But stay, what news? Why com’st thou in such post?

MESSENGER

The Queen, with all the northern earls and lords,

Intend here to besiege you in your castle.

She is hard by with twenty thousand men,

And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

YORK

Ay, with my sword. What—think’st thou that we fear

them?

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;

My brother Montague shall post to London.

Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,

Whom we have left protectors of the King,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves,

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

MONTAGUE

Brother, I go—I’ll win them, fear it not.

And thus most humbly I do take my leave. Exit

Enter Sir John Mortimer and his brother Sir Hugh

YORK

Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.

The army of the Queen mean to besiege us.

SIR JOHN

She shall not need, we’ll meet her in the field.

YORK What, with five thousand men?

RICHARD

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.

A woman’s general—what should we fear?

A march sounds afar off

EDWARD

I hear their drums. Let’s set our men in order,

And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

YORK ⌈to Sir John and Sir Hugh⌉

Five men to twenty—though the odds be great,

I doubt not, uncles, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France

Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one—

Why should I not now have the like success? Exeunt

1.3 Alarums, and then enter the young Earl of Rutland and his Tutor, a chaplain

RUTLAND

Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands?

Enter Lord Clifford with soldiers

Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

CLIFFORD (to the Tutor)

Chaplain, away—thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father—he shall die.

TUTOR

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

CLIFFORD Soldiers, away with him.

TUTOR

Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

Exit, guarded

⌈Rutland falls to the ground⌉

CLIFFORD

How now—is he dead already?

Or is it fear that makes him close his eyes?

I’ll open them.

RUTLAND ⌈reviving⌉

So looks the pent-up lion o‘er the wretch

That trembles under his devouring paws,

And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey,

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword

And not with such a cruel threat’ning look.

Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath.

Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

CLIFFORD

In vain thou speak’st, poor boy. My father’s blood

Hath stopped the passage where thy words should

enter.

RUTLAND

Then let my father’s blood open it again.

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

CLIFFORD

Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me.

No—if I digged up thy forefathers’ graves,

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,

It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart.

The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul.

And till I root out their accursed line,

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore—

RUTLAND

O, let me pray before I take my death.

⌈Kneeling⌉ To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me.

CLIFFORD

Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.

RUTLAND

I never did thee harm—why wilt thou slay me?

CLIFFORD

Thy father hath.

RUTLAND But ’twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son—for his sake pity me,

Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,

He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days,

And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

CLIFFORD

No cause? Thy father slew my father, therefore die. He stabs him

RUTLAND

Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae. He dies

CLIFFORD

Plantagenet—I come, Plantagenet!

And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade

Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood,

Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.

Exit with Rutland’s body ⌈and soldiers⌉

1.4 Alarum. Enter Richard Duke of York YORK

The army of the Queen hath got the field;

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,

Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons—God knows what hath bechancèd them.

But this I know—they have demeaned themselves

Like men born to renown by life or death.

Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

And thrice cried, ‘Courage, father, fight it out!’

And full as oft came Edward to my side,

With purple falchion painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encountered him.

And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried, ‘Charge and give no foot of ground!’

And cried ‘A crown or else a glorious tomb!