The Prince and the Pauper

It's a boy!

A prince is born!

Long live the Prince of Wales!

Sit up and drink hearty.

The only cost of a tankard is that

it's drunk to His wee Royal Highness...

The Prince of Wales!

Long live His Royal Highness,

the Prince of Wales!

Here.

Milords and ladies...

I ask you to toast my son...

Edward Tudor.

One moment.

You drink too fast.

I advise you that as you drink,

you pray for your own sakes...

that my son be a good king.

Because good or bad, sickly or hale...

craven or brave, he will be King!

You drank sparingly, my good Norfolk.

Wine does not agree with me,

Your Majesty.

A pity.

Because losing one's head from wine...

is so much less permanent

than losing it from treason.

Surely, Your Majesty does not think me

guilty of that.

Not at all, my good Norfolk.

Merely capable of it.

- It's a boy, Henry.

- So I've been informed.

- You're glad?

- Very.

And grateful to you, madam...

not only for furnishing

the House of Tudor with an heir...

but also for freeing your King

from further necessity of your being.

Poor little thing.

Brought into this world to wear a crown

whether it fits him or not.

It shall weigh him down...

until he'll wish he'd been born

to the meanest pauper in London.

Poor little thing.

Poor nothing.

He's a healthy brat.

Healthy, is he?

You'd have an healthy son,

when all the time...

you know it's only the sickly ones

who can beg a farthing nowadays.

A prince was born tonight, too, little baby.

So go to sleep

and pretend the bells are for you.

Here he is. I think this cur ought to have

his head whacked off!

Boil him in oil, I says, Your Highness.

A good stewing is what he needs.

Let's give it to him.

- What has he done, my good lords?

- He won't play, that's what.

Let this miscreant kneel before me.

Down, you scurvy nipper.

Why don't you want to play, bumpkin?

'Cause I don't want to be boiled in oil.

It'd hurt.

Coward!

Hold your tongue. He's right. It would hurt.

A good king is a merciful king.

I will show mercy.

If I make you one of my lords,

will you play?

Yes, I will.

I dub thee Sir Hawkins.

Arise.

Absit invidia'

What's that?

It's Latin. And it means:

Let there be no malice.

Father Andrew taught it to me.

He'd do better to teach you

how to bring home a farthing.

I'll knock them royal ideas

out of your head!

You drooling beast,

I'll cuff your mouth and like it!

Now, then!

He's certainly thumping the King good.

Maybe that'll keep the tears in your eyes

long enough to beg a penny for food.

Now, be off with you!

May I come in?

But you are in.

Thomas, have you been crying?

No, sir. It's sweat.

You see, I've been running.

And how did you come by that?

Your father?

No, sir. My father wouldn't beat me.

He likes me.

I apologize.

Thank you.

Someday I'm going to discuss you

with your father.

No, I wouldn't, sir.

You see, he doesn't like to see anyone...

on account of he feels so badly

about me having to beg.

I thought maybe you'd let me read

some more out of that Latin book.

Of course.

The more you read,

the greater opportunity you'll have...

of escaping Offal Court when you grow up.

But you've read most everything,

and you're still in Offal Court, Father.

God's will and the whimsy of a king

are two things...

it isn't for ordinary people to understand,

I presume, Tom.

Why did His Majesty

turn you out of your house...

and take away your pension,

when you didn't do anything to him?

I'm afraid nowadays, the King

knows very little about his subjects.

Except those in his court...

who take great pains he shouldn't learn...

the plight of others

less fortunate than themselves.

Do you know what I'd do

if I were the King?

I'd send the Prince out to play

with other little boys.

Then he'd learn about the people

and be a good king when he grew up.

A rather unlikely suggestion.

Get on with your reading

while the light is good.

Perhaps I'd better,

because I've been at it two days now...

and I haven't got Caesar

across the Rubicon yet.

Tell me all about it.

I'll tell you, there's more gold there

than you ever thought was in the world...

just dying to be took.

- What's that you're reading?

- A book.

- Stole it?

- No.

Father Andrew gave it to me. To keep.

Wasn't that kind of him?

I should say so. It's very valuable.

Only rich people can afford to buy books.

- Give it here.

- Please don't tear it.

Tear it, you barmy mooncalf? I'll sell it.

This'll fetch a nice bit of meat and ale.

Please, give me back my book.

Come on, Hugo.

We're going to the thieves market.

A windfall from heaven, I calls it.

And if I catch you

with that smirking priest again...

I'll peel the hide off both of you!

My book.

Go away! Get out of here! Go on!

Penny, please?

But it is time we spoke of certain things,

Your Majesty.

My death among them, I suppose.

Death?

What made you think of death, sire?

For one thing, finding a carrion crow

flying around my bed.

Banish the thought, sire.

- You're still a hale man.

- I'm not a man at all.

I'm a disease.

An infernally painful one. Go on.

It occurred to me, sire, that when

Prince Edward comes to the throne...

The court may impose

the Duke of Norfolk on him...

as Lord High Protector.

And with reason, Hertford.

What a sorry thing it is to be a bad king.

To worry on your deathbed

about your dynasty...

and not about your people.

To be able to forgive a man his sins,

and not his virtues.

And Norfolk has virtue.

And the House of Tudor has sins.

But they won't be judged by the Howards.

You are very right, Your Majesty.

The protector will be a man

who nibbles at the hand of the court.

Whose power frightens only the ladies.

And whose chief ambition

is to build a safe nest in the throne.

You'll forgive me if I say the description

resembles that of a palace rat.

- You mean...

- I mean you.

I am unable to tell my gratitude

for this honor, sire.

But it will enable me to...

To regret my passing

with the greatest possible pleasure.

There is one thing, sire...

which may prevent your selection of me

from being carried out.

- Who? Warwick?

- No, sire.

The Prince himself.

Norfolk has bewitched him.

He worships the man, calls him uncle.

But for some strange reason,

His Highness has taken a dislike to me.

If you let the selection go,

until your death...

His little Highness

will undoubtedly appoint Norfolk.

No.

Because I intend to arrange matters...

so that Norfolk's death

will precede my own.

- Indeed, Your Majesty?

- Indeed.

Now, ask His Highness to come here.

I think I'd like to play now.

May we play charades, Your Highness?

Lady Jane, I've told you I hate charades.

I'm sorry.

All right. We'll play charades later.

After we play something I like.

Quill, you suggest something.

And if it doesn't suit me, I'll beat you.

And if it does suit you,

it'll be a game you'll beat me at anyway.

Therefore, it might as well be...

blind man's buff.

Good. That would amuse me.

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