Henry IV, Part I

Well said, you excellent Scotsman. If people these days didn’t confuse the truth with flattery, I would praise you highly. No other soldier so newly tested in battle would have gained such a widespread reputation. God knows, I don’t flatter: I hate people who give out praise too easily. But you have a place in my heart that no other man has. Make me prove it; try me.

You are the most honorable man alive, and if any man challenges that—no matter how powerful—I’ll defy him.

You do that. Well done.

What letters have you got there? (to DOUGLAS) All I can do is thank you.

These letters come from your father.

Letters from him? Why isn’t he here in person?

He can’t come, my lord; he’s terribly sick.

Damn! How can he take the leisure of being sick at such a frantic time? Who’s in charge of his army? Who’s leading them here?

His letters will tell you his plans, my lord, not I.

Pardon me, but is he bedridden?

He had been, sir, for four days before I left. And on the day I left, his doctors were extremely concerned.

I wish he’d waited till things were settled before he went and got sick. We’ve never needed him more than now.

Sick now? Faint now? His disease is infecting our entire project. It’s spread all the way to here, right to our camp. He writes that some internal illness—and that his allies couldn’t be gathered so quickly by one of his deputies. Besides, he didn’t think it was appropriate to delegate such a dangerous and important task to someone other than himself. But he also says that we should be bold and press on with our small contingent. For, as he writes, there’s no turning back now, since the King surely knows our plans. What do you think?

Your father’s sickness is a serious injury to us.

It’s a perilous wound, like losing a limb. And yet, truly, it’s not that bad; the loss of my father seems worse than it is. After all, is it a good idea to bet all our resources on one throw of the dice? Or to gamble such a rich stake on a single hazardous event? No, because that would mean we had reached the end of our hope, and the very limit of our luck.

That’s right. We have a chance at a rich inheritance; we can take a risk now, based on the promise of success to come. That gives us comfort, something to fall back on.

It gives us a refuge, a home we can always run to, in case the devil or misfortune ruins these early plans.

I still wish your father were here. Our endeavor here won’t withstand any division. People who don’t realize your father is sick will assume that he knows some kind of secret, or that he is loyal to the King, or that he doesn’t approve of how we’re handling things. And just imagine how that kind of mistrust could frighten our more timid supporters, and lead them to doubt us. You know very well that the challenger must always avoid careful examination. We must seal every crack, every loophole, which skeptics might look through to see weaknesses. Your father’s absence draws the curtains back and reveals frightful things to ignorant people, who had never had a reason to fear before.

You’re taking this too far. I’d rather think about his absence this way: it makes us look even better. It makes our great undertaking seem even more daring than it would if Northumberland were here. People will think that if we can raise an army against the King without my father, that once he joins we’ll turn the whole kingdom upside down. Everything is fine, we’re all in one piece.

We’re as well off as we could have hoped. In Scotland, we don’t even know the meaning of the word fear.

Welcome, kinsman Vernon, from the bottom of my heart.

I pray to God that what I have to say is worth welcoming, my lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, with seven thousand men, is marching this way. Prince John is with him.

Nothing to be worried about. What else?

I’ve also learned that the King himself is coming this way, or at least plans to very soon, with a huge and powerful force.

We’ll welcome him too. Where’s his son, that sporting, foolhardy Prince of Wales, and his comrades, who don’t care about anything?

They’re all in uniform, all armed. They look like feathered ostriches; like eagles beating their wings after a bath; like statues painted gold. They’re as lively as the springtime; as gorgeous as the midsummer sun; as giddy as young goats; as wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his helmet on, and armor on his thighs. Armed with powerful weapons, he rose off the ground like the winged god Mercury, and leaped so effortlessly into his saddle, it was as if an angel had dropped out of the sky to ride a fiery Pegasus, and bewitch the world with his incredible horsemanship.

Stop, stop! This praise of him makes me sicker than the sun on an early spring day. Let them come, like sacrifices in all their finery; we’ll offer them, hot and bleeding, to the fire-eyed goddess of smoky war. The war-god Mars will sit on his altar, up to his ears in blood. I am on fire, knowing that this rich prize is so near, and yet still not ours. Come, bring me my horse, who will carry me like a lightning bolt to face the Prince of Wales. Then this Harry will meet that Harry, my horse against his horse; we’ll meet and never separate, till one of us falls down as a corpse. Oh, I wish that Glendower were here!

I have more news: as I passed through the town of Worcester, I heard that Glendower won’t be able to collect his army for two more weeks.

That’s the worst news I’ve heard so far.

Yes, truly, that news makes me cold.

How many men in the King’s army?

Thirty thousand.

Let it be forty. Even with both my father and Glendower absent, our armies may still be enough to win. Come on, let’s gather our troops right now. It’s almost doomsday; if we die, we die cheerfully.

Don’t talk about dying. I won’t even worry about dying for the next six months.