMUND.

Now thou knowest. This love Is no good lord—no gentle god—no soft Saviour. Thou knowest perchance thy bride’s name—hers Whose body and soul were one but now with thine?

ALMACHILDES.

How should not I? What darkling light is this That burns and broods and lightens in thine eyes, Queen?

ROSAMUND.

Hildegard it was not.

ALMACHILDES.

Art not thou— Or am not I—sun-smitten through the brain By this mad might of midsummer? Who was it That slept or slept not with me while the night Was more than noon and more than heaven? What name Was hers who made me godlike?

ROSAMUND.

Rosamund.

ALMACHILDES.

Thine? was it thou? It was not.

ROSAMUND.

It was I.

ALMACHILDES.

Does the sun stand in heaven? Or stands it fast As when God bade it halt on high? My life Is broken in me.

ROSAMUND.

Nay, fair sir, not yet. Thy life is now mine—as the ring I wear That seals my hand a wife’s. Die thou shalt not, But slay, and live.

ALMACHILDES.

Slay whom?

ROSAMUND.

Thy lord and mine.

ALMACHILDES.

I had rather go down quick to hell.

ROSAMUND.

I know it. I leave thee not the choice. Keep thou thy hand Bloodless, and Hildegard, whom yet I love, Dies, and in fire, the harlot’s death of shame. Last night she lured thee hither. Hate of me, Because of late I smote her, being in wrath Forgetful of her noble maidenhood, Stung her for shame’s sake to take hands with shame. This if I swear, may she unswear it? Thou Canst not but say she bade thee seek her. She Lives while I will, as Albovine and thou Live by my grace and mercy. Live, or die. But live thou shalt not longer than her death, Her death by burning, if thou slay not him. I see my death shine in thine eyes: I see My present death inflame them. That were not Her surety, Almachildes. Thou shouldst know me Now. Though thou slay me, this may save not her. My lines are laid about her life, and may not By breach of mine be broken.

ALMACHILDES.

God must be Dead. Such a thing as thou could never else Live.

ROSAMUND.

That concerns not thee nor me. Be thou Sure that my will and power to serve it live. Lift now thine eyes to look upon thy lord.

_Re-enter_ ALBOVINE.

ALBOVINE.

By this time hath he thanked thee not enough?

ROSAMUND.

More hath he given than thanks.

ALBOVINE.

What more may be?

ROSAMUND.

His plighted faith to heal the wrong he wrought Faithfully.

ALBOVINE.

Boy, strike then thy hand in mine. Thou art loyal as I knew thee.

ALMACHILDES.

King, I may not Touch hands with thee.

ALBOVINE.

Thou art false, then, ha? Thou hast lied?

ALMACHILDES.

King, till the wrong I have wrought be wreaked or healed I clasp not hands with honour. Nay, and then Perchance I may not.

ALBOVINE.

Boy I called thee: child I call thee now. But, boy, the child thou art Is noble as our sires.

ALMACHILDES.

Would God it were!

[_Exit_.

ALBOVINE.

What ails him?

ROSAMUND.

Love and shame.

ALBOVINE.

No more than these?

ROSAMUND.

Enough are they to darken death and life.

ALBOVINE.

Thou art less than gentle towards his love and him.

ROSAMUND.

I would not speak ungently. Her I love, Poor child, and him I hate not.

ALBOVINE.

Thou shalt live To love him too.

ROSAMUND.

This heaviness of heat Kills love and hate and life in me. I know not Aught lovesome save the sweet brief death of sleep.

ALBOVINE.

I am weary as thou. Good night we may not say— Good noon I bid thee. Sleep shall heal us.

ROSAMUND.

Ay; No healing and no help for life on earth Hath God or man found out save death and sleep.

[_Exeunt_.