FITZ. John, I defy thee! by my honour's hope, I will not bear this base indignity!
Take to thy tools! think'st thou a nobleman Will be a pander to his proper[197] child?
For what intend'st thou else, seeing I know Earl Chepstow's daughter is thy married wife.
Come, if thou be a right Plantaganet, Draw and defend thee. O our Lady, help True English lords from such a tyrant lord!
What, dost thou think I jest? Nay, by the rood, I'll lose my life, or purge thy lustful blood.
JOHN. What, my old ruffian, lie at your ward?[198]
Have at your froward bosom, old Fitzwater.
[_Fight_: JOHN _falls_.
_Enter_ QUEEN, CHESTER, SALISBURY, _hastily_.
FITZ. O, that thou wert not royal Richard's brother, Thou shouldst here die in presence of thy mother.
[JOHN _rises: all compass_ FITZWATER; FITZWATER _chafes_.
What, is he up? Nay, lords, then give us leave.
CHES. What means this rage, Fitzwater?
QUEEN. Lay hands upon the Bedlam, trait'rous wretch!
JOHN. Nay, hale him hence! and hear you, old Fitzwater: See that you stay not five days in the realm.
For if you do, you die remediless.
FITZ. Speak, lords: do you confirm what he hath said?
ALL. He is our prince, and he must be obey'd.
FITZ. Hearken, Earl John! but one word will I say.
JOHN. I will not hear thee; neither will I stay.
Thou know'st thy time.
[_Exit_ JOHN.
FITZ. Will not your highness hear?
QUEEN. No: thy Matilda robb'd me of my dear.
[_Exit_ QUEEN.
FITZ. I aided thee in battle, Salisbury.
SAL. Prince John is mov'd; I dare not stay with thee.
[_Exit_ SALISBURY.[199]
FITZ. 'Gainst thee and Ely, Chester, was I foe, And dost thou stay to aggravate my woe?
CHES. No, good Fitzwater; Chester doth lament Thy wrong, thy sudden banishment.
Whence grew the quarrel 'twixt the prince and thee?
FITZ. Chester, the devil tempted old Fitzwater To be a pander to his only daughter; And my great heart, impatient, forc'd my hand, In my true honour's right to challenge him.
Alas the while! wrong will not be reprov'd.
CHES. Farewell, Fitzwater: wheresoe'er thou be, By letters, I beseech thee, send to me.
[_Exit_ CHESTER.
FITZ. Chester, I will, I will.
Heavens turn to good this woe, this wrong, this ill.
[_Exit_.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ SCATHLOCK _and_ SCARLET, _winding their horns, at several doors. To them enter_ ROBIN HOOD, MATILDA, _all in green_, SCATHLOCK'S MOTHER, MUCH, LITTLE JOHN: _all the men with bows and arrows_.
ROB. H. Widow, I wish thee homeward now to wend, Lest Warman's malice work thee any wrong.
WID. Master, I will; and mickle good attend On thee, thy love, and all these yeomen strong.
MAT. Forget not, widow, what you promis'd me.
MUCH. O, ay, mistress; for God's sake let's have Jenny.
WID. You shall have Jenny sent you with all speed.
Sons, farewell, and, by your mother's reed, Love well your master: blessing ever fall On him, your mistress, and these yeomen tall.
[_Exit_.
MUCH. God be with you, mother: have much mind, I pray, on Much your son, and your daughter Jenny.
ROB. H. Wind once more, jolly huntsmen, all your horns; Whose shrill sound, with the echoing wood's assist, Shall ring a sad knell for the fearful deer, Before our feathered shafts, death's winged darts, Bring sudden summons for their fatal ends.
SCAR. It's full seven years since we were outlaw'd first, And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage: For all those years we reigned uncontroll'd, From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham's red cliffs; At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests.
Good George-a-Greene at Bradford was our friend, And wanton Wakefield's Pinner[200] lov'd us well.
At Barnsley dwells a potter tough and strong, That never brook'd we brethren should have wrong.
The nuns of Farnsfield (pretty nuns they be) Gave napkins, shirts, and bands to him and me.
Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green, And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made: At Rotheram dwelt our bowyer, God him bless; Jackson he hight, his bows did never miss.
This for our good--our scathe let Scathlock tell, In merry Mansfield how it once befell.
SCATH. In merry Mansfield, on a wrestling day, Prizes there were, and yeomen came to play; My brother Scarlet and myself were twain.
Many resisted, but it was in vain, For of them all we won the mastery, And the gilt wreaths were given to him and me.
There by Sir Doncaster of Hothersfield We were bewray'd, beset, and forc'd to yield, And so borne bound from thence to Nottingham, Where we lay doom'd to death till Warman came.
ROB. H. Of that enough. What cheer, my dearest love?
MUCH. O, good cheer anon, sir; she shall have venison her bellyful.
MAT. Matilda is as joyful of thy good As joy can make her: how fares Robin Hood?