THE OSTRAKA PLAYS, VOLUME FOUR
A LITTLE WINTER LOVE
By
FRANCIS HAGAN
Published by Francis Hagan at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Francis Hagan
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A LITTLE WINTER LOVE
By
FRANCIS HAGAN
Dramatis Personae
The Players
Inigo Jones
Becky
Mort
Groan
Krake
Shank
Spindle
The Defenders of the House
Marchioness Honora DeBurgh
Reverend Griffith
Marjory Griffith
Robinson the Comedian
The Parliamentarians
Major Harrison
Major Carrack
Corporal Allyson
The Abraham-men
Abraham
Baldachin
Hatch
Crib
Various Bedlamites, Looters, etcetera.
SCENE I
The Ruin of Basing House, 14th October, 1645.
Smoke; the debris of siege and battle; timber and masonry in disarray; a great flag draped over a skeletal flame. It is charred and torn, holding little of the colours of King and Country.
Characters drift through these Ruins in outlandish costumes as if in daze; figures from a Hieronymous Bosch canvas; allegorical and tawdry; buffoons without a travelling cart.
One, in the buckled shoes of a Major Domo and cloaked in a high ruff which gives him a vulturine appearance stops by a blasted corpse. He gazes at it lost in thought. The others remain apart, melancholic and solitary.
Mort (Poking the corpse with a long stick.) . . . He’s dead.
Becky (Dressed in Court Elegance and with fragments of mirrors attached.) - God bless you, Mort, I’ve seen roast beef less charred than that and you have to poke ‘im to see if he’s dead . . .
Groan (Almost naked and covered in tattoos of musical notation.) Leave ‘im alone. He’s ruminating.
Becky I’ll say he is! Look at old Mort ruminating. He hovers over that cadaver like the proud necromancers of Alexandria, eh? Bless his dedication, I say. Such wit to state the bleedin’ obvious, thank you very much.
Groan Becky, you don’t need to –
Becky What? I don’t need to bleedin’ what, eh?
Groan Just leave him alone. That’s all.
(A pause.)
Mort I mention his state, Becky, my lovely girl, not as an observation. Never that. I, like you, have eyes. I mention it as a requiem. I pronounce, you see. His death. I say ‘he’s dead’ not to inform you of the fact.
Becky Then why for Christ’s sake –
Mort Because no one else will. Imagine living a life and then leaving it with no one left to mark your passing, my dear Becky. No one to comment upon you. This thing – this black rag – loved once. Wrote poetry. Wept even –
Becky Now you’re getting maudlin’, Mort – oh, I like that – ‘Maudlin’ Mort’ – it has a ring, don’t you think, Groan, eh?
Groan Oh shut up, Becky. Leave us alone.
Becky Jesus piss on you, Groan, is that all you can say, eh? ‘Leave us alone’ – what so we can weep bitter tears and fall into our own sorrow, eh? How bleedin’ replete of you, I say.
Groan It’s not – I didn’t mean – Becky, you’ve been like a big sister to me, you ‘ave, but it’s an awful hard love to burden you it is sometimes –
Becky Awww, young Groan ‘ere is all a wheedlin’ –
Mort (Leaving the corpse and sitting down amid the rubble.) The blood on him has yet to dry, my dear Becky. He stands there bereft and all splashed in a vulgar baptism. Give him the good grace of God to feel that stain dry. There will be time for our usual bickering later, no doubt.
Krake (A lean women in tight black wrappings like a shroud.) Mort is right, Becky. Leave young Groan alone.
Shank (Similarly dressed.) I echo my sister, of course.
Spindle (Again, ditto.) And I also. You fester among us like a sore, Becky.
Becky (Laughing in disbelief.) Listen to the three sisters! What a chorus – Krake, Shank and Spindle! The crones of reason in this piss-full ruin! And you, Mort, you imagine all this will settle away like dust, eh? That the blood on young Groan here will dry and fade as if it never even existed? A pox on that – a pox on you all! We stand on the black heath of an absolute wrack, we do – and there is no return from this, I tell you. None! What – do you all think in the red haze of your fancies that we will carry on? That we will hoist aloft our moth-eaten Curtain and play again the idle Masques of his fevered brain –
Mort Becky, we have always played and always will.
Becky On the stages gilded with decadence and coin, yes! But now? Now what, Mort? Will we play here in these ruins? Is that the future you see, eh? No longer the halls and the guildhouses of the rich, the fat burghers, the over-stuffed ladies in lace, but here, Mort? In this ruin, this blasted space hung now with corpses and the empty scaffolds of death? Look, shall this rag stand in now for our old Curtain as we caper here in cheap tatters like broken dolls, eh?
(She snatches up the great rag of the Flag and swirls it about her as though framing a stage. For one glorious moment, it flutters in the space, voluminous and regal, and then slowly begins to collapse in on itself.)
- Behold, the Masque of Death, the Carnival of the End of Times, the Last Play in the Ruin of Merrie England, what glorious sights shall we see, what marvels will abound –
(The ruined Flag collapses into a pathetic heap and then revealed behind it is a bruised and shivering old man. He is wrapped in a blanket which does little to hide his nakedness. A large book is clasped in his trembling hands.)
Mort - Master Jones?!
Groan - I didn’t think – I mean, we thought you were –
Inigo (Stepping forward, his eyes on Becky.) Many were, young Groan, as God is my witness. Many were.
Krake . . . Did they . . ?
Inigo I will tell you this. Six priests they hacked apart in the chapel, Krake, murdered in cold blood, the rosary beads still in their hands. Our Mister Robinson of old Drury Lane fame was shot down by that villain Major Harrison as he tried to escape out of a window. What happened to me is not worth the retelling.
Spindle The comedian dead . . ?
Inigo He played to a hundred a night with nothing but his wit to guide him on that stage . . . But that is not the least of it, my friends . . . I have seen this evening . . . Well, let that pass, shall we . . . Let that pass . . .
Mort And us, Master Jones? What of us now? This great House has fallen and we remain its waifs now, do we not?
Inigo (Clasping the book to his chest.) I still have it, Mort! I flitted through the falling rooms and cracking towers and plunged deep into the Library even as its books broke out in flames about me. I reached in among a hundred pillars of fire and found it - it was untouched as if the Good Lord himself preserved it for me – and with all my strength, I plucked it free even as Aristotle was consumed on my left and Shakespeare, old Will, fell away on my right. This alone escaped the fires, my friends. The book is ours and do you all know what that means? Groan? Shank? Old Mort?
Mort We play on.
Inigo We play on! This book saves us!
Becky (Deadly quiet.) You are all mad. Every poor sinning soul here. Mad. You want to put on the Masque still? England falls and we play on, is that? How many died this evening to the muskets and pikes of those Roundhead bastards, eh? How many Royalists fell in the doorways of this House run through without a jot of mercy, I ask? How many women stripped and made to crawl past the lobsters of Cromwell? And you, Master Jones, saved a single book so that we can play on . . . That is not the sound of fires in the distance, it is the Lord mocking our conceit, I wager . . .
(A pause.)
Inigo . . . I am Inigo Jones, Architect and Designer to the King, I conjure up impossible worlds in stone and spectacle, I lay foundations in the earth and breed possibilities in the mind, Ben Jonson lay at my right hand and Will himself urged me gently on, and though all the world itself in its great joint were to crack and fall apart about me, I would remain always Inigo Jones and pick up what was left to fashion again . . . We have the book and what lies in this book, my friends?
Mort (Rising up.) Dreams, Master Jones.
Inigo Not just dreams, Mort.
Groan The Ark of Dreams, Master Jones.
Inigo The great Ark of Dreams indeed, Groan.
Krake We have rehearsed so much of it already, eh, sisters?
Shank She is right, as the Lord is our witness.
Spindle My sisters are never wrong. It would be a cankered shame to waste all those days of rehearsals, eh, Master Jones?
Inigo We play on, do we not?
(The company nod as one except Becky who remains apart.)
Mort We play on, as always . . .
(The company exits back in the ruins leaving Inigo Jones and Becky alone. She picks up an edge of the flag and plays with it.)
Inigo . . . Can you imagine a better stage, Becky? Where better to play than the ruins of this great House? The more this world of England and our King falls from us must we not dance harder as if all were well, I ask? As if all were well . . .
Becky . . . So much blood underfoot . . .
Inigo I need you. Above all the others, I need you.
Becky Me? Now you are touched by God’s fever, Master Jones –
Inigo You alone centre me. You. Not them. It is you I turn to in my doubt and my despair. You I hold to. No other, Becky. Know that.
Becky No, I am just another of your pets.
Inigo Never that. Never . . . It was a good idea. The flag. Inspired. We will use it, of course. How can we not? I saw you twirl this flag and saw genius rise out of despair. Gold from dross. You have that in you. Only you, Becky. Not the others.
Becky Mort, he –
Inigo Not Mort, bless him. I need you.
Becky (She gazes upon the flag and then slowly begins to wind it up about her like a shawl.) . . . What are we?
(Inigo Jones looks on in approval, hugging the Ark of Dreams close to him.)
Scene II
The remnants of a study room; distant fires glow behind the shapes of broken walls and wrecked window panes. A large table in the Elizabethan style occupies the room – two of its legs are missing with one being replaced by a column of books.
A soldier in a ragged coat and baldric stands silently at the edge, half in shadow. Powder burns colour his cheeks. At the table sits the broken form of a Reverend, his face buried in his hands. The soldier seems uninterested in this figure.
A Parliamentarian officer enters rudely, a bottle of sack in his hand.
Harrison (Gesturing with the bottle.) Well, has the pot-boiled lobster gone then?
Allyson Two hours ago, Major.
Harrison Of course he has, Allyson. I ask out of mere courtesy you see. (He swigs from the sack with relish.) The cannonados are silent. The rattle of muskets has fallen away. The screams of the Romanists here all gone, eh? And our clank-armoured Cromwell is already riding over some other horizon to war and butchery. How terribly efficient, eh, Allyson?
Allyson Yes, Major.
Griffith - Please, if I might –
Harrison (He throws the bottle over to his aide.) - Have a drink, won’t you? We celebrate. We celebrate the final cracking of this great House, do we not? After two poxy years, eh? Two long God-forsaken years, eh? (He slumps into a chair by the table.)
Allyson Thank you, Major.
Harrison Drink deep, Corporal. Who knows when such spoils will come our way again?
Griffith - I feel, perhaps, if I may be so bold, that I might –
Harrison Two pox-ridden years. Piss on Cromwell and his Ironsides, eh, Allyson? A mighty hot piss rain on them, I say!
Allyson Indeed, Major.
Harrison May the Good Lord fuck his earnest skull. Last in and first out – Cromwell, I mean, eh?
Allyson Although the Lord might have that pleasure, too, Major.
Griffith - I hesitate to interrupt, you see. No, I do. I see you all wallowing in victory, in your well-earned triumph, your celebration. I see that – and who am I to break into that precious circle of manhood and initiation. No one. No one at all. I have the blood of my daughter on my hands, I do. (A beat.) Forgive me. I intrude. I do. (He weeps inconsolably.)
Harrison (Standing up to retrieve his bottle.) I infer, Corporal, from his long coat, its absolute black wrap which allows him no ambiguity, no moral finesse, shall we say, that this man is a papist priest?
Allyson Yes, Major. The last one.
Harrison I thought as much. (A beat.) To say I am surprised is an understatement, as God is my witness. I had – and please correct me if I am wrong – been under the assumption we had smashed all their brains in. Around the very pulpit itself. Were my orders ambiguous in some way, Allyson?
Allyson No, Major.
Harrison Of course they weren’t. I ask out of formality only. My signature was emphatic to the point of decree, I think, eh? Not one single papist was to survive the fall of this House – and to emphasise the point did I not labour over that signature with infinite care?
Allyson Even as the walls were blasted apart, Major.
Harrison Indeed. And an awful cramp I got, too, from that signature. I have spent a day glutting my sword and had less of a cramp, I can tell you. And yet here we have a papist alive and at the table even –
Griffith - Please, my life is nothing, take it, do – my daughter, you see –
Harrison I smashed in two skulls myself, did I not, Allyson?
Allyson With the butt of your pistol, Major.
Harrison This pistol here. A very violent and hot scrap it was. And my soldiers did the rest – and what have we here then, eh?
Griffith - What an awful familiarity we have, Major Harrison, you with blood on your pistol and I with blood on my hands. But what is blood other than the red stuff in our veins, eh? It is nothing but a common fluid as ubiquitous as breath and yet you look with glory upon that stain even as I look down with horror upon mine. What difference is there, I ask? Is one red darker than the other? No. Is one richer? No. Forgive me. I preach. I sermonise. Awful hard habit to break, eh? We priests preach as you soldiers draw swords. (He weeps.) And yet it is the same stuff which drains out of us when we die . . . the same stuff . . .
Harrison (He falls again into the chair with his sack.) You are the seventh priest –
Griffith I am, yes.
Harrison Six we smashed open back there.
Griffith Yes.
Harrison And you were the last of them.
Griffith The last, yes.
Harrison What happened, Allyson?
Allyson Funny thing, Major.
Harrison I am all for humour, Corporal.
Allyson We rounded on him as the last – our butts raised up to stave his crown in – and this girl in scarlet and gold flew in among us like a hawk, she did.
Harrison Why, Allyson, you have a poetic soul it seems.
Allyson All scarlet and gold, she was. Strangest thing I ever did see, Major. She yelled and slapped us like a fury.
Harrison Your daughter, I take it?
Griffith (He breaks down in sobs.)
Harrison And what happened then, Allyson? – No wait, I can imagine. It is written all over your rough face . . .
Allyson (A beat.) It was hot work, Major.
Harrison (He stares hard at the broken Reverend.) . . . What is it now then, I wonder? Compensation? No, that would be too Parliamentarian of you. An apology, perhaps? Our iron heads bowed down in shame, the gloved hands tight in contrition? No, of course not. How ceremonial, eh, Allyson?
Allyson He wants permission to bury her here in the Crypt, it seem, Major.
(A pause.)
Harrison Much left to bury, is there, Corporal? I mean, in the no-doubt smashed in remains of her scarlet and gold?
Allyson (Faltering slightly.) Nothing of the face, it must be said –
Griffith (He lunges suddenly at Major Harrison, his hands locked into savage claws - ) God curse you –
Harrison (Slamming the arms down upon the rickety table and locking them there. He swiftly pulls out a lace handkerchief, spits on it, and then wipes the pinned hands clean as Griffith struggles. He is slow and methodical, almost tender.) . . . That’s the thing about blood, Doctor Griffith, a bit of spit and rub and away it goes, no more than a dying sunset into the oblivion of the night, eh? I take this piece of lace and work it hard across these old fingers of yours and now look – all clean. All pristine. I will do the same later to the pistol butt of course but not yet. Not . . . while there is still some work to do in this long night, eh, Allyson?
Allyson Quite, Major.
Harrison (Relaxing the hands.) Much better, wouldn’t you say, Doctor Griffith?
Griffith You know my name?
Harrison Your name was always first on the list but it seems six others died to stop my lads getting at you.
Allyson And his daughter, Major.
Harrison (Rising up from the table.) Quite. Off you go then.
Griffith . . . Off . . ? (He glances uncertainly at the two roundheads.)
Harrison (Gazing out at the distant fires and smoke.) . . . The night here will be long and it will not be pretty. After the storming and the blood will come the looters. The punks and the lunatics will pour in here with a vengeance . . . If you have not done it by sunrise, I fear you will never do it at all.
Griffith (Hesitating.) . . . This night, then?
Harrison This night only, Doctor Griffith.
(A pause.)
(Griffith exits quickly, hiding his hands deep in his black coat.)
Harrison . . . Pox on it, the sack is all gone, Allyson. (He tosses the bottle aside into the ruins.)
Allyson The Good Lord giveth . . .
Harrison (He picks out a book from the pile propping up the large table.) Indeed . . . Ah, Seneca. The weave of revenge and the demand of blood, Allyson. Have you ever seen Tragedy on the London stage? The carnal butchery wherein kin slaughters kin?
Allyson Too busy soldiering, Major.
Harrison Of course you were . . . (He digs another book out. The table tips down.) Ovid. The old poetry of the Romans. When you read this, Allyson, you caress the soul of the Ancients . . . (He pulls out another.) And what have we here? Marlowe himself, it seems. The mighty high line of fire and song is Marlowe, Allyson . . . (He settles down to read with his back against the table.) And of course it is to Faust we all turn now that we pull down our King, eh?
(Another Parliamentarian officer enters. In his hands rests a large blood-splattered document.)
Carack It was the damned women!
Harrison (Not looking up from his Marlowe.) Ah, Major Carack, fresh from the side of Cromwell, I warrant.
Carack The women, I tell you! It is all here in these scrawls of Royalist ink! (He throws the document down on the table – and then leans in to stop it sliding off.) Look, here, as plain as a pikestaff!
Harrison (Rising and discreetly putting the Marlowe away.) He barks like a spaniel, does our Major Carack, Corporal. A very yapping sort of man he is, I would say.
Allyson Yes, Major.
Carack Just look, damn your eyes, Harrison.
Harrison At women?
Carack At this document! Enough of your contrary moods, Harrison. I found this in the room of the Marchioness herself. Here it is in black and white.
Harrison And this is? (He scoops up the document.)
Carack The regimental list –
Harrison Ah, that damned regiment which stopped us taking this House these last two years –
Carack A pox on it, Harrison. That regiment held us up with its sharpshooters through two long winters, it did. Those Protestant soldiers picked us off like lice from a shaved scalp –
Harrison The irony, eh, Major? Protestant Londoners defending this most Catholic of Royalist Houses. What is the House motto, Allyson?
Allyson ‘Love Loyalty,’ Major.
Harrison Love loyalty, indeed –
Carack They were damned women, Harrison!
Harrison And I thought I had the last bottle of sack in the House –
Carack (Snatching the parchment from him.) - There, dammit, cast your eyes there. The Year of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Forty Five, of four hundred and fifty in the regiment almost half were posemen –
Harrison Posemen? Allyson, what is he barking on about?
Allyson Women, major. In men’s clothes. Trained to soldier with the men.
Harrison The regiment was made up of women?
Carack Precisely!
Harrison The mind staggers, Corporal.
Allyson We’d heard rumours, to be honest, Major. Your standard infantry regiment carries a smooth-bore musket accurate to maybe thirty yards. Heavy weapon firing a heavy lead ball. Women being lighter can use a lighter musket firing a lead ball half the size, you see.
Carack Exactly!
Allyson Sharpshooting range, Major. A hundred and twenty yards.
Carack That regiment damn well kept us locked up behind our breastworks for two years with women! (He sits down in exasperation.)
Harrison (A black humour consumes him.) - and now the regiment left a month ago –
Carack We finally took the House, yes. A pox these posemen!
Harrison Protestant women, Carack! (He begins an impromptu jig as the humour takes hold in him.) – London women, Carack! Oh what a war is this among the English that we lift up skirts to don trousers and pull off wigs to fight shaved headed! What a war indeed! (He laughs and jigs behind the other Major. Corporal Allyson looks on unmoved.)
Carack Are you mad, Harrison? Dare you forget Cromwell himself ordered us to take this House two years ago? I must report this to Parliament –
(He reaches out to roll up the document even as Harrison jigs up close to him. In an instant, Harrison ceases his dance and snatches at Carack’s dagger to plunge it into the back of his neck. The blow is fatal and Carack slumps over the tilted table.)
A pause.
Harrison sits next to the dead Major and then gently raises him up into a sitting position. He wipes his hand clean with the lace handkerchief. He is calm. For a moment, he gazes into the dead face of his fellow officer.)
Harrison . . . Listen, I tell you this in all sincerity – no, I do, please believe me – I will have none of your smirking now. I am trying to be honest here. I lead the Forlorn Hope – do I not, Allyson?
Allyson You do, Major.
Harrison I do, thank you, Corporal. The Forlorn Hope is who we are. We storm the breach first in any battle. We hold that breach with our racked bodies, as the Good Lord is my witness. No other soldier goes where we go. We are the first in and the last out. The red womb of war is our father and our mother is the endless songs of lament. Listen to me here – this is heartfelt matter, I tell you. I shout. I apologise. We live in the rack and ruin of times, Cecil. I call you Cecil now of course as we are beyond formality, would you not agree? Beyond the arbitrary distinction of rank, eh? We loosen the mortar of the Universe and pull down our King into the muddy ditch of History, do we not, Cecil? Each musket shot chips away at that mortar, it does. Each bombard blasts a hole in it. England falls upon our heads, eh? – Look out, here’s a piece. I duck constantly, do I not, Allyson?
Allyson Always, Major.
Harrison You see, Cecil. A very ducking life I lead now. Hey-ho. The consequence of Civil War, eh? We war and then we duck as the very cement of monarchy and god blows apart above us. And you worry that women shoot at us? I mean, Cecil, what else did you expect? Take away the Keystone of King and who knows what may come tumbling down upon our heads? Of course the women pose as men now, Cecil. I really think that is they very least of what will happen. We duck even from our own shadows it seems . . . I know, I know, you think I exaggerate perhaps and perhaps I do – watch out, the Universe falls it does. (He pulls the corpse forwards so that it leans down across the table at an obscene angle.) . . . First in and last out, eh, Allyson?
Allyson Always been the Forlorn Hope, Major, and always will be.
Harrison . . . (He pulls out the Marlowe and idly flips through its pages.) . . . This night will drag like a broken animal, Allyson, and there will be no respite from its pain . . . Fuck, I need more sack, I do . . .
Scene III
The Chapel of the House. It has seen some of the worst of the fighting. A shattered stained-glass window echoes distant fires. A trio of rough vagabonds crouch in the debris, their eyes glittering in the shadows.
A corpse lies upon the smeared floor, swathed in a rough shroud through which a splash of scarlet and gold cloth extrudes. Behind it, kneels a whey-faced woman, her hair in a loose bun and with ragged lace about her collar.
In the distance, can be heard a cracking sound like rubble falling, shelving, in.
Marjory (To the shrouded corpse.) You will of course bask in this lament – no, do not aver – I know you better, my sister, than the doll knows the rough hands of the child who plays with it – I could remove this wrap and no doubt see you grinning a tiny sort of smile. A replete smile. How magnificent it must be for you to have died defending a father who never cared for you. This smile will be tiny I expect. A sliver of satisfaction like an Italian dagger. My sister’s final farewell in the night . . .
(Her hand hovers over the shroud. The vagabonds close in.)
Crib Don’t mind us, Missus.
Hatch Will you be long, though, eh?
Baldachin Time’s moving on into this night of blackness, It will crush you, eh, if you know what I mean, eh? (To the other two.) – What? I am merely saying to her, that’s all.
Marjory Oh. Oh. The remonstrations of the filth. The cut-throats. I am wearing lace here and that demands respect I think. . . . What love that never demanded a return on its investment? No doubt this smile will cut me like glass, flesh me like a wound. What, did you die merely to mock me? Look, you cried out, as you dashed before our father, here, you shouted, as the muskets smashed you in, I love my father more! (To the vagabonds.) I extemporize obviously. She said no such words but I saw them unspoken in the bulge of her neck, the knots in her shoulders, you see. And I thought she does this to triumph over me she does . . . What a glassy smile you must have now, eh?
(Her hand hovers over the shroud again. The vagabonds move in.)
Baldachin Night. Weight. It comes on, missus.
Hatch It does indeed and we so would like those clothes, eh?
Crib Oh yes pretty clothes. Warm clothes.
Marjory Really this lace is decoration only. It owns no practical purpose.
Crib Not you, missus.
Marjory Oh.
Baldachin When you’ve finished obviously. I mean, we’re not monsters, are we, Hatch? Crib?
Crib No. Far from it – no Frenchies here, eh? But there is a limit, shall we say?
Hatch And the awful cold night does begin to settle so, eh, missus?
Marjory - I will defend her with my last breath, I will! My nails will flay the flesh from you. I will struggle over the body of my dead sister like a hell-cat. Or perhaps not. Were I to act out of instinct then I would only be echoing her own sacrifice after all. The clothes, you say? Take them, then. But leave the body. Leave this packet of mortality, do. Even the French leave the bones, they say. No – stay away! My life for hers to protect her honour! Or not, of course. I will not be spurred into action based on her example.
Baldachin It’s a quandary, ain’t it, eh?
Marjory I see your point, no, I do.
Hatch She died to save your father and you will die to save her bones, eh?
Marjory I have a knife somewhere. In these skirts. Somewhere.
Crib Come on, missus, let it go, eh?
Marjory She shouted out such love but silently as her face vanished –
(Her hand darts over the shroud to pull it back.)
(The shelving noise in the background peaks and the sound of masonry collapsing in a great heap can be heard.)
(The Reverend Doctor Griffith appears covered in dust, his face white and powdery.)
Griffith The White Tower has fallen, oh my, the cannons were too much for it in the end – (He pushes past the vagabonds oblivious to the tension in the air.) – excuse me, please – don’t mind me, do – down it came like a fallen angel, its wings a ragged cloud of dust. I am bathed in angel dust, it seems – if you don’t mind –
Marjory (Retracting her hand finally.) They are here for the clothes, father.
Griffith Please, there will be a fayre I expect later, once the soldiers have gone, yes, a jamboree, I am sure, of all that’s left, eh?
Marjory Hers. Her clothes, father.
Baldachin Awful cold winter coming, see?
Griffith (A beat.) Quite. No, I understand, I do. It’s just she is my youngest daughter, you see.
Hatch We don’t want the body, do we, lads, eh?
Crib Just the clothes – although Baldachin here has been know to curl up at night with strange things, eh? Black things, eh, haven’t you, Baldachin? So who knows?
Baldachin I have funny turns. In the night, eh? I need comfort where I can find it.
(Crude blades are drawn.)
(A pause.)
Griffith (Suddenly, to his daughter.) Your turn.
Marjory Father, what –
Griffith Your turn, I say!
Marjory (A beat.) Is that love then? The arbitrary mathematics of your progeny? You are the Reverend and you must be revered or else what is love but mere protestation?
Griffith They are threatening me with blades. Your turn.
Marjory And what if my love is stronger than hers?
Griffith Of course you despise me. How can you not? I am weak, no, I am. Weak and given to emotional fancies. Flights of poetic rapture. I am a mystic caught up in the porcelain statues of Christ me. No depth. Just ecstasy. Which is after all over swiftly and leaves no footprint, no mark of tenure, in the soul. I am biblical in my love, no more. Look – the patriarch before the bush. That’s me. I scorn the love she had. It was given so easily and like you I expect that smile she wore bore a secret glamour which mocked us both. I only ever loved you, Marjory. Never her. You do understand that I presume?
Marjory She loved the act more than those she performed it to, is my humble opinion.
Griffith Yes! Yes. Always loved you, Marjory. (A beat.) So are you going to or what then? My hands are wiped clean you see. (He weeps.) Look, I am covered in angel dust. Worship me – (He collapses.) . . . They took her face, daughter, her face . . .
Marjory I know. I saw it flake away.
(She pulls out a thin dagger and stands over the corpse of her sister. Doctor Griffith hides swiftly behind her as the vagabonds advance.)
Griffith - Only you, Marjory – always you –
(A figure appears out of the shadows clad in rough soldier’s garb. A wide-brimmed hat hides the features. A riding cloak is lathered in mud. The handles of two pistols jut out from the cloak.)
Soldier I think rats have the right idea. It always struck me so.
Crib (Rounding on the soldier.) - Wha’?
Hatch (Likewise.) Rats? Who the fuck –
Soldier (Advancing a little in an idle fashion.) It must be the instinct for self-preservation, wouldn’t you all say? The urge to survive. They always leave a sinking ship I have been told. It is proverbial, although I have not seen it myself of course. Crack in the hull and out they go. Paddling away, heads up, nostrils wide. You know what I am talking about.
Crib Ship? What ship?
Baldachin (To his comrades, appraising.) - Oh, this one’s a smart one all right, eh, lads.
Crib There’s no ship here, is there –
Soldier I am speaking in the allegorical mode naturally. As in the ship of state for the sake of example. It cracks asunder and out pour the tribe of rats, do they not? Oh, come on, rise to the conceit. Make an effort, do.
Hatch This one is cracked all right – in the head.
Baldachin Oh devilish smart, this one, ain’t ‘e?
Crib Cracked like a window pane –
Soldier No doubt I am. Many have said so. Master Inigo Jones for one and who are we to contradict the King’s Architect and Designer, I ask? If anyone can pronounce upon a fracture, it is surely he. But we are debating literary tropes, are we not? Rats as humours. I borrow a Jonsonian conceit – shhh, don’t tell Inigo Jones – but out they go swimming away in the flood of their nature. (A beat.) You could steal a leaf from that book, you could.
Baldachin Oh I get this one, I do.
Soldier Off you go then. Be rats. Be wise.
Baldachin But we ain’t rats. Vermin maybe. Scavengers, yes. This House has fallen and we flood in not out.
Soldier Pretend. Do. We founder on rocks, see?
Baldachin The devil’s piss on you, lad. One rush from us and you are nothing but dog meat. We will carve you and drape you innards over this Chapel. Your flesh will rot here along with so much else, eh . . .
(A pause.)
Soldier . . . In the second siege of this House, a hundred of their halberdiers and dragoons came towards us in the dawn, through the mist, the drums beating and the pipes playing. Lads under Captain Farley they were. Hampshire boys through and through. We poured such hot lead into them that the mist became a pall of smoke. I had a spotter on my left – mark, eighty yards, eleven minutes past the clock – and I would fire, the crack of the musket slamming my shoulder here like the kick of a mule. We slaughtered those Hampshire lads like cattle in a pen. One made it to the wall – by the White Tower oddly enough – I remember his weeping face, all covered in freckles it was – mark, dead ahead, zero of the clock – well, too close for musketry, of course. I pulled out one of these pistols and blew his head right off. I don’t need a spotter now, do I, rats? (Hands drop to the pistol butts.)
Crib Fuck, we can do –
Baldachin Time to splash, I think.
Hatch Splash?
Baldachin Over we go, eh, rats, let’s gnaw someplace else.
Crib No, we could. It’s just one –
Baldachin Another time, eh? That’s the thing about ships, Crib, they have to be washed ashore eventually. Into the lair of rats. Come on, let’s leave these relics to their fate . . .
(The vagabonds withdraw. Hatch pulls a rat face and then scurries out.)
Griffith (Rising in triumph.) A double victory! The great House has fallen but the King’s peace still prevails! We bask in the glory of Our Lord still, eh?
Marjory (Still over the corpse.) That is a matter of opinion surely, father.
Griffith You have to spoil everything, Marjory. Why? No, don’t answer. Clutch the silly knife and face the world with your bruised eyes. Why change a habit, eh?
Soldier I knew her once.
Marjory I think not.
Soldier No? I am sure I –
Marjory You remember her face. That is all. She threw that away.
Soldier Ah. Yes. I see.
Griffith I triumph, I do! The King’s soldier scares away the vermin and I – a few tears and Harrison relented. He did. I wept and he caved in to compassion. The tears were real. Of course. Of course they were. I did not simulate. Do not look at me like that, Marjory. Tears and a little blood – and his heart melted, it did. What? I cannot bargain my emotions to gain the corpse of my daughter? My tears and some blood taken from a wall for her burial – cheap I say.
Marjory He agreed? In the Crypt?
Griffith He collapsed faster than the tower, daughter. Compassion still rules the Universe, see?
Soldier People have wept rivers and won less, Doctor Griffith.
Griffith I played him like a bassoon, I did!
Soldier (Making to leave.) A corpse is never truly dead until it rests in the ground, eh?
(The soldier is gone.)
Griffith Yes, yes, of course – give us a hand, won’t you – oh –
Marjory (Putting the knife away into the folds of her skirt.) She’s back then.
Griffith Yes, if you could just help me – what, what –
Marjory Her.
(Doctor Griffith’s face gapes in shock.)
SCENE IV
The Main Hall now covered in debris and the remnants of fighting. A gaudy Proscenium Arch dominates the area, decorated with painted Cherubim’s and other Allegorical Figures. A title stands out across the Arch. It reads ‘What Masques We Playe’.
A figure stands beneath the Arch dressed in court elegance with fragments of mirrors strewn about her. A silver mask hides her face. Figures move in the shadows behind her in an almost predatory fashion, watching, waiting. Around the remainder of the Hall before the Arch lie the other Players in repose.
Krake (Emerging from the shadows behind the Arch, dressed in black, thin and cadaverous.) . . . The Ark of Dreams wanders the hinterland between this world and that empty space which frames it . . .
Spindle (As Krake) . . . It seeks something. A home. A resting place. A final landing.
Shank (As her sisters.) . . . It drifts in a seasonal light, shifting and shelving through the year, sand washing its ancient joints, all now warped and broken . . .
Krake The Ark of Dreams never comes to a final beach but always drifts on unmoored along the sea-bed of time . . . A seasonal wreck . . .
Spindle . . . And those freighted in its bowels shift also in the season, unhappy passengers . . .
Shank . . . Each allotted not a space in the Ark of Dreams but instead a season, a time, an arc of the Circle . . .
Krake . . . (To the figure in the mirrors.) In the Spring, she comes, wrapped up in the new light, her hair crinkled with blossom, her long fingers daubed with loam. She walks like the unfurling of new pages, and the books she touches become furzed as if dropped from a tree . . .
Spindle . . . This is the Lost Woman in the Corridor Never Taken, and when she weeps, as she does often, she lets falls tears of such purity, such clarity, that we, the Curators of the Ark of Dreams, strive to catch them.
Shank . . . These tears fall like glass, and the salt in them is prized here above all other salt. We catch the Lost Woman’s tears in handkerchiefs of the finest black silk . . .
Krake . . . Only the salt of her tears do we Curators use to wash away the stain of dreams in the Ark . . .
Shank . . . Only her tears do we use to wipe away the spilt ink of each dream as it is folded away . . .
Spindle . . . She is the Lost Woman in the Corridor Never Taken, and although it is Spring, we harvest . . .
Krake . . . We harvest . . .
(A figure emerges clumsily from behind the Arch. It is the Soldier.)
Voice (From the Players in repose.) - Not one of mine –
(The Soldier halts uncertainly. Those behind the Arch step away leaving the figure isolated.)
Inigo (Rising into the candle-light.) Is it? I think not. This is a Masque, is it not, and really would such a prosaic costume ever appear in a Masque? I think not. So. Not one of mine then, is it. We rehearse dreams do we not after all.
Mort (Joining him.) A poor soldier perhaps, Master Jones? Wandered in here from without in all the confusion, I expect. Lost, are you, soldier?
Inigo Is that it then? Some bereft dragoon are you? One of Cromwell’s Ironsides? Or worse. Major Harrison’s man? You know they are calling him a fanatic – in your pamphlets – you do know that I take it? Parliament itself calls him a fanatic. I quote your own literature after all –
Soldier A Puritan stained, is he, then? This Major Harrison?
Inigo Oh – (He steps back in recognition.)
Mort Are you here to bring down the curtain, soldier? You are on the stage of Inigo Jones, it must be said. He raised an Arch and placed the stage in a higher realm, he did. Yes, it is tattered now but it still stands, my dear soldier, even though the House has fallen. It still stands.
Inigo - Oh –
Soldier (Taking off the hat and the riding cloak.) I know that stage, Player. I have seen it often enough, up here in the candle-light, smothered in the velvet brocades, the gold leaf. There are playing houses all across this England of ours carved now by this high Arch he alone fashioned. We sit now do we not and peer into another realm thanks to Master Jones and his Arch.
Inigo - Oh –
Soldier (Finally revealed as an aristocratic woman in the habiliments of a Poseman.) He drew an Arch and carved our world away from the theatre, did he not? There are however other stages, theatres, and on those this prosaic costume is itself as gaudy as those black wraps, Master Jones.
Inigo - Oh the voice I feared above all others –
Soldier Indeed.
Becky (Pulling off her silver mask.) - Honora!
Mort - The Marchioness – (He drops to one knee and the other Players follow suit except for Inigo Jones.)
Honora Becky, my Becky – (She embraces her in a soldier’s hug which the young girl returns.) Ever steadfast on the ramparts – ever the beagle of my aim, eh?
Becky (In a mock fashion.) - Mark, one hundred yards, ten of the clock.
Honora No shot you ever called, I missed, Becky.
Becky Not one shot, Honora – well, except for that one time when that roundhead officer with the yellow plume clambered over that ditch –
Honora The musket misfired, as well you know.
Becky (Parroting.) ‘Oh the musket misfired – a pox in the damp powder –‘ (They laugh.)