Chapter XXVIII: Prologue

_A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the hall. Roofs of a city seen
through windows. Henry and Becket at chess._

_Henry._ So then our good Archbishop Theobald
Lies dying.

_Becket._ I am grieved to know as much.

_Henry._ But we must have a mightier man than he
For his successor.

_Becket._ Have you thought of one?

_Henry._ A cleric lately poison'd his own mother,
And being brought before the courts of the Church,
They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him.
I would have hang'd him.

_Becket._ It is your move.

_Henry._ Well--there. (_Moves._)
The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time
Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutched the crown;
But by the royal customs of our realm
The Church should hold her baronies of me,
Like other lords amenable to law.
I'll have them written down and made the law.

_Becket._ My liege, I move my bishop.

_Henry._ And if I live,
No man without my leave shall excommunicate
My tenants or my household.

_Becket._ Look to your king.

_Henry._ No man without my leave shall cross the seas
To set the Pope against me--I pray your pardon.

_Becket._ Well--will you move?

_Henry._ There. (_Moves._)

_Becket._ Check--you move so wildly.

_Henry._ There then! (_Moves._)

_Becket._ Why--there then, for you see my bishop
Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten.

_Henry._ (_Kicks over the board._) Why, there then--down go bishop and
king together.
I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy
Upon the game I should have beaten thee,
But that was vagabond.

_Becket._ Where, my liege? With Phryne,
Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another?

_Henry._ My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket;
And yet she plagues me too--no fault in her--
But that I fear the Queen would have her life.

_Becket._ Put her away, put her away, my liege!
Put her away into a nunnery!
Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound
By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek
The life of Rosamund de Clifford more
Than that of other paramours of thine?

_Henry._ How dost thou know I am not wedded to her?

_Becket._ How should I know?

_Henry._ That is my secret, Thomas.

_Becket._ State secrets should be patent to the statesman
Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king
Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend.

_Henry._ Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop,
No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet.
I would to God thou wert, for I should find
An easy father confessor in thee.

Irving, transposing, takes us at once into the plotting of the Queen against Becket because of her hatred for Rosamund and Becket's supposed protection of the King's mistress. A secondary interest in Tennyson's presentation becomes by this shifting first interest with Irving.