Richard III

So now the good times have ripened and grown rotten. I’ve lurked in the shadows here to watch the downfall of my enemies. I’ve been watching the terrible prologue to a scene that I hope will prove dark and tragic. I’ll head to France soon. It’s time to hide, wretched Margaret. Who’s coming?

Ah, my poor princes! Ah, my tender babes, my flowers who didn’t even get a chance to bloom. If your gentle souls are still flying in the air and have not yet landed where they will remain forever, hover around me with your airy wings and hear your mother’s lament.

Hover about her and tell her she got what she deserved, with her children dead before their time.

I’ve been crazed with so many miseries that my tongue has tired of lamenting and gone mute. Edward Plantagenet, why are you dead?

(to herself) One Plantagenet pays for the other. One Edward dies to pay a debt for the other Edward who died.

Will you abandon such gentle lambs, God, and throw them to the wolves? Have you ever slept before while such a terrible deed was done?

(to herself) Sure—when my husband, holy Harry, died and when my sweet son died.

(sitting down) Sight has gone blind, life is as dead as a ghost. This is a mournful scene—it’s a shame to the world, when someone like me, who should have died long ago, still lives. As a short summary and record of an unbearable life, I’ll settle my restless bones on England’s lawful ground (sitting down), which broke the law when it got drunk on the blood of the innocent!

(sitting down beside her) Oh, if only the earth would offer me not just a seat for mourning but a grave. Then I would bury myself, not just rest my bones. Oh, who has any reason to mourn except us?

If the oldest grief is the most revered, then mine should have the most weight here. Let my sorrow have the upper hand. If you can allow for comparison (sitting down with them), consider your losses next to mine. I had an Edward till a Richard killed him, and I had a Harry till a Richard killed him. On your side, you had an Edward till a Richard killed him, and you had the young Richard, York, till a Richard killed him. So, I guess we’re equal.

I had a Richard too—namely, my husband—and you killed him. I had my son Rutland, and you helped kill him.

You had a Clarence, too, and Richard killed him. Your womb let loose a hellhound that hunts us all to death. That dog, who was born with sharp teeth for lapping up the blood of lambs, who had teeth before he even had eyes, is the world’s worst tyrant, making the eyes of a whole kingdom red with weeping. He destroys God’s handiwork and will send us to our graves. Oh righteous God, how can I thank you enough that this meat-eating mutt preys on his mother’s children and forces her to join others in their grief!

O Harry’s wife, do not triumph in my sorrow! With God as my witness, I swear I have wept for yours.

Bear with me. I am hungry for revenge, and now I plan to gorge myself on it. Your son Edward, who stabbed my son Edward, is dead. To even the balance, your grandson Edward is also dead, with young York thrown in because both your grandsons aren’t equal to my one son. Your Clarence, who stabbed my Edward, is also dead. And the audience to this insane play—the adulterer Hastings, as well as Rivers, Vaughan, and Grey—have been sent early to their graves. Richard, a fiendish spy for hell itself, still lives, but only long enough to buy souls to send below. Soon, very soon, he will meet his ghastly and well deserved end. When he dies, the earth will gape open, hell will burn hotter, devils will roar, and saints will pray to get him out of here fast. I pray that God ends his life before I die, so I can say, “The dog is dead!”

Oh, you prophesied that the time would come when I would want your help in cursing that humpbacked spider, that hideous toad!

Back then, I called you “a poor, imitation queen,” a badly reproduced copy of what I was, a pretty prologue for the tragedy that was about to follow, a woman who was lifted high only to be hurled down to hell, a mother only teased with two beautiful children, who would soon die. I said you were a mere shadow of what a queen once was, a garish target to be aimed at again and again, an empty symbol of dignity without any substance, a mockery of a queen only there to fill in a role. And I was right, because where’s your husband now? Your brothers? Your two sons? Your source of joy? Who kneels at your feet now and says, “God save the Queen?” What noblemen are bowing and scraping to flatter you now? And where is your throng of followers? Once you’ve laid out all of these losses, it’s clear what’s left. In place of a happy wife, there’s a miserable widow. Instead of a joyful mother, here’s a woman who cries at the mention of her children. For one who bestows favors on others, here’s one who has to beg for favors. Instead of a queen, we have a poor woman with a crown of worries. She who mocked me now is mocked by me. She who once ordered everyone about is now obeyed by no one. Your fortune has fallen. Now you have only the memory of what you were, which tortures you when you consider what you’ve become. You once stole my position; now you get to have the grief that goes with it. Now like an ox, you carry half my heavy burden of grief—here, I’ll give you the rest. Farewell, York’s wife. Goodbye, queen of tragic misfortune. Your English sorrows will make me smile in France.

You who are so skilled in cursing, stay awhile and teach me how to curse my enemies.

Don’t sleep at night, and don’t eat during the day. Compare what you’ve lost with what you suffer now. Remember your children as being sweeter than they actually were, and think of the man who killed them as worse than he is. Making your loss greater makes the person who caused it worse. Think like this all day, and you’ll learn how to curse.

My words are dull. Enliven them with yours!

Your misery will make them sharp and piercing like mine.

What good does it do to respond to catastrophe with a lot of words?

Words are a lot of useless breath, like lawyers who won’t stop arguing for their sad clients, like a worthless inheritance, or like poor speech-makers who won’t stop speaking. But give words a chance. Though they won’t help in any other way, at least they make us feel better.

If that’s true, then don’t be tongue-tied. Come with me, and let’s smother my fiendish son—who smothered your two sweet sons—in bitter words.

I hear his battle drums. Don’t stint on your words.

Who’s blocking the way?

The woman who might have blocked you from all the murders you’ve committed by strangling you in her cursed womb.

Are you hiding your forehead with a golden crown, when, if there was any justice in this world, it should be branded with the murders you committed—your slaughter of the prince who held that crown, and of my sons and my brothers? Tell me, you villainous lowlife, where are my children?

You toad, where is your brother Clarence and his son, little Ned Plantagenet?

Where are the noble Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

Where is kind Hastings?

Play, trumpets! A call to arms, drums! Don’t let the heavens hear these chattery women abuse the Lord’s anointed king. Play, I say!

Either be calm and polite or I’ll drown you out with the music of war.

Are you my son?

Yes, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

Then patiently listen to my impatience.

Madam, I’m a bit like you in that I can’t tolerate a tone of disapproval.

Oh, let me speak!

Go ahead, but I won’t listen.

I’ll be gentle and mild.

And brief, good mother—I’m in a hurry.

Are you that impatient? God knows I waited for you in anguish, pain, and agony when I gave birth to you.

And didn’t I finally arrive to comfort you?

No, by God, you know perfectly well you arrived on earth to make it my hell. Your birth was incredibly painful; you were a fussy and difficult baby; as a schoolboy, you were frightening, wild, furious, and caused me despair; as a young man, you were daring, bold, and enterprising, and in your maturity, you have been haughty, bloody, and treacherous—both more mild and more harmful than before. So, what hour of comfort have I ever had in your company? Name one.

I guess none except Humphrey Hour, who once invited you to have breakfast without me. If I be such a disgrace in your eyes, let me march on and not offend you. Strike up the band!

Please, listen to me.

You’re too bitter.

Just listen this once. I’ll never speak to you again.

So be it.

Either you will die as you should, before you’ve had a chance to win this battle, or I will die from grief and age and never look upon your face again. So, take with you my heaviest curse, which I hope wears you out in battle even more than your heavy suit of armor will. I pray that the little souls of Edward’s children will whisper to your enemies and promise them success and victory. You are violent, and your end will be violent. Your life was shameful, and let your death be, too.

Though I have far more reason, I don’t have as much energy to curse you. But I say amen to everything she said.

Wait, madam. I need to speak a word with you.

I have no more royal sons for you to murder. As for my daughters, Richard, they will become praying nuns, not weeping queens. So don’t aim at them.

You have a daughter named Elizabeth, who is virtuous and beautiful, aristocratic and full of grace.

And does she have to die for this? Oh, let her live, and I’ll ruin her manners and her beauty. So that she may live, I’ll say I cheated on Edward and that she is not really his child.

Don’t wrong her birth. She has royal blood.

To save her life, I’ll say she doesn’t.

Her life is only safe if she’s really of royal blood.

Yes, as safe as her brothers’ lives were.

They were born under unlucky stars.

The stars weren’t the problem. Bad friends were.

You can’t escape a bad destiny.

True, when a king who defies God is choosing that destiny. My children would have enjoyed a better death if God had blessed you with a purer life.

You speak as if I had killed my nephews.

Nephews, indeed, cheated by their uncle of comfort, kingdom, relatives, freedom, and life. Whichever hand literally stabbed their tender hearts, you’re the one who gave the order. No doubt the murderous knife was blunt till it was sharpened on your stony heart—you reveled in my lambs’ bloody guts. But constant expression of wild grief will only make it tame, so I’m not going to say any more about my boys until I’ve gouged your eyes out with my bare hands. Like a sailboat that has lost its sails, I will throw myself on your rocky bosom—and get torn to pieces.

Madam, if I do as well as I think I’m going to do in these dangerous, violent wars, you and your relatives will have more good at my hands than you’ve ever had bad!

What good does heaven have in store that can do me any good now?

The advancement of your children, noble lady.

Advancement to some scaffold, to lose their heads.

No, advancement to the dignity and height of honor, to a high, imperial kind of glory.

Flatter me in my mourning: tell me what dignity or honor you could possible bring to any child of mine?

The dignity of everything I own. In fact, I will give a child of yours everything plus myself, provided you forget the wrongs you imagine I have done to you.

Well, explain—but do it fast so that your puny store of kindness isn’t used up by talking about it.

Then know that from my soul I love your daughter.

I believe it.

What do you believe?

That you love my daughter to spite your soul. That’s the way you loved my brothers. And that’s the way I thank you for it.

Don’t be so quick to twist my meaning. I mean that I love your daughter with all my soul. I intend to make her queen of England.

Tell me, who will be the king?

The one who makes her queen, of course. Who else should it be?

What, you?

Yes, exactly. Me. What do you think, madam?

How would you woo her?

That’s what I want to find out from you, who knows her best.

And will you learn from me?

Madam, with all my heart.

Okay, then. Do this: send her a pair of bleeding hearts. Make clear they come from the man who killed her brothers. Write “Edward” and “York” on them. That will get her to weep. Then present her with a handkerchief, like the one Margaret gave your father, which was steeped in his son Rutland’s blood. Tell her this handkerchief sopped up the blood of her sweet brother’s body and urge her to dry her weeping eyes with it. If this encouragement doesn’t move her to love you, send her a description of your other noble deeds. Tell her how you secretly dispensed with her uncle Clarence, her uncle Rivers, and, for her sake, her good aunt Anne.

Come, come, you’re making fun of me. This is not the way to win your daughter.

There isn’t any other way, unless you took on another form and became someone else.

But suppose I did all the things you named out of love for her.

Then she has no choice but to hate you, as you purchased her love with murder.

Whatever has already been done can’t be undone now. Men act imprudently sometimes, then realize their mistakes when they have time to think about them. If I took the kingdom from your sons, I’ll give it to your daughter to make up for it. If I have killed your children, I will have children with your daughter. A grandmother is loved hardly less than a mother is. Your grandchildren will be just one step removed from your own children—they share your character, your blood, and require the same effort minus that one night of labor, like that which you suffered through for your own daughter. Your children caused you trouble in your youth, but mine will bring you comfort in your old age. The only loss you’ve had is that your son was not king. Because of that loss, your daughter will be queen. I can’t make up for everything that I’d like to, so accept such kindness as I can offer. Your son Dorset, who fled in fear to join an army in France against me, could come home to high promotions and great dignity. The king who calls your beautiful daughter “wife” will call Dorset “brother.” And you will be the mother to a king again, with all the miseries of unhappy times not just repaired, but also improved. Indeed, we have many good days to look forward to! The tears you have shed will be transformed into pearls. Your happiness will be like a loan that has grown through interest to ten times its original size. Go, then, mother, to your daughter. Give her the benefit of your experience, and prepare her to hear me court her. Make her aspire to be queen. Tell the princess about the sweet, silent hours of joy there are in marriage. And when my army has chastised the petty rebel, that stupid Buckingham, I will return wreathed in victory crowns and lead your daughter to a conqueror’s bed. She will be the only victor over my triumphs. She will be the ruler of a Caesar.

What should I say to her? That her father’s brother wants to be her husband? Or should I say it’s her uncle? Or should I describe you as the one who killed her brothers and her uncles? How can I describe you that will make you appeal to the young woman and will also agree with God, the law, my honor, and her feelings?

Claim fair England’s peace depends on this alliance.

She will purchase that peace with an everlasting war.

Tell her that the king, who has the power to command people, asks her.

He asks her to do what God forbids.

Say she will be a high and mighty queen.

Only to watch that title become worthless, as her mother has.

Say I will love her everlastingly.

But how long will “ever” last?

Until her beautiful life’s end.

But how long will her beautiful life last?

As long as heaven and nature extend it.

As long as hell and Richard want it.

Tell her that I, her king, am her lowly subject.

But she, your subject, hates such a king.

Be eloquent on my behalf.

An honest tale succeeds best when it is told simply.

Then tell her my loving story in simple terms.

You can’t tell a story simply when it’s a lie.

Your answers are too shallow and too hasty.

Oh no, my reasons are deep and as permanent as death. They’re buried as deep as my poor infants in their grave.

Don’t harp on that point, madam—it’s past.

I will harp on it till my heartstrings break.

Now, by St. George, my knighthood, and my crown—

The first you profaned, the second you dishonored, and the third you stole.

I swear—

By nothing, because this is no oath. St. George loses his holiness once you have sworn by him; you’ve ruined the emblem of the knighthood, and the crown lost its kingly glory once you stole it. If you want me to believe something you’ll swear to, then swear by something you haven’t wronged.

Then, by myself—

You’ve misused yourself.

Now, by the world—

It’s full of your ugly wrongdoings.

By my father’s death—

Your life has dishonored his death.

Why then, by God—

You wrong God most of all. If you had been afraid to break an oath with him, you wouldn’t have ruined the united front the king, my husband, created before he died, and you wouldn’t have killed my brothers. If you had been afraid to break an oath with him, the crown you are currently wearing would have graced the head of my child, and both princes would still be alive, not preyed on by worms. What can you swear by now?

By the future.

You’ve already wronged that by what you did in the past. I myself have many tears to cry in the time to come, because of what you’ve done. There are children living whose fathers you have slaughtered. When they are grown, they will wail about a childhood in which no one watched out for them. There are parents living whose children you have butchered; they are now old withered plants who will moan over their losses as they grow old. Don’t swear by the future, because you’ve ruined it before it has even arrived.

May I only do well in these dangerous battles if my intention to repent and prosper is sincere! Let me destroy myself, let heaven and destiny deprive me of happy hours, let day remain dark and night sleepless, and let me have nothing but terrible luck if I do not love with a pure heart, clean devotion, and holy thoughts your beautiful royal daughter. My happiness and yours lie in her. If I do not win her, death, desolation, and decay will descend on this land and on me, you, herself, and many a Christian soul. Ruin cannot be avoided unless I marry her. It will not be avoided unless I marry her. Therefore, good mother—I must call you that—advocate for me. Plead with your daughter about what I will be, not what I have been. Don’t talk about my just desserts but about what I will deserve. Tell her how necessary this marriage is at this time, and don’t be small-minded about such important plans.

Shall I be tempted by the devil?

Yes, if the devil tempts you to do good.

Shall I forget the wrongs you’ve done to me so that I can be the mother of a king again?

Yes, if your memories do you no good.

Yet you killed my children.

But in your daughter’s womb I will bury them. In that rich nest they shall grow again, to console you.

Should I go convince my daughter to marry you?

And be a happy mother by doing so.

I’m going. Write to me very soon and I’ll let you know what she thinks.

Give her a kiss from me, her true love. And so, goodbye.

Weak-willed fool! Shallow, fickle woman!

Hello! What’s the news?

My noble king, a powerful fleet of ships sails on the western coast. Many former friends of ours have gathered to meet the fleet and aren’t willing to beat it back. Word is that Richmond is the navy’s admiral. The ships are drifting off the coast, sails unfurled, only waiting for Buckingham to help them come ashore.

Someone who can ride fast, go to the duke of Norfolk. You go, Ratcliffe, or Catesby. Where is Catesby?

Here, my good lord.

Catesby, fly to the duke.

I will my lord, as fast as I can.

Ratcliffe, come here. Ride to Salisbury. When you get there—(to CATESBY) Stupid, distracted rascal, why are you still standing there? Why haven’t you left for the duke’s?

First, mighty king, tell me what you want me to tell him.

Oh, right, good Catesby. Tell him to gather together the greatest army he can muster in a hurry and meet me right away at Salisbury.

I’m off.

What would you like me to do at Salisbury?

Why, what is there to do before I get there?

Your Highness just told me that I should ride there before you.

I changed my mind.

Stanley, what news do you have?

Nothing that you want to hear, my lord, but nothing so bad that I can’t mention it.

Well, how nice, a riddle! Neither good nor bad. Why do you go around in circles when you could get to the point? Once again, what’s the news?

Richmond is sailing on the sea.

Let him sink there so the sea will cover him! Lily-livered coward, what’s he doing there?

I don’t know, mighty king. I can only guess.

Well, what do you guess?

That, stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, he’s coming to England to claim the crown.

Is the throne empty? Is the army without a leader? Is the king dead, the empire dispossessed? What heir of the York family is there alive other than myself? And who is England’s king but an heir of the great York? Therefore, tell me, what is he doing at sea?

Unless it’s what I said, your Majesty, I have no idea.

Unless he’s coming to be your leader you can’t guess why the Welshman’s coming? You plan to revolt and join him, I’m afraid.

No, mighty king, do not distrust me.

Where is your army, then, to beat him back? Where are your tenants and your followers? Aren’t they at this very moment on the western shore helping the rebels land safely from their ships?

No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

Then they’re cold friends to me. What are they doing in the north when they should be in the west serving their king?

They haven’t been commanded to go to the west, mighty king. If your Majesty would like, I’ll muster up my friends and meet you wherever and whenever you like.

Yes, you want to go join Richmond. But I’m not going to trust you.

Most mighty sovereign, you have no reason to doubt my friendship. I was never disloyal, and I never will be.

Then go gather your men, but leave behind your son, George Stanley. Make sure your faith is firm, or he has little chance of keeping his head.

Treat him as my loyalty toward you calls for.

My noble king, my friends have informed me that Sir Edward Courtney and his brother, the haughty Bishop of Exeter, are now in Devonshire, where they have assembled an army.

My king, the Guildfords in Kent have armed themselves, and every hour new associates flock to their aid, and their army increases.

My lord, the duke of Buckingham’s army—

Enough, you owls! Do you have nothing but songs of death? (he strikes the THIRD MESSENGER) Take that until you bring me better news.

The news I have to tell your majesty is that Buckingham’s army has dispersed from sudden floods and heavy rainfall. Buckingham himself has wandered away alone to who knows where.

I beg your pardon. Here’s some money to make up for that blow I gave you. (he gives money) Has any intelligent friend of ours offered a reward to whoever catches the traitor?

Yes, your Highness.

It’s been reported that Sir Thomas Lovell and Lord Marquess Dorset have assembled an army in Yorkshire, my lord. But I bring your Grace this comfort: a storm has dispersed the navy from Brittany. And Richmond, who is in Dorsetshire, sent a boat to shore to ask the men on the banks if they were on his side, yes or no. They said they were with Buckingham. Richmond didn’t trust them. He hoisted sail again and sailed back to Brittany.

Let’s keep marching since we’re prepared to fight. Even if we don’t fight foreign enemies, we’ll beat down these rebels at home.

Your Majesty, the duke of Buckingham has been captured—that’s the best news. The fact that the earl of Richmond has landed in Milford with a mighty army is less good news, but it must be told.

Away toward Salisbury! While we’re talking here, a royal battle could be won and lost. Someone deliver the order that Buckingham be brought to Salisbury. Everyone else, march on with me.