Henry IV, Part II

What’s the name of this forest?

Gaultree Forest, your grace.

Stop here, sirs. Send out scouts to find out how many soldiers our enemy has.

We’ve already done that.

Well done. My friends and brothers in this great undertaking, I have to share with you that I’ve received new letters from Northumberland. They have a chilling purpose, tone, and content. He says that he wishes he could be here in person, with an army as strong someone of his rank should have, but he couldn’t raise one. So he’s going to go to Scotland to increase his power. He prays that your armies will prevail against the terrible power of the enemy.

And with that, any hope we had for him is thrown to the ground and dashed to pieces.

What’s happening?

The enemy is west of this forest, and less than a mile away. They look powerful, and, from the amount of space they’re taking up, I’d say they have close to thirty thousand soldiers.

That’s exactly the number we thought they had. Let’s march ahead and engage them in battle.

Who’s this well-equipped leader coming here to confront us?

I think it’s Lord Westmoreland.

Our general, the Prince Lord John of Lancaster, sends greetings and wishes you good health.

Speak in peace, Lord Westmoreland. What’s the reason you’ve come here?

The most important part of my message is for you, your grace. You, who are a holy man, and these good gentlemen as well—you would not be here, lending dignity to this bloody insurrection, if it appeared as rebellion normally does: like a lowborn mob, led by bloody youths uniformed in rags, and supported by boys and beggars. You, Lord Archbishop—whose diocese is peaceful and law-abiding; whose beard has turned white, signifying a peaceful life; whose education and learning are the products of peaceful times; who is the dove and very blessed embodiment of peace—why are you translating yourself from the graceful language of peace into the harsh, violent language of war? You’re turning your books into coffins, your ink into blood, your pens into swords, and your holy words into a trumpet that sounds a call to arms.

Why am I doing this? That is the question. The short answer is this: we’re all sick. We’ve eaten and drunk too much and stayed up all night, and now we have a burning fever whose only cure is bloodletting. Richard, our late King, was infected with this disease and died from it. But, my good Lord Westmoreland, I’m not here as a physician, nor am I marching with this army as an enemy of peace. What I’m doing is making a frightening show of war, to stop people from indulging all their vices. This will clear the hardening of the arteries which threatens to kill us all. Let me speak more plainly. I’ve carefully considered the options, weighing the harm our armies are likely to cause against the harm we’re already suffering, and I find that our grievances are stronger than our offenses. We can see where things are headed, and the rough times ahead leave us with no choice but to step away from our quiet lives. We have a list of grievances which we can publish at the appropriate time. We offered that list to the King a long time ago, but we could never get an audience with him. We were wronged, and when we tried to speak to the King about it, we were denied access to him by the very men who had wronged us most. We’re in this seemingly unbefitting armor because of the terrible recent violence—the bloodshed from which is still visible on the ground—and because of the terrible things happening now, every minute. We don’t want to harm peace in any way. We want instead to establish a peace that’s real and meaningful.

When was your request to see the King denied? How has the king harmed you? What lord in the King’s court has been sent out to do you wrong? And why would you put your holy stamp of approval on an illegal uprising and give religious blessing to a violent civil war?

The grievances borne by my fellow Englishmen, and the cruel murder of Scroop, my own brother: these are the reasons I’ve made this fight my own.

There’s no need for any repayment like that; and even if there were, you should not be the person to benefit.

Why shouldn’t he benefit at least a little? Why shouldn’t we all benefit, who suffered in these recent battles, and who have allowed our honor to be damaged by the terrible things happening now?

Oh, my good Lord Mowbray, if you think about what is necessary in times of war, you’ll see that it is the situation that harms you, and not the King himself. But as for you in particular, it seems to me that you have no foundation on which to build a quarrel with either the King or your current situation. Wasn’t the entire estate of the Duke of Norfolk, your father, just given back to you?

What did my father lose that I now need to restore? Richard, the King at the time, loved my father, but given what was happening he had no choice but to banish him. And then, at Coventry, my father and Harry Bolingbroke met in a formal challenge. They were both mounted on their horses and ready to charge. Their horses were neighing, anxiously waiting for their riders’ spurs to drive them forward. Their steel-tipped lances were ready for the attack. The visors of their helmets were down. Their eyes were on fire behind the steel slits. The trumpet sounded, and then—when there was nothing that could have stopped my father from killing Bolingbroke—the King prevented the fight by throwing down his royal scepter. That scepter was a symbol of his life; when he threw it down, he threw down his life and the lives of every man that has since died at war under the leadership of Bolingbroke.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lord Mowbray. Bolingbroke at the time was considered the bravest gentleman in England. Who knows who would have won that fight? But even if your father had won, he never would have made it out of Coventry. The whole country hated him, and they loved and prayed for Bolingbroke. They blessed him and adored him even more than the King. But I digress. I was sent here by our general, the Prince, to hear your grievances, and to tell you that he’s prepared to listen to you. If it appears that your demands are legitimate, he’ll give you what you want—except for those things which might suggest that you’re his enemies.

But he’s made us force him to listen to us. His offer isn’t motivated by love; it’s a political move.

Mowbray, you’re out of line to think that. His offer is made out of mercy, not fear. Just look, you can see our army from here. I give you my word of honor: that army is so confident, it won’t even allow the thought of fear to enter. Our army has more important people than yours, and better soldiers; our armor is every bit as strong as yours, and our cause is better. It’s only logical that we should be as courageous as you are. So don’t say you’ve forced the Prince to do anything at all.

Well, I say we won’t agree to any conference.

That just proves that what you’re doing here is shameful. A rotten container falls apart at the touch; likewise, a rotten cause cannot withstand scrutiny and argument.

Has the King given Prince John his full authorization to listen to our complaint, and address it in any way the Prince sees fit?

That goes without saying. I’m amazed you’d even ask such a foolish question.

Then, Lord Westmoreland, take this document. It lists our grievances. If each complaint listed here is addressed, and if everyone on our side, both here and elsewhere, is granted a full pardon and immediate satisfaction of our demands, then we’ll return to our own boundaries again and work together for the cause of peace.

I’ll show this to the general. Please, let’s meet at a place where both our armies can see us. Then either let our talks end in peace—God willing!—or let us take the fight to the battlefield where it will be decided.

My lord, we will do so.

Something in my heart tells me that no peace we agree to could possibly last.

Don’t worry about that. If we can come to terms that are as comprehensive as the ones we’re insisting upon, then the peace will be as durable as rocky mountains.

Yes, but in the future the King will think so poorly of us that every little slight, every false accusation, every tiny, silly, frivolous thing will seem to him to be a revival of this rebellion. Even if we were as devoted to the King as martyrs are to their causes, he’ll regard us so skeptically that even the good things we do for him won’t count; he won’t be able to distinguish them from the bad.

No, no, sir. Listen, the king is tired of getting upset over every little thing. He’s discovered that ending one problem by killing someone only creates two bigger problems in the people left alive. So from now on, he’ll wipe his memory clean, and forget anything that might remind him of the bad things from his past. He knows that he can’t just eliminate every single opponent who crops up. His enemies are rooted in with his friends, to the extent that, if he tries to pull up an enemy, he’ll also uproot and discard a friend. This country’s like a misbehaving wife, who, just when her husband is about to hit her, holds his baby up, and freezes the intended punishment in the very arm that was poised to apply it.

Besides, the King has expended all his energy for punishment on the recent rebellion. He has nothing left to punish with. His power is like a lion with no teeth: it can threaten, but it can’t do any harm.

That’s true. Rest assured, my good Lord Marshal, if our reconciliation is sincere, then peace will be like a broken bone, which grows stronger for having once been broken.

I hope so. Lord Westmoreland is back.

The Prince is nearby. If you will, please meet him at a spot halfway between our two armies.

Your grace, Archbishop of York, go forward in God’s name.

Lead on, and greet his highness. (to WESTMORELAND) Sir, we’re on our way.

I’m glad to see you, my cousin Mowbray. Good day to you, gentle Archbishop, and to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. Lord Archbishop, it was better to see you when worshippers—called together by the church bell—surrounded you to hear Biblical sermons than it is to see you here, in armor; cheering a mob of rebels with your war drums, turning your words to weapons, and your life into death. When a man is close to the King’s heart, and grows strong under the King’s protection, only to turn against him—alas! What evils that man will unleash, hidden from view by the King’s own reputation! This is exactly how it is with you, Lord Bishop. Who hasn’t heard how profound your religious knowledge is? To us, you were our representative in God’s own parliament. To us, you might as well have been God’s own voice: the interpreter and ambassador between God’s heavenly ways and our own dull, mortal actions. And now, who would say anything but that you are abusing the holiness of your position, using the outward show of godliness to do terrible things, like a treacherous courtier uses the King’s good name? You have pretended to be acting in God’s name as you encourage the subjects of God’s deputy, my father, to rise up against the peace of both heaven and the King.

Good Lord of Lancaster, I am not here as an enemy your father’s peace. But, as I told Westmoreland, these tumultuous times have forced us to behave in these monstrous ways, out of common sense and a regard for our own safety. I sent you a detailed list of our grievances, but you angrily shoved it aside. That’s why this Hydra of a war has broken out. You can get rid of it by agreeing to the just and right things we demand. If you do that, this disease of war will be cured, and the monster will bow at your feet, tame and obedient.

If you don’t, we’re ready to fight to the last man.

And if those of us who are here should fail, we have reinforcements standing by. If they fail, they have reinforcements to back them up, and in this way the fight will go on from father to son for all time until England itself has no more new generations.

You’re not wise enough, Hastings, not wise enough at all to see into eternity.

Your highness, why not tell them directly what you think of their list of grievances.

I agree with all of them, and I admit that they’re legitimate. I swear, on my family’s honor: my father’s intentions have been misunderstood, and some of his subordinates have overstepped their authority in executing his orders. (to ARCHBISHOP) Sir, we will make good on the wrongs that have been done to you, I swear on my soul. If this pleases you, then disperse your armies and send them back where they came from; we shall do the same. And here, where both armies can see us, we’ll embrace and drink a friendly toast to one another. The soldiers will go home with evidence that we’re friends once again.

I’ll take your word as a prince that you’ll make good on these things.

I give you my word, and I’ll keep it. And with that, I drink a toast to you.

Go, captain. Tell the army this news of peace. Pay them, and send them away. I know it will make them happy. Hurry, captain.

Here’s to you, good Lord Westmoreland.

I drink to your grace. If you knew how hard I’ve worked to bring about this peaceful resolution, you’d really drink up. But my love for you will be more apparent from now on.

I don’t doubt it.

I’m glad. And here’s to your health, my gentle cousin Lord Mowbray.

You wish me good health at a very good moment, because for some reason I’m suddenly feeling ill.

Men are always merry in the face of bad situations, but a heavy heart predicts a happy event.

So be happy, kinsman. A sudden feeling of melancholy is just a sign that says, “Something good is coming tomorrow.”

Believe me, I’m in really good spirits.

Which is not a good thing, if your own rule is correct.

The news of peace has been announced. Listen to them shout!

They sound like they are cheering a victory.

Peace is a victory of sorts: both sides stop fighting honorably, but neither loses.

Go and disperse our army, too, Lord Westmoreland.

Good Archbishop, let’s have both our troops march past us here so that we can see the men we would have fought against.

Go, Lord Hastings, and have them march past before they’re dismissed.

I hope, sirs, that we’ll spend tonight in the same camp.

Cousin, why is our army still standing?

The leaders have orders from you to stand fast, and they won’t disperse until they hear you give the order.

They know how to follow orders.

Our army is already dispersed. They’ve headed off to the east, west, north, and south like young bulls whose yokes have been removed. The men are like children after school, each hurrying toward their homes or the playground.

That’s good news, Lord Hastings. And hearing it, I now arrest you, traitor, for high treason. And you, Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray. I arrest you both for capital treason.

Is this action just and honorable?

Was your rebellion just and honorable?

Will you break faith with us like this?

I never promised you my faith. I promised to make good on the grievances you complained of. And, on my honor, I will do that as carefully as possible. But now, you rebels will get exactly what you deserve for the things you’ve done. You raised armies over nothing, brought them here stupidly, and then foolishly sent them away. Bang on our drums! Capture the soldiers who are scattering away. God, not we, has fought today and won. Guards, escort these traitors to the place of their death. That’s where treason belongs, and where they’ll draw their last breath.