Henry IV, Part I

I’ve been too calm and even-tempered, unwilling to react angrily to these indignities. You have discovered this, and so you’ve walked all over my patience. Know this: from now on, I’m going to be my royal self again, powerful and frightening. My natural condition, which was as smooth as oil and soft as feathers, has lost me the respect that powerful people only pay to the similarly powerful.

My lord, the Percy family does not deserve to bear the brunt of your anger and power, especially since we helped you become so powerful in the first place.

Your Highness —

Worcester, get out. I see danger and disobedience in your eyes. You carry yourself too boldly and proudly, and royalty should never have to endure a servant’s frowning face. You have my permission to leave now. When I need you or your advice, I’ll call for you.

(to NORTHUMBERLAND) You were about to speak.

Yes, my Lord. The prisoners you asked for, which my son Harry Percy captured at Holmedon, were not kept from you in anger. He’s already told you that. Whoever told you my son meant to defy you was either mistaken or trying to make trouble. He’s done nothing wrong.

Sir, I didn’t hold back any prisoners. But I remember this: when the battle ended, I was exhausted with rage and exertion. I was out of breath, dizzy and bent over. All of a sudden a man approached me, neat, clean, and tidily dressed, like a bridegroom. His beard was freshly shaven, like a newly plowed field. He wore fancy cologne and he carried a perfume box, which he kept raising to his nose as he smiled and talked on. Whenever soldiers walked past, bearing dead bodies, he called them rude hoodlums for bringing a foul, disgusting corpse within breathing distance of him. He interrogated me, with his fancy language, and demanded that I give him my prisoners, to be taken on your behalf. There I was, with the cold aggravating all my wounds, being pestered by this idiot. In my grief and impatience, I gave him some kind of answer. I don’t even remember what I said—he could take them, or he couldn’t. I was so angry, looking at him all shiny and sweet-smelling, and speaking like a squeamish woman about guns and battle drums and wounds—God almighty! —and telling me the best thing for an injury is parmaceti, and that it was a shame that the blameless earth had to be dug up to find saltpeter for the gunpowder, when so many good, brave men had been cowardly destroyed by guns, and that if it hadn’t been for those disgusting guns, he would have been a soldier himself. All this trivial, incoherent talk I answered offhandedly, as I’ve already told you. So I beg you: please don’t take his word as evidence that there’s anything wrong between you and me, your Majesty.

Given the circumstances, my lord, whatever Harry Percy may have said to a man like that, in a place and time like that, should be allowed to die and never be spoken of again. It should never be used against Harry in any way, since he has taken it all back now.

But he still won’t turn over his prisoners unless he can add these stipulations and exceptions. He wants me, at my own cost, to pay ransom for his brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer, a man who, on my life, willfully betrayed his own men, whom he had led in fighting against that great magician, the damned Glendower. And now we hear that Mortimer has married Glendower’s daughter! Should the treasury be emptied to ransom a traitor? Should I pay for treason, and bargain for a coward, when it was Mortimer who lost himself? No. Let him starve in the wilderness. No man who asks me to spend one penny on that traitor Mortimer can ever be a friend of mine.

“That traitor Mortimer!” He never faltered, my lord, except through an accident of war. I’ll prove it, by speaking about the many wounds he heroically suffered when he spent an hour in brutal hand-to-hand combat against Glendower on the grassy banks of the Severn River. They broke three times from fighting, and they drank three times from the Severn. The river itself was frightened by their horrible looks. Its water became discolored with the blood of these brave fighters, and the Severn ran off, as if to hide itself in the weeds on its banks. Treachery has never used deadly wounds to cover its operations, and Mortimer could never have willingly suffered so many injuries. Do not let him be slandered by calling him a traitor.

You speak wrongly about him, Percy, you speak wrongly! He never fought Glendower. I tell you, he would just as soon dare to meet the devil himself as fight Glendower. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Don’t ever let me hear you speak of Mortimer again. Send me your prisoners as quickly as possible, or you’ll hear about it from me, and you won’t like what I have to say. Northumberland, I give you and your son permission to leave now. Send your prisoners, or you’ll hear about it.

Even if the devil himself comes screaming for them, I won’t send those prisoners. I’m going to go after him and tell him so; it will ease my heart, though it might cost me my head.

What, drunk with anger? Wait a minute. Here comes your uncle.

Talk about Mortimer? God damn, I will talk about him. And damn my soul if I don’t join him! I’ll empty out my veins for him, and I’ll pour my precious blood onto the ground, drop by drop! And I’ll lift this put-upon Mortimer as high up as this ungrateful King, this ungenerous, rotten Bolingbroke!

(toWORCESTER) Brother, the King’s driven your nephew crazy.

Who started this trouble after I left?

He wants all my prisoners, for God’s sake! And when I asked again for him to ransom my brother-in-law, he looked pale, and he shot me a look that could kill. Just the mention of Mortimer’s name makes him shake.

I don’t blame him. Didn’t the late King Richard II proclaim that Mortimer should be next in line for the throne?

He did; I heard the proclamation. That was when the wretched King Richard (may God forgive us for wronging him!) set out to invade Ireland. When that was interrupted, he returned to England, only to be deposed and then murdered.

And for our part in his death, the whole world is scandalized by us, and speaks ill of us.

Stop a moment, please. Did King Richard really proclaim that my brother-in-law Edmund Mortimer was next in line for the throne?

He did. I heard it myself.

Then I can’t blame King Henry for wishing for him to starve in the wilderness. But is it right that you—who put the crown on Henry’s forgetful head, and who carry the accusations of murder for Henry’s sake—should be the target of the world’s curses? When you were only accomplices and instruments? Is it right to blame the ropes, the ladder, or the hangman for a man’s death? Forgive me for mentioning that you two are like those sordid objects, having been exploited by this conniving King. But will you stand by while people today speak of your shame? While history books record that men of your nobility and power dedicated themselves to as unjust a cause (which, God forgive you, you both did) as the overthrowing of Richard, that sweet lovely rose, and the planting of this thorn, this weed, Bolingbroke in Richard’s place? Will you listen as people say that you are fools, and that you’ve been tossed away by the very person you shamed yourselves to help? No. There is still time for you to redeem your reputations and restore your good names in the eyes of the world. Take revenge against this King who mocks and scorns you. He thinks constantly about how to repay you for all you did—by putting you to death. So I say—

Quiet, nephew; don’t say any more. I have a secret for you, which is hidden like a book with a lock. I will open the book and read you a dark, dangerous story that will appeal to your righteous anger. It’s full of peril and adventure, as risky as walking across a churning, thundering river while balanced unsteadily on a spear.

If he falls in, then it’s all over, whether he sinks or swims. The honor of the struggle is all that counts, no matter what the danger is or where it comes from. It takes more courage to wake a sleeping lion than to frighten a rabbit!

Dreaming about this heroic exploit is driving him past his patience.

By God, I think it would be easy to jump up and grab honor off of the moon’s pale face, or to dive into the deepest ocean and pull up honor by its hair. Then the man who rescues honor can wear her glory alone, without rivals. To hell with sharing the glory!

(to NORTHUMBERLAND) He sees a world built by his imagination, but that world is not the one he should be paying attention to. (to HOTSPUR) Nephew, listen to me a minute.

I beg your pardon.

These Scotsmen that you’ve taken prisoner —

I’ll keep them all. By God, the King won’t get a single Scot, even if having a Scot would save his soul! I’ll keep them, I swear.

You’re off again and not listening to me. You will get to keep the prisoners —

Yes, I will; there’s no doubt about it. The King said he would not pay ransom for Mortimer. He forbid me from speaking of Mortimer. But I’ll find him when he’s sleeping, and I’ll shout “Mortimer!” into his ears. No; I’ll get a bird and teach it to say nothing but “Mortimer,” and I’ll give it to the King to anger him forever.

Listen, nephew, please.

From now on, all other pursuits I’ll cast aside, except for scheming how to aggravate this Bolingbroke and his son, the lowlife Prince of Wales. If it weren’t for the fact that I suspect Henry doesn’t love his son, and that he’d be glad to see misfortune befall him, I’d poison the Prince’s ale.

Goodbye, nephew. I’ll talk to you when you’re in a better mood to listen.

(to HOTSPUR) You are an impatient and short-tempered fool to start nattering on like a woman, not listening to any voice but your own!

Listen, I feel like I’m being whipped with sticks and stung by ants when I hear about this vile politician, Bolingbroke. When Richard was alive—what is that place called? Damn, it’s in Gloucestershire; it’s where that crazy duke’s uncle lived, his uncle York. It’s where I first met this lying Bolingbroke, and bowed to him.—Shoot!—It happened when you and Bolingbroke came back from Ravenspurgh.

At Berkley castle.

Right. What great courtesy that flattering dog paid me! “The promise of his childhood has come true,” he said. “Gentle Harry Percy,” he called me, and “kind kinsman.” To hell with liars like him! — I’m sorry. Uncle, go on. I’m done.

No, if you’re not done yet, keep going. We’ll wait until you’re ready.

I’m done. I swear.

Then go back to your Scottish prisoners. Release them at once, without ransom. Make friends with Douglas, and use his influence to gather an army in Scotland. He’ll gladly help you for many reasons, which I’ll write you about soon. (to NORTHUMBERLAND) Now you, sir. While your son is busy in Scotland, you will strike up a close alliance with the Archbishop, that noble, well-beloved churchman.

He is the Archbishop of York, no?

Yes, and he’s sorely upset about his brother, Lord Scroop, whom Bolingbroke put to death in Bristol. I’m not merely speculating; I’m telling you what I know for a fact has been considered, plotted, and set into motion. They’re only waiting now for the right moment to strike.

I get it. And it’s good, I bet my life on it!

Look, you’ve let your dogs slip off of their leashes before the hunt has even begun.

There’s no way this excellent plan won’t work. And the armies of Scotland and York will join with Mortimer, right?

Yes, they will.

I swear, it’s extremely well thought out.

And we’ve got good reasons to hurry and save ourselves by raising an army. No matter how hard we try to look like everything’s fine, the King will always think he owes us for having helped him take the throne, and he’ll worry that we don’t feel we’ve been properly compensated. Until he finds a way to pay us for good—by killing us. You can see that he’s already begun to distance himself from us.

He has, he has. We’ll get revenge!

Nephew, farewell. Don’t do any more than I tell you to do in the letters I’ll write you. When the time comes, which will be soon, I’ll sneak off to Glendower and Mortimer. I’ll plan it so that you, Douglas and all our armies will arrive together. Then we can face our future with strength instead of the uncertainty we feel now.

So long, brother. I believe we’ll prevail.

Good bye, uncle. Oh, I hope it won’t be long until battlefields and collisions and groans are witnesses to our game of war!