Archive for August, 2013

Elizabeth: I’ve gone home. I expect I shall get lots of visitors!
Margaret Beaufort: My son. Rightful throne.
Stanley: Ever thought you might be wrong?
Margaret Beaufort: Me?
Stanley: I don’t think God likes you anymore.
Anne: My son is sick!
Richard: Stop fussing, woman! Henry Tudor is to marry Princess Lizzie. That means I’ll have to move quickly to satisfy my metaphorical sword-drawing lust while pretending to my wife that nothing’s going on. Hang on, wait… My brother’s daughter? Oh, God! Really?
Anne: Best not to think about it too much. I mean, I’m turning into an insufferable middle class snob. No wonder I never get invited to parties.
Prince Teddy: Bleurgh!
Anne: Just give me a moment to be a passive-aggressive bitch to the Witch Queen’s daughters and I’ll be right with you. Lizzie, Cecily. I’m Queen and you’re not. Kindly suck on that, please.
Richard: *looms ominously*
Lizzie: Do me now! Right now! On the floor, if you like.
Anne: *creeps ominously*
Lizzie: *dances suggestively*
Margaret Beaufort: I’ve got a table covered with fruit and no bugger to throw it at. Ah, Stanley! There you are!
Stanley: The King wants to bonk Princess Lizzie. And she wants to bonk him.
Margaret Beaufort: He’s her uncle. No, bear with me, this is going to be worth it. I know there was a contemporary rumour which was publicly denied. And that letter Buck claims to have seen, the one where Lizzie says she hopes the Queen dies quickly so she can marry Richard? And then there’s the whole no smoke/fire thing. But, what the hey! I mean, we’ve done the Witchy Wydeville thing and I’m celibate years before the fact and… Oh, God, I’ll need a week to go through the list…
Stanley: Margaret?
Margaret Beaufort: Sorry. You were saying?
Stanley: Just a spot of foreshadowing. Barren Queen, weak son, pretty niece… You join the dots.
Margaret Beaufort: I think I’ll just say whore a couple of times and storm out.
Anne: We’re cursed for accidentally killing the Princes!
Richard: Now, take your clothes off so I can lie to you about me and Lizzie.
Anne: We must rush to our dying son’s bedside. Richard, put down that illegitimate whore and come with me. No need to hurry, I’m running in slo-mo.
Richard: I shall shout helplessly!
Anne: And I’ll get hysterical. No, I’m sorry, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I feel a bit of a rant coming on.

Queen Anne’s rant

I’ve put up with a lot, I really have. My mother turned into a coldhearted bitch. Rape at the hands of my first husband. The ‘Kingmaker’ thing… But this is it! There are two mothers in this who weren’t with their sons when they died, me and Elizabeth Wydeville. Now, I guess it was hard to have her there by her boys’ bedsides when they met whatever fate they met at whoever’s hands, but why me? Do you know where my son was when he died? Do you know where I was? Go to google maps. Type in ‘Sheriff Hutton to Nottingham’ and you’ll see we were a hundred miles apart. That’s four or five days away. And, see, that’s what makes the whole thing even sadder. Richard and I loved our son. And we weren’t there when he died! We didn’t even know he was ill till the news came. So, whoever it was decided they could make my life somehow better, more dramatic. Sadder. Who the hell do you think you are! My life was what it was. I’m not some stock fairytale character for you to manipulate. I was a real person, you know! And what do you think I wouldn’t have given to see my son one last time before he died? Hmmm?

Richard: Feeling better?
Anne: Yes, sorry. That just had to be said.
Lizzie: Let me comfort you, Uncle Dickon.
Anne: I think I’ll take to my bed for a bit.
Elizabeth: Dear Lizzie, this is all getting so confusing, what with the firstborn son thing and the high child mortality rate in the 15th century. Why, just today our blacksmith’s oldest son died and now I’m convinced he murdered your brothers! Maybe we should hold off on the curses for a while. See how things go.
Lizzie: I love you, Uncle Dickon. Let’s bonk!
Elizabeth: What’s going on, Lizzie?
Lizzie: Oh, Uncle Dickon is so dreamy! Dying Queen, dead son. All that. I’m going to be Queen!
Margaret Beaufort: Conspire, plot, incite, conspire.
Henry Tudor: I have a crap army!
Anne: I’m the Kingmaker’s daughter… Oh, God! Here we go again. Are you serious? The man who came up with that name hasn’t been born yet. Hell, his great grandfather hasn’t been born yet! Excuse me while I cough up blood and pray for death. Papa? Izzie? I’ll be there soon and we can have a lovely bitch about all this over a nice cup of tea.
Stanley: Dear Margaet, let me explain what’s going on.
Richard: Let me explain it all to you, Anne.
Anne: I don’t want to die guilty! Sir Robert, did I kill the Princes?
Brackenbury: No.
Anne: That’s all right then. My job here is done. I can die in peace. Papa! Get. Me. Out. Of. Here. Oh, and tell Izzie to put the kettle on.
Lizzie: Mummy! The sun’s going away! Did you do that?
Margaret Beaufort: It’s a sign! Let me explain…
Richard: Anne, come and see what’s happening to the sun. It’s really cool!
Anne: I’m dying, ffs! I can see Izzie. I hope she’s made scones.
Richard: It’s all gone tits up!
Margaret Beaufort: Princess Lizzie’s here. Brilliant! I can practice being the mother-in-law from Hell.
Cecily: Mummy, now that Henry Tudor’s on his way and going to marry Lizzie… You remember that curse?
Lizzie: Lady Margaret?
Margaret Beaufort: *bitch slap*
Henry Tudor: I’ve going to be King of this handful of sand I’ve just picked up.
Jasper: Still Welsh. Slightly less sexy now I have this godawful beard.
Margaret Beaufort: You chosen sides yet, Stanley?
Stanley: Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.
Richard: How many men has Henry Tudor got?
Brackenbury: Half what you have. So… Fourteen?
Lizzie: If I lean like this when I pray, you’ll get a nice shot of my cleavage. Lady Margaret, is Richard coming?
Margaret Beaufort: *bitch slap*
Lizzie: Richard loves me!
Margaret Beaufort: *double bitch slap*
Lizzie: You killed my brothers!
Margaret Beaufort: *total bitch slap*
Lizzie: I’m going to be Queen! Hah!
Margaret Beaufort: I need to sharpen my bitch slap.
Lord Strange: Grovel, cower, plead, grovel.
Richard: I’ll chop off your head if your father doesn’t fight for me.
Strange: Ok. Sounds good.
Henry Tudor: How long can we drag out this will Stanley/won’t Stanley thing?
Jasper: Let’s see, there’s about twenty minutes to go, so…
Henry Tudor: Dear Mummy, I might wet my pants.
Margaret Beaufort: I’ll sort it out. First I have to find Stanley and tell him my son is more important than his.
Stanley: Got that, thanks. Now please go away.
Margaret Beaufort: Oh, God! It’s Jasper!
Jasper: Welsh…
Margaret Beaufort: And sexy. Damn that vow of chastity! Can you excuse me while I have a psychotic episode?
Jasper: Go right ahead.
Stanley: Maybe she’s right. Maybe her son is more important than mine.
Margaret Beaufort: Henry, you didn’t hear me stay that stuff about you dying in a field, did you?
Henry Tudor: No, Mum.
Margaret Beaufort: Good. Coz you’re not, right?
Henry Tudor: No, Mum. Did you bring God?
Margaret Beaufort; Yes, son. Yes, I did.
Jasper: I shall go and tell our fourteen men where to stand.
Richard: Why don’t I have a proper suit of armour?
Brackenbury: Doesn’t matter. We’re going to kick their arses!
Richard: Stanley?
Brackenbury: Says he’ll be here.
Richard: Why is it snowing in August?
Jasper: Let’s creep through this forest and surprise them.
Henry Tudor: Yeah! We could jump out and shout ‘Surprise!’ and everything.
Jasper: You’re not much into this battle thing, are you?
Richard: Let’s do this thing!
Elizabeth: My secretly-sent-to-Flanders son has come home!
Prince Richard: Yeah, about that, Mum. How am I supposed to be Perkin if I’m here with you?
Elizabeth: I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure they’ll come up with a suitably ridiculous Perkin plot if the BBC goes ahead with the sequel.
Prince Richard: Can you ask them not to?
Elizabeth: Out of my hands, sorry.
Prince Richard: I’m going to ask you a question about my brother, Prince Edward, in case you’ve forgotten either his name or his royal title. Then I’m going to swear vengeance!
Elizabeth: Shush, dear, while Mummy voiceovers this lame battle.
Lord Strange: So, you going to kill me, then?
Richard: We’re kicking arse!
Jasper: Henry! Run away!
Henry Tudor: Stanley!
Stanley: Go the Tudors!
Richard: Shit… Urk.
Lizzie: I got a bad feeling.
William Stanley: I’ve found the crown.
Henry Tudor: Thanks. I’ve been King since yesterday, just so’s you know.
Margaret Beaufort: I’d high five you, God, only I don’t have the strength. Oh, and Stanley… *bitch slap*
Lizzie: Henry Tudor’s going to rape me now, isn’t he? Coz that’s what unsympathetic husbands do round these parts.
Elizabeth: Look on the bright side, dear. You’re going to be Queen. That’s a pretty cool job!

Chorus: Pray pardon, gentle reader, for what lies beneath these words
It bears no examination. In truth, it is absurd.
Each episode was watched in stubborn, willful bliss
For just one simple purpose, which was to take the piss.
But now I fear – alas! – our chronicler’s insane
For rhyming couplets freely fall from her poor fevered brain.
She begs your kind indulgence for this travesty
And pleads for your forgiveness for her lack of gravity.
If not for this small service, the blogging to be done,
She’d not have watched the bloody thing past episode one.

King Richard: I shall recite your name, and after that your title
That the audience keeps up with us is rather more than vital.
Anne: And I’ll sit here, upon my throne, and look down my nose.
See my shiny crown! Admire my queenly pose!
Elizabeth: Those blasted bells across the way make such an awful noice!
But I believe England shall rise in the name of Edward’s boice!
Lizzie: I’m standing here, in sanctuary’s gloom
Pronouncing, pouting, words of doom.
Stanley: With Buk and Thomas Grey we’ll go within the hour
And rescue both the Princes from their prison in the Tower.
Margaret: Just hold a moment, think awhile on that great revolution
While I concoct in my dark mind a more elegant solution.
Anne: And for my part, I’ll drop a hint into Sir Robert’s head.
Brackenbury: What say your Grace? You think the Princes might be better dead?
Elizabeth: King Richard wants to cut a deal.
Morton: Buk has a better one, I feel.
Stanley: I’ll to the Tower at once, my dear, and kill the little king.
Margaret: It is the will of God, I fear, that we do this bad thing.
And by that simple act, my son’s claim is cemented.
Now I’ll just wait here till it’s done, looking quite demented.
Thomas Grey: We creep along the Tower walls; we’re up to no darned good.
I think I must have strayed into a scene from Robin Hood!
I must tell Mum that our plan’s derailed.
Lizzie: You might ask Margaret Beaufort why it failed.
Margaret: Stop messing with me, God, and please give me a sign!
I’ll meet my husband in the wood and have a little whine
Then I’ll talk to Buckingham although he’s slightly thick.
As noble as he is – on the uptake, none too quick.
Buckingham: But your son will then be king. You know it should be me!
Margaret: Well, let’s just get it done, and then we’ll wait and see.
Lizzie: I petulantly explain it all to Mum
I’m sick of sanctuary! It’s so humdrum!
As a teenager, I think you’ll find it is my job to moan,
To sulk and sigh and lie abed, to roll my eyes and groan.
Elizabeth: You do that, dear. I’ll wander round and sadly reminisce
About my sweet dead husband who I so loved to kiss.
I’ll wander round like this, I fear, for days and days and days,
And lean against this handy wall, inhabiting a haze.
Margaret: This letter’s just a narrative device
Weeks of action montaged in a trice.
Stanley: News from my wife, your Grace, unless I’ve misconstrued her.
She says that Princess Lizzie is to marry Henry Tudor.
King Richard: I must repeat again how very much I need
The loyalty of Stanley, so his eventual deed
Of treachery and treason is most clearly foreseen
By everyone but me, until the final scene.
Anne: You might trust him but you’ll see
He cannot hide from me duplicity.
I know what’s going to happen, good and bad and worse.
Remember how I recognised that awful nasty curse
The witchy Wydeville Queen put upon your arm?
Lock Lady Margaret up so she cannot do you harm!
King Richard: Buckingham spread a rumour foul about the Princes’ fate!
Anne: Oh, prick me not, foul conscience! It is far, far too late!
Morton: Your sons are dead, hey nonny no!
By your shocked face, you didn’t know!
Elizabeth: I shall look stunned and whisper underneath my breath
And demonstrate denial of my sweet baby’s death.
For, as you may not know, one has escaped to Flanders.
Morton: King Richard did this, have no doubt! I go to spread the slanders.
Elizabeth: Morton, while you were talking, I figured it all out.
It makes so little sense and now I start to doubt.
Which explains my willingness to leave
And to usurping Richard cleave.
Because, of course, the freedom and the future of my daughters
Is not enough on it’s own to set aside these slaughters.
And now, so suddenly, this moment, I have at last caught on
To the idea that, perhaps, I can’t quite trust this Morton.
He knows too many details, of pillows that did smother
My most precious jewel and the one who stood in for his brother.
Lizzie: Henry Tudor is held back from the sea.
Mum! That must be down to you and me!
I get it now, I understand, I see how this thing goes.
We don’t cast spells, no, not at all, unless history knows
The outcome of events, whether they be good or tragic
Oh, Mother, dear. Come here! Come here! I think it’s time for magic.
Elizabeth: We’ll send a storm! Been done, I know.
We’re good at rain, but not at snow.
Yes, I have turned a battle but just in case your doubtin
I had a hand in Barnet but cast no spells at Towton.
Henry Tudor: I want to sail to England but there’s this bloody storm!
I’m going back inside the house where it’s nice and safe and warm.
King Richard: Dear Anne, I’m getting soaking wet out here in the open.
My men are cold and weary, I fear they’re just not copin.
Buckingham: Dear Margaret, all is lost, that much is clear.
King Richard: I’m in the Tower. My nephews are not here!
Margaret: I’ll burn all of these letters, now our chance is lost
Our plans lie in tatters and the Channel’s not been crossed.
Anne: Richard, please, burn the witch! Then do come home and rest.
King Richard: I’m sorry, darling Anne, but I think I am obsessed.
Buckingham’s the murderer, I’m sure. It has to be!
Yet before his bloody death, him I’ll refuse to see.
You’d think that a way out of this mess,
See Buk before he dies, make him confess.
Anne: O guilt! O guilt! Be still, I pray. Show not upon my face.
King Richard: And even though history knows we weren’t in the same place
I’ll witness the head of Buckingham rolling on the ground.
And the one who killed the Princes never will be found.
You know, that’s really lame, it makes not a lick of sense.
But I suppose it could explain the total lack of evidence.
Stanley: You’re a traitor, Mags, you’ll burn for treason.
Margaret: Does my face show  I’ve lost all reason?
I’ll run away! I’ll go to France, escape this almighty cock up.
Stanley: I’m sorry dear, you won’t do that, you’ll be in the lock up.
King Richard: It’s all gone wrong, I don’t know why. I’ve stuffed it up completely.
Elizabeth: What makes you think I’ll shake your hand and smile at you so sweetly?
King Richard: An argument will rage, five hundred years from now.
‘He didn’t show their bodies. And that’s precisely how
We know he didn’t kill them.’ I’m quite convinced.
It’s not my fault at all the Tower was deprinced.
Lizzie: He’s drawn his sword! A metaphor! My heart beats in a rush.
I think I’ve fallen suddenly into an awesome crush!
Oh, I know it’s stupid. Of all the men to pick on
I’ve fallen for the wrongest one, my married Uncle Dickon!
Elizabeth: We’ll curse whoever killed my son, me and little Lizzie.
Lizzie: My God! I swoon! Those big brown eyes of his have made me dizzy.
But yes, they’ll have no sons, these evil men.
King Richard: And gazing at you, I’ll foreshadow once again.
Lizzie: Oh, Mummy! You know how much I do love a cursing!
Even though I know it is my own doom I am nursing.
See, the murderer is none but my future husband’s mother
And thus I doom the eighth Henry’s darling older brother.
Who’ll be my firstborn son, one day in time to come
And from this very curse of ours – alas! – he shall succumb.
King Richard: The witches cursed whoever killed the kid.
Anne: Then I am cursed, for I believe I did.
King Richard: I’ll send the Queen to Grafton, so very far away
But Princess Lizzie I’ll keep close  so I might have my way.
Lizzie: The Tudor match is off which makes me dance with joy.
Elizabeth: How else will you be Queen? He’s the only likely boy.
Lizzie: I’ll play at cards and cause my pulse to quicken
When I think of ruling beside my Uncle Dickon.

Chorus: And so Buckingham rebelled and lost his pretty head.
The Princes in the Tower are most wretchedly dead.
Oh, except the little one who even now is lurkin
Somewhere on the Continent, waiting to be Perkin.

Jasper Tudor: Henry Tudor, I shall use your full name so our thick as two planks audience has half a chance to work out who you are. Oh, and I’m still Welsh. Still sexy.
Margaret Beaufort: My son’s coming home!
Elizabeth: Has the King made a decision without consulting me? Again?
Edward: Who shall I shag today?
Lizzie: Daddy, you’re getting fat!
Edward: Princess Elizabeth, I shall use your title so our thick as two short planks audience has half a chance to work out who you are. I’m allowed to get fat. I’m King!
Elizabeth: Edward, you’re going to die!
Edward: No, I’m not.
Margaret Beaufort. My son. King. God. All that.
Edward: I think you’re right, Elizabeth. I’m going to die. Fetch Richard!
Gloucester: The King’s dying, we’re off to London.
Anne: Can I just do this spot of foreshadowing before we leave?
Richard: Got here in the nick of time!
Cecily: Take the throne, Richard.
Edward: I’ll never get to see what kind of king my son will make.
Omnes: Neither will anyone else.
Edward: Ok, haven’t got time to mess around with missing wills and disputed codicils. Richard, you’re Lord Protector.
Elizabeth: Damn! That means I can’t make young Edward my puppet.
Gloucester: Can anyone explain why I’m here?
Edward: I trust Richard.
Elizabeth: Have you not been paying attention? All that foreshadowing just went straight past you, didn’t it?
Stanley: One down.
Margaret Beaufort: Four to go.
Anne: Aren’t you glad this writer rediscovered all us forgotten women and retold our stories in such an accurate way?
Cecily: Forgotten? Tell me, who do you imagine would forget me?
Margaret Beaufort: It’s God’s work.
Elizabeth: Ah, this is obviously some strange use of the word accurate that I wasn’t previously aware of. Someone fetch my son so he can be my puppet.
Cecily: Take the throne, Richard.
Gloucester: No.
Anne: Yes. Take the throne. The Queen’s a bitch. What more reason do you need?
Gloucester: I know. I’ll sort it. Jane Shore.
Anne: Throw the whore out!
Jane Shore: I’ll go plot with Hastings. Where the hell has he got to?
Jasper Tudor: You’re not going to England now, Henry Tudor.
Henry Tudor: Then why did you send that girl away? I wasn’t finished!
Edward V: I’m a snivelling brat. There, that should forestall any viewer empathy.
Gloucester: I promised your father I’d keep you safe.
Edward V: Well, not doing a brilliant job so far, are you?
Gloucester: It gets worse.
Edward V: I want Mummy!
Anne: Too bad. So sad.
Elizabeth: I’m going to refer to my son, Richard Grey, by his full name so our thick as two short planks audience has half a chance to work out who he is. Then I think I’ll go to sanctuary.
Lizzie: Mum, we’re witches, right? You and Grandma used your power to make you Queen. And that storm in the Channel, remember? And the mist at Barnet? Why don’t we just magic this all right?
Elizabeth: Erm…
Lizzie: Aren’t we even going to try?
Elizabeth: There is no try, Lizzie. We don’t use magic unless we know it’s going to work. This all ended badly for us so, obviously…
Lizzie: That’s just silly!
Elizabeth: I don’t make the rules.
Anthony Wydeville: I’m a trusting fool!
Stanley: Let me explain all of this to you, Margaret.
Margaret Beaufort: And I’ll join in once I get where it’s going.
Buckingham: I’m going to use Thomas Grey and Edward Rivers’ full names…
Gloucester: And job description.
Buckingham: Yes, that too.
Gloucester: I feel funny. Was that the last of my loyalty to my brother draining away?
Cecily: Take the throne, Richard.
Anne: Take the throne, Richard. The Queen’s a witch. Though, oddly, she doesn’t seem to be using magic this time around.
Gloucester: Arrest everyone!
Anne: Daddy! Daddy! I’m going to be Queen! See me sitting on the Queen chair?
Margaret Beaufort: Ooops!
Anne: Oh, what a give away!
Jane Shore: I’m sleeping with your brother now. Can I come in? I’ve brought vegetables.
Elizabeth: You’re sleeping with Anthony?
Jane Shore: Well, Hastings is still nowhere to be found, so…
Margaret Beaufort: Gossip, manipulate, insinuate, gossip.
Elizabeth: I believe every word you say!
Brackenbury: Anthony’s sleeping with Jane Shore. Arrest him!
Anthony Wydeville: But I’m nice!
Brackenbury: Kill everyone!
Anne: Yes, kill everyone.
Jane Shore: I might be a whore walking half naked through London, but I’ve got me pride.
Anthony Wydeville: Dear Richard, please don’t kill me.
Some dude, I think it might be Buckingham but I’m not sure that makes much sense: Give me your other son.
Elizabeth: No.
Possible Buckingham: Yes.
Elizabeth: No.
Oh, this is just getting silly, all this ‘he turned against Richard, so he must have been against him from the start’, Buckingham: Veiled warning.
Elizabeth: Oh, all right. Come back tomorrow. Quick, get young Richard out of here so he can go be Perkin Warbeck. Now, it’s time for magic. Because I know how this is going to end, I can safely curse Gloucester, confident that it won’t fail. See how it works, Lizzie? I might just throw in a withered arm. And while I’m at it, I might as well curse his wife and son as well.
Anne: Plot, scheme, conspire, plot.
Gloucester: Ow! My arm hurts all of a sudden.
Anne: The Queen’s cursed you! God, I’m good at this.
Cecily: Take the throne, Richard.
Gloucester: Go and execute a few people, Brackenbury.
Brackenbury: Hastings?
Gloucester: Who the hell is this Hastings everyone keeps going on about? Just execute Anthony Wydeville, Richard Grey and anyone else you happen to run into.
Brackenbury: Arrest Stanley! Search the house!
Margaret Beaufort: That’s my God stuff! Don’t touch it! And I’m demented, so you’d better just back off.
Brackenbury: On second thoughts, don’t arrest Stanley.
Buckingham: I’m slimy.
Stanley: Bet you’re not as slimy as me.
Elizabeth: Here, take this ring in child. No-one will notice.
Anne: Take the throne, Richard.
Gloucester: What do you want me to do, Anne? Take the throne or something?
Cecily: Take the throne.
Anne: Take the throne.
Cecily: Bombshell, revelation, bigamy, bombshell.
Gloucester: Everyone knows about that!
Anne: Oh, just take the throne, ffs!
Anthony Wydeville: Let’s work together, Richard.
Gloucester: Nope. Can’t trust you. Besides, I’m going to be King.
Lizzie: Hysterical foreshadowing!
Elzabeth: You can’t know that!
Lizzie: Oh, Mother, please! You forget I’m a witch.
Edward V: Hey, fake brother, come and watch this. Two guys are getting their heads chopped off!
Fake Richard: Cool!
Anthony Wydeville: Aren’t we supposed to be at Pontefract?
Richard Grey: Oh, just put your head down and stop complaining. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we’re out of here.
Anne: Look at me, in my Queen clothes!
Gloucester: Well, that was easier than I expected.
Margaret Beaufort: Is it time for me to smother the Princes yet?