Henry IV, Part I

Despite how shaken and pale with worry we are, let’s take advantage of this moment of peace to catch our breath, and as we pant we’ll speak about the battles we’ll soon fight in foreign lands. England will no longer be wet with her own people’s blood. War will no longer damage her fields, and warhorses will no longer trample her flowers. The soldiers on either side of this vicious civil war were countrymen and brothers, as similar to one another as shooting stars. They may have clashed recently, but now they will march together in beautiful formation, no longer struggling against family and friend. War is like a mishandled knife: it can cut its owner, but it will no longer cut us. My friends, we are now soldiers for Christ, and we take his blessed cross as our battle flag. We’ll raise a new army of Englishmen and march all the way to the Holy Land. Our soldiers were born to chase non-believers from that holy ground touched by Jesus’ feet—feet which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nailed to the cross for our sins. But that’s been my plan for a year now, so there’s no point in telling you all this again. That’s not the issue at hand. So tell me, my noble kinsman Westmoreland, what my royal advisors decided last night about this important undertaking.

Your Highness, there was hot debate about this urgent mission, and many responsibilities had just been assigned when we were suddenly cut off by a messenger with bad news from Wales. The worst of it was that the noble Mortimer, who was leading the men of Herefordshire in battle against that barbarian Glendower, was captured. A thousand of his men have been butchered, their dead corpses desecrated by the Welsh women. The things they did were so horrible that I’m too ashamed to report them.

I suppose this news disrupts our plans to invade the Holy Land.

This and other things, your Highness: even more unsettling and unwelcome news has arrived from the north. On Holy Cross Day, the heroic young Harry Percy—who we know as Hotspur—fought at Holmeden against Archibald, Earl of Douglas, that brave and battle-proven Scotsman. The two of them fought a long and bloody battle there, judging by the way the guns were firing. The messenger who brought the news left when the battle was at its height, so he couldn’t say for sure who had won.

My loyal, hard-working friend Sir Walter Blunt has arrived here at court, fresh off his horse and covered with the mud of every town from Holmedon to here. He’s brought us very welcome news. The Earl of Douglas has been defeated. Blunt saw ten thousand Scotsmen and twenty-two knights piled up in their own blood on the fields of Holmedon. Hotspur took these men prisoner: Douglas’ son Mordake, the Earl of Fife; as well as the Earls of Athol, Murray, Angus, and Menteith. That’s a valuable group! A fantastic catch, isn’t it, kinsman?

Truly, that’s a conquest to make even a prince brag.

Yes, and that makes me sad. Seeing Lord Northumberland with such a blessed son makes me commit the sin of envy. When honor speaks, it speaks about Hotspur. In a grove of trees, Hotspur stands straightest. He is the favorite darling of Fortune. When I see how he is praised, I can only see my own son, Harry, and his reputation for wildness and dishonor. If only it could be proven that a fairy had come to their cradles at night and switched them! Then the Percy family would have my Harry, and we Plantagenets would have Hotspur! But stop thinking about Harry now. Westmoreland, what do you make of young Percy’s arrogance? He says he’ll keep all the prisoners he captured for himself, and will only send me Mordrake, Earl of Fife.

His uncle Worcester put him up to that. It is just like Worcester to act against you in all ways. He’s the one making Hotspur behave like this, flaunting his youth in the face of your dignified age.

I’ve sent for Hotspur to explain himself. We’ll have to postpone the plans for our crusade to Jerusalem. Go tell my advisers that our next meeting will be Wednesday at Windsor. Then hurry back here. There’s more to be said and done, but I’m too angry now to speak.

I will, my lord.

Hal, what time is it, my boy?

You are so wasted from drinking booze and loosening your pants after lunch and sleeping on benches all afternoon that you don’t even remember how to ask for what you really want to know. What the hell does it matter to you what time it is? Unless hours were glasses of wine, minutes were chickens, clocks were whores’ tongues, sundials were whorehouse signs and the sun itself were a hot woman in a flame-colored dress, I don’t see any reason why you would need to know the time.

Now you’re talking, Hal. Thieves like us operate at night, by the moon and stars, and not by the sun. I hope, pretty boy, that when you become king, God save your Grace—or maybe I should just call you “Your Majesty,” since you don’t have any grace—

None?

No, I swear. Not even enough to say grace before a snack.

Come on, out with it. Get to the point.

Okay then, pretty boy. Whey you become king, don’t let those of us who work at night be blamed for wasting daylight by sleeping through it. Give us fancy names: “Servants of the Moon Goddess Diana;” “Gentlemen of Shadows;” “Lunar Laborers.” Make people admire us for being well behaved. After all, we’re governed by the same force that governs the tides—the pale and cool moon, who lights our way as we sneak around.

Well said. And you’re right—our luck ebbs and flows like the tide, because, like the sea, we’re governed by the moon. I’ll prove it. Imagine a bag of gold, brilliantly swiped on a Monday night and extravagantly spent on a Tuesday morning. You snatch it, shouting, “Hand it off!” and spend it, calling, “Bring it on!” It’s like the gallows: one minute you’re at the bottom of the ladder—low tide. The next, you’re swinging from the top—high tide!

By God that’s right, my boy! And by the way, isn’t the hostess of the tavern a delicious woman?

Sweet as honey from Hybla, you dirty old man. And isn’t a sheriff’s uniform a pretty durable outfit?

What’s that supposed to mean, you crazy man? You’re in the mood for jokes? Why are you talking to me about a sheriff’s uniform?

Well, why the hell are you asking me about the hostess of the tavern?

You’ve asked her for the bill enough times.

Did I ever ask you to pay for any of it?

No. I’ve got to admit, you’ve settled with her all by yourself.

And not just with her, but wherever my cash was good. And when I ran out, I switched to credit.

And you’ve stretched that so far that if it weren’t “here apparent” that you’re the “heir apparent,” your credit wouldn’t be worth a thing. But listen, pretty boy. Will England still have hangmen when you’re king? And will a thief’s courage still be thwarted by that nasty old clown, the law? When you’re king, don’t hang thieves.

No. You will.

I will? Excellent! By God, I’ll be a great judge.

You’ve judged wrong already. I mean, you’ll be in charge of hanging thieves, and become a superb hangman.

All right, Hal. I’ll tell you this: in a way, being a hangman agrees with me just as well as hanging around the court.

Waiting to get your suits granted?

Exactly. I’ve got plenty of those, just like the hangman has plenty of suits—the suits he takes off the dead men he hangs.—Damn, I’m as depressed as a tomcat or a dancing bear in chains.

Or an old lion, or a guitar playing a sad lovesong.

Or the wailing of a bagpipe.

How about a rabbit, or a trip to Moorditch?

You have a knack for foul images. You are the most metaphorical and rascally, sweet young Prince. But Hal, please stop corrupting me with frivolous matters. I wish to God that you and I knew where we could buy a supply of good reputations. The other day, an elderly lord on the King’s Council came up to me in the street and lectured me about you, but I didn’t pay any attention. He spoke wisely, but I ignored him. But he made sense, and in the street, too.

You did well. You know the scripture: “Wisdom cries out in the street but no man listens.”

Oh, you have a wicked talent for wrongly quoting scripture, you really could corrupt a saint. You’ve deeply harmed me, Hal, and God forgive you for it! Before I met you, I was innocent. And now, if I can speak truly, I’m no better than a sinner. I’ve got to change my life, and I will change my life, by God. If I don’t, I’m an evildoer. I won’t be damned, not for any king’s son in the universe.

Where should we go stealing tomorrow, Jack?

For God’s sake, wherever you want, boy. I’ll be one of the gang. If I’m not, call me evildoer and string me up.

I see you’ve changed your life, alright. From praying to pursesnatching.

It’s my calling, Hal. It’s no sin for a man to follow his calling.

Poins! Now we’ll find out whether Mr. Gadshill has planned a robbery. If good deeds bring a man to heaven, there’s no hell hot enough for Poins. This is the most incredible villain, whoever said “Stick ’em up!” to an honest man.

Morning, Ned.

Morning, sweet Hal. What’s Mr. Feelbad got to say? What’s going on, Sir John, Wino Jack? How’s your deal with the devil coming along? You sold him your soul last Good Friday for some cold chicken and a glass of cheap wine, right?

The devil will get what’s coming to him. Sir John’s a man of his word, and he never disagrees with a proverb. He will “give the devil his due.”

(to FALSTAFF) Then you’re damned for keeping your word with the devil.

His only other choice is to be damned for cheating the devil.

But boys, boys! Four o’clock tomorrow morning some pilgrims are going to pass by Gad’s Hill. They’ll be on their way to Canterbury Cathedral with expensive offerings, and traders will be heading to London with bags of money. I’ve got masks for you, you’ve got horses for yourselves. Mr. Gadshill is spending tonight in Rochester, and I’ve already ordered tomorrow night’s dinner in Eastcheap. We could do this in our sleep. If you come, I’ll make you rich. If not, stay home and hang yourselves.

Listen, Yedward. If I stay home and don’t go, I’ll hang you — for going.

You will, fatface?

Hal, are you in?

Who? Me, a robber? Me, a thief? Not me. No way.

If you don’t dare to fight for ten shillings, there’s no honesty, manhood, or friendship in you, and you never came from royal blood.

Well, okay. For once in my life, I’ll be a little crazy.

There you go.

Well, you know what? I’ll stay home.

By God, then I’ll be a traitor when you become king.

I don’t care.

Sir John, do me a favor: leave me and the Prince alone. I’ll spell out such good reasons for this adventure, he’s sure to join.

May God give you the power of persuasion and him the good sense to listen, so that what you say will affect him and what he hears will sink in. This way, the true prince will turn into false thief, just for laughs. After all, all the poor, little vices of the age need encouragement. So long; you’ll find me in Eastcheap.

Farewell, you second spring! Farewell, you summer-in-November!

Now, my good sweet honey sir, come with us tomorrow. I have an idea for a practical joke, and I can’t do it by myself. Falstaff, Peto, Bardolph, and Mr. Gadshill will rob the travelers we’re planning to ambush, but you and I won’t be there. If you and I don’t rob them once they have the loot, then chop off my head!

But we’re all planning to leave together. How will you and I separate ourselves?

We’ll leave before them, or after them. We’ll tell them to meet us someplace, but then we won’t show up. They’ll pull off the robbery by themselves, and the second they’ve done it, we’ll attack them.

Sure, but they’ll recognize our horses, our clothes, and all our other things.

Psh! They won’t see our horses, because I’ll tie them in the forest. We’ll put on new masks after we leave them. And, just for this occasion, I’ve made cloaks out of rough buckram cloth, to cover our regular clothes.

Okay. But I’m afraid they’ll be too tough for us.

Well, I know that two of them are the biggest cowards who ever turned and ran. As for the third, if he fights even a second longer than is absolutely necessary, I promise to never fight again. The best part about this joke will be listening to the outlandish lies this fat clown will tell when we meet for dinner—how he fought at least thirty men, how he defended himself, how he got hit, what he endured. The funniest part will be when we call him on it.

Okay. I’ll go. Get everything together and meet me in Eastcheap tomorrow. I’ll eat there. Farewell.

Farewell, my lord.

I understand all of you. For now, I’ll put on the rowdy behavior of your good-for-nothing ways. But in this way, I’ll be like the sun, who allows the vulgar, corrupting clouds to hide his beauty from the world. Then, when the sun wants to be himself again, he breaks through the foul mists and vapors that seemed to be strangling him. And because people have missed him so much, they are that much more impressed when he finally appears. If every day were a vacation, playing would grow as tedious as working. But when it’s rare, it’s looked forward to. Nothing is as precious as the unexpected occurrence. So when I throw off this wild behavior and accept the responsibilities of being king—a destiny I didn’t choose but was born into—I’ll suddenly seem like a far better man. In this way, I’ll give everyone the wrong expectation of me. Like a bright metal on a dark background, my reformation will shine even more brilliantly when it’s set against my wicked past. I’ll be so wild, I’ll make wildness an art form, then redeem myself when the world least expects me to.

I’ve been too calm and even-tempered, unwilling to react angrily to these indignities. You have discovered this, and so you’ve walked all over my patience. Know this: from now on, I’m going to be my royal self again, powerful and frightening. My natural condition, which was as smooth as oil and soft as feathers, has lost me the respect that powerful people only pay to the similarly powerful.

My lord, the Percy family does not deserve to bear the brunt of your anger and power, especially since we helped you become so powerful in the first place.

Your Highness —

Worcester, get out. I see danger and disobedience in your eyes. You carry yourself too boldly and proudly, and royalty should never have to endure a servant’s frowning face. You have my permission to leave now. When I need you or your advice, I’ll call for you.

(to NORTHUMBERLAND) You were about to speak.

Yes, my Lord. The prisoners you asked for, which my son Harry Percy captured at Holmedon, were not kept from you in anger. He’s already told you that. Whoever told you my son meant to defy you was either mistaken or trying to make trouble. He’s done nothing wrong.

Sir, I didn’t hold back any prisoners. But I remember this: when the battle ended, I was exhausted with rage and exertion. I was out of breath, dizzy and bent over. All of a sudden a man approached me, neat, clean, and tidily dressed, like a bridegroom. His beard was freshly shaven, like a newly plowed field. He wore fancy cologne and he carried a perfume box, which he kept raising to his nose as he smiled and talked on. Whenever soldiers walked past, bearing dead bodies, he called them rude hoodlums for bringing a foul, disgusting corpse within breathing distance of him. He interrogated me, with his fancy language, and demanded that I give him my prisoners, to be taken on your behalf. There I was, with the cold aggravating all my wounds, being pestered by this idiot. In my grief and impatience, I gave him some kind of answer. I don’t even remember what I said—he could take them, or he couldn’t. I was so angry, looking at him all shiny and sweet-smelling, and speaking like a squeamish woman about guns and battle drums and wounds—God almighty! —and telling me the best thing for an injury is parmaceti, and that it was a shame that the blameless earth had to be dug up to find saltpeter for the gunpowder, when so many good, brave men had been cowardly destroyed by guns, and that if it hadn’t been for those disgusting guns, he would have been a soldier himself. All this trivial, incoherent talk I answered offhandedly, as I’ve already told you. So I beg you: please don’t take his word as evidence that there’s anything wrong between you and me, your Majesty.

Given the circumstances, my lord, whatever Harry Percy may have said to a man like that, in a place and time like that, should be allowed to die and never be spoken of again. It should never be used against Harry in any way, since he has taken it all back now.

But he still won’t turn over his prisoners unless he can add these stipulations and exceptions. He wants me, at my own cost, to pay ransom for his brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer, a man who, on my life, willfully betrayed his own men, whom he had led in fighting against that great magician, the damned Glendower. And now we hear that Mortimer has married Glendower’s daughter! Should the treasury be emptied to ransom a traitor? Should I pay for treason, and bargain for a coward, when it was Mortimer who lost himself? No. Let him starve in the wilderness. No man who asks me to spend one penny on that traitor Mortimer can ever be a friend of mine.

“That traitor Mortimer!” He never faltered, my lord, except through an accident of war. I’ll prove it, by speaking about the many wounds he heroically suffered when he spent an hour in brutal hand-to-hand combat against Glendower on the grassy banks of the Severn River. They broke three times from fighting, and they drank three times from the Severn. The river itself was frightened by their horrible looks. Its water became discolored with the blood of these brave fighters, and the Severn ran off, as if to hide itself in the weeds on its banks. Treachery has never used deadly wounds to cover its operations, and Mortimer could never have willingly suffered so many injuries. Do not let him be slandered by calling him a traitor.

You speak wrongly about him, Percy, you speak wrongly! He never fought Glendower. I tell you, he would just as soon dare to meet the devil himself as fight Glendower. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Don’t ever let me hear you speak of Mortimer again. Send me your prisoners as quickly as possible, or you’ll hear about it from me, and you won’t like what I have to say. Northumberland, I give you and your son permission to leave now. Send your prisoners, or you’ll hear about it.

Even if the devil himself comes screaming for them, I won’t send those prisoners. I’m going to go after him and tell him so; it will ease my heart, though it might cost me my head.

What, drunk with anger? Wait a minute. Here comes your uncle.

Talk about Mortimer? God damn, I will talk about him. And damn my soul if I don’t join him! I’ll empty out my veins for him, and I’ll pour my precious blood onto the ground, drop by drop! And I’ll lift this put-upon Mortimer as high up as this ungrateful King, this ungenerous, rotten Bolingbroke!

(toWORCESTER) Brother, the King’s driven your nephew crazy.

Who started this trouble after I left?

He wants all my prisoners, for God’s sake! And when I asked again for him to ransom my brother-in-law, he looked pale, and he shot me a look that could kill. Just the mention of Mortimer’s name makes him shake.

I don’t blame him. Didn’t the late King Richard II proclaim that Mortimer should be next in line for the throne?

He did; I heard the proclamation. That was when the wretched King Richard (may God forgive us for wronging him!) set out to invade Ireland. When that was interrupted, he returned to England, only to be deposed and then murdered.

And for our part in his death, the whole world is scandalized by us, and speaks ill of us.

Stop a moment, please. Did King Richard really proclaim that my brother-in-law Edmund Mortimer was next in line for the throne?

He did. I heard it myself.

Then I can’t blame King Henry for wishing for him to starve in the wilderness. But is it right that you—who put the crown on Henry’s forgetful head, and who carry the accusations of murder for Henry’s sake—should be the target of the world’s curses? When you were only accomplices and instruments? Is it right to blame the ropes, the ladder, or the hangman for a man’s death? Forgive me for mentioning that you two are like those sordid objects, having been exploited by this conniving King. But will you stand by while people today speak of your shame? While history books record that men of your nobility and power dedicated themselves to as unjust a cause (which, God forgive you, you both did) as the overthrowing of Richard, that sweet lovely rose, and the planting of this thorn, this weed, Bolingbroke in Richard’s place? Will you listen as people say that you are fools, and that you’ve been tossed away by the very person you shamed yourselves to help? No. There is still time for you to redeem your reputations and restore your good names in the eyes of the world. Take revenge against this King who mocks and scorns you. He thinks constantly about how to repay you for all you did—by putting you to death. So I say—

Quiet, nephew; don’t say any more. I have a secret for you, which is hidden like a book with a lock. I will open the book and read you a dark, dangerous story that will appeal to your righteous anger. It’s full of peril and adventure, as risky as walking across a churning, thundering river while balanced unsteadily on a spear.

If he falls in, then it’s all over, whether he sinks or swims. The honor of the struggle is all that counts, no matter what the danger is or where it comes from. It takes more courage to wake a sleeping lion than to frighten a rabbit!

Dreaming about this heroic exploit is driving him past his patience.

By God, I think it would be easy to jump up and grab honor off of the moon’s pale face, or to dive into the deepest ocean and pull up honor by its hair. Then the man who rescues honor can wear her glory alone, without rivals. To hell with sharing the glory!

(to NORTHUMBERLAND) He sees a world built by his imagination, but that world is not the one he should be paying attention to. (to HOTSPUR) Nephew, listen to me a minute.

I beg your pardon.

These Scotsmen that you’ve taken prisoner —

I’ll keep them all. By God, the King won’t get a single Scot, even if having a Scot would save his soul! I’ll keep them, I swear.

You’re off again and not listening to me. You will get to keep the prisoners —

Yes, I will; there’s no doubt about it. The King said he would not pay ransom for Mortimer. He forbid me from speaking of Mortimer. But I’ll find him when he’s sleeping, and I’ll shout “Mortimer!” into his ears. No; I’ll get a bird and teach it to say nothing but “Mortimer,” and I’ll give it to the King to anger him forever.

Listen, nephew, please.

From now on, all other pursuits I’ll cast aside, except for scheming how to aggravate this Bolingbroke and his son, the lowlife Prince of Wales. If it weren’t for the fact that I suspect Henry doesn’t love his son, and that he’d be glad to see misfortune befall him, I’d poison the Prince’s ale.

Goodbye, nephew. I’ll talk to you when you’re in a better mood to listen.

(to HOTSPUR) You are an impatient and short-tempered fool to start nattering on like a woman, not listening to any voice but your own!

Listen, I feel like I’m being whipped with sticks and stung by ants when I hear about this vile politician, Bolingbroke. When Richard was alive—what is that place called? Damn, it’s in Gloucestershire; it’s where that crazy duke’s uncle lived, his uncle York. It’s where I first met this lying Bolingbroke, and bowed to him.—Shoot!—It happened when you and Bolingbroke came back from Ravenspurgh.

At Berkley castle.

Right. What great courtesy that flattering dog paid me! “The promise of his childhood has come true,” he said. “Gentle Harry Percy,” he called me, and “kind kinsman.” To hell with liars like him! — I’m sorry. Uncle, go on. I’m done.

No, if you’re not done yet, keep going. We’ll wait until you’re ready.

I’m done. I swear.

Then go back to your Scottish prisoners. Release them at once, without ransom. Make friends with Douglas, and use his influence to gather an army in Scotland. He’ll gladly help you for many reasons, which I’ll write you about soon. (to NORTHUMBERLAND) Now you, sir. While your son is busy in Scotland, you will strike up a close alliance with the Archbishop, that noble, well-beloved churchman.

He is the Archbishop of York, no?

Yes, and he’s sorely upset about his brother, Lord Scroop, whom Bolingbroke put to death in Bristol. I’m not merely speculating; I’m telling you what I know for a fact has been considered, plotted, and set into motion. They’re only waiting now for the right moment to strike.

I get it. And it’s good, I bet my life on it!

Look, you’ve let your dogs slip off of their leashes before the hunt has even begun.

There’s no way this excellent plan won’t work. And the armies of Scotland and York will join with Mortimer, right?

Yes, they will.

I swear, it’s extremely well thought out.

And we’ve got good reasons to hurry and save ourselves by raising an army. No matter how hard we try to look like everything’s fine, the King will always think he owes us for having helped him take the throne, and he’ll worry that we don’t feel we’ve been properly compensated. Until he finds a way to pay us for good—by killing us. You can see that he’s already begun to distance himself from us.

He has, he has. We’ll get revenge!

Nephew, farewell. Don’t do any more than I tell you to do in the letters I’ll write you. When the time comes, which will be soon, I’ll sneak off to Glendower and Mortimer. I’ll plan it so that you, Douglas and all our armies will arrive together. Then we can face our future with strength instead of the uncertainty we feel now.

So long, brother. I believe we’ll prevail.

Good bye, uncle. Oh, I hope it won’t be long until battlefields and collisions and groans are witnesses to our game of war!

I’ll be damned if it isn’t 4 A.M. already. The Big Dipper has already risen above the chimney, and our horses aren’t ready yet. Hey, ostler!

(offstage) Just a second!

Hey, Tom, give the saddle of my horse, Cut, a few whacks to soften it up, and stuff some wool under it—the old nag’s got some bad bruises on her shoulders.

The feed here’s as damp as anything. That’s a fast way for a horse to get parasites. This stable’s upside down since Ostler Robin died.

Poor guy. Once the price of oats went up, he was never happy again. It killed him.

This stable’s got worse fleas than any in London. I’m stung like a tench.

Like a tench? I’m telling you, not even a king could be bitten more than I’ve been bitten since midnight.

They don’t even give us a bathroom. So we pee in the fireplace, and you know that urine breeds fleas like nobody’s business.

Hey, ostler! Come on already, damn you!

I’ve got to deliver a ham and some ginger root all the way to Charing Cross.

God almighty! The turkeys I’m carrying are starving! Hey, Stable-boy! Curse you! Can’t you see? Can’t you hear? If it isn’t a good idea to knock you on the head, I’m a fool. Come on, damn you! Can’t we trust you to do your job?

Morning, deliverymen. What time is it?

I think it’s two o’clock.

Let me borrow your lantern so I can check on my horse in the stable.

No way, by God; just hold on a minute. I know a few tricks like that myself, I swear.

(to SECOND CARRIER) Please, let me borrow yours.

Sure, whenever. Whatever you say. “Let me borrow your lantern,” he says? Yeah, right. I’ll see you dead first.

Sirrah, what time do you plan to be in London?

At a reasonable enough time. (to FIRST CARRIER) Come on, Mugs, old friend. Let’s wake up the gentlemen. They want to travel in a group because they’re carrying a lot of valuables.

Hey, chamberlain!

(offstage) “I’m there for you,” as the pickpockets say!

That’s as good as saying, “’I’m there for you,’ said the chamberlain.” You’re only as different from a pickpocket as a supervisor is from a worker; you’re the one who sets the plans.

Morning, Mr. Gadshill. What I told you last night is still true. There’s a rich landowner all the way from Kent staying here, and he’s got three hundred gold coins with him. I heard him say so to a man at supper last night. That man’s some kind of tax collector, and he has plenty of money with him, too. They just woke up and they’ve ordered breakfast; they’ll be leaving soon.

Sirrah, if they don’t run into some highway robbers today, you can have my neck.

I don’t want it; keep it for the hangman. I know you worship the patron saint of highway robbery, as much as a godless man like you worships anything.

Why are you taking to me about the hangman? If I hang, I’ll make half of a fat pair on the gallows, because if I hang, old Sir John will be hanging right with me—and he’s not exactly thin. Please! Our gang has some members you could never guess, and for their own amusement, they’re happy to lend the profession of thievery some respect. If we were ever investigated, they would smooth everything over. I’ve got no wandering highwaymen, no thieves with homemade weapons, no red-faced drunks with crazy mustaches. Only men of calm and noble demeanor for me: magistrates and court officials. Men who can keep a secret; who’d rather smack you than speak, rather speak than drink, and rather drink than pray.—No! That’s a lie! They pray all the time to England, their patron saint. Or rather, they don’t pray to her; they prey on her. They ride her up and down and then make her their boots.

Make her their boots? Why, will she keep their feet dry from muddy water?

She can, she can. She’s been greased with so many bribes that she’s waterproof. We thieve in complete safety; we’ve got a potion that makes us invisible.

Oh, I don’t think so. It’s the dark of night that makes you hard to see, not a secret potion.

Let’s shake hands. You’ll get a share of our spoils; I swear on my honor as a true man.

I’d rather have you swear by your reputation as a dishonest thief.

Whatever. I’m a true man, even if I’m a dishonest thief. Tell the stable-boy to get my horse. Farewell, you fool.

Come on, hide, hide! I stole Falstaff’s horse, and he’s rubbed the wrong way; he’s fraying like cheap velvet.

Stay hidden.

Poins! Poins, damn you! Poins!

Quiet, you fat-bellied jerk! What a racket you’re making!

Where’s Poins, Hal?

He walked up the hill. I’ll go find him.

I got a raw deal, to be out robbing with him. He stole my horse and tied him up someplace. If I have to walk even four feet more, I’ll be totally out of breath. Still, I bet I’ll die a natural death—if I don’t get hanged for killing that jerk, that is. Every hour for the past twenty-two years, I’ve sworn I’d never talk to him again, but I love his company. He must have slipped me a love potion that makes me adore him. Damn, that must be it: I have drunk love potions. Poins! Hal! Drop dead, the both of you! Bardolph! Peto! I’ll die if I have to walk another foot. If turning honest and abandoning these jerks weren’t the best things I could possibly do for myself, then I’m the worst scoundrel that ever lived. Eight yards of rough road is like seventy miles to me, and these hard-hearted crooks know it. It stinks when there’s no honor among thieves.

Whew!

The hell with you all! Give me my horse, you deadbeats. Give me my horse and the hell with you!

Shut up, fatso! Lie down, put your ear to the ground, and listen for the footsteps of travelers.

Do you have a crane to lift me up again once I’m down? Damn, I wouldn’t walk my fat self this far again for all the money in your father’s treasury. What are you doing horsing around with me like this?

You’re lying. We can’t horse around, because you don’t have a horse.

Please, my good Hal, help me find my horse, you good king’s son.

Later with that! You want me to be your stable boy?

Go drop dead in your own heir-apparent pants. If I’m arrested, I’ll rat you out, too. If I don’t get them singing dirty songs in the street about you all, let me be poisoned to death with booze. I hate it when a practical joke gets so out of hand—and with me out of a horse, too!

Freeze!

I am, and I don’t like it.

Oh, that’s the man who planned the whole thing; I recognize his voice, Bardolph.— What’s going on?

Cover your faces, cover your faces. Get your masks on. There’s tax money coming down the hill, on its way to the King’s treasury.

That’s a lie, you clown. It’s on its way to the king’s bank.

There’s enough to make us all rich.

Or to get us all hanged.

Listen, you four confront them in the narrow lane. Ned Poins and I will wait further down. If they get away from you, they’ll run right into us.

How many of them are there?

About eight or ten.

Damn! Won’t they rob us?

What, are you a coward, Sir John Fatstuff?

Well, I’m certainly not John of Gaunt, your grandfather, but I’m no coward, Hal.

Well, we’ll see about that.

Jack, sirrah, your horse is there behind the hedge. When you need him, that’s where you’ll find him. So long, and be brave.

I can’t hit him. I’d be hanged.

(to POINS, so others cannot hear) Ned, where are our disguises?

(to PRINCE HENRY) They’re here, close by. Now hide.

Now, men, here’s to happy endings. Every man to his station.

Come on, friend. The boy will lead our horses down the hill while we walk a bit and stretch our legs.

Freeze!

Jesus bless us!

Hit them! Down with them! Cut their throats! Yahhhhh! No-good bloodsuckers! Overfed morons! They hate young people like us. Down with them! Rob them blind!

Oh! We’re done for!

Damn it, you potbellied morons, are you finished? No, you fat misers. I wish everything you owned were here. Come on, pigs, come on! What, you idiots! Young men have to survive. You’re Grand Jurors, aren’t you? Well here’s some justice for you!

The thieves have tied up the honest men. If you and I can now rob the robbers and run laughing to London, we would talk about it for a week, laugh about it for a month, and it would be a hilarious story forever.

Get down. I hear them coming.

Come on, boys, let’s divide up the spoils and then ride off before dawn. If the Prince and Poins aren’t cowards, there’s no justice in the universe. Poins is about as brave as a duck.

(in disguise) Give us your money!

(in disguise) Crooks!

Too easy. Now we ride off happily. The thieves have scattered, and they’re so terrified that they don’t even want to run into each other—they’ll each think that the other guy is an officer! Let’s go, Ned. Falstaff is sweating so hard that he’s watering the ground as he walks along. If I weren’t laughing so hard, I’d actually feel sorry for him.

How loud that fat rogue screamed!

“As for me, sir, I would be happy to be there because of the love I bear for your family.” He would be happy to be here. Well, why isn’t he, then? He says he loves my family, but he clearly loves his barn more than our house. I’ll read on. “Your plan is dangerous.” That’s true, and it’s also dangerous to catch a cold, to sleep, to drink. But I tell you, my lord fool, we shall pluck a flower of safety from this thorn of danger. “Your plan is dangerous; your allies untrustworthy; your timing poor; and your whole project too weak to counter so powerful an opponent.” Is that so? Is that so? I’ll say it once again: you are a stupid, cowardly dog, and a liar. What an idiot this is! By God, our plan is as good a plan as ever hatched, our allies loyal and firm. A good plan, good allies, and very promising; it’s an excellent plan, very good allies. What a yellowbellied fool this is! Why, the Archbishop of York approves of the plan, and how it’s progressing. Damn! If I were with this imbecile right now, I’d break his head open with his wife’s fan. Don’t we have my father? And my uncle, and me? Edmund Mortimer, York, and Owen Glendower? And besides, don’t we have Douglas? Haven’t they all sent me letters, promising to meet me with their armies by the ninth of next month? And aren’t some of them on their way already? What an unbelievable ass this is! Faithless! Ha! Just watch; he’ll run to the King in cold fear and spill our secrets. Oh, I could split myself in two and knock my own self senseless for unfolding this important plan to such a coward. To hell with him! Let him tell the King; we’re ready. I’ll set off tonight.

What is it, Kate? I must leave you in a few hours.

Oh, my good lord, why are you alone like this? What have I done to make my Harry banish me from his bed these past two weeks? Tell me, sweet husband, what has stolen your appetite, your desire, and your sleep? Why do you stare at the ground and jump in your skin when you are sitting alone? Where is the color in your cheeks? Why have you taken all your attention, which should be mine, and given it to this dark mood and terrible sadness? While you sleep so lightly, I’ve watched you and heard you mumble stories of war. I’ve heard you give commands to your horse. I’ve heard you yell, “Courage! To the field!” And you have talked of charges and retreats; of trenches, tents; of fences, ramparts, and walls; of all types of cannon; of prisoners’ ransoms and of dead soldiers, and of all the movements of a violent battle. Your soul has also been at war and has disturbed you in your sleep. Beads of sweat have broken out on your forehead, like bubbles in a churning stream. And on your face I’ve seen strange expressions, like a man who’s gulping his breath at an awful, sudden command. Oh, what does all this mean? My lord is contemplating some serious matters, and if he doesn’t tell me about them, he surely doesn’t love me.

You there!

Has Gilliams left with my letters?

He has, my lord, an hour ago.

Did Butler bring those horses from the sheriff?

He brought one of them just now.

Which one? A brown one, right? With its ears clipped?

Yes, my lord.

That brown horse will be my throne. I’ll mount him in a second. Oh, “Hope is my Comfort!” Tell Butler to walk him out in the fields.

Listen, my lord.

What is it, my lady?

What is it that’s got you so carried away?

My horse, my love. My horse.

Enough, you crazy fool! Not even a weasel is as hotheaded as you are. I swear, I’ll find out what you’re up to, Harry, I will. I fear that my brother, Mortimer, is making some kind of move over his claim to the throne, and has asked you to help. But if you go—

—such a long way on foot, I’ll be tired.

Stop it, you little parrot. Answer me straight. I swear, Harry, I’ll break your little finger if you don’t tell me everything, and the truth, too.

Get away from me, you nag! Love? I don’t love you. I don’t even care about you, Kate. This is no time for playing with dolls and jousting with kisses; we’ll have bloody noses and broken heads, and spread them around, too. For God’s sake, my horse! What, Kate? What do you want from me?

You don’t love me? Really, you don’t? Well, fine then; don’t love me. And since you don’t love me, I won’t love myself. You don’t love me? Seriously, tell me if you’re joking or if you mean it.

Will you see me off? Once I’m on my horse, I’ll swear I love you till the end of time. But listen here, Kate. From now on, I won’t have you asking me where I’m going, nor guessing why I’m doing what I’m doing. I must go where I must go. This is final: tonight I must leave you, sweet Kate. I know you are wise, but your wisdom doesn’t go further than your role as my wife. You may be able to keep a secret, but you’re still a woman; and yet no woman can keep secrets like you, because you cannot reveal what you don’t actually know. And that is as far as I will trust you, sweet Kate.

Oh really? That far?

Not an inch further. But listen here, Kate. Wherever I go, you will go too. I leave today, and tomorrow, you. Will this make you content, Kate?

It must.

Ned, come out of that airless room and help me laugh a bit.

Where’ve you been, Hal?

With three or four knuckleheads and a few dozen kegs of liquor. I’ve been with the lowest of the low. Sirrah, I’ve made great friends with these three bartenders, and I’m on a first-name basis with them: Tom, Dick, and Francis. They swear on their souls that, even though I’m only the Prince of Wales, I’m the king of niceness. They say I’m no pompous fool, like Falstaff, but a good sport, a spirited man, a good boy. When I’m King of England, all the good men of Eastcheap will follow me gladly. When you drink deeply, they joke that you have been dyed red; and if you stop for a breath when you’re drinking, they yell “Cough!” and they command you to keep going. In fifteen minutes, I got so good at being a drinking companion, I could be at ease with any man over a drink, in any setting. Ned, you didn’t do yourself any favors by missing this. But, sweet Ned, I’ll sweeten the name Ned with this bit of sugar, given to me by an apprentice drawer who never spoke any English his whole life, except, “That’ll be eight shillings and sixpence,” and “You’re welcome,” and also, “Just a second, just a second! Bring a pint of bastard to the Half-Moon room!” But Ned, let’s pass the time until Falstaff gets here. Hide in a side room while I ask that little apprentice drawer why he gave me the sugar. Keep calling out his name, Francis, and don’t stop, so that all he’s able to say is, “Just a second!” Step aside, and I’ll give you a taste.

(offstage) Francis!

Perfect.

(offstage) Francis!

Just a second, sir.—Ralph, make sure everything’s okay in the Pomegranate Room!

Come here, Francis.

Sir?

How many more years of your apprenticeship do you have, Francis?

Truly, five years, which is as long —

(offstage) Francis!

Just a second, sir!

Five years! Wow, that’s a long time to be clinking beer mugs. But Francis, are you brave enough to play the coward with your contract? To flash it your heels, as you run away?

Oh Lord, sir. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that I’d love to be able to—

(offstage) Francis!

Just a second, sir!

How old are you, Francis?

Let’s see—at the end of next September, I’ll be—

(offstage) Francis!

Just a second, sir! (to PRINCE HENRY) Wait here a moment, my lord.

No, listen to me, Francis. The sugar you gave me was worth about a penny, right?

Oh lord, I wish I could have given you two pennies’ worth!

I’ll give you a thousand pounds for it. Ask for it whenever you want it, and it’s yours.

(offstage) Francis!

Just a second!

You want it in a second, Francis? No, Francis. Maybe tomorrow, Francis, or Thursday, Francis, whenever you want it. But, Francis.

Sir?

Are you ready to rob this man? This man, with his leather jacket, fashionable crystal buttons, short hair, agate signet ring, dark stockings, ribboned garters, oily speech, Spanish leather pouch—

Oh Lord, sir, who are you talking about?

Well then, it looks like brown bastard will continue to be your only drink. Because listen, Francis, your white canvas shirt will get stained out there. Even in North Africa, sir, you won’t get so much.

Excuse me, sir?

(offstage) Francis!

Get going, you good-for-nothing. Can’t you hear people calling you?

Why are you standing there when people are calling you? Take care of the customers inside!

My lord, old Sir John and a half-dozen others are at the door. Should I let them in?

Leave them out there for a while, and then open the door.

Poins!

Just a second, sir!

Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are here. Are we ready for a laugh?

We’ll be happy as crickets, my lad. But listen, what’s with this gag you played on the waiter? What’s the point?

I’m up for anything. Right now, I’m feeling all the moods that anyone has ever felt, from the old days of Adam to this young age, right now, at twelve o’clock midnight.

What time is it, Francis?

Just a second, sir.

This boy has fewer words than a parrot, but he’s actually a person! All he does is run up and down stairs, and the only things he can say are the names of the items on your bill. I’m not yet like Percy, the Hotspur of the North. He kills six or seven dozen Scotsmen before breakfast, washes his hands, and then says to his wife, “To hell with this boring life! I need something to do!” “Oh, my sweet Harry,” she says, “How many have you killed today?” “Give my brown horse a dose of medicine,” he says. And then about an hour later, he answers her: “About fourteen.” Then he says, “That’s nothing, nothing.” Listen, bring in Falstaff. I’ll play Percy, and that damned fat slob will play his wife, Dame Mortimer. “Bottom’s up!” as the drunk says. Bring in the meat, bring in blubber.

Welcome, Jack. Where’ve you been?

A curse on all cowards, I say, and revenge on them, too! Amen to that! Give me some wine, boy. I’m not going to keep up this way of life much longer. I’ll knit socks, mend them, and fix their feet. A curse on all cowards! Give me a cup of wine, you lowlife! Isn’t there any honesty left in this world? (he drinks)

Did you ever see the sun kiss a dish of butter? The tender-hearted sun, melting the butter with its sweet words! If you have, then take a look at Falstaff.

(to FRANCIS) You bastard! Somebody put lime in my wine! All men are cheaters and schemers, but a coward is worse than a glass of wine with lime in it. A miserable coward! Go on, old Jack, die already. If there’s even one real man left on this earth besides me, then I’m as skinny as a herring. In all of England there are only three good men that haven’t been put to death, and one of them is fat and growing old. God help us all! It’s a bad world, I say. I wish I were a weaver; I could sing psalms while I was sewing. I’ll say it again: a curse on all cowards.

What’s the matter, you sack of wool? What are you muttering about?

A King’s son! If I don’t drive you out of the kingdom with a wooden dagger, and send your subjects running before you like a flock of geese, then I’ll never grow a beard again. You, Prince of Wales? What a joke!

You fat son of a whore, what’s the matter?

Aren’t you a coward? Tell me that. And Poins there?

Dammit, you fat belly. If you call me a coward, I swear, I’ll stab you.

I call you coward? I’d sooner see you damned than call you a coward, but I tell you; I’d give a thousand pounds to be able to run as fast as you can. You’ve got good-enough-;looking shoulders; you don’t care who sees your back! Is that what you call backing up your friends? Damn anyone who backs up like that! I’d rather have a man who faces me. Give me some wine! I’ll be damned if I’ve had anything to drink today.

Liar! You’ve barely had time to wipe your lips since your last drink.

Whatever. (he drinks) A curse on all cowards, I still say.

What’s the matter?

What’s the matter? There are four of us here who stole a thousand pounds this very morning.

Where is it, Jack? Where is it?

Where is it? It was stolen from us. A hundred men against only four of us.

What, a hundred, man?

I’ll be damned if I didn’t fight with a dozen of them for two straight hours. It’s a miracle I managed to get away. They stabbed through my shirt eight times. Four through my pants. My shield’s got holes through and through. My sword’s as cut up as a hacksaw. Behold the evidence! It was the best fighting I’ve ever done, but even my all wasn’t enough. A curse on all cowards! (points to GADSHILL, PETO and BARDOLPH) Ask these men. If they don’t tell you the whole truth, they’re liars and devils.

Tell us, men. What happened?

The four of us jumped about a dozen—

Sixteen at least, my lord.

And tied them up.

No, no. We didn’t tie them up.

You jerk, we did tie them up, every single one of them, or I’m a Jew, a true Hebrew Jew.

Then, when we were dividing the money, about six or seven other men jumped us—

And untied the rest, and then all the others showed up.

What, you fought with all of them?

All? I don’t know what you mean by “all.” But if I didn’t fight with fifty of them, I’m a bunch of radishes. If fifty-two or fifty-three of them didn’t attack me, then I’m no man.

I pray to God you didn’t kill any of them.

Too late for praying now. I made things hot for two of them; two I’m sure I got, two thugs wearing clothes made of buckram cloth. I’ll tell you what, Hal: if I’m lying to you, spit in my face and call me a horse. You know my old fighting stance. Here’s how I stood, and here’s how I handled my sword. Four thugs in buckram came right at me—

What? Four? You said two a second ago.

Four, Hal. I said four.

That’s right. He said four.

These four threw everything they had right at me. I made no big fuss of it; I just put up my shield and all seven of their swords hit it.

Seven? But just now there were only four.

Wearing buckram?

Yes. Four in clothes made of buckram.

Seven, I swear on my sword. If not, I’m a liar.

(to POINS , so no one else can hear) Leave him alone. There’ll be more in a minute.

Are you listening to me, Hal?

I’m listening, Jack.

Good, because it’s worth paying attention to. Anyway, these nine guys in buckram that I told you about—

So, two more already.

Since their points were broken—

Their stockings fell down.

They started to run away, but I followed them closely. And as quick as a thought, I finished off seven of the eleven.

Unbelievable! Eleven buckram men have grown out of two!

But as the devil would have it, three wretched bastards wearing green came from behind and ran right at me. It was so dark, Hal, that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

These lies are like the man who tells them: huge as a mountain, obvious, and plain as day. You clay-brained fatso, you knuckleheaded fool, you son of a whore, you obscene tub of lard—

What are you, crazy? Are you crazy? Isn’t the truth the truth?

Well, how could you know that these men were wearing green when it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face? Go ahead, tell us. What do you have to say to that?

Come on, tell us, Jack, go on.

What, just because you command me? Dammit, if I were being tortured on all the contraptions in the world, I wouldn’t speak just because you commanded. Speak just because you command! If my reasons were as cheap as blackberries, I wouldn’t give away my reasons just because I was commanded. Not I.

I’m not going to put up with this any longer. This red-faced coward, this flattener of mattresses, this breaker of horses’ backs, this huge hill of flesh—

Dammit! You scarecrow, you skin of an elf, you dried-out ox’s tongue, you bull’s penis, you salted cod! Oh, I wish I had enough breath to tell you all the things you are! You yardstick, you empty sheath, you case for a violinist’s bow, you disgusting erect sword—

Catch your breath for a moment, then start again. And when you’ve tired yourself with these awful comparisons, listen to me say just one thing.

Listen closely, Jack.

The two of us saw you four jump four men, tie them up and take their money. Now listen to how the simple truth will shame you. Then the two of us jumped the four of you. And with just a word, we stole your prize from you. Now we have it, and we can show it to you right here in the bar. And Falstaff, you ran away as quickly and as lightfootedly, as a cow from the slaughter, screaming for mercy, as you ran and screamed. What a lowlife you are, to hack up your sword and say it happened in a fight! What outrageous story, what trick, what hiding place can you possibly find to hide you from your open and obvious shame?

Come on, let’s hear it, Jack. What trick have you got now?

By God, I knew it was you the whole time, like I was your own father! Listen to me, men: would it be right for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I have attacked the true Prince? Look, you know I’m as brave as Hercules, but you must listen to your instinct. It’s like that old superstition, about how a lion will never attack a true Prince. Instinct is a powerful thing; I was only a coward by instinct. From now on, I’ll have to think of myself as a brave lion, and you as a true Prince. But good God, men, I’m glad you have the money. Hostess! Lock the doors; we’ll celebrate tonight and pray tomorrow. Gentlemen, lads, boys, hearts of gold—I’ll call you every good name I can think of, all at once! Hey! Shall we have some fun? Shall we stage a little play?

Of course, and the play will be about you running away.

Oh, let it go, Hal, if you love me.

Oh, Jesus—Your Majesty!

Hello there, my lady the hostess! Do you have something to say to me?

Indeed, my lord. There’s a nobleman from the royal court at the door, and he wants to speak with you. He says your father sent him.

Give him some coins and send him right back to my mother.

What kind of man is he?

An old man.

What is an old man doing out of bed at midnight? Do you want me to talk to him?

Please do, Jack.

Truly, I’ll send him on his way.

Now, men: by God, you fought well. So did you, Peto, and you, Bardolph. You must be lions, too, since your instinct told you to run away. You wouldn’t touch the true Prince; no, indeed!

Honestly, I ran when I saw the others run.

Okay, now tell me the truth. How did Falstaff’s sword get broken like that?

He hacked away at it with his dagger. He said he would swear up and down to make you believe that it happened in a fight, and he made us do the same.

Yes, and he made us rub our noses with rough weeds until they started to bleed, then smear our clothes with the blood and swear that it was from the men we fought. When he told me the crazy things he wanted us to do, I did something I haven’t done in seven years: I blushed.

Liar! You stole a cup of wine eighteen years ago, got caught in the act, and you’ve been blushing ever since. You had your fiery-red face and your weapons going for you, but still you ran away. What instinct made you do that?

Sir, do you see these red welts on my face? Do you see these swellings?

I do.

What do you think they mean?

That your temper is hot and your wallet is empty.

It means anger, sir, you interpret it correctly.

It means you’ll be hanged if the authorities catch you.

Here comes skinny Jack; here comes the bag of bones. What’s going on, now, my sweet windbag? How long has it been, Jack, since you saw your own knees?

My own knees? When I was your age, Hal, my waist was as skinny as an eagle’s talon; I could have crawled through a councilman’s thumb ring. But damn all that sighing and sadness! It blows a man up like a balloon. There’s bad news out there. That was Sir John Bracy, sent by your father. You have to go to court in the morning. Percy, that mad man from up north, and that Welshman who gave Amamon a beating, and stole Lucifer’s wife, and made a pact to be the devil’s master—what’s his name again?

Oh, Glendower.

Owen, Owen, that’s the one. And his son-in-law Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and Douglas, that lively Scot of Scots, who can ride a horse straight up a wall—

The man who can ride at high speeds, then kill a flying sparrow with his pistol.

You’ve hit it; that’s him exactly.

I may have hit it, but Owen never hit the sparrow.

Well, that rascal has bravery in him; he won’t run away.

Why, you rascal! You just praised him for running!

He’ll run on his horse, you cuckoo. But when fighting on foot, he’ll never budge.

Yes he will, Jack. By instinct.

You’re right, by instinct. Well, he’s there, and a man named Mordake, and a thousand Scottish soldiers besides. Worcester snuck out of London tonight, and your father’s hair turned white when he heard. The price of land has dropped as low as a bucket of stinking fish.

If that’s the case, then when the weather gets hot and the civil war has really broken out, we can buy women’s virtues the way other people buy nails: by the hundreds.

By God, lad, you tell the truth. We’ll probably have good luck in that area. But Hal, aren’t you scared? You’re the heir apparent. Can you imagine three worse enemies than that demon Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower? Aren’t you horribly scared? Isn’t your blood running cold at the thought?

Not in the least, truly: I don’t have your instinct.

Well, you’ll be rebuked horribly when you see your father tomorrow. If you love me, practice a response.

You pretend to be my father; ask me about the details of my life.

Really? Excellent! This chair will be my throne, this dagger my scepter, and this cushion will be my crown.

Your throne is a wooden stool, your gold scepter is a dagger of lead, and your precious, expensive crown is a lousy bald head.

If you still have a shred of divine grace in you, you’ll be moved by this. Give me some wine to make my eyes bloodshot, so that it looks like I’ve been crying. I must speak with passion, and I’ll do it like King Cambyses.

Well then, I’ll bow to you.

And I’ll speak to you. Step aside, gentlemen.

Oh, Jesus! This is an excellent game, truly!

Don’t cry, sweet queen; your trickling tears do no good.

Oh Lord, look how well he’s keeping it up!

For God’s sake, gentlemen; take my queen away from here. The floodgates of her eyes are being overwhelmed by her tears.

My God! He’s just as good as those silly old professional actors!

Quiet, little ale pot. Quiet, little booze-brain. (to PRINCE HENRY) Harry, I am not only amazed at where you are spending your time, but whom you’re spending it with. They say that stepping on a chamomile plant will make it grow faster. But when it comes to youth, the more it is wasted, the faster is wears away. I know you are my son. Your mother says so, I believe so, and the wicked glint in your eye and foolish expression on your face prove it. If it’s true that you are my son, then here is my point: why, since you are my son, do so many people point at you? Should the blessed sun in heaven waste its time eating blackberries? That is not a question worth asking. Should the son of the king of England become a thief and steal wallets? That is worth asking. Harry, you’ve heard of a substance known as pitch. Pitch, as the wise men tell us, makes one filthy, and so does the company you keep. Harry, I speak to you not drunk but weeping, not in happiness but in anger, not just in words but also in sadness. And yet, there is a very good and pious man whom I’ve often seen you with, but I do not know his name.

What kind of man, your highness?

A stout man, truly; and overweight. He has a cheerful expression, a handsome look, and a noble bearing. I think he is about fifty years old, or perhaps closer to sixty. Now I remember! His name is Falstaff. If that man has a bad character, then I have been fooled. Harry, I see goodness in him. If one can tell a tree by its fruit, and a fruit by its tree, then let me come right out and say this: there is goodness in that Falstaff. Stay with him, but get rid of everyone else. Now tell me, you naughty boy, tell me; where have you been for the past month?

You think you sound like a king? You play me, and I’ll play my father.

You’re overthrowing me? If you play him even half as well as I did, half as majestically, then hang me up like a rabbit for sale in a butcher shop.

I’m all set.

As am I. (to the others) Judge us, everyone.

Now, Harry, where are you coming from?

From Eastcheap, my noble lord.

The complaints I have heard about you are very serious.

For God’s sake, my lord, they are lies. (to the others) I’ll make you laugh by playing a young prince, I truly will.

Are you swearing, you ungracious boy? From now on, do not even look at me. You have been violently turned away from goodness; there is a devil that haunts you, in the shape of an old, fat man. A ton of man is your companion. Why do you associate with that trunk of bodily fluids, that sifting bin of beastliness, that swollen sack of disease, that huge jug of wine, that stuffed suitcase of guts, that roasted ox crammed with pudding, that ancient Vice, that gray-haired immorality, that father criminal, that aged vanity? What is he good for, besides tasting wine and drinking it? What does he do skillfully, besides carving chickens and eating them? What’s he smart about besides schemes? What does he scheme about besides crime? What is he criminal about besides everything? What is he good for besides nothing?

I wish your highness would help me follow your meaning. Who do you mean, your grace?

That criminal, loathsome corrupter of youth: Falstaff, that old, white-bearded devil.

My lord, I know the man.

I know you do.

But to make me claim that he’s any more harmful than I am—well, I can’t claim that. Yes he’s old, and it’s a shame: his white hair proves it. But that he’s a—forgive me—pimp? That I absolutely deny. If drinking wine and sugar is a fault, then God forgive us all. If being old and merry is a sin, then I know a lot of old men who are going to hell. If being fat means you should be hated, than we should all love Pharoah’s lean cows. No, your highness. Get rid of Peto, get rid of Bardolph, get rid of Poins. But as for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, honest Jack Falstaff, brave Jack Falstaff, and therefore even more brave, given that he is old Jack Falstaff—do not get rid of him. Do not get rid of him. If you get rid of him, you’ll be getting rid of the whole world.

I do. I will.

Oh sir, sir! The Sheriff and a frightening group of officers are at the door.

Wait, you ass! We’ll finish the play: I have much to say on behalf of that Falstaff.

Jesus! Sir, sir!

Well, look here! All this mess over nothing! What’s the matter?

The Sheriff and the officers are at the door. They’ve come to search the place. Should I let them in?

Do you hear that, Hal? Be careful about calling a piece of real gold a counterfeit; you are genuine, even though it may not seem so.

And you are a genuine coward, with no instinct.

I deny that. And if you’ll deny the Sheriff, then please do; otherwise, let him in. If I don’t look as good on the hangman’s cart as any other man, then a curse on my upbringing. I’m as willing to be hanged as any man.

Go, hide behind the arras. The rest of you, go upstairs. Now, my men. Here’s wishing for an honest face and a clear conscience.

I’ve had both of those, but their shelf-life has expired. I’d better hide. (he hides behind the arras)

Call in the Sheriff.

Now, Sheriff, what is it you want from me?

First, please forgive me, my lord. A group of citizens followed some criminals into this bar.

What men?

One of them is well known, my gracious lord. A huge, fat man.

As fat as butter.

I promise you, that man isn’t here, since he’s currently running an errand for me. Sheriff, I give you my word that by lunchtime tomorrow I’ll send him to you, or anyone else you need to see. He’ll answer to anything he may be accused of. So please, I’d like you to leave this tavern.

I will, my lord. There are also two gentlemen who, in this robbery, lost three hundred marks.

It’s possible. If he did it, he’ll answer for it. And with that, farewell.

Good night, my noble lord.

I think it’s good morning, isn’t it?

Yes, sir. I think it’s two o’clock.

This oily rascal is as famous as St. Paul’s Cathedral. Go, call him out here.

Falstaff! (pulls back the arras) Fast asleep behind the arras, and snoring like a horse.

Listen, how heavily he breathes! Look in his pockets.

What did you find?

Nothing but some papers, my lord.

Let’s see what they are. Read them.

(reads) First, a chicken — two shillings and two pence. Second, sauce — four pence. Third, wine, two gallons —five shillings and eight pence. Fourth, anchovies and dessert wine — two shillings and six pence. Fifth, bread — a halfpenny.

Oh horrible! A halfpenny’s worth of bread against this enormous amount of wine? Hang onto everything else you found; we’ll read it when we have time. Let him sleep there till tomorrow. I’ll go to court in the morning. We’re all off to the wars, and you will have honorable positions. I’ll put this fat rogue in charge of an infantry company, and a quarter mile’s march will be the end of him. The money we stole will be repaid with interest. Meet me early in the morning; and with that, good morning, Peto.

Good morning, my good lord.

These commitments are reliable, our allies are solid, and the beginning of our project bodes well.

Lord Mortimer, and kinsman Glendower, won’t you please sit? And Uncle Worcester—Dammit! I forgot the map!

Here it is. Sit, kinsman Percy. Sit, good cousin Hotspur. For that is the name King Henry calls you, and whenever he says it, he grows pale, and with a sigh he wishes you were in heaven.

And you in hell, whenever he hears someone say “Owen Glendower.”

I don’t blame him. The sky was full of fiery meteors and comets when I was conceived, and when I was born, the entire earth shook like a coward.

Why, the same thing would have happened if your mother’s cat had given birth to kittens that day, whether you’d been born or not.

I say there was an earthquake when I was born.

And I say that if you think the earth shook because it was afraid of you, then the earth and I do not agree.

The heavens were all on fire, and the earth trembled.

Oh! Then the earth trembled when it saw the heavens on fire, and not in fear of your birth. When nature is diseased, strange eruptions can break forth. Often, the earth is pinched with a kind of colic, and troubled by gas in her belly. When that gas struggles to be released, it shakes old Mother Earth, bringing down steeples and moss-covered towers. When you were born, our Mother Earth was ill and shook with pain.

Kinsman, I don’t take this kind of contrary behavior from many people. With your permission, I’ll say one more time that when I was born, the heavens were full of shooting stars. The goats ran down from the mountains, and herds of animals stampeded strangely through the fields. These signs marked me as an extraordinary person. All the events of my life prove that I should not be counted with ordinary men. Is there a man who lives anywhere within England, Scotland, or Wales who can say I learned from him, or that he taught me? And bring forward one human who can follow me in the complicated ways of magic, or keep up with me in my obscure experiments.

Well, nobody speaks better Welsh. I’m going to lunch.

Stop now, kinsman Percy. You will upset him.

I can summon spirits from the deep ocean.

Why, so can I, and so can any other man! But will they come when you summon them?

Why, kinsman, I can teach you to command the devil.

And I can teach you, kinsman, how to shame the devil—by telling the truth! “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” as the old saying goes. If you do have the power to call him up, then bring him here. And I’ll swear I have the power to shame him into leaving. Oh, for goodness sake, tell the truth and shame the devil!

Enough already; stop this useless talking.

Three times now, Henry Bolingbroke has raised an army against mine. And three times, I turned him back from the banks of the River Wye, and the sandy-bottomed River Severn. I sent him home, bootless and beaten by foul weather.

You sent him home without his boots, and in foul weather? How in the devil’s name did he avoid catching fevers?

All right, here’s the map. Shall we divide up our territories according to our three-way agreement?

The Archdeacon has divided the land into three very equal parts. All of England southeast of the Trent and Severn rivers goes to me. All of Wales, and everything west of the Severn—including all the fertile land within those boundaries—goes to Owen Glendower. And, my dear kinsman, you get everything that remains to the north, coming up from the Trent. Our agreement is drawn up in triplicate. We can all sign it tonight, and then, kinsman Percy, tomorrow you, me, and Worcester will set off to meet your father and the Scottish army at Shrewsbury, as planned. My father-in-law Glendower isn’t ready yet, but we won’t need his army for another two weeks. (to GLENDOWER) By that time, you will have raised an army of the farmers on your land, your allies, and your neighbors.

I’ll be ready sooner than that, my lords; and I’ll bring your wives along with me. You should sneak away from them now, and leave without saying goodbye. Otherwise, they’ll cry an ocean of tears when you leave them.

I think my share, north of Burton here, isn’t as big as any of yours. Look how this river swoops in. It cuts out a huge chunk of my best land, in the shape of a half-moon. I’ll have a dam built. I’ll re-route the Trent River so it won’t go winding so far into my land and rob me of a fertile valley.

It won’t go winding? It will. It must. You see that it does.

Yes, but look how the Trent runs its course and winds a similar distance into my share. It cuts out the same amount of land from my side as it does from yours.

Yes, but a small sum of money will pay to dig a trench, which will reclaim this bit of land on the north side. Then it will run straight along.

I’ll do that. It will only take a little money.

I won’t have it changed.

You won’t?

No, and neither will you.

Who’s going to stop me?

Why, I will.

Well, say it in Welsh then, so I can’t understand you.

My lord, I can speak English just as well as you. I was brought up in the English court. There, in my youth, I composed many English songs for the harp, lending the language lovely ornaments of music. That is an accomplishment you have never achieved.

Indeed, and my whole heart is glad for that. I’d rather be a kitten and say “meow” than be a courtly balladeer. I’d rather hear a piece of brass turned on a lathe, or a ungreased wheel grind on its axle. Nothing sets my teeth on edge so as much as finicky poetry; it’s like the lurching steps of a lame horse.

Fine. Change the Trent’s course.

I don’t care. I’d gladly give away three times as much land to any friend who deserved it. But when it comes to negotiating a deal, mark my words: I’ll haggle over the smallest fraction of a hair. Are the agreements drawn up? Are we ready to leave?

The moon is bright; you can leave during the night. I’ll tell the man writing up our documents to hurry, and I’ll tell your wives you’re leaving. I’m afraid my daughter will go mad because she loves Mortimer so much.

Damn, kinsman Percy! How angry you make my father-in-law!

I can’t help it. He makes me angry with all his talk. Moles and ants, Merlin and his prophecies, dragons, a fish with no fins, a griffin without wings, a raven without feathers, a crouching lion and a cat rearing up to pounce. He talks so much mumbo-jumbo that I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ll tell you this: he kept me awake last night for at least nine hours, listing the names of all the devils that serve him. I said, “Hmm,” and, “How interesting,” but he didn’t hear a word. Oh, he’s as tedious as a tired horse or a nagging wife; he’s worse than a smoke-filled house. I’d rather live in a windmill and eat nothing but cheese and garlic than in a luxurious home eating delicacies, if it meant I had to listen to him talk.

Truly, he’s a worthy man. He’s exceedingly well-read, and proficient in the occult; he’s as brave as a lion, incredibly charming, and as generous as the jewel mines of India. And do you know what, cousin? He holds you in great respect. He restrains his temper when you do something to put him in a bad mood. I promise you, there isn’t a man alive who could have challenged him as you have, and gotten away without being hurt or punished. But don’t try it too often, I beg you.

(to HOTSPUR) Truly, my lord, you are to blame in your stubbornness. Since you arrived, you have done enough to test his patience. You must learn, sir, to correct this fault. Sometimes it demonstrates greatness, courage, strength—and that honors you. But often it reveals fury, bad manners, lack of self-control, pride, arrogance, conceitedness, and contempt. In a gentlemen, the least of these qualities will make you lose people’s affections. It stains your beautiful qualities, making it impossible for them to be noticed.

Well, I have had my lesson. May good manners bring you success! Here come our wives; let’s say our goodbyes.

This is the bad luck that angers me: my wife speaks no English, and I speak no Welsh.

My daughter is weeping: she doesn’t want to be parted from you. She wants to be a soldier and join you in the war.

Father-in-law, tell her that she and Lady Percy will come with you after us.

She’s desperate now; a cranky, selfish hussy. Nobody can change her mind.

I understand you by the look on your face. Those pretty Welsh tears streaming from your heavenly eyes I understand perfectly; I’d answer in the same language, if it weren’t shameful for a man to cry.

I understand your kisses and you mine; that’s a conversation of emotion. I’ll study continuously, my love, until I learn your language. Your voice makes Welsh sound as sweet as the most eloquently written songs, sung by a fair queen in a garden of summer flowers, with a gorgeous accompaniment on her a lute.

No, if you start to cry, you’ll drive her mad.

Oh, I have no idea what she’s saying!

She wants you to lie down on the rush-covered floor and rest your head in her lap. She’ll sing whatever song you like, and she’ll lull you to sleep. She’ll bewitch you into a pleasant heaviness, halfway between waking and sleeping; like the hour just before the sun begins its golden rise in the east.

I’ll gladly sit and hear her sing. By the time she’s done, I think our documents will be prepared.

Do so. The musicians who are going to play are now floating in the air a thousand leagues from here. They’ll be here shortly; so sit, and listen.

Kate! You’re good at lying down. Come quickly, so that I can put my head in your lap.

Stop it, you silly goose.

Now I see that the devil understands Welsh; it’s no surprise he’s so moody. By God, he’s a good musician.

Then you should be incredibly musical, for you’re the moodiest man alive. Lie still, you thief. Listen to the lady sing in Welsh.

I’d rather hear Lady, my dog, howl in Irish.

Do you want your head broken in?

No.

Then be still.

Never; that’s a womanly trait.

Now God help you—

Into the Welsh lady’s bed!

What did you say?

Quiet! She’s singing.

Come on, Kate. I want to hear your song, too.

Not mine, darn it.

Not yours? Darn it? Honestly! You swear like a candymaker’s wife. “Not you, darn it.” And “I swear on my life,” and “God forgive me,” and “as plain as day.” Your curse words are smooth as silk. You’d think you’d never gone further than Finsbury in your life. Swear like the real lady you are, Kate. Let loose a good mouthful of curses; leave “darn” and such watered-down cursewords to those citizens, trimmed in velvet and wearing their Sunday best. Come on, sing.

I will not sing.

It’s the quickest way to become a tailor; tailors love to sing. Or you could teach songs to birds. If our agreements are drawn up, I’ll be gone within two hours; come find me whenever you want.

Come now, Mortimer. You’re as reluctant to leave as Percy is on fire to go. Our agreements are drawn up by now. We’ll sign and then go straight to our horses.

I go with all my heart.

Gentlemen, please leave; the Prince of Wales and I must speak in private. But stay close by, for I’ll need you in a moment.

I don’t know whether God decided, because of some displeasing crime I have committed, to turn my own flesh and blood into a punisher and a plague upon me. The course of your life has me convinced that you are only meant for one purpose in this world: to be God’s vengeance against me for all my misdeeds. Why else would such disorderly and low desires, such poor, such wretched, such lewd, such despicable actions, such wasteful pleasures, and such vulgar company become associated with your high-born self, and call themselves equals with a Prince like you?

Your majesty, I wish I could be proven innocent of all those accusations, for I can certainly clear myself of many of them. But let me beg one favor of you: if I can demonstrate that I’m not guilty of the false charges of these smiling flatterers and wretched gossips (the kinds of stories that are always told about great men), then you will forgive me when I confess to the youthful indiscretions I actually did commit.

Let God forgive you! But I’m amazed, Harry, at your inclinations, which run completely contrary to those of your ancestors. Your vulgar behavior has cost you your place on my council, a position now held by your younger brother. You have almost completely alienated yourself from the good graces of the courtiers and the other members of the royal family. The hopes of your youth are now ruined; every man, in his heart, thinks he can see your downfall. If I had been so publicly visible, so overly familiar to people, so freely accessible, so cheap and available to the common hordes, then public opinion (which helped me get the crown) would have stayed loyal to King Richard. I would have stayed a banished man, with no reputation and no promise of success. But because I was so rarely seen in public, people were amazed by me when I did appear; they acted as if I were a comet. Men would tell their children, “That’s him!” Others would ask, “Where? Which one’s Bolingbroke?” I was more gracious than heaven; I acted so modestly that I won the allegiance of their hearts, and the shouts and salutes of their mouths. They even did so when the King himself was present. This is how I kept myself fresh and new. I was like a priest’s ceremonial vestments: rarely seen, but admired. I appeared seldomly, but marvelously, like a feast made all the more impressive by its rarity. Now, ridiculous King Richard pranced about with vapid clowns and superficial wits, quickly lit and just as quickly burnt out. He degraded himself, mingling his royal self with those skipping fools.

His reputation was ruined by their scornful attitudes. He lost face by laughing with those joking boys, and tolerating the rudeness of every smooth-faced, disdainful prankster. He spent his time in common, public places, surrendering himself to the pursuit of popularity. Soon, they saw him every day and it was like overdosing on honey; they began to hate the taste of that sweetness. A little too much is as bad as far too much. Seeing him became as common a sight as a cuckoo in June—heard but not paid attention to; seen, but by eyes so used to seeing that they took it for granted. They didn’t look with a special gaze, as they do at the sun when it shines only rarely. Instead, they grew bored, they looked away. They slept in front of him and watched him dully, the way a sullen man looks at his enemy. They were stuffed, gorged, and full with his presence. And that is just where you stand, Harry. You have lost your princely status by associating with vile criminals: there’s not an eye in the kingdom that isn’t weary of looking at you. No eyes except mine, that is, which had wished to see more of you; and now they’re acting against me, blinding themselves with foolish tears.

From now on, my very gracious father, I will behave more like myself.

At this moment, you seem just like Richard did when I returned from France to lead the revolt. And just as I was then, Percy seems now. I swear on my scepter and my soul, he has more of a right to the throne than you, you shadowy copy of a king. For without a right to the throne—nor anything even resembling a right—he has filled the kingdom’s battlefields with armies. He seeks to lead an army against the King, into the jaws of the lion. And even though he is no older than you are, he leads old statesmen and venerable bishops into bloody battles and violent wars. What lasting honor he won, by beating the renowned Douglas! That man’s great exploits, violent invasions, and glorious military reputation had won him praise throughout the Christian world as the most outstanding soldier. And yet Hotspur, this Mars in baby clothes, this infant warrior, has defeated Douglas three times, captured him once, then freed him and made him his ally. Now they have become a huge threat to my throne. And what do you have to say about this? Percy, Northumberland, the Archbishop of York, Douglas, and Mortimer have banded together, and now they are after me. But why am I telling you this? Why should I tell you about my foes, Harry, when you are my most beloved and most dangerous enemy? With your sycophantic fear, your vulgar inclinations, and your short temper, I wouldn’t be surprised if you left me to fight under Percy, following his heels like a dog and bowing to him when he frowns. Just to prove what a degenerate you are.

Don’t think that; that will not happen. God forgive whoever turned you against me like this! I’ll redeem myself by beating Percy. And at the end of some glorious victory, I’ll come to you and proudly say that I am your son. I will wear a garment made of blood, and my face will be stained by a bloody mask which, when washed away, will clean me of my shame. This will be the day, whenever it happens, that this famous and honored child—this brave Hotspur, this highly praised knight—will meet your disregarded Harry in battle. I wish that every honor he’s earned were multiplied, and that every one of my shames were doubled. For the time will come when I’ll make this youth from the north exchange his glorious deeds for my embarrassments. Percy is working for me, my lord. He’s collecting glories on my behalf, and I’m going to hold him strictly accountable for them. He’ll either have to surrender every last one of those glories to me, no matter how small, or I’ll tear them right out of his heart. This I promise you, in the name of God. And if God allows me to do these things, then I beg you to heal the wound caused by my long years of bad behavior. If not, then my death will cancel all my debts. I would rather die a hundred-thousand deaths than break even the smallest part of this promise.

Through this vow, a hundred-thousand rebels are killed. You will be given a position of command, and absolute trust in this undertaking.

What’s wrong, Blunt? You look like there’s an emergency.

There is, which is what I’ve come to tell you. Lord Mortimer of Scotland sent word that Douglas and the English rebels met at Shrewsbury, on the eleventh of this month. If everyone involved keeps their word, they will have an army as enormous and terrifying as any that ever caused trouble in this kingdom.

We heard this news five days ago. The Earl of Westmoreland left today, along with my son Lord John of Lancaster. Harry, you’ll go next Wednesday. On Thursday, I will go myself. We’ll meet at Bridgenorth. Harry, you will march through Gloucestershire. Given the amount of time we’ll all need, we should come together with our full forces at Bridgenorth twelve days from now. There’s a lot to do, so let’s go. Our enemies will take advantage if we’re slow.

Bardolph, haven’t I shrivelled since our last robbery? Haven’t I gotten thin? Aren’t I shrinking? My skin is hanging off me like a loose gown on an old lady; I’m puckered like a rotten apple. I’d better repent my sins, and fast, while there’s still something left of me. I’ll be in bad shape soon, and then I won’t have the strength to repent. If I haven’t forgotten what the inside of a church looks like, I’m a withered berry, a lame old nag. The inside of a church! The wrong crowd, the wrong crowd has ruined me.

Sir John, you complain so much, you’re sure not to live much longer.

You’re absolutely right. Come on then, sing me a dirty song. Make me laugh. I lived my life as properly as a gentleman should. Well, properly enough, anyway. I didn’t swear much. I didn’t gamble—more than seven days a week. I went to a whorehouse no more than once—every fifteen minutes. I paid my debts—three or four times. I lived well and within reasonable boundaries. And now, I live poorly and out of moderation.

You’re so fat, Sir John, that you have no choice but to live out of moderation: moderation could not fit you.

You fix your face and I’ll fix my life. You’re like the flagship of our fleet, with a light on its bow—except that your light is in your nose.

Why, Sir John, my face isn’t hurting you.

No, you’re right. I actually get some good from your face: it’s like a skull, or a death token. I can’t look at your face without thinking of the flames of hell, and Dives from the Bible, who burned eternally. If there were anything pious about you, I could swear oaths on your face. I could say, “Now, by this fire, which is God’s angel …” But you’re a complete sinner, and if it weren’t for the light in your face, you’d be the son of darkness. When you ran up Gadshill at night to find my horse, I could have sworn you were a will-o-the-wisp or a fireball. You’re an endless torchlight parade, a permanent bonfire. Walking with you from tavern to tavern at night has saved me a thousand marks in candles and flashlights. But the money I’ve spent on wine for you would have been enough to buy the most expensive candles in Europe. I’ve kept that nose of yours burning for thirty-two years, God bless me.

Dammit! I wish my face were in your belly.

God have mercy! Then I’d surely have heartburn.

Hello there, Madame Clucking Chicken! Have you figured out yet who picked my pocket?

Now Sir John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think I have thieves in my establishment? I’ve searched, I’ve asked questions; so has my husband. We’ve asked every man, boy and servant here. No one’s ever lost so much as a fraction of a hair in this tavern before.

You lie! Bardolph got a shave here, and he lost a lot of hair. And I swear my pocket was picked. To hell with you, you’re a woman. To hell with you.

Who, me? No, I say. By God, I’ve never been called such a thing in my own tavern before.

Oh come on, I know all about you.

No, Sir John; you don’t know me, Sir John. I know you, Sir John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you’re making a fuss so that you can cheat me out of it. I have bought you a dozen shirts to wear.

Junk, cheap junk. I gave them away to bakers’ wives, to sift flour with.

I swear, as an honest woman, that they were made of expensive fabric, eight shillings an ell. Besides, you owe me money for food and drink, plus twenty-four pounds I lent you.

(points at BARDOLPH) He had some of it. Let him pay.

Him? He’s poor, he has nothing.

What? Poor? Look at his face. What do you call rich? They could make coins from his nose, mint his cheeks. I won’t pay a denier. You think I’m a rube? What, I can’t relax at a tavern without getting my pocket picked? I lost my grandfather’s sealing ring, worth forty marks.

Jesus! I’ve heard the Prince tell him countless times that ring was only made out of copper.

What? The Prince is a bastard, a sneak. Dammit, if he were here and said something like that, I’d beat him like a dog.

Hey there, lad! Is that what’s happening? Are we all going to march?

Yes, side by side, like prisoners to the gallows.

My lord, please, listen to me.

What is it, Mistress Quickly? How’s your husband? I think highly of him; he’s an honest man.

My lord, please listen to me.

Forget about her, and listen to me.

What is it, Jack?

The other night I fell asleep here behind the arras and I had my pocket picked. This bar’s like a whorehouse: they pick your pockets.

What did you lose, Jack?

Would you believe it, Hal? Three or four I.O.U.’s worth forty pounds each, and my grandfather’s sealing ring.

Junk, not worth more than eight pennies.

That’s what I said, my lord. And I said I’d heard you say so, and then he said awful things about you, like the foul-mouthed man that he is. He said he’d beat you.

What? He did?

If he didn’t, I’m not faithful, trustworthy or womanly.

You’re about as faithful as a whore, as trustworthy as a fox on the run, and—as for womanhood—a man in a dress is the minister’s wife compared to you. Get out of here, you thing, get out.

Thing? What thing?

What thing? A thing to say “thank God” for.

I am not a thing to say “thank God” for, I want you to know; I am an honest man’s wife. And ignoring the fact that you are a knight, you are a brute for calling me that.

Well, if you ignore the fact that you’re a woman, then I suppose that would make you an animal.

What animal, you brute?

What animal? Why, an otter.

An otter, Sir John? Why an otter?

Because she’s not quite a fish and not quite a mammal. A man wouldn’t know where to put her.

You’re awful for saying so: you or any man would know where to put me, you brute, you!

You’re right, hostess, and he has really insulted you.

He insulted you, too, my lord. Just the other day, he said you owed him a thousand pounds.

Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pounds?

A thousand pounds, Hal? A million. Your love is worth a million, and you owe me your love.

No, sir. He called you a bastard and said he’d beat you.

Did I, Bardolph?

Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

That’s right, if he said my ring was junk and made of copper.

And I do say that it’s made of copper. So will you dare keep your word and beat me?

Hal, know this: if you were only a man, I would dare. But since you’re also a Prince, I’m scared of you, as much as I’m scared by the roar of a lion’s cub.

Why the cub and not the lion?

Only the King is as frightening as the lion. You think I’m as scared of you as I am of your father? If I am, I pray to God for my belt to break.

Oh, but if it did, your guts would fall down to your knees! Sirrah, there’s no room in your chest for trustworthiness, truthfulness, or honesty. It’s all filled up with guts and stomach. Accuse an honest woman of picking your pocket? You son of a whore; you rude, bloated cheat. I’ll be damned if there was anything in your pocket besides tavern bills, notes about whorehouses, and a penny’s worth of candy for energy. If you had anything else in your pockets, then I’m a liar; yet you stand by your lies. You won’t even try to hide how bad you are. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

Don’t you know, Hal? Adam fell from grace when the world was innocent. What should poor Jack Falstaff do, now that the world is wicked? You see I have more flesh than other men. It follows that I’m more fallible than other men.—So you’re confessing to picking my pocket?

It looks that way.

Hostess, I forgive you. Go get breakfast ready; love your husband; tend to your servants; cherish your guests. You’ll find me a perfectly reasonable man. See? I’m calm, as always. Now please, get going!

Now Hal, what’s the news at court? What ever happened about our robbery?

I’m your guardian angel again, you fresh piece of meat. The money’s been paid back.

I don’t like that “paying back.” It means twice the work!

My father and I are friends again, and I can do whatever I want.

Then rob the treasury right away, and don’t even delay long enough to wash your hands.

Do it, my lord.

I have gotten you an infantry company to command, Jack.

I wish it were the horse brigade. Where can I recruit a talented crook? Oh, if I only had a gifted thief, about twenty-two years old! I’m terribly lacking in help. Well, thank God for these rebels. The only people they bother are the good people. I like that. I honor and salute them.

Bardolph!

My lord?

Deliver this letter to Lord John of Lancaster, my brother. Give this one to Westmoreland.

Peto, get to your horse, get to your horse! You and I have to be thirty miles from here by lunchtime.

Jack, meet me at Temple Hall at two o’clock tomorrow. You’ll get the list of your troops there, plus some money and an order for their equipment. The country is on fire, and Percy’s riding high. Either they or we must die.

Well spoken! What a splendid world! Bring my breakfast, hostess! I wish that I could lead my troops from here!

Well said, you excellent Scotsman. If people these days didn’t confuse the truth with flattery, I would praise you highly. No other soldier so newly tested in battle would have gained such a widespread reputation. God knows, I don’t flatter: I hate people who give out praise too easily. But you have a place in my heart that no other man has. Make me prove it; try me.

You are the most honorable man alive, and if any man challenges that—no matter how powerful—I’ll defy him.

You do that. Well done.

What letters have you got there? (to DOUGLAS) All I can do is thank you.

These letters come from your father.

Letters from him? Why isn’t he here in person?

He can’t come, my lord; he’s terribly sick.

Damn! How can he take the leisure of being sick at such a frantic time? Who’s in charge of his army? Who’s leading them here?

His letters will tell you his plans, my lord, not I.

Pardon me, but is he bedridden?

He had been, sir, for four days before I left. And on the day I left, his doctors were extremely concerned.

I wish he’d waited till things were settled before he went and got sick. We’ve never needed him more than now.

Sick now? Faint now? His disease is infecting our entire project. It’s spread all the way to here, right to our camp. He writes that some internal illness—and that his allies couldn’t be gathered so quickly by one of his deputies. Besides, he didn’t think it was appropriate to delegate such a dangerous and important task to someone other than himself. But he also says that we should be bold and press on with our small contingent. For, as he writes, there’s no turning back now, since the King surely knows our plans. What do you think?

Your father’s sickness is a serious injury to us.

It’s a perilous wound, like losing a limb. And yet, truly, it’s not that bad; the loss of my father seems worse than it is. After all, is it a good idea to bet all our resources on one throw of the dice? Or to gamble such a rich stake on a single hazardous event? No, because that would mean we had reached the end of our hope, and the very limit of our luck.

That’s right. We have a chance at a rich inheritance; we can take a risk now, based on the promise of success to come. That gives us comfort, something to fall back on.

It gives us a refuge, a home we can always run to, in case the devil or misfortune ruins these early plans.

I still wish your father were here. Our endeavor here won’t withstand any division. People who don’t realize your father is sick will assume that he knows some kind of secret, or that he is loyal to the King, or that he doesn’t approve of how we’re handling things. And just imagine how that kind of mistrust could frighten our more timid supporters, and lead them to doubt us. You know very well that the challenger must always avoid careful examination. We must seal every crack, every loophole, which skeptics might look through to see weaknesses. Your father’s absence draws the curtains back and reveals frightful things to ignorant people, who had never had a reason to fear before.

You’re taking this too far. I’d rather think about his absence this way: it makes us look even better. It makes our great undertaking seem even more daring than it would if Northumberland were here. People will think that if we can raise an army against the King without my father, that once he joins we’ll turn the whole kingdom upside down. Everything is fine, we’re all in one piece.

We’re as well off as we could have hoped. In Scotland, we don’t even know the meaning of the word fear.

Welcome, kinsman Vernon, from the bottom of my heart.

I pray to God that what I have to say is worth welcoming, my lord. The Earl of Westmoreland, with seven thousand men, is marching this way. Prince John is with him.

Nothing to be worried about. What else?

I’ve also learned that the King himself is coming this way, or at least plans to very soon, with a huge and powerful force.

We’ll welcome him too. Where’s his son, that sporting, foolhardy Prince of Wales, and his comrades, who don’t care about anything?

They’re all in uniform, all armed. They look like feathered ostriches; like eagles beating their wings after a bath; like statues painted gold. They’re as lively as the springtime; as gorgeous as the midsummer sun; as giddy as young goats; as wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry with his helmet on, and armor on his thighs. Armed with powerful weapons, he rose off the ground like the winged god Mercury, and leaped so effortlessly into his saddle, it was as if an angel had dropped out of the sky to ride a fiery Pegasus, and bewitch the world with his incredible horsemanship.

Stop, stop! This praise of him makes me sicker than the sun on an early spring day. Let them come, like sacrifices in all their finery; we’ll offer them, hot and bleeding, to the fire-eyed goddess of smoky war. The war-god Mars will sit on his altar, up to his ears in blood. I am on fire, knowing that this rich prize is so near, and yet still not ours. Come, bring me my horse, who will carry me like a lightning bolt to face the Prince of Wales. Then this Harry will meet that Harry, my horse against his horse; we’ll meet and never separate, till one of us falls down as a corpse. Oh, I wish that Glendower were here!

I have more news: as I passed through the town of Worcester, I heard that Glendower won’t be able to collect his army for two more weeks.

That’s the worst news I’ve heard so far.

Yes, truly, that news makes me cold.

How many men in the King’s army?

Thirty thousand.

Let it be forty. Even with both my father and Glendower absent, our armies may still be enough to win. Come on, let’s gather our troops right now. It’s almost doomsday; if we die, we die cheerfully.

Don’t talk about dying. I won’t even worry about dying for the next six months.

Bardolph, go ahead of us to Coventry, and fill me a bottle of wine. Our army will keep marching, and we’ll make it to Sutton Coldfield tonight.

Will you give me some money, captain?

Spend your own.

If I buy you this bottle, that makes me an angel.

Well, if this bottle earns you an angel, then keep it for your troubles. If you earn twenty angels, then keep them all; I’m good for it. Tell my lieutenant Peto to meet me at the city limit.

I will, captain. Farewell.

If I’m not ashamed of my soldiers, then I’m a pickled fish. I’ve taken terrible advantage of my position. I’ve pressed a hundred and fifty soldiers into service, and for that, the treasury has paid me over three hundred pounds. I recruited only well-to-do property owners and rich farmer’s sons. I looked for men who were engaged to be married, who were already halfway through their preparations. I found a whole supply of pampered cowards who would rather listen to the devil than a military march; who feared the sound of gunfire more than a wounded bird or a maimed duck might. I recruited only the soft-hearted, who each had as much courage as could fit on a pin head and bribed me to avoid fighting. So now, my battalion is made up of flag bearers, corporals, lieutenants, and crooks as ragged as Lazarus in those paintings where the dogs are licking the sores on his body. I have men who’ve never been soldiers: servants dismissed for their dishonesty; youngest sons with no hope of an inheritance; runaway apprentice bartenders; unemployed stable boys. When the world is calm and peaceful, these men are blisters on society. They’re ten times more ragged than an old, tattered flag, and they’re the kind of men I have to replace the ones who bribed me. You’d think I had a hundred and fifty men who’d just come from pig farming, who eat scraps and garbage. One madman saw us on the march and told me that it looked as if I’d unloaded all the gallows and drafted all the dead bodies. No one’s ever seen such a group of scarecrows. I’m not going to march through Coventry with them tonight, that’s for sure. They march with their legs wide apart, as though they had chains on their ankles. Which makes sense, since I drafted most of them out of jails. There’s only a shirt and a half in the whole group, and the half-shirt is really just two napkins sewn together and thrown over the shoulders like a cape. And the whole shirt, to tell the truth, was stolen from a tavern owner in St. Alban’s, or maybe that drunken innkeeper in Daventry. But that doesn’t matter. They’ll be able to steal plenty of clothing from the hedges, where the washers hang the laundry out to dry.

What’s up, swollen Jack! What’s up, quilt?

Hello there, Hal, you crazy boy! What in the devil’s name are you doing in Warwickshire? And Lord Westmoreland, I beg your pardon. I thought you were already at Shrewsbury.

You’re right, Sir John; it’s about time I got there, and you, too. But my army’s already there. The King is waiting for us, so we must march all night.

Don’t worry about me. I’m as focused as a cat looking for cream to steal.

Steal cream is right—you’ve stolen so much that it’s turned you into butter. But tell me, Jack, whose soldiers are those?

Mine, Hal, mine.

I never saw such pitiful-looking losers.

Now, now: they’re good enough to die. Cannon fodder, cannon fodder—they’ll fill a mass grave as well as better men would. They’re just men, just men.

Maybe so, Sir John, but I think they look terribly poor and bare; they look like beggars.

Well, I don’t know where they got their poverty, but their bareness—or their bare-bonedness—well, they didn’t get that from me.

That’s for sure. Unless you think several inches of fat over your ribs makes you “bare-boned.” But hurry up, sirrah: Percy is already at the battlefield.

What, has the King already made camp?

He has, Sir John: I’m afraid we may be too late.

Well, a hungry guest arrives early for a feast, but a poor soldier arrives late to a battle.

We’ll fight him tonight.

We can’t do that.

Then you’re giving him the advantage.

Not in the least.

Why do you say that? Doesn’t he have backup coming?

So do we.

His is guaranteed. Ours isn’t.

Nephew, I’m telling you. Don’t start the fighting tonight.

(to HOTSPUR) Don’t, my lord.

You’re giving poor advice, based on fear and cowardice.

Don’t slander me, Douglas. I swear on my life—and I’ll prove it with my life—that if I’m roused to fight through thoughtful, careful consideration, I’m just as unafraid as you, my lord, or any Scotsman alive. In tomorrow’s battle, we’ll see which one of us is afraid.

Fine. Or tonight.

That’s enough.

Tonight, I say.

Come on, we can’t do that. I wonder how—being the great leaders you are—you cannot see the problems we’re facing. My cousin has yet to arrive with his horses, and your Uncle Worcester’s troops only arrived today. Their spirit and their bravery is asleep; their courage is dulled and tamed by the hard journey. They don’t have even a quarter of their usual strength.

The enemy’s horses are tired from the journey as well. The majority of ours are well-rested.

But the King has more men then we do. For God’s sake, nephew, wait until everyone arrives.

I’m here with a generous offer from the King, if you’ll listen to me and treat me with respect.

Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt. I wish to God you were on our side. Many of us think very highly of you, though we begrudge you your honor and reputation, since you fight on the enemy’s side.

And I hope to God I always will, so long as you overstep the bounds of allegiance and duty by standing against the anointed King. But let me get to the point. The King sent me to learn your complaints, and to find out why you are stirring up warfare in a time of peace, and spreading violent dissent throughout his loyal country. If the King has somehow overlooked one of your deserving acts—which, he admits, there are many—he asks you to name your complaints. He’ll meet your demands, with interest, as quickly as possible, and grant an absolute pardon to you and everyone who has followed your mistaken lead.

That’s kind of the King. We know all too well about the promises the King makes, and the ways he keeps his word. My father, my uncle, and I put that crown on his head. And when he had barely twenty-six men supporting him, when no one cared about him, when he was wretched and low, a poor, forsaken criminal trying to sneak home, my father welcomed him. When he swore an oath to God, weeping and speaking passionately, that he had come back to England only to reclaim his father’s title and make peace with King Richard, my father took pity on him, swore to help him and did so. When the country’s most important men saw that Northumberland was on his side, they came to see Henry, and bowed down to him. They met him in towns, cities, villages; they waited for him on bridges, stood in the streets, lay gifts before him, swore their loyalty, pledged the support of their sons, followed him like servants. Soon enough, he began to understand his power. He overstepped the promise he’d made to my father at Ravenspurgh, when his blood was still humble. And then, suddenly, he took it upon himself to reform certain laws and strict decrees that weighed too heavily on the kingdom. He made angry speeches about the abuses we were suffering, and seemed to weep over the country’s problems. And with this face, this mask of righteousness, he won everyone’s hearts. Then he went even further, and cut off the heads of all of Richard’s deputies, who stayed behind to run the country while Richard was waging war in Ireland.

I didn’t come here to listen to this.

Then I’ll get to the point. A little while later, he overthrew King Richard. Soon after that, he killed him. And right after that, he raised taxes on everyone. To make matters worse, he allowed his kinsman Mortimer—who by rights ought to be the king—to be imprisoned in Wales, and remain there without ransom. He tried to use my victories to disgrace me, and tried to trap me with spies. He dismissed my uncle from his royal Council, threw my father out of the royal court, broke promise after promise, and committed crime after crime. In conclusion, he forced us to raise this army for our own safety, and to question his claim on the crown, which we believe is too flimsy to stand.

Should I bring this answer to the King?

No, Sir Walter. We’ll stand down for a while. Go to the King. My uncle will bring him our demands early in the morning, provided that you arrange for a guarantee that he’ll be allowed to return safely. And so, farewell.

I wish you would accept the King’s offer of kindness and love.

Perhaps we will.

I pray to God you do.

Hurry, Sir Michael, bring this sealed letter as fast as you can to the Lord Marshal. Bring this one to Scroop, and all the rest to whom they are addressed. If you knew how important they were, you would hurry.

My good lord, I can guess what they say.

I’m sure you can. Tomorrow, Sir Michael, ten thousand men will try their luck. I’m told that at Shrewsbury, the King—with a huge and quickly assembled army—will fight Harry Percy. I’m afraid, Michael, that without Northumberland, whose army was the largest of all, and without Owen Glendower, who was also being counted on but is absent because his horoscope told him to stay away, I’m afraid that Percy’s army will be too weak to fight the King right now.

Don’t worry, sir. Douglas and Mortimer are there.

No, Mortimer isn’t there.

But Mordake is there, and Vernon, and Harry Percy, and Worcester and a slew of brave warriors and excellent men.

That’s correct. But the King has pulled together the best men in the country: the Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, the noble Westmoreland, warlike Blunt, and many other acquaintances and valuable men of good reputation, with great skill in battle.

No doubt they will face great opposition.

I hope so, but still I’m afraid. Now hurry, Sir Michael, to prevent an absolute disaster. For if Percy doesn’t prevail, the King will come after us before he disbands his army. He’s heard that we’re part of the rebellion, so we’d be wise to prepare against him. Now hurry. I have to go write to more friends. Farewell, Sir Michael.

How bloody the sun looks as it peers over that massive hill. The day looks pale—it must be sick to see the sun in such a mood.

The southern wind is playing its trumpet, to announce to the world what the sun means. And judging by the whistling leaves, it’s going to be a stormy, windy day.

Then let it take the losers’ side. To winners, nothing seems unpleasant.

Hello there, my lord of Worcester! It isn’t right that you and I are meeting under these circumstances. You have betrayed my trust. You forced me to put aside my comfortable peacetime clothing and instead have made me crush my old body into hard, military armor. That isn’t right, sir, that isn’t right. What do you have to say about it? Will you untie this ill-tempered knot of hateful war? Will you return to my loyalty? When you circled me, your King, in your obedient orbit, you shone beautifully and naturally. Now you blaze like a comet: a fearful omen, and a signal that evil will be released into the future.

Listen, my lord. For me, I would love nothing more than to spend my old age in peace and quiet. I protest: I did not seek out this day of aggression.

You did not seek it? Then how did it come here?

Rebellion was standing in front of him, and he bumped into it.

Quiet, you chatterer, quiet!

(to the KING) Your Highness chose to turn your back on me and my family. I must remind you, sir, that we were your first and dearest friends. For you, I quit my position under Richard, and ran day and night to meet you on the road and kiss your hand. At that time, you were far less powerful than I was. But my brother, his son, and I brought you home and ignored the danger. At Doncaster you swore an oath to us that you were not going to challenge the King; all you wanted was your late father’s estate, the dukedom of Lancaster, and in this we promised to help you. But soon, good luck began to pour on you like rain, and a flood of greatness fell upon you. You had a swarm of advantages: you had our assistance; and the King had been away so long; and the country was suffering under violence; and you seemed to have been so grievously wronged; and difficult winds were keeping Richard so long in those unlucky Irish wars, people thought he was dead. You seized the opportunity, and used the general feeling to your advantage. You forgot the oath you swore to us at Doncaster. We nourished you, but you used us, like the cuckoo bird uses the sparrow: you settled in our nest, ate our food, and as you grew, you crowded us out. We loved you, but we couldn’t even come near you, for fear that you’d swallow us up. For our own safety, we were forced to run away and secretly raise this army. And now we stand with it, armed with powers that you yourself have caused to stand against you. You treated us poorly, you looked at us with anger, and you broke the faith and trust you swore to us when you were younger.

You’ve said all this already. You’ve announced it in marketplaces, given sermons on it in churches. You’ve tried to make rebellion look pleasant in the eyes of all the fickle turncoats and poor malcontents, who laugh and clap eagerly at the news that a revolution is coming. But rebellion always trades in these kinds of thin excuses, and never lacks angry beggars, desperate for mayhem and chaos.

Both our armies are full of men who will make the ultimate sacrifice in this battle, once it starts. Tell your nephew that the Prince of Wales joins the whole world in praising Henry Percy. Except for his current endeavor, I don’t think there’s a man alive who is braver, more heroic, more daring, or more bold. As for me, I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve shirked my responsibilities. I hear that he agrees with me on that point. And yet—and I say this in front of my father—in order to avoid casualties on both sides, I want to challenge him in hand-to-hand combat. And I’m content to admit that, based on his good name and reputation, he’s the favorite to win.

Prince of Wales, I’d support that idea, except that there are countless reasons why I shouldn’t. No, Worcester, no. I love my subjects, even those who have mistakenly followed your nephew’s lead. If they accept our pardon, then he, you, and they will all be my friends again, and I’ll be theirs. Tell your nephew this, and bring back his answer. But if he doesn’t surrender, he will be rebuked and harshly punished. So, be gone. I don’t want to hear anymore from you now. I offer a fair deal; I advise you to accept it.

He won’t accept. I’ll bet my life on it. Douglas and Hotspur are convinced that they could take on the whole world together.

Then everyone get to their battalions. As soon as they respond, we’ll attack. May God be with us. Our cause is just!

Hal, if you see me fall in battle, stand over me, like this. It would be an act of friendship.

Only a giant could do you that friendship. Say your prayers, and farewell.

I wish it were bedtime, Hal, and everything were okay.

But you owe God a death.

It’s not due yet. I’d hate to pay him before the due date. Why should I be so eager to pay him before he even asks for it? Well, it doesn’t matter: honor spurs me on. Yeah, but what if honor spurs me off once I’m on, and picks me out to die? What happens then? Can honor set a broken leg? No. Or an arm? No. Can it make a wound stop hurting? No. Honor can’t perform surgery, then? No. What is honor? A word. What is in that word, “honor?” What is that “honor?” Air. Quite a bargain! Who has it? A guy who died last Wednesday. Does he feel it? No. Does he hear it? No. It can’t be detected, then? Right—not by the dead, anyway. But won’t it live with the living? No. Why? Slander won’t allow it. That’s why I don’t want any part of it. Honor is nothing more than a gravestone, and that concludes my catechism.

Oh no, Sir Richard, my nephew cannot be told about the generous and kind offer the King made.

But he should be told.

It will be the end of all of us! There is absolutely no way that the King will keep his word and trust us again. He will always be wary of us. He’ll find other reasons to punish us for this rebellion. For the rest of our lives he and his loyalists will look on us with suspicion. Treason is like a fox: you can tame it, care for it, and put it in a cage, but it will always have the wild instincts it inherited from its ancestors. No matter how we look—sad or happy—people will interpret our looks in the worst possible light. We’ll be like oxen in a stall: the better they’re fed, the closer they are to being slaughtered. My nephew’s disloyalty might be forgiven: his young age and hot temper will excuse it. Plus, his nickname gives him permission: Hotspur the Harebrain, always flaring up. All his offenses will be blamed on me and his father. After all, we encouraged him, and since we taught him to be angry at the King, we’ll pay for it. So cousin, don’t by any means let Harry know what the King offered.

Tell him what you want, and I’ll back you up.

Here comes your nephew.

My uncle’s back. Free Westmoreland, his hostage. Uncle, what’s happening?

The King will beckon you to battle shortly.

Have Westmoreland deliver your message of defiance.

Douglas, go tell him to do that.

Indeed, I will, and gladly.

The King doesn’t appear willing to forgive us.

Did you ask him to? God forbid!

I politely told him what our issues were. I accused him of breaking his promise to us, and here’s how he answered: he lied about the fact that he lied. He called us rebels, traitors, and said he’d punish us with his mighty army.

Get your weapons, gentlemen, get your weapons! I sent King Henry a brave and defiant message, and Westmoreland, who was our hostage, will deliver it. This will surely bring the battle on immediately.

The Prince of Wales stepped forward, nephew, and challenged you to a one-on-one fight.

Oh, I wish the whole battle were between us, and that the only people who would lose their breath today would be me and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, what was the tone of his challenge? Did he show contempt for me?

No, I swear; I never heard a challenge issued more gracefully. It was like a brother asking a brother to a little friendly competition. He paid you all due respect, and he summed up your good qualities in the most princely language. He spoke of how deserving you are, as though he were your biographer. He claimed you were even above praise, for simple praise could never measure up to your true merits. And he gave a modest account of himself, as well, which made him seem like a true prince indeed. He berated himself for having behaved wildly, but he said this so gracefully that he sounded like a teacher giving a lesson and a student learning one at the same time. There he stopped, but let me say this: if he survives this battle, then England never had a sweeter hope, nor one so misunderstood in his recklessness.

I think you’ve been charmed by his foolishness. I’ve never heard of a Prince who was so wild and loose. But however he wants to seem, before night falls I will embrace him with these soldier’s arms, and he will tremble at my affection. Get ready, get ready quickly! And friends, partners, soldiers, take a moment to think for yourselves about what you have to do. I’m not a good enough speaker to motivate you.

My lord, I have some letters for you.

I can’t read them now. Oh, gentlemen, life is short. But if you spend that brief time shamefully, you are wasting your time: even if life lasted only an hour, it would still be too long. If we live, it will be in triumph over kings. If we die, it will be a glorious death, since princes will die with us. As for our consciences, our battle is fair: it’s right to bear arms when the cause is just.

My lord, get ready. The King has launched his attack.

I thank him for cutting off my speech, since I have no talent for speaking. Only one more thing: each man should do his best, and with that I will draw my sword. On this dangerous day, I intend to stain it with the best blood I can find. “Hope is my comfort!” Percy! Let’s go! Sound all the imposing instruments of battle, and let’s embrace one another to the tune of that music. For, by heaven, some of us will never be able to do that again.

What is your name—you, who are attacking me like this? What honor do you think you’ll get by fighting me?

My name is Douglas, and I’m haunting you in this battle because they tell me you are a king.

They tell you the truth.

Today, Lord Stafford paid for resembling you so well, for instead of you, King Harry, my sword killed him. Now it will kill you, unless you surrender as my prisoner.

I was not born to surrender, you arrogant Scotsman. You’re about to see a king take revenge for Stafford’s death.

Oh, Douglas! If you’d fought like this at Holmedon, I would never have been able to beat you.

It’s over, we’ve won: here’s the King, dead.

Where?

Here.

This, Douglas? No. I know this man: he was a brave knight, by the name of Blunt; he is disguised as the King.

(to BLUNT) Wherever your soul is off to now, let it carry the name of fool! You paid too much for that borrowed title. Why did you tell me you were a king?

The King has many men on the battlefield disguised in his uniform.

Now, I swear on my sword, I’ll kill all his uniforms! I’ll murder every item of his clothing, one piece at a time, until I find the King himself.

Get going! Our side looks like it will win today.

I could always escape shot-free in London, but I’m scared of getting shot out here. Here, you take it on the head. Wait a minute—who’s this? Sir Walter Blunt! There’s honor for you, but no vanity! I’m as hot as molten lead, and as heavy, too; so God keep the lead out of me. I don’t need any lead bullets in my belly—my own guts are heavy enough. My army of ragged bums has been massacred. Not even three of my hundred-fifty troops are still alive, and the ones who are have run away, to panhandle in the streets. Who’s coming?

What, are you standing here doing nothing? Give me your sword. Many good men are lying cold and dead on the ground, with the enemy’s horses galloping over them. Their deaths have not been revenged. Come, give me your sword.

Oh, Hal, please, give me a moment to catch my breath. No one has ever fought as heroically as I did today. I’ve killed Percy, I’ve made him safe.

You’re right; he’s safe, and now he’s coming to kill you. Now please, give me your sword.

No, Hal, I swear to God! If Percy’s alive, you’re not taking my sword. But you can have my gun, if you want.

Give it to me. Is it in its holster?

Yup. It’s hot, hot; it could sack a city.(PRINCE HENRY opens the holster and finds a bottle of white wine)

Is this a time to joke and fool around?

If Percy’s alive, I’ll pierce him. If he runs into me, fine. If he doesn’t run into me, but I run into him, let him slice me like a butcher. I don’t want the kind of honor Sir Walter has: give me life. If I manage to save my life, fine. If not, I’ll have honor that I never looked for, and that’ll be that.

Please, Harry, get out of here: you’re bleeding too heavily. John of Lancaster, go with him.

I won’t leave, my lord, unless I am bleeding too.

I beg your highness, advance. Your army will lose heart if it sees you falling back.

I will. My Lord of Westmoreland, take him to his tent.

(to PRINCE HENRY) Come, my lord. I’ll lead you to your tent.

Lead me, my lord? I don’t need your help. God forbid that a shallow scratch could make the Prince of Wales retreat from a battlefield like this one, where great men are falling and being trampled upon, and rebels are triumphing in their massacres!

We’ve stopped for too long. Come, Westmoreland. We have work to do. For God’s sake, come on!

By God, you have deceived me, Lancaster. I didn’t think you were that brave. Before, I loved you as a brother; now, I respect you as my soulmate.

He had Percy cornered, and he carried himself more bravely than I would have expected of such a young warrior.

Oh, this boy lends us all courage!

Another king! The more of them we kill, the more of them spring up. I am Douglas, and I bring death to everyone wearing that uniform. Who are you, disguised as a king?

The King himself. And it pains me, Douglas, that you ran into so many of my shadows, and not me. I have two sons on the field, looking for Percy and for you. But, since you were lucky enough to come upon me, I’ll fight you myself. Defend yourself.

I fear that you’re another fake; and yet, you bear yourself like a king. Whoever you are, you’re mine, and I’ll defeat you.

Look at me, you nasty Scotsman, or you’ll never look at anything again. I have the spirits of brave Shirley, Stafford, and Blunt in me. It is the Prince of Wales who threatens you, and I never make promises I cannot keep.

Cheer up, father. How are you? Sir Nicholas Gawsey called for reinforcements, and so has Clifton. I’m going to Clifton right now.

Wait, and breathe for a moment. You have redeemed your bad reputation, and show that you care something for me, by rescuing me like this.

Oh God! Anyone who ever said I wished for you to die did me a terrible wrong. If I wanted that, I would have let Douglas continue his attack. That would have killed you faster than any dose of poison, and it would have saved me the trouble of treachery.

Go to Clifton; I’ll go to Sir Nicholas Gawsey.

If I’m not mistaken, you’re Harry Monmouth.

You make it sound as if I’d deny it.

My name is Harry Percy.

Why then, I’m looking at a very brave rebel by that name. I am the Prince of Wales, and don’t think, Percy, that you can share in my glory any longer. There isn’t enough room for two stars in the same orbit; England cannot handle a double reign, Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales ruling at once.

It won’t have to, Harry, for the time has come for one of us to die. I only wish that you had as great a reputation in warfare as I do.

My reputation will be greater by the time we part. I’ll take all the flowers of honor from your helmet, and turn them into a garland for myself.

I can’t stand your arrogance any longer.

Well said, Hal! Go for it, Hal! This isn’t child’s play, I’ll tell you that much!

Oh, Harry, you’ve taken away my youth. I can handle the loss of my fragile life, but not the loss of all the honors you have won from me: that loss wounds my thoughts more than your sword wounds my flesh. But thought depends on life, and life depends on time, and time, which watches over the whole world, must stop eventually. Oh, I could make prophecies, but the cold hand of death is stopping my tongue. No, Percy. You are dust, and food for—(he dies)

For worms, brave Percy. Farewell, brave soul. Your ambition, aimed at evil, ends—look at how withered it has become. When this body contained a soul, an entire kingdom was too small to hold it. But now, two paces of wretched earth is plenty of room. The ground that you lie dead upon doesn’t have a single living man upon it as brave as you. If you could hear me, I wouldn’t praise you so lavishly. But let me cover your battered face with part of my uniform. I’ll thank myself on your behalf for doing these rites of respect. Adieu, and take my praise of you to heaven. Let your disgraces sleep with you in the grave, and let them be kept off your tombstone!

What? My old friend? Couldn’t all this flesh hold onto a little life? Poor Jack, farewell. I would rather have lost a more valuable soldier. If I were in love with vanity, I’d really miss you. Death hasn’t taken anyone as fat today, though it has taken many better men in this vicious battle. I’ll have you embowelled soon; till then, lie here in blood, by the great Percy.

Embowelled? If you cut me open today, I’ll let you pickle me and eat me tomorrow. Damn! I had to fake being dead, or that raging rebel of a Scotsman would have ended me. Fake? No, I tell a lie: I’m not a faker. To die is to be a faker, because a dead body is an imitation of a living one. But to fake being dead, in order to stay alive, that’s no kind of faking. That’s the truest kind of living there is. Bravery is mostly about precaution; I’m careful, and it saved my life. Damn, I’m scared of this bombshell Percy, even though he’s dead. What if he’s faking, too, and he gets up? I swear, he’d be the better faker. Therefore, I’ll make sure he’s dead; in fact, I’ll swear that I killed him. Why couldn’t he just get up, like I did? Only a witness could stop me, and there are no witnesses here. Therefore, sirrah, (stabs the body) you’re coming with me—complete with a new wound in your thigh. (he throws HOTSPUR’s body over his shoulder)

John, my brother, you’ve bravely proven yourself in this, your first battle.

Wait! Who do we have here? Didn’t you say this fat man was dead?

I did. I saw him dead on the ground, bleeding and not breathing. Are you alive? Or is this some kind of dream, playing with our sight? Talk to us. We won’t trust our eyes without our ears. You aren’t what you seem to be.

That’s for sure. I’m not a double man. But if I’m not Jack Falstaff, then I’m a crook. Here’s Percy. If the king will honor me for this, fine. If not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I expect to me made an earl or a Duke for this, I’ll tell you that much.

Why, I killed Percy myself and I saw you dead.

You did? Lord, Lord, how people love to lie! I admit I had fallen and was out of breath, and so was he. But we both stood up at the same time and fought for a long hour. If I am to be believed, fine. If I’m not believed, then the guilt will lie with the people who are supposed to reward bravery. I swear on my life, I gave him this gash in the leg. Damn, if he were alive and said I didn’t, I’d shove my sword down his throat.

This is the strangest story I’ve ever heard.

This is the strangest man, John. All right then, display your prize on your back. As far as I’m concerned, if lying will help you out, I’ll decorate your lie as prettily as I can.

A trumpet is blowing retreat: we’ve won. Come on, brother. Let’s get to high ground and see which of our friends are alive, and which are dead.

I’ll follow them and claim my reward. May God reward whoever rewards me. If I grow into a great man, I’ll grow thinner: I’ll go on a diet, quit drinking, and live properly, like a great man should.

This is how rebellions always end—defeated. Evil-spirited Worcester! Didn’t I offer kindness, forgiveness and friendship to all of you? And you pretended that I did the opposite? Your relatives and friends trusted you, yet you lied to them? Three of our knights who were killed today, a noble earl, and many other men might have been alive right now if you had been a decent man and reported truthfully on the negotiations between our two armies.

I did what I had to do for the sake of my own well-being. I accept my fate patiently, since there’s no way I can avoid it.

Put Worcester to death, and Vernon too: I’ll wait a while before I decide what to do about the others.

What’s happening on the battlefield?

When that brave Scotsman, Lord Douglas, saw that things were turning against him, that Percy had been killed, and that his men were fleeing in terror, he ran away too. He fell down a hill and was so badly injured that our men were able to capture him. He’s being held prisoner at my tent. I ask your highness to let me decide what to do with him.

With all my heart.

Brother, John of Lancaster, I’m going to give you the honor of this generous act. Go to Douglas and set him free, with no ransom due. Let him do whatever he wants. His brave fighting against us today should be valued, even though he was our enemy.

Thank you for giving me this honor. I’ll take care of it immediately.

All that’s left is for us to split up our armies. You, my son John, and you, Westmoreland, head towards York as quickly as you can. Confront Northumberland and that churchman the Archbishop, who, I gather, are raising armies against us. You and I, Harry my son, will head for Wales to fight Glendower and Mortimer. The rebellion in this land will break apart once it meets battles like the one we fought today. And since we have accomplished our business so well, let’s not quit until everything has been won.