Richard III

Who’s this? My granddaughter, with her kind aunt, the duchess of Gloucester, leading her by the hand? Now, on my life, the young child must be headed to the Tower to greet the young princes, whom she adores. Daughter, how nice to see you.

Good afternoon!

The same to you, good sister. Where are you going?

Just to the Tower—I’m guessing, for the same reason you are: to salute the noble princes who are staying there.

Yes, kind sister. We can all go together.

And here comes the warden, just in time. Officer, please tell us, if you will, how are the prince and my little son, York?

They’re just fine, my dear madam. But I’m sorry—I’m not allowed to let you visit them. The king has strictly forbidden it.

The king? Who’s that?

I meant to say the Lord Protector.

The Lord keep him from the title of king! Richard has set boundaries between my love and theirs? I am their mother. Who’s going to keep me from them?

I am their father’s mother. I will see them.

I am their aunt, and I love them like a mother. So take me to see them. Officer, I’ll take the responsibility from you, and the blame too.

No, madam, no. I can’t do this. I am bound by oath, so please forgive me.

In just an hour from now, Duchess of York, I’ll be saluting you as the mother of two beautiful queens. (to ANNE) Come, madam, you must go straight to Westminster Abbey, where you will be crowned Richard’s queen.

Oh, cut my bodice-staps so that my pent-up heart can have some room to breathe, or I’ll faint from this deadly news!

Cruel, cruel news!

(to QUEEN ELIZABETH) Cheer up, mother. How are you feeling?

Oh, Dorset, don’t waste your time talking to me. Leave. Death and destruction are following at your heels. Your mother’s name has become a threat to her own children. If you want to outrun death, go cross the sea to France and stay with Richmond, out of the reach of hell. Go, get out of here, get out of this slaughterhouse. Otherwise you’ll just increase the number of the dead, and make me die the slave of Margaret’s curse, no longer a mother, a wife, or England’s queen.

Madam, your advice is wise and caring.—Dorset, take advantage of the time you have. I’ll write to my stepson Richmond on your behalf, so that he’ll meet you on the way. But don’t delay.

O, this evil wind that spreads nothing but misery. O, my cursed womb—it’s a deathbed, really, since Richard came out of it. It has hatched a cockatrice, whose gaze kills whatever it lands on.

(to ANNE) Come, madam, come. I was sent in a hurry.

I go unwillingly. I wish to God that the golden crown that I’ll have to wear were red-hot steel and burned me straight through to the brain! I wish I could be anointed queen with deadly venom, not oil, and that I would die before anyone even had a chance to say, “God save the Queen!”

Go, go, poor soul. I don’t envy your position. If you want to make me happy, don’t wish yourself harm.

No? Why? The man I’m married to now came to me when he’d barely washed the blood off his hands from killing my first husband, that angel, as well as my husband’s sainted father, whose corpse I was following to burial. I’m telling you, when I looked at Richard’s face, this is what I wished: “I want you to be cursed for making me a widow so young. And when you get married, let sorrow haunt your bed. And I hope your wife—if any woman is crazy enough to marry you—is more miserable about the fact that you’re alive as you have made me by killing my husband!” And then what? Before I even had time to repeat the curse, my woman’s heart was taken captive by his sweet, slick words. I became the victim of my own curse. Since I married him, I have not had one hour’s sleep in his bed. Every night I’m awakened by his terrified dreams. It doesn’t matter if I sleep, though. He hates me because of who my father is. He will, no doubt, get rid of me soon.

Poor dear, goodbye. I pity your situation.

No more than I do yours.

Goodbye. I know you’re unhappy with the glory of becoming queen.

(to ELIZABETH) And goodbye to you, the poor soul who has to leave that glory behind.

(to DORSET) Go to Richmond, and good luck. (to ANNE) You go to Richard. I hope good angels will protect you. (to QUEEN ELIZABETH) You take sanctuary in the Abbey and think good thoughts for us. I will go to my grave, where I can look forward to peace and rest. I have witnessed eighty-odd years of sorrow; for each hour of joy I’ve experienced, I’ve suffered a full week of misery.

Wait. Look back at the Tower with me. Please, you ancient building, take pity on those tender babes locked inside your walls by envious rivals! You are such a rough cradle for such little pretty ones. You are a rude, ragged nurse and an old, sullen playmate for such tender princes. Please treat my babies well. I know I must look foolish saying goodbye to a building, but I’m aching with sorrow.