SWM is DTF

The court of Henry VIII, 1538. The King’s private chambers. KING HENRY’s wife, Jane Seymour, died tragically in 1537 shortly after giving birth to his only legitimate surviving son. The King’s advisors are urging him to marry again to secure the Tudor line by siring more male children, but his heart simply isn’t in it. This morning, he has called for his most faithful servant, THOMAS CROMWELL, to advise him regarding the all-important selection of his soon-to-be (heretofore unknown) fourth wife. HRH is also flanked by his favorite fool, RODERICK (RODDY), who happens to be a little person. RODERICK sits by the fireplace softly shaking a set of maracas while HRH reclines in an XXXL comfy chair with his infected leg resting on an ottoman. A young man with a bad bowl haircut stands by a large bay window strumming a lugubrious tune on his lute. CROMWELL loudly knocks on the heavy paneled doors.

HRH: Enter! Roddy, go greet Thomas as he comes, take his coat. [RODDY scurries to the door as CROMWELL enters, fully decked out in heavy furs and a velvet green doublet.] Welcome, friend!

CROMWELL: [bows respectfully] When your majesty summons, I appear, at your disposal. [he approaches and glances down at HENRY’S leg, which is covered in suppurating leg ulcers partially bound by tight bandages. CROMWELL lightly touches one and HENRY immediately winces. CROMWELL suppresses an audible gag from the putrid smell. HENRY shoos his hand away]

HRH: Take no heed. [confidently] My strength returns every day as do my prospects to lead the charge once more.

CROMWELL: With your determination and willful spirit, I have no doubt you shall ride triumphantly again.

HRH: But I have not summoned you today, to wax on about my imminent recovery. It is time for me to choose another to sit beside me on the throne.

FOOL: [clapping his hands wildly as he jumps gleefully from his prone position on the bearskin] A wife, a wife! For my king, a comely wife!

HRH: Alas, Roddy, she must not be so in appearance only, but one of a tender heart, a yielding will, the utmost fidelity, and also skilled in the feminine arts.

FOOL: Like…embroidery [cocks his head to one side in a quizzical manner]?

CROMWELL: And is there one essential quality thou hast omitted, Sire? [expectantly]

HRH: Just so, Thomas! It goest without saying: her womb must bear fruit.

FOOL: Bananas! [giggling maniacally]

HRH: Better than any tropical treat, fool; an heir.

CROMWELL: Or a “spare,” as the case may be.

HRH: [wistfully] My dearest Jane, she borne Edward before being untimely ripped from this earthly vault. Blessed be her memory!

FOOL: [quickly makes the sign of the cross and bows his head respectfully. A moment of brief silence ensues.]

HRH: The time is ripe to select another.

CROMWELL: And might you have any prospects to share?

HRH: Indeed I do. [with difficulty, HENRY gingerly lifts his infected leg from the ottoman, wincing and sharply inhaling. He then attempts to drag a large framed oil painting leaning against the armrest of his recliner to present to Cromwell.] Look at the beauty–[he huffs and groans trying to drag the painting in front of him]. Look at the beauty who–unh!

CROMWELL: Take care, your highness, lest thou strain your back and increase thy infirmity.

HRH: [spreads his legs and manages to straddle the portrait of Anne of Cleves. He faces Cromwell] There! Behold the beauty you chose for me. 

CROMWELL: She is comely, forsooth, and exudes a modest air. And her brother William, the Duke of Cleves, would prove a powerful ally for our kingdom. Indeed [he slowly approaches the portrait to examine it more closely]. Holbein has captured her in full.

HRH: Of course, of course. His brush doth not lie. [sighs loudly] I’ve had my fill of the French. At this hour, I endeavor to try my hand at German. [chuckling]

CROMWELL: She is a catch, if I may say so myself [confidently].

HRH: [anxiously] So you find her pleasing as well?

CROMWELL: Of course, Your Majesty.

HRH: I do find, however, that Holbein’s brush doth glaze. 

CROMWELL: [arises and walks toward the built-in bookshelves to remove a large tome, which he opens and flips pages until he stops and runs his index finger down the page] The urban dictionary doth define glazing as “to over praise or compliment to the point of being cringy, whilst trying to win someone else’s favor or approval.” [slams the tome shut, returns it to the shelf, and fixes his look upon the king]

HRH: [musingly]  [chin stroking ensues] But CROMWELL, is not this glazing to which you refer baked into the royal pudding? Dost thou forget what the insidious Boleyn family wast willing to sacrifice, two daughters of their own and a son, indeed, family fortune–to capture and then hold my favor at any cost?

CROMWELL: I do, as I hath seen countless others do the same–and more dastardly deeds o’er this–to bask in the warmth of the rays under your ever present sun.

HRH: [snorting] Who doth glaze now?

CROMWELL: Precisely. To wit, the royal pudding…

FOOL: Pudding? How delicious! I will fetch it posthaste! [he drops his maracas and jogs toward the door, which he is not strong or tall enough to open. CROMWELL obliges and opens it for him]

HRH: [sighs wearily] It seemeth pudding is the sole sweet comfort in my life at present.

CROMWELL: Now, Harry, thou dost never remain alone for long. And any number of courtesans would willingly submit to you here [waving his hand about the private chamber], indulging every worldly pleasure.

HRH: Hast thou heard of “What’sYourPrice”? [whispers] I hath sought the company of which you speak there.

CROMWELL: [raising a single eyebrow] Whores?

HRH: Nay! The man doth pay a princely sum to a lass in exchange for a single date. 

CROMWELL: [chuckling] It seemeth whorish to me, no less.

HRH: ‘Tis but a foot in the door. One wench I met, a Lady Prudence d’Arbanville, we did dine here, at this very table [with a nod of his head he indicates the long dinner table in his chambers]. Canst thou believe, this strumpet, she implored me to support her and three brats, “in the manner to which she was accustomed,” after her ninnycock husband died and left her with egregious debts.

CROMWELL: Good Lord, the French doth rise again. Well, at least she “nameth her price,” Harry.

HRH: I know, I know. Hence I wish to poach this handsome catch from Germany. And to net the Duke as well. I hereby abandon dallying and prepare to settle down.

CROMWELL: If I may sir, I propose a more civil arena in which to trap–that is to say, entice–a woman of quality.

HRH: What ho, good sir? [he leans slightly forward]

CROMWELL: What “ho,” indeed. Bumble.

HRH: [puzzled] Bumble, you say? Like a honey bee?

CROMWELL: You are the sweet nectar, and the bees will swarm to your flower.

HRH: I like it not! The pursuit’s the thing. As I ride tall on my steed, I hunt from the rosy-fingered dawn until the day darkens to dusk. The hunt, Cromwell! Whereby I prove my worth, and which ends in a bloody capture and kill!

CROMWELL: [with a dubious glance at the King’s infected leg] Your hunting days are now remote, sire. I rather had in mind a few “dates.”

HRH: The Arabian delicacy? Aye, I do prefer them with a slice of cheddar and quince paste.

CROMWELL: [chuckling] No no no, I speak of woo.

HRH: Woo? What is this “woo” of which you speak?

CROMWELL: Pitching woo is part of the hunt, sire. The very pursuit you relish. On a “date,” one puts their very best foot forward.

HRH: That be good, because as you can see, I have only one good foot at present. [he wiggles the foot bedecked in a pointed slipper attached to his non-infected leg] It will have to do, out of necessity.

CROMWELL: I didst not speak in the literal, to be clear: rather, you must offer the best of yourself.

HRH: The best of myself…[musingly plus more chin stroking].

CROMWELL: Why, yes, sire. Thou bringst much to the table. Besides thy tasty pudding [HRH looks longingly toward the dining table]. And again, recall–

[A loud knock at the door. The young man playing the lute sets down his instrument and hastens to the door. The FOOL stands proudly balancing a silver covered platter with some difficulty.]

FOOL: I come bearing the royal pudding!

HRH: [clapping his hands together with joy] Aleberry! My favorite. Come, Roddy, bring it forthwith. [FOOL obliges] Thou knowest me too well. Lo, it is my fool, whose light burns but dimly, he alone with his merriment canst see into the recesses of my black heart. [he begins to hungrily tear into the pudding with his bare hands and shove large pieces into his mouth]. Nom nom nom–

[CROMWELL swiftly rushes to HRH’s side and removes the platter from his lap]

HRH: What ho, Butts! 

CROMWELL: [solemnly] Sire, with respect, thou woudst be more prudent to nosh on these instead [he replaces the pudding with a pewter bowl of Anjou pears]. The Groom of the Stool will be ever grateful.

HRH: [with bits of sticky pudding clinging to the corners of his mouth] You sayeth, then, that I purge with difficulty?

CROMWELL: [ignoring the query] The pears, Harry. 

HRH: Oh, I cannot lift even one to my mouth. It tires my spirit so. Roddy! [FOOL picks up an Anjou pear, polishes it on his waistcoat, and holds it to the King’s mouth. HRH takes a lusty bite and speaks through a mouthful of fruit] I feel reinvigorated already, CROMWELL. [to FOOL] Thank you Roddy. I am satiated. Take them away. [FOOL immediately removes the bowl of pears and carries it to the fireplace, where he sits cross legged again on the bearskin and proceeds to munch on the rejected pear]

CROMWELL: Sire, if I mayest be so bold to suggest that thy girth has increased in tandem with thy power. In time, a great ruler cannot sustain the respect and fear of his enemies–and aye, confidants–in a perpetual state of infirmity. 

HRH: You sayeth I am…gorbellied?

CROMWELL: In days of yore, your healthy appetite and daily exertion were well matched. In your present condition, this is not so. Thus, thy humours are unbalanced. Those who wish to befoul the pater familias push upon you the richest meats and sweets; not merely to please the palate, but also to weaken and ultimately destroy.

HRH: [fixated on CROMWELL’s assessment of his morbid obesity] You sayeth I am…corpulent?

FOOL: You fat! [yelling through a mouthful of pear]

CROMWELL: I sayeth the time has come to return to the best version of thyself. The Harry of an earlier–but not bygone–era.

HRH: You mentioned a beehive.

CROMWELL: I did not. I referenced Bumble, a dating application in which the women court the men.

HRH: I am not a simp, sir! [roaring] 

CROMWELL: [calmly] Not at all. You may sit here in your comfy chair and let them gather at your feet in adoration and endless wonder. 

HRH: [anxiously] With my one bad foot?

CROMWELL: If I may reframe–your one good foot.

HRH: What now?

CROMWELL: A-glazing we shall go!

HRH: [nodding approvingly with understanding] Yes, yes, glaze on!

CROMWELL: [removes his iPhone from the depths of his green velvet cloak and begins tapping away] I already took the liberty to create a pseudonym for you: one that will convey your elevated status without revealing your true identity. You will hereby be known as: PaterFamilias1491.

HRH: [doubtfully] I fear it has become too real, CROMWELL. Perhaps we should not act in such haste. After all, I am to meet the delicate flower that is Anne of Cleves in but a week’s time.

CROMWELL: Forsooth, yet what of a secondary plan in case she pleases you not?

HRH: Your reasoning is sound, but I cannot imagine a woman whose affection for me is genuine [sadly].

CROMWELL: Aha! And here the glazing commences. Be forewarned, a man of low esteem is destined to attract a woman of even lower self-regard.

HRH: Go on.

CROMWELL: Consider your accomplishments. The personal qualities that render you unique.

HRH: There are too many to fit.

CROMWELL: Meaning?

HRH: Your phone. It is not large enough to accommodate my expansive achievements and exceptionally elevated status.

CROMWELL: [chuckling] Methinks, Harry, you fail to appreciate the nature of this novel device I hold in my single palm, wherein the entirety of the Library of Alexandria could be contained.

HRH: [scoffs] I should say it could, as the library was reduced to ashes in 48 BC.

CROMWELL: To wit, the story of the history of the world is at your fingertips. Every. Single. Fact.

HRH: [nostalgically] I was meant to be the scholarly cleric, groomed to devote my life to religious study. You must know I learned Latin, French, and enough Italian. 

CROMWELL: [raises an eyebrow] “Enough Italian”?

HRH: Enough to woo, CROMWELL: to disarm, to charm, and to bed.

CROMWELL: Well played, your highness [nodding approvingly].

HRH: Do you mean to say, all my toiling with my skilled tutors was all for naught?

CROMWELL: Nay, not for naught. It rendered ye the well-rounded, cunning, and judicious man before me.

HRH: And your phone, it containeth a hive.

CROMWELL: Bumble, yes. We shall begin. What interests dost thou pursue?

HRH: [chin stroking] I do enjoy feasting with my courtiers.

CROMWELL: [tapping on phone] “Foodie.”

HRH: Boar and pheasant hunting?

CROMWELL: Hmmm…they have only “hunting.”

HRH: [enthusiastically] Tennis, archery, jousting!

CROMWELL: [looks reproachfully at the king with his glasses perched on his nose] Now, Harry, at present, these be aspirational more than in deed.

HRH: What ho?

CROMWELL: Thou sit mainly here, in this room, eating pudding.

HRH: [waves his hand dismissively] I canst resume them at any point.

CROMWELL: Sire, thou art carried in an over-sized chair lift by four attendants–with the greatest difficulty–and hath not walked upon two legs o’er these six months.

HRH: Ach, my leg, CROMWELL, my leg! It vexes me so…[he massages his quadriceps near the infected area] My desires to frolic as once I did are…aspirational.

CROMWELL: Trouble thyself not with these quibbles, sire. [tapping on phone again] “Hunting” it is. Marry, bees are enticed by sweetmeats. And what of pursuits that evoke your temperament?

HRH: I am one attached to hearth and home.

CROMWELL: [mumbling] Not wholly a wilful choice.

HRH: …Reveling in the warmth of a crackling fire, flanked by my fool and greyhounds fleet, Cut and Ball.

CROMWELL: [tapping continues] “Homebody.” Other interests: “Dogs.” And lest thy forget: “Bear-baiting,” “football,” and “tennis.” And "coffee."

HRH: I do enjoy a good wager, too.

CROMWELL: Hmm…goodwives care not for gambling. But they are perhaps drawn as a magnet to “bad boys.” Now we arrive at a sensitive topic: thy expanding girth. Shall I select “curvy”?

HRH: Harumph! Methinks that evokes the feminine.

CROMWELL: How about, “more of me to love”?

HRH: [nodding vigorously in approval] Yes, yes, accurate and true, Cromwell.

HRH: And lest thou forget my gentler aspects, lo! Oswyn! Bring thy lute forthwith so I may strum. [OSWYN obliges and HENRY skilfully improvises a brief melancholy song. He ends with a flourish and thrusts the instrument at OSWYN, who promptly accepts it.]

CROMWELL: Allow me to snap a pictograph of you playing gentle. Oswyn! [OSWYN dutifully again rushes to the king’s side and surrenders the lute. HENRY poses with the instrument, hamming it up. CROMWELL takes the photo with his iPhone and looks at it admiringly.]

HRH: Do not omit my unflagging patronage of the arts, CROMWELL.

CROMWELL: No doubt, sire. We shall add one of Holbein’s many fine portraits of your personage to thine profile. If any artist did capture your magnificence, it be him.

HRH: Nay, he shows me to be engorged in face and figure! What of the Weywyck?

CROMWELL: [fixes a serious stare upon HENRY] Bumble strongly recommends current depictions, lest the interested are falsely lulled into conjuring an image of you that exists no longer. 

HRH: But it be the lens through which the King doth see Himself.

CROMWELL [deeply sighs]: Would that it were true. If I may observe, Henry, we all doth yearn to relive the flower of our youth. But honor over self-flattery surely is the best policy when we do aspire to undo the virgin knot.

HRH: [wistfully] Aye, truth be that Weywyck did capture my unspoilt countenance in 1509, barely before had I the chance to employ my sword to explore a woman’s treasure.

CROMWELL: [continues tapping on his phone] The key, sire, is to explicate in broader terms, what it is that you seek. Values and character over common interests.

HRH: I seek [chin stroking]...dominion over the low countries. Increased commerce in the Orient. And—

CROMWELL: [raises his right hand] Soft, sire! Perchance, if I dare to offer any counsel, it is this: a man who knows not the nature of his will is the most dangerous. What you hath sought in the worldly sphere, it matters not in love. A man cannot embark upon any journey without a compass.

HRH: I need not be privy to the trivial matters of the lowest denominator, Cromwell! My goals are lofty unto themselves: to secure the throne and ensure the Tudor dynasty endure beyond my earthly rule. And you can see [he gestures to his infected leg and girth], how long am I for this world? If her womb proves rich, what need have I for gold [his voice breaking]?

CROMWELL: [places his phone on the side table next to HENRY’s armchair, kneels at his feet, and grasps both of HENRY’s hands in his] Marry, my good friend, all the more reason to assume agency and look into her heart.

HRH: [sniffling] The bees?

CROMWELL: [smiling] Forsooth. The bees know all, sire! They find the queen, and for her alone they toil unceasingly.

HRH: [wiping a tear from his cheek with a ruffled wrist] I am the Queen, unmanned.

CROMWELL: It matters not, Harry. When you parry, it is all verbal play and wit. The true pleasure is in the hunt, as you well know!

HRH: Sirrah! [a manservant jogs in from an adjoining room] A-dating I shall go. Fetch my best codpiece! The big one.