THE HOLLOW CROWN: ELOQUENCE
Act II: "Weightier Than Two Lovers As We"

Written by Diane N. Tran (tranimation)

The sovereign lord, spying his new consort, with her back towards him, in watchful wake at the caged windows, assay'd the deaf echo of his heart-beats and the blind sight of her eye-drops.

"Dearest Katharine," he bid to approach her, to appease her, to apprize her, with a careful grace and a precise toe, "mine own Kate, have you wept all this while?"

"Oui," she mutter'd in a grievous gale, "and I sall weep avile longer."

"I do not desire that."

"You have no raison; I do it freely."

"O fair, sweet Kate, you must shed this burden of silence upon thee, for I am at a disadvantage," he whisper'd to her, whilst he knelt gravely at her feet upon one knee and dealt an open hand, warily searching her expression for answers to questions from whence he knew not. "Have I wrong'd thee, Kate? Tell me, I prithee, and I shall strike myself with mine own dagger where I stand, if only to please thee. If not, tell me withal. Givest me the name of he who hath wrong'd you, and I shall strike the villain down anew. I beseech you to speakest plainly, soundly, from thy tender heart without fear of restraint or of remorse, for I can endure this torture no longer. Come, lend me thy thoughts, queen of all, and gift me thine eloquence in thy broken, beauteous music."

"O Seigneur Dieu, donnez-moi la force!" Her words, fraught in displeasure and discontent, hasten'd together, one after another, verily more to herself than to he: "Pourquoi faut-il que Anglois soit si difficile? Ces mots sonnent faux et grossiers?"

"What says you, fair one?" He bore his ear and knit his brow to make head or tail of her French tongue: "Say'st that this English is difficult, that I must agree, for it is thus, and that its words false and fat, that I cannot, for when words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, to which I can afford no such vanity; but the rest," he shook his head with a knurly frown, "I am all but lost. Have I displeas'd thee, Kate?"

"Non, your majestee, you have not," she answer'd at length, unwilling to meet his eye, with a dishearten sigh. "It is my own doing. I am at fault."

"Fie, that cannot be: Of what offence couldst thou have done, for I know not one; therefore, I beseech my lady, pardon me. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one. Take honour from me, my life is done. Fault must rest within me, if thou art displeas'd, Kate. Whenceforth did I commit this folly? I shall swear to make recompense of my action to retain thy good graces anon. Come, bid me do anything for thee."

"Henri, I do not know how to say en your England."

"Try, Kate; try," implor'd her gallant lord, his hand aloft still. "Dost the wedding displease thee in its plainness? True, the revel was most undeserving of a great lady. Thereupon our return to England shall make restitution: I shall rain a shower of rose petals o'er thy honeyed head, throw precious jewels at thy feet, envelop thee in silk and ermine, garnish thee gifts worthy of an empress, and march a pageantry in thine honour that should be the awe of conquerors. Wilt that not please thee, Kate?"

"Sauf votre honneur, non." His sweet oaths did allow a small, incidental smile to breach 'tween her sobful whispers. He lulled his countenance into the cradle of her temperate hand that swept against the scarred blemish of his cheek: "I have no want of ornements or ordonnances. You know me, Henri: Do you think me so vain, so égoïste?"

"No, my queen," he stood at last, tall and graceful, "I know thee well."

He stepp'd forward and knelt his head close, yearning only to comfort in her hour of need, but she spurn'd from her husband's embrace, of sorrow and grief that would not or could not speak, for the gesture, as simple as it was, gave him pause, stopp'd him short, made him hesitate, for it wounded him more deeply and more grievously than all the French armies with their brandish swords, poison arrows, and hellish cannons, as she left him to stand forlorn, to gaze on her with a painful, mistful countenance, like a man at mark, with mere shadows as his companions, at the opposite side of the chamber.

"Again," his words fell from him, slow and uneasy, as he wreath'd his fretful hands together to steady their condition, "I ask thee, Kate: Why art thou displeas'd?"

His alderliefest lady spoke not quickly, for her silence stretch'd at length in a torturous device. Aimlessly encircling about the lavish and luxuriant mattress of their empty marital bed, she curl'd her pale hand around one of the carven pillars, and held herself 'gainst the dark wood, half-hidden behind it, before she found her voice, yet so faint was this voice that he could barely register its sound:

"I am told, Henri, dat you are to leave Troyes to-morrow?"

The king bit upon his tongue. "From whom didst thou hear this?"

"Is it true?"

"Aye, Kate, it is," his tone was low and distant. Perching his hands on his hips, his eyes downcast, his breath dry, he allow'd the tip of his jutty tongue to moisten 'twixt his lips in a momentary attempt to stall and find his words: "That, if my speech offends my fair lady's heart, I should have told thee, Kate. By my troth, I would have told thee e'erything and anything; but, alas, I knew not how to tell thee this: I am bid perforce to march west afield, towards the setting sun, 'gainst our enemies till I might quickly return a victory."

"Pourquoi? De war is won, de treaty signed, de council appeased, your honour satisfied, and our marriage sworn. France and England are one. Vat more is there to do, Henri?"

The sum of his answer was but a simple one: "My duty."

"Your duty?" scoff'd the Lady of Valois, her voice mounting. She knew not whether to laugh or to cry, to commend him or to curse him, to kiss him or to strike him, at such a ridiculous turn of phrase. "You speak to me about duty? Henri, s'il vous plait, you sould not say such tings you cannot mean."

"May't please you to give me say freely to render you my meaning: Ask yourself, Kate, why our betrothal, what should be a magnificent commemoration of the unity of long-rival lands as one, hath been reduced to a simple rite of flight-feather'd elopers?"

Without missing a beat, she repli'd thus with a blank frown: "Évidemment, someting has happened, someting significatif, someting terrible, to force our marriage and your leave."

"Indeed, Kate," he began to pace, restlessly tapping his fingers' ends upon his thigh, "the matter is weightier than that of two star-cross'd lovers as we. 'Twill be fire and steel if it cannot be set right."

"How can dat be?"

"We have receiv'd word that the Armagnacs have given rise to dispute with the Burgundians and allied themselves with the cause the Dauphin, your brother and, by our marriage sworn under God—," crossing himself piously after speaking the name of the Almighty, "—mine own brother, too. He who hath beshrew'd the union between our two peoples and hath murder'd most foully our dear cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, coercing him under parley, with a flag of white hue aloft; yet our treacherous brother still could not prise his bloodlust and, fraught with bitterness of soul and jealousy of nature, hath denounc'd thy parentage, the King and Queen of France, and besmirch'd thy good name, Kate, and now gathereth his armies in Montereau 'gainst me, 'gainst us all. I must depart to protect France, my new home, or see it divide by civil war, for which I cannot and will not allow."

For a long moment, the Princess of France was silent and drew her hands together in a steeple, of zealous contemplation, as holy and devout religious women would be at their beads.

"Has my brother given admittance to these misdeeds?"

"Nay, he claimeth a false innocence."

"Oui, vraiment," she shook her head gravely; "he vould."

"Thou wouldst naturally defend thy kinsman—?"

"Non, it vas he. I understand my brother vell and know his raisons." Leaning her head against the bedpost wistfully, she held her cross'd arms before her, pulling her shoulders in tightly, and her doleful eyes plead to him. "Am I unable to 'suade you to stay, Henri?"

"No, be that if I could, I cannot rightly do so."

"Den take me vith you."

"No, my fairest one," his tone pav'd with grit and gravity; "Hear me, for I, in good conscience, cannot do such a thing."

His hands reach'd forth, careful in their action, for he had no desire to fright her, and cradl'd her visage to heed his words, to regard his thoughts, and to plead his eyes of green before her blue.

"Judge me not as obdurate: Whiles the King of France's illness worsens and the Dauphin's treason persists, you must reign in my stead. I am but the sword of England and France; yet you, Kate, are my greatest instrument, for you are the quill. I would be brand'd a fool, a madcap of a fool, the king of fools, if I bring thee to the sanguinary battlefield and lose the minister of peace due to the idiocy as minister of war, and then what hope is there for our countrymen? Thou art too precious a capital, Kate, to have thee march as a wifely solider. If I fail in my charge, you will precede me in my hollow crown as my queen and regent in this mortal coil. I know no other more deserving to sit in this coupl'd throne than thee."

The English king caught a whisp'ring of a smile, as it tugg'd the gentle corners of her sugar lips. Delight'd as he would be to acknow that 'twas he whom gave cause to this smile, there was, alas, no happiness within it. It was genteel and grieving.

"De Dauphin vill not harm me, Henri. I am his sister and he my brother."

"And my love, and thus his enemy."

"I can speak to him. He vill listen to me."

"No, I cannot risk that. I would have nothing, if I lost thee, Kate. So dear, so precious, is my love that, with you, all deaths I could endure; but without you, live no life at all. Thus you must remain here, protect'd, safe within these four walls."

"Non, Henri," her voice fell to a grave whisper, "I am not safe here, nor are you."

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