Not to be known.

FITZURSE.
And what care I for that?
Come, come, my lord Archbishop; I saw that door
Close even now upon the woman.

BECKET.
Well?

FITZURSE (_making for the door_).
Nay, let me pass, my lord, for I must know.

BECKET.
Back, man!

FITZURSE.
Then tell me who and what she is.

BECKET.
Art thou so sure thou followedst anything?
Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for thine eyes
Glare stupid--wild with wine.

FITZURSE (_making to the door_).
I must and will.
I care not for thy new archbishoprick.

BECKET.
Back, man, I tell thee! What!