Falstaff by Robert Nye

Author:Robert Nye [Robert Nye]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780749012250
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2012-03-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Forty-Two

How Sir John Fastolf went to Ireland in company with Prince Thomas

12th May

Remember Skogan? That abortion of the Muse. Sweet Clio’s bastard. He died of trying to find a rhyme for SCARCE. My exploit in ventilating his wits at the court gate, my refusal to take sides in that quarrel in Eastcheap about bloody silly African islands, and no doubt some good noise of my reputation in London generally – all this recommended me to the party of the King’s sons. From now on I was in and out of their company, passed from hand to hand as often as a dildoe in a nunnery. Hal I found as extraordinary as ever, a true prince, a dove when not provoked, a lion when stirred to anger. John was still the ox in the regal zoo, the taciturn one. Humphrey was just Hal’s shadow, but a nice boy. Curiously, and for what reason I cannot say, it was in the eyes of Bolingbroke’s second son, Thomas, Duke of Clarence, that I made most ascendancy at first. I say curiously because looking back on it now, over the long interval of years, and with both of them dead, I think I can perceive in this another small item in the rivalry that there always was between Hal and this brother who was just one year his junior. It is my belief that Thomas sensed already the bond that was to exist between myself and Hal. He perceived it almost before it was apparent to Hal or to me. And he was jealous. And he wanted his part of the action. And he always desired to do his brother down a little, if he could. So, in stepped Thomas, and for a while at least I was supposed to be his man. As for Hal himself – he was biding his time, in this as in several other Dionysian matters. There was a great wildness in the lad, a delight in disorder, a longing to see the world turned upside-down. And all these things conspired to make John Fastolf a kind of magnet for him. Why? Because he sensed in me King Riot. An English Bacchus. The mischief, the pressure, the fire were all there in Harry Monmouth’s eyes, and gathering force. Showing in a smoky glaze at times. But as yet he held back a little. He hesitated. Unwilling to consecrate himself entirely a priest of Bacchus, or to encourage me in giving reign and rein to a whole Bacchanalia. He waited for the right moment, having meanwhile to do some of his father’s business, dealing with History in the shape of tablecloth-stealers like Reggie Ruthin, for instance. Hm, and the Welsh were singing their song about independence. Glendower sent Hal something like a challenge. So Hal went off to Taffy’s house (at Glendourdy) but Taffy Glendower wasn’t home. So Hal burnt Taffy’s house down and then went for a march round Merionethshire and Powysland, having to pawn his jewels to pay his men.

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