HENRY. Pander. God's eyes! I know all that--not my purveyor Of pleasures, but to save a life--her life; Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire. I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas, A nest in a bush. BECKET. And where, my liege? HENRY (_whispers_). Thine ear. BECKET. That's lone enough. HENRY (_laying paper on table_). This chart here mark'd '_Her Bower_,' Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood, A hundred pathways running everyway, And then a brook, a bridge; and after that This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze, And then another wood, and in the midst A garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line-- The rest you see is colour'd green--but this Draws thro' the chart to her. BECKET. This blood-red line? HENRY. Ay! blood, perchance, except thou see to her. BECKET. And where is she? There in her English nest? HENRY. Would God she were--no, here within the city. We take her from her secret bower in Anjou And pass her to her secret bower in England. She is ignorant of all but that I love her. BECKET. My liege, I pray thee let me hence: a widow And orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons-- HENRY. Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in England. BECKET. Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself. HENRY. Whatever come between us? BECKET. What should come Between us, Henry? HENRY. Nay--I know not, Thomas. BECKET. What need then? Well--whatever come between us. [_Going_. HENRY. A moment! thou didst help me to my throne In Theobald's time, and after by thy wisdom Hast kept it firm from shaking; but now I, For my realm's sake, myself must be the wizard To raise that tempest which will set it trembling Only to base it deeper. I, true son Of Holy Church--no croucher to the Gregories That tread the kings their children underheel-- Must curb her; and the Holy Father, while This Barbarossa butts him from his chair, Will need my help--be facile to my hands. Now is my time. Yet--lest there should be flashes And fulminations from the side of Rome, An interdict on England--I will have My young son Henry crown'd the King of England, That so the Papal bolt may pass by England, As seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad. I'll have it done--and now. BECKET. Surely too young Even for this shadow of a crown; and tho' I love him heartily, I can spy already A strain of hard and headstrong in him. Say, The Queen should play his kingship against thine! HENRY. I will not think so, Thomas. Who shall crown him? Canterbury is dying. BECKET. The next Canterbury. HENRY. And who shall he be, my friend Thomas? Who? BECKET. Name him; the Holy Father will confirm him. HENRY (_lays his hand on_ BECKET'S _shoulder_). Here!