Anonymous Page #7

Free?

Aye.

Some anonymous nobleman's

paid for everything.

Been rehearsing all week.

Uh... SO, uh...

My best so far.

I'm sorry, Ben.

Will, he's part owner, and, uh...

I'm sorry, Ben,

but I had to agree.

No Jonson plays at the Globe.

Ever.

- Mm.

- Drink.

Best villain in

theater history, Richard Ill.

Better than Mephistopheles?

No doubt. Jonson's not bad for

everyday scalawags, but Shakespeare...

My God, the main knows his villains.

Not even the Greeks compare.

To Shakespeare!

And villainy.

To Shakespeare and villainy!

- Try your luck.

- Thanks.

Fancy a tumble?

Only tuppence.

Wet in all the wrong places.

- I haven't got all night, Jonson.

- I...

There is a...

There is a play to be performed

on Monday.

All Bankside is talking of it.

The Tragedy

of King Richard the Third

by William Shakespeare.

He kills the king and half

the royal family to get the throne.

I know who Richard Ill was.

Yes.

But in William Shakespeare's

version,

he is played as a hunchback.

As a what?

Shall I close the theater?

No.

Pray, stand back!

The theater is full!

There is no more room!

The theater is full!

You can't get through the crowds.

We've turned hundreds away.

Never seen anything like it.

And you said I was mad

for building a bigger theater.

Has Francesco left?

Yes, my lord.

Now is the winter of our discontent,

made glorious summer

by this sun of York.

He's got a hunchback.

And all the clouds that

loured upon our house

in the deep bosom of the ocean.

It's Cecil, isn't it?

Now are our brows

bound with victorious wreaths,

our bruised arms hung up

for monuments,

our stern alarums

changed to merry meetings,

our dreadful marches

to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath

smoothed his wrinkled front.

But I, that am not shaped

for sportive tricks,

nor made to court

an amorous looking glass.

I, that am rudely stamped,

and want love's majesty

to strut before

a wanton ambling nymph.

I, that am curtailed

of this fair proportion,

cheated of feature

by dissembling nature,

deformed, unfinish'd,

sent before my time

into this breathing world,

scarce half made up,

and that so lamely

and unfashionable

that dogs bark at me...

Hear this! Hear this!

By order of the Privy Council, the

bridge must be cleared immediately!

Anyone resisting will be

taken to the Tower!

Clear the bridge! Clear the bridge!

Nothing rash.

No man is to draw sword or fire musket

without direct order.

Yes, my lord.

And the mob?

When does it arrive?

By the stroke of 4.

The streets are quiet.

They are all at the theater.

Edward promised us a mob,

and a mob we will have.

I am determined

to prove a villain...

A pox on you!

A pox on Cecil!

Why is Oxford's man

with the ground lings?

Where?

There.

... and hate

the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid,

inductions dangerous,

by drunken prophecies, libels,

and dreams, to set the...

To set my brother Clarence

and the king...

What's going on?

To see a fine lady

Ride on a white horse

Rings on her fingers

Bells on her toes

She shall have music

Wherever she goes N'

Me lord?

Her Majesty will be

with you shortly.

Young, valiant and wise

and no doubt right...

Down with Cecil!

Richard!

Get over here!

Off to Stratford, then.

To Essex House!

- To Essex House!

- We want Essex!

Oh, my God.

Essex! Essex!

Francesco!

To Essex House!

I have to warn him!

Francesco!

The Tower!

Francesco!

Francesco! The Tower knows!

How do you think it ends?

No doubt, tragically.

- Join us!

- Francesco!

Essex! Essex! Essex!

For Essex! And England!

Francesco! I went to the Tower!

To your positions!

Make ready!

Open fire!

Fire!

Aah! MANI Go back!

- Francesco!

- Signor Jonson!

We are betrayed! Unh!

No!

Robert, wait.

No more waiting.

We go as we are now.

Mount your horses.

Mount your horses!

On your horses, everyone!

To the queen! Hyah!

To the queen!

Hyah!

It's a trap!

Spread out!

Fire!

Freedom!

Fire at will!

Fireworks? Huh.

Majesty! We must away.

Essex is in armed revolt.

He's come to overthrow you.

But, Edward...

You must flee quickly, Majesty.

He means to kill you

and take the throne for himself.

Please, Majesty.

Your Majesty.

Aah!

Robert!

The men!

We must yield!

We yield!

Hold your fire!

- Hold your fire!

- Hold your fire!

Deliver up your arms!

Put down your arms.

Keep still!

Lay down your muskets.

We yield.

Yield, sir!

She will not forgive him this,

Edward.

Essex will be convicted,

and executed

for treason.

As will your son.

What?

Didn't you think I knew?

My father told me all his secrets.

All of them.

Though the most fascinating

was not made known to me

until after his death.

He hated you, Edward.

But still, he married

his only daughter to you.

He wanted his grandson

to be an earl.

No, Edward.

He wanted his grandson to be

a king.

Elizabeth had several

bastard children, Edward.

Not just Essex and Southampton.

She was 16 for the first.

Bloody Mary was still queen and

our future Gloriana was out of favor.

No one thought her very important

at all, except my father, of course.

And when her first child was born...

a male,

my father took it and hid it.

The grandson of Henry VIII.

The foundling, of course,

had to be reared a nobleman.

John de Vere,

the previous Earl of Oxford,

agreed to accept the task.

You lie!

Do I?

Why did he work so hard to become

your guardian after your father died?

He had it all planned.

Years in advance.

He would teach you everything

he knew about statecraft,

marry you to his daughter, and after

Elizabeth's death, proclaim you...

heir.

His own grandchild

to follow you on the throne.

But he could not possibly predict what

kind of failure you would become!

How you would fail in politics!

Ignore your estates

to the point of bankruptcy.

All to write...

Poetry,

Nor could he have predicted

that you would commit incest.

Oh.

Delicious, isn't it?

Right out of a Greek...

tragedy...

Elizabeth...

What? would never have...

Slept with her son?

I don't think she ever knew,

to tell you the truth.

Though you never know

with the Tudors.

They all have had such strange

tastes in bedfellows.

You could have been

a king, Edward.

And your son after you.

Except for the fact...

that you...

were you.

Sentence has been passed.

They are to be beheaded.

Essex tomorrow.

Southampton in a week.

Your son is

going to be killed...

by his own mother.

Put that in one of your plays.

Robert Devereaux,

Earl of Essex,

is hereby executed

for treason by Her Gracious Majesty,

Queen Elizabeth

on the 25th day of February

in the year of our Lord,

Strike true.

God save the queen!

Leave us.

All of you.

Sir Robert,

you as well.

You look old.

I thank Your Majesty

for seeing me.

You cannot have him.

He is our son.

He is a traitor, like Essex.

They only wished for a voice

equal to their birth.

You caused this.

Your play, your words.

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