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…
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?
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!
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!
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!