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Plays[The Scottish Play] [Shakespeare a la Brucie] [Henry VI]Most of the plays I've written have been in conjunction with my lord Bartholomew Baskin, and usually when requested to produce something for light entertainment during feast. As a consequence, they've been more burlesque than bardic in nature, designed to be performed by a totally unrehearsed cast making use of suitable prompts. It would be great one day to have a committed cast and a suitable venue to do something a little more serious. In the meantime, the Baskin-Kerr Travelling Players will continue to play the lighter side of the dramatic arts. Here below are the texts of the plays we have written, along with production notes. Anyone is welcome to use them, but I'd very much appreciate you how they went. The Scottish PlayProduction NotesThis one is designed to be run by two people, one on-stage (Taggart) and one off (Narrator), with the rest of the cast made up by four people selected from the populace. The Cast There are no special requirements for the cast, beyond the ability to speak loud enough to be heard. It helps if Gunnar Duncansson can do a broad Scots accent to the point of being unintelligible. Tell the whole cast separately that they are to die noisily at the end of the play after they have drunk a toast. Prep Prince Duncanbane to deliver his line to the audience before talking to Taggart, and FitzDuncan his line before the toast. The full play should be printed double-sided and, ideally, ring-bound at the top so that as you flip the pages Taggart can read his lines and the correct ones for the cast member he's speaking to are on the back so they can read them. The following props help:
The PlayNarrator: The Baskin-Kerr Travelling Players and its cast of highly trained thespians, present: The Scottish Play - dum da dum dum Narrator: O horror, horror, horror! Our noble Lord, King Duncan, lies murdered in his bed, his silver skin laced with his golden blood, and his gashed stabs ruin's wasteful entrance, someone hath unseamed him from the nave to the chops, his gashes cry for help and smoke with bloody execution.... Taggart: [Offstage] Oi! Narrator: Er...King Duncan has been murdered and we have called in Duncan Taggart, the greatest detective in the land to unmask the murderer. Taggart: I'm Duncan Taggart,and I am here to solve the worst and bloodiest crime since Donald the First slew Kenneth MacAlpine the Venomous, no, since Donald the Second drew the guts out of Cuilean, or since...Och never mind, tis a terrible nasty crime and I am here to solve it. Bring on the first suspect. [Enter FitzDuncan] Narrator: The King's Butler was recently threatened with dismissal. Duncan FitzDuncan is said to be a bastard who indulges in immoral practices. Taggart: When you first found the king, was he still alive? FitzDuncan: He was dead and done. Taggart: Dun like a dun cow? FitzDuncan: Aye. Taggart: Glad that's joke's done. Who, beside you, had access to his privvy chamber? FitzDuncan: The Gentlemen of the Chamber. Taggart: And they would be? FitzDuncan: Bessie's Andrew, Bangtail Graham, Red Sandy Dodd, Sim's Will Crosier, Archie Give-it-them, Angus Bell-the-Cat, Jock of the Peartree, and Lock-the-Door Larriston. Taggart: What does Larriston do? FitzDuncan: He locks the door of course - (shake fist) Here are the bloody padlocks. Taggart: Never shake thy gory locks at me. [FitzDuncan starts blubbering] Taggart: C'mon mon, screw your courage to the sticking point. FitzDuncan: Where's that? Taggart: Next to the ballpoint, but I think we'll draw the line at that. Next! [Enter Lady MacDuncan] Narrator: Lady MacDuncan is a notorious social climber, third in line to the throne, and counting.... Taggart: Lady MacDuncan, you do realise that with King Duncan's death, someone has unleashed the dogs of war. L. Mac: Out out damn Spot! Taggart: Tell me, where do you hail from? L.Mac: The battlements. Taggart: No no, where are you from? L. Mac: Lowder. Taggart: [louder] Where are you from? L. Mac: Lowder. Taggart: [shouting] Where are you from? L. Mac: Lowder - it's just south of Cawdor. Taggart: You were the last to see the King alive. What was he doing? L.Mac: He called for crumhorns and let the sounds of music creep into his ears, then retired to his chamber complaining of an ague. Taggart: Sounds like a bad case of minstrel cramps. Taggart: I have three questions I want answered. When was the King returning to Edinburgh? When was his son due to arrive? And what day do you plan to leave the castle? L.Mac: Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. Taggart: I heard you the first time. L. Mac: [indignantly] Who are you to question me so harshly? Taggart: My name is Duncan Taggart, private eye. My friends call me King of the Dicks. My enemies call me the biggest dick in the land. But my lady friends call me the best dick money can buy. L. Mac: [sultry] Perhaps we could meet up after all this. Do you have an email address? Taggart: Just the facts, ma'am. Next! [Enter Duncanbane] Narrator: Prince Duncanbane, the King's son and heir, has been growing noticeably impatient to take over the reigns of government, possibly because of his lack of funds. DB: [loudly to the populace] Friends, Scotsmen, Sassenachs, lend me your money. Taggart: By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes. DB: Are you trying to stitch me up? Taggart: No but I'll have this case sewn up before long. What were the last words the King said to you? DB: He said "You'll be the death o' me, Duncanbane". Taggart: Aha, why'd he say that? What were you doing at the time? DB: We were tossing the haggis I'd cooked. I think it must have been off. Taggart: And did you hear anything suspicious last night? DB: I did hear Lady MacDuncan say "double, double, toil and trouble". Taggart: You mean she's a witch? DB: Nay, she was losing at backgammon. Taggart: And what about you, Prince Duncanbane? Is this a dagger I see before me? DB: [looks at waist] Nay, tis a 45-calibre claymore. Taggart: That's about the size of it. Next! [Enter Gunnar Duncanson] Narrator: Gunnar Duncanson is a visitor from far-off Orkney. Taggart: Can you describe what happened on the night of the murder? Duncanson: Braeside ush Wester Clunie Fliskmillan ort Glenduckie. Taggart: I see. And then what happened? Duncanson: Inverlochy mac Erclestoun Rory Sta Mor Ballykissangell. Taggart: And what didya make o that? Duncanson: Glenbogle. Taggart: Ach, t'is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing. Taggart: I will gather all the suspects together now, so that I may reveal who murdered King Duncan. But first we will drink a toast in memory of the late King. [mimes filling up goblets] FitzDuncan: Drink provokes the desire but takes away from the performance. Taggart: You can say that again. [mimes meaningfully for FitzDuncan to repeat the line] FitzDuncan: Drink provokes the desire but takes away from the performance. Taggart: To King Duncan. [raises glass, all drink, all die; Taggart takes crown off Prince Duncanbane and places slowly on head] Narrator: All hail he who shall be King hereafter - King Duncan Taggart. Taggart: As you can see, I had a cunning pla..urgh [dies] Duncan: [entering from amongst audience, takes up crown and says loudly to audience] There can be only one! [FINIS] Further NotesThis ending may read a little oddly, but that's because the final Duncan was a real one, a high-profile member of the populace who we prepped to come out of the audience at the end and do the Highlander line. If you've got a Duncan of your own, use him; otherwise you can leave the final line off. And the bit about the dun cow refers to a much-repeated line in the Mummers' Play we have done almost every year at Yule, so those who remember it groan appropriately. Feel free to add in your own jokes. Did you spot the lines from Shakespeare? And those names of the Gentlemen of the Chamber are real Scots Borderer name. And you may even be old enough to recognise the references to Stan Freburg's Dragonet. To make it easier to prep the cast, give them character cards beforehand: Prince Duncanbane The King's Son, wears a coronet Duncan FitzDuncan The King's Butler, shifty Lady MacDuncan The King's cousin's wife, snooty Come on when your introduction is done. Gunnar Duncanson The Visitor from Orkney, unintelligibly Scottish Shakespeare a la Brucie - or Not Much To Do About AnythingProduction NotesThis play was written a long time ago by the Baskin-Kerrs with input from a friend, Alan Millar. We've done it a number of times - careful selection of the cast helps a great deal. A big burly chap makes a good Juliette, no requirements for Romeo or Brutus. You need to prep a lot (a LOT!) of props with the lines stuck to them; this includes the cast! Number them in order and be sure that the Director has a numbered list with a note as to where the line can be found. The Director needs to move the cast about, point them at the right lines and non-verbally encourage them to ham it all up as much as possible. If you're old enough to remember Bruce Forsyth and the Generation Game you'll know what I mean. Suitable props: a table, mugs/tankards, a waitress order book, a couple of plates, some buns The Play[Juliette is waiting, looking impatient.] J: Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo -- has thy hot-rod failed thee? [Brutus enters] B: Juliette, I have a hunger fit for a king, what repast does the tavern offer today? J: Eye of newt, toe of frog B: Bah! Throw your physic to the dog, I'll have none of it! [MacDuff enters] M: Hail good Brutus, you look worried -- what weighty concern bends your brow? B: To feed or not to feed, that is the question. M: Well then, how about some bacon? It's French. B: No, thank you sirrah, I don't like France's bacon. M: Well, then, get thee to the bakery, wench, and bring us some bread. J: What is your order? B: Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once! [Juliette exits] B: Have you heard, there's something rotten in the state of Denmark? M: Yes, they say they've loosed the dogs of war. B: Why's there's one now, out, out, damned Spot! B: Hark, what delight from yonder window bakes -- it is the bun, and Juliette is the yeast! J: I brought you three buns, and a fresh young chicken -- so fair a fowl I have not seen. B: But hold, there are three buns here and only two of us. M: Eat two, Brute. B: This is not enough -- we need more food. A course, a course, my kingdom for a course! M: I agree, sirrah, bring on the hog! [Juliette produces a plate] M: Is this a pork chop I see before me? B: A little more than skin, and less than kine. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in this recipe! M: How now Juliette, what of dessert? B: Yes, you know what they say, use every man after his dessert! J: Alas, the quality of the trifle is not strained. B: Out, out, vile jelly! Where is thy custard now? I carry too much weight as it is -- oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt. M: If our bellies are distended, think but this, the feast is ended. M: Prithee why so pale Juliette, what ails thee? J: A little touch of Henry in the night. B: Aye, and every inch a King. J: No, 'twas much ado about nothing. A twit, a palpable twit! B: Methinks she doth protest too much. J: Alas, I am undone! B: [Eagerly] Well then, let us help you with that -- once more unto the breach, dear friend. Lay on Macduff and happy be he who first cries "hold, enough"! J: [Sternly] Let us not speak of country matters. [Looks at Brutus] How now, something is troubling you my lord Brutus. B: [Looking ill] A plague on these pickled herrings, they have winded me. M: [Backing away]: Oh, thy offense is rank, it smells to heaven! J: Farting is such sweet sorrow. B: By the pricking in my tum, something wicked this way comes -- I fear I am poison-ED. [Falls down] This potent poison quite o'crows my spirit. So farewell friends, thus Brutus ends, adieu, adieu, adieu. J: Good night sweet prince, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. M: But hold, he yet breathes - mayhap twas wind and Brutus lives again. J: I didn't expect this sudden resurrection! 1. B: [Sitting up]: NO-ONE EXPECTS THE SUDDEN RESURRECTION!!! [FINIS] Henry VI's Last DayProduction NotesI wrote this for Canterbury Faire AS37, which had the theme of the Wars of the Roses. The play was adapted from the lovely story Neither Pity, Love nor Fear by Margaret Frazer (Royal Whodunnits, Ed. Mike Ashley; Robinson 1999). That story posed quite a different, intriguing view of Henry VI, and cried out to be made into a play. Think of Francis Urquhart as played by Ian Carmichael in House of Cards, and that's how I see this Henry. I set it for two players, one the King and the other the Narrator. The idea was that we would use lighting to flip attention from one to the other, with minimal props, maybe just a prie-dieu for the King (to provide a space and maybe a place to hold crib pages). Another possible staging, which may work better, is to keep the Narrator off-stage altogether. As it happens, we didn't do the play in the end, but one day.... The PlayNarrator offstage: Picture a room, a place apart in the Tower of London. In it a man worn to leanness, his face ageless, out of the world around him. This has been his prison cell seven years, or is it eight now? A small room, big enough in which to pray, big enough in which to wait for his death. A room comfortable enough, for it houses Henry, king of England, the sixth of that name, king by title, not by right. But not too comfortable, for why worry about the comfort of a man no longer King, a man thought mad. Henry: Now Ned is dead, they'll have my head. No profit in killing a king, your prisoner, if it only makes his son, free and with all his wits, king of England in his stead. But now Ned is dead. Edward, Prince of Wales. Ned. She hated it when I called him that. His mother, my lady wife, the queen. How she raged against the name. Narrator OFFSTAGE, light French accent: If he were Louis or Charles or Henri, how much more easily France will accept him for king when the time comes? Henry: That was how great a fool she thought me, to try that, when France was already three years lost to any English rule. And now Ned is dead and soon I will follow. I wonder how they mean for me to die and by whose hand. STARTS, LOOKS OFFSTAGE, STANDS, TURNS, SPEAKS DIRECT: My good Archbishop of Canterbury. ASIDE TO AUDIENCE: To use the word "good" loosely. To use the word "my" most randomly. He was my archbishop for six years but turned from me to Edward of York when the power went that way, and turned back when Warwick managed to return me to the throne, and now back to King Edward since Fortune's wheel has spun that way. Come on someone's purpose, but not to be my murderer. There's no need for archbishops to be given that kind of task, though likely when it's done he'll grant absolution to the instrument. TURNS TO FACE OFFSTAGE.. Narrator: It was thought you should know his grace King Edward returned to London today. Henry ASIDE: As if I hadn't heard the cheering from the streets beyond the Tower. I look at the velvet richness my lord archbishop wears. I remember such richness and its weight from my coronation when I was seven years old, and already seven years a king. Royal robes and ceremony and men's expectations all weighing on me, no tears allowed because I was the king. My mind aching and my heart empty even then, from years of being king. Narrator: His grace the king asked me to come and see that all is well as may be with you. As well as may be, considering I am unkinged, imprisoned, my son is dead and shortly I'll be too, as my good archbishop knows as well as I do. But death won't come by his hands, so he's no use to me. TURNS BACK AND KNEELS, CROSSES TO PRAY. Henry: After a while he goes away to tell his king that Henry of Lancaster, once King Henry VI, is as witless as ever, beyond feeling even the loss of his kingship or the death of his son. Their trouble is that they think I ought to care, that I must care. Not understanding that caring was driven out of me years ago by those who told me: You are king, you must do this. You are king, you must not do that. Foremost was Warwick, who ruled my youth and forced me into the shape he thought I ought to be, until finally he was grown old and ill and wanted only to be left to die in peace, among familiar comforts. So I sent him to be governor of the war in France. Forced him to go where he did not want to go, forced him to be what he did not want to be. Made sure he understood, with no word said between us, that I did it purposefully And left him there to die. He did. That was the first death I managed. Not that anyone knew. Instead they thought me a weakling fool who twice in his life slipped out of his senses into unreason, and never recovered more than a corner of them. I meant to be a good king. I tried, but I grew up with a brace of uncles and a pack of lords baying to govern me and England both. They fought to bend or break me into the shape they wanted. If I'd been weaker I might have bent, become the king they wanted. Instead...I broke. LOOKS UP AND AWAY Narrator: He was in a sun-rich garden, his wife great-bellied with the child she'd been desperate to have.. Three lords with her yammering that the French war was going badly, something must be done, do it now, do it now, do it now... His throat closing, his chest constricting, a blackness sweeping into his head...then nothing. For a long while, nothing. Then a slow graying back to knowing, Knowing that he was, then who he was. Then aware it was no longer summer, but winter and Christmas near to hand, A Christmas more than a year from the summer he remembered, with the French war long since lost and a boy-child put into his arms. His son, they said. Henry: I was still king, but men walked wary of me after that. I left them to their uncertainties. Why not? It gave me a little peace and I still had my game. It wasn't a difficult game, not when my lords all worked so hard to make it easy for me. All I needed to do was to let them take what they wanted - power, money, pride of place - and then watch what they became and what they did to each other. If they came to their deaths because of their choices, how much of the fault was mine? How much fault do I bear for the ends I helped some of them too, as assuredly I helped my lord Bishop of Chichester, Bishop Moleyns. A man who should never have been let near power or money, his desire for both too strong for there to be hope he'd ever make wise use of either. So I made him clerk of the royal privy council. He couldn't help but reach for the power, and when he did, I didn't stop him. And being far more greedy and corrupt than he was intelligent, he made small attempt to hide what he was from anyone. I rememberů LOOKS UP AND AWAY Narrator: Your Grace, the soldiers at Southhampton have been waiting for their pay now for nigh on three months. They are rioting in the town, fighting over scraps of food. Someone has to be sent to tell that that the money has somehow gone and they must be patient. Henry: I saw to it Bishop Moleyns was sent. He was afraid to go. They all thought I was too simple to understand, too wrapped up in prayers to know why my lord bishop was afraid to go. He dared not tell me why, and so he went, and the soldiers mobbed him and beat him to death. And somehow no-one was ever brought to justice for his murder. A king's indifference can heavily weigh down what ought to be the course of justice, and if the king is as simple as everyone knows him to be, no-one looks twice at him for having done it because surely he didn't know what he was doing. I think the Duke of Suffolk felt that something was wrong, but he wasn't clever enough to make out what, not in the little time he had left by then. Parliament was demanding he be arraigned for treason, and he was most grateful when I arranged for him to secretly take ship for France. Why did no-one ever question how a royal ship came to be waiting for him, and how its captain took the duke and threw his body on Dover Beach, and afterwards nothing was ever done about it? It's as if, by then, none could see when I made things happen. LOOKS OFFSTAGE Narrator: The visitor is a tall, well-formed man, in a velvet doublet, his hair flattened where the crown bore down on it as he rode through London. Edward of York, king by right of inheritance and force of arms. Henry: I have a sudden hope - who should kill a king, than the king who profits by his death? But I doubt he is here to do it. TURNS, SITS DELIBERATELY, SPEAKS ASIDE: You do not sit in a king's presence and I make it worse by GESTURES TOWARDS CHAIR giving him leave to sit, thus ensuring that he won't. A suffusion of red starts up his face and before he can speak, I speak to him, knowing full well it is a discourtesy to speak to a king before he speaks to you. DIRECT: "It's most kind of you to come, my lord, to bring me condolences on the death of my son. And how does my lady wife in your keeping? Well, I trust? ASIDE: Knowing full well she isn't, held prisoner by a man she hates, with her only child dead and all her hopes with him. DIRECT: And you want to ask after my own health? It's very well, I thank you. You know I killed your father, don't you? Narrator: My father died in a battle you weren't even at. Henry: ASIDE: True, when my queen and her lords broke the Christmas truce at Wakefield, I was half the country away. DIRECT: But I made it happen. If I hadn't for years betrayed your father almost every chance I had, there would have been no battle for him to die in. ASIDE: For one moment he almost believes me. He should. It's true. You don't know up from down or today from yesterday. My father died because your wife's a bitch and you're a fool. TURNS AWAY, KNEELS: If he's not to be my death., he's of small interest to me. And so finally he goes. Leaving me to wish he was a lord of mine, that I might set his ambitions against his stupidities and watch while they brought him down. At least he's left me with no doubt he'll have me dead soon. It's only a matter of time. But I'm so tired of waiting. Narrator: Warm day draws into cool evening, the windows blue with twilight, and another enters. Slight-built, dressed with a richness that tells his rank as plainly as the chain of white-enamelled roses around his shoulders. Henry: For a moment, I think it is my Ned, but this youngling is farther from being a boy than I first thought. Narrator: My lord brother when he was here meant to ask you.... Henry: Ah this must be the youngest York son - Richard, Duke of Gloucester. My poor queen, among the things she hated most about the duke of York were his four sons. All she has was me and Ned, with all the whispers that he wasn't likely mine. Narrator: ...he meant to ask you if there's aught you need. Henry: ASIDE: There's nothing, nothing beyond wanting to have it done with, and this boy is not here for that. DIRECT: Would it be possible for my lady wife to be brought to see me? Narrator: I'll see to it my lord Henry: Does he guess? I ready myself... KNEELS TO PRAY Henry: I don't know how long it is since Gloucester left. I have been at my prayers. There are so many departed souls to pray for, my son's among them. I never betrayed I heard the rumours that he wasn't mine but neither did I do aught to quiet them. I even sometimes, as if unwitting, said or did things to add to men's doubts, and took pleasure in my lady wife's raging discomfiture at anything she ever heard against her honour and her boy. Brought out of France to be my queen when I was sixteen, because my lords said our marriage would bring about peace in France, and because I thought that here would be someone who cared more for me than for my kingship. I was wrong. LOOKS AT ENTRANCE; STANDS TO ACKNOWLEDGE, TALKS TO AUDIENCE She fought for years against who I am and what I couldn't give her. She's hated me for years because I failed to be the king she wanted me to be. Ned was the only heart's desire she ever gained from our marriage, and now he's dead, and she has grown old. And I still live. And she hates me still. What a pity that she's always had more passion than wit. I know what I must to say to her, to command her passion one last time. DIRECT: "My lady, I'm sorry your bastard's dead." TURNS BACK AND KNEELS TO PRAY Narrator: No need to see the woman reach for the great candlestick in both hands. No need to see her raise it up and swing it down with all her hatred, rage and grief behind it. FALLS. Narrator: King Henry, the sixth of that name, died in the Tower of London in May 1471, of "displeasure and melancholy" it was said. When his skeleton was examined 450 years later, his skull was found to be badly fractured. [FINIS] Still not sure if I need that last line from the Narrator. What do you think?
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