After the unexpected success of THE SNOW WALK OF THE EMPRESS MATILDA, I found myself being commissioned by the EXIT Theatre to write not just one, but two more plays for single actors and, being me, I not only accepted, but convinced them to produce a total of four, one for each season, and one for each of the actors I had been working with a lot at the time. Fred Pitts, who was a medieval hobbyist like myself, and had starred as Crowe in the production of John Logan’s NEVER THE SINNER which I’d directed in March of 2020, was the person for whom this piece was originally taylored, and like the previous installment, he performed it live on the internet, though by that point vaccinations meant we were allowed a small audience at the theater. It also meant he had to be off book, which he was, making this my first full production during/after the COVID-19 pandemic.

THE ARMS AND ARMAMENT OF STEPHEN OF BLOIS
by Stuart Eugene Bousel

(1152. Just after dawn. A castle chamber. Small. Really more of a walk-in closet. A chest. A chair. A mirror of polished metal, hanging in the center of the back wall, flanked by a sword to the right, two daggers to the left. In the upper right corner, a shield rests on the ground. In the upper left corner, a lance, a halberd, and a spear. Above the chest, which is on the right, a window. Opposite the window, on the left wall, a doorway. STEPHEN, 60, in his undergarments but crowned, enters through the doorway. He stops, having immediately seen someone who was waiting for him. A moment. A polite nod. And then he moves to the chest, opens it, and begins to remove those bits and pieces of armor which he will wear today. It’s the ceremonial suit, not the battle ready one. But it’s still a lot. And heavy. Halfway through the process, he stops, stands, walks over to the chair, and slumps into it. A moment. His head is in his hands.)

STEPHEN
I don’t think I can do this.

(He looks up, as if startled by his own confession.)

No. I’m sorry. No, I shouldn’t make this your concern. No, but, but it’s talk to you or talk to them… her… them… and I suppose I would rather… talk to you. Yes. Or God. Yes. I suppose there is always God. Yes. But He doesn’t answer, no, and… while neither do you, really, but, yes, you could. Yes. If you wanted to. Yes. If I gave you permission. Yes. Which I do. Yes. So if you would, just for a moment… will you?

Listen. Listen. My boy, what I want to say is- no, please, no, it’s all right, you don’t need to do anything, forget about answering, for the moment, just listen, yes, that’s all, that’s all the King needs you to do right now, yes? Just listen, for a little moment, barely enough for the sun to finish painting the city, yes, and then I’ll get dressed and we’ll do the thing, yes, and it will be over before we know it and there will be… food, yes, and wine, yes, and something with honey for you, yes? Something nice for you, very sweet tasting, and for me maybe too, and even for Tilda, yes, we will pour something out for her, and, and all the rest of them and, and… life will… go… life will… continue… and…

(He comes dangerously close to breaking down, but he holds it together. It’s painful to watch.)

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry to let you see me like this. Sorry to… frighten you.

(He laughs. It’s a relief.)

Do I? Do I frighten you? I do, don’t I? I do frighten you. Tilda says I don’t frighten the flies clinging to a gelding’s arsehole but good God, you look terrified just now so what does that make you? That makes you a fly. Do you like that? Do you like being a fly? Because that is what you are! A little fly. Bzzzzzzzz.

(He laughs until he’s clutching his side, like it gives him an ulcer. It passes. He pulls out a handkerchief, blows his nose, clears his throat, smiles. There are tears in his eyes, but he doesn’t give them a chance to fall.)

My father died when I was young. Did you know that? Yes, I think I was barely older than you. I was brought up by my mother, who was not named Matilda, or any variation thereof, which is something of a miracle in my family. And on this planet. No. No Matilda for me until much later. In the beginning, there was only Adela. Yes. My mother. My beautiful, kind, strong, lovely mother. Adela. Adela. Adela. It’s beautiful, yes? Like a flower falling off a tree, on the first day of September, to glide down upon the surface of a lazy stream that will freeze over by December, but isn’t there yet. Yet. Right? One day in December it all freezes over but not the days when Adela was my mother. On those days it was just lazy, slow, gurgling like a happy baby. For a time. A short time, now that I think about it. A moment, really. A snap of the fingers, yes? Adela Adela Adela and then SNAP! Matilda. And more Matildas. So many Matildas. One moment, September, the leaf, the stream, Adela and the next: Matildamas. What’s under the tree, Stephen? Surprise. Oh. A Matilda. How thoughtful of you, Baby Jesus. Are you sure there is no myhrr? Maybe some frankensince? I’m not picky. Anything at all will be fine. Or nothing. Nothing is fine so long as it isn’t one more Matilda.

(He chuckles, then stops.)

You don’t get my humor. No. And I frighten you. Yes, I see that. Yes. Well. You are… six? You will grow out of it. Fear. I did. More or less. Probably less. The list got smaller, yes. The list of people I was afraid of. But the names that stayed on that list, I grew to fear more, so I suppose… it balanced out. Oh, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. And don’t feel a need to say anything. Not that you have. But in case you did: don’t. I will talk till I run out of words. Yes? And then I will dress, you will tie the armor on with those little fingers and… we will go do the thing. You will get a nice bit of something with honey, I will get the biggest goblet of wine this country has seen since the Holy Grail went missing, and we… we will put a little aside for Tilda. Just a small goblet and a cake or two. And the rats will eat it before dawn but we can pretend it’s her, stopping by, just like the old wives say the dead do. Yes. Tilda will stop by to correct the balance sheets and to terrorize the maids once more, and to say to me, her loving husband… “Fuck your tears, you weepy bag of shit, and get Eustace on the throne while you’ve still got breath in you, fucking coward.”

(He laughs again, then stops.)

Oh. Yes. I shouldn’t swear, I know, especially on a day like today. I beg your pardon, yes? You won’t tell the Bishop, right? Good boy.

(He stands, stretches.)

Oh Tilda, Tilda, Tilda. My astonishingly rich Tilda. Richer than the king. Richer than most of the kings. Though I suppose I am the rich one now. Rich with sons, thanks to her, and rich with money, also thanks to her, and saddled with a kingdom I never really wanted, thanks to her… and life goes… What’s in a name, yes? What is it about a name that is so powerful? Once you give it to someone, or they give it to you, once a someone is dubbed Stephen or Matilda or Henry or Eustace or Beryl or Wulftang or Telemachus, why is it suddenly not just one more person but now your wife, your son, your king, your friend, your… enemy. Yes? Right? You understand what I’m saying? No, of course, you are what? Six? But, my boy, think on it: If Adela is a flower, than Matilda is a rock. Either one you land on, cling to, build your fortress upon… or one you try very hard not to get hit by when it’s launched at you, repeatedly, by… God, I suppose. Destiny. The World. Fate. Chance. Your uncle. Your brother. God. Probably should have just stopped there. The point is, it’s not a very… alluring name. Matilda. Neither is Adela, for that matter. Beautiful, yes, but hardly… it’s delicate after all. A flower falling gently from a tree into a lazy September stream. Where as my mistress’s name, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. Damette. Yes? Perfect for screaming in flagrante, yes? Or when you need something. Yes?

Ah, if only I could have married her. Can you imagine what this place would have been like? Damette, the ambassadors are boring me, come do that thing you do where you make everyone smile! Damette, the ambassadors have left, come do that thing you do where you make me smile! Damette, my heart is broken and my will is gone so leave the cup, bring me the whole flagon! Damette, something for our little friend here. Something with honey, yes? And nuts maybe too? Yes? See, I see you, even if I frighten you, I see that smile. You are not hopeless, and neither am I. Damette, come, sit with me and our little friend. Let’s smile when he smiles. Let’s all smile together, yes. And be happy. While we can. We are not hopeless but… it is December.

Though actually, it is May. Which is good, yes? Soft ground, easier to dig a grave, and the flowers are blooming, the flowers on the trees, and the wind is soft, and so you are remembered that life goes…

(A long moment. He reaches up and removes his crown, as if suddenly remembered it is there.)

You know, I didn’t even want this. They wanted me. Wanted it for me, I suppose. Wanted it through me, really. Yes. Tilda. And my brother Henry, Bishop of Winchester. You’ve met him, yes? Fat and somehow still handsome? Yes. Stupid and yet somehow still smarter than most of us, smarter than me? Yes. Evil and yet somehow still chatting with God on the regular? Yes, yes: him. Well, he’s the one you can thank for all this. He was the one who insisted it was for the good of the country, that it would “provide stability and preserve order, and therefore is the will of God Himself, never mind what you swore to our uncle and his daughter, that other Matilda, this is what we will be doing, thank you very much, now shut up Stephen and spend your wife’s money on an army because we both know, as in I, Henry, and she, Tilda, that you married her for the cash so never mind that what you swore to the dead king and his daughter! Never mind that you said this swear before God Himself! Never mind that God Himself doesn’t exactly forget these things! Let Henry deal with God, you… go raise an army.” And that tells you everything you need to know about Adela’s other son. And this one too.

Why is it that the harder I try to be what everyone needs me to be, the worse I am at being what anyone needs to be?

I think I tried to protest. At least, I remember that I tried. I think I said, “I’ll burn in Hell for this, Henry”. Yes. Yes, I remember that. And then: “Worry not, brother. I’ll burn for both of us,” said he, “That’s what Bishops do for their Kings.”

But he did not think he would burn in Hell, even if I thought we both would. No, Henry was as confident then as he is now and he was convinced God was on our side, even if I did not believe that. He kept pointing to things and calling them signs. “Oh, did you see that leaf fall? That was God telling you to be king. Did you hear that bird sing? Why, that’s God, saying that if the dead king’s daughter takes the throne, he shall be very angry- no Matilda for England, when England could have Stephen! Did you see that rainbow? Well, that is God painting in the sky the gateway to your future glory as King!” It got so that every moment in my life was a stone laid down on that road and King Arthur wasn’t as destined for the Holy Grail as I was for the throne of England. Never mind that the heir had already been named- if God hadn’t wanted me for England, he wouldn’t have cleared the way, would he? And it is true, after all, I missed the whole White Ship thing that very much cleared the way so… who was I to argue with Henry? After all: God had saved me, yes. Of course, God did it quite mysteriously but then that is his way, I have been told. We all have, yes? God works in mysterious ways. So mysterious that they sometimes seem like an afterthought. Or an accident. Certainly, humbler twists of Fate have accomplished greater feats for lesser men. Still, to have missed drowning because you were taking a shit seems a little too accidental for me but, what do I know? I am not a Bishop.

Oh, you didn’t know? But how? It’s hardly a secret. Well, I suppose you are… well, still. You are, yes, six? You are a page and so you must be at least six and if you are six well, then, you’ve been at supper and you’ve heard the songs, yes? All one, two, twenty of them that were floating around for a while there. More popular than even the King Arthur ones. Tilda was very much a fan of the one they usually wait till pudding to sing. “How Good King Stephen Missed The Boat/Because he was a-shitting/Everyone’s dead but Stephen float/Something something… knitting…. quitting… maybe shitting again?” I don’t know, I’m always quite drunk by the time that one rolls around. It helps me fake the laughter, which Henry encourages me to do. He thinks it is part of what keeps me so likable with the people. Especially compared to my rival. Matilda is very much a sourpuss and it is important to be popular. Especially with the Londoners. So I laugh along with the songs. And so do my sons. And so does Henry. Loudly. And my wife. Very loudly. And probably still.

Anyway, yes, I was not feeling well, everyone else was getting in the boat, and I was… not… getting in the boat… and then the boat launched and then it hit the rock, and then they were drowning and really? You did not know all this? It’s not like it didn’t get around. It is practically announced every night by the town crier: Stephen of Blois: Takes Dump, Misses Spectacular Massacre Of Entire Royal Family, Becomes Heir Apparent After Moody Daughter With Same Name As His Wife. Truly, you didn’t know? I mean, yes, this was all much before you were born but it’s not like a lot else has happened since, yes? Well. Now you know. THAT is how your King became your King. Because God stepped in, and gave him the shits, and then the crown of England.

I watched it, all, yes. I even attempted to help out, but they wouldn’t let me. Well, he would not let me. Henry. As I ran for a coracle to launch out and try to rescue… any of them… I was stopped by my brother, his hand on my arm, his grip a suffocation. “Don’t you see, Henry, they’re drowning!” said I. I remember that. And he: “I do indeed, Stephen,” Henry’s voice as calm as the sea was not, “All of them are drowning. All of them… but you.” And I felt him write his name down on my future the way a man must feel The Devil write his name down for him when he signs away his soul, yes? Like a thing, a thing inside of me, was pulled out through the skin, painfully, achingly so, but also slowly, incredibly slowly, like how you walk through mud in a bog or, no, like how you walk when you are dreaming and being chased by someone or someTHING terrible but you cannot seem to run, even though all you want to do is run. That is what it was like. That is what it was like to Adela’s sons on the beach that day, watching them all drown, one son sobbing, and one son a stone whose fingers viced into my arm while the empty hand opened and closed on a phantom crown we’d spend the rest of my life fighting to get. And to keep. Open and close. Hand into fist, and then hand again. Slowly. On the empty air. On the future. On my soul.  

Which was a lot to feel right after having shat three times the weight of England just over the dunes, yes?

Did you know, we made a little boy tell the Dead King, Matilda’s father, who was not dead yet, even though everyone else was. Well, everyone but me and Matilda. Anyway, did you know that bit, about the little boy? No? Well, we did. Yes, we made a little boy, around your age tell the King Who Would Soon Be Dead, that almost the entire royal court- including his son, who was supposed to be King after him, had drown in an accident that… while it may have been an Act of God according to Henry, was still, almost certainly, preventable, the kind of thing one looks back on and thinks: well surely if the water had been calmer, or the boat sturdier, or everyone less drunk, well, then, yes, that probably didn’t need to happen. But it did, and we were all so frightened, so cowardly, so… ashamed… that we made a little boy tell the King so that just in case he lost his mind, he wouldn’t hurt one of us. Well, immediately. At the very least, we wouldn’t be within grabbing distance and thus out of range to be beheaded or, say, thrown out of a window. And of course, we knew he would not hurt a little boy. Well. We knew it was certainly far less likely. And right we were. About that. If I remember correctly.

Henry’s idea, of course. All the questionable ones always are. You know, the Dead King’s name was also Henry. His daughter, the Other Matilda, named her son that too. God. Too many of us with the same name, yes? That is part of the reason why Tilda and I chose Eustace for the name of our son. Of which I have two more. A distinct advantage over my predecessor the Dead King. But even with sons to spare, I also do not let Eustace get on any ships. One can never be too careful, yes? And one needs to learn from the past, no?

Honest, the shit that saved me from dying should be stitched on my flag. I mean, it’s essentially set the tenor for my life, right, it might as well also be my coat of arms, yes? See, I can picture it- and so now must you as I describe my vision, like King Arthur seeing the Holy Grail… Yes. There it hovers before me: the arms of Stephen of Blois. Silver field. Azure sun. Red lion. Black swan. Between them, always: the golden crown. Hovering. Hovering between the Earth and the Sun. Hovering like a flower that falls from a tree, but does not fall, not even into a lazy September stream. but hovering gracefully, perfectly, contentedly… over a brown, stinking pile, just sort of puddling under it all, yes, just sort of dropped there, like… like bread left to cool on the windowsill, only… runnier. Little brown streams maybe, like roots, reaching down, down, down… and off the edge. And the motto, of course, over it all. “The shit runs; life goes…”

(He drops the crown on the chair.)

You would never believe how heavy that is. I much prefer a helmet, any day, but no, we are at peace, at last. Some of us… more so than others. And in peace we do not wear helmets, except on important days when the people expect us to put on a show. Days like today. Days like…

There is always more to do, yes? So, we do the thing, and once that is done… then we get Eustace his own heavy metal hat, so that when it is time to do the thing for Papa, Eustace can replace him and carry on until it’s his turn to be buried and replaced, and Tilda, up in heaven with Adela, and the Dead King, all the others, can finally be at peace.

 (He turns away from the crown, moves to the trunk. He pulls out a full chainmail shirt and hood. He struggles into it through the whole next bit.)

You think I am being hard on myself, yes? You think what I have described is ludicrous for a coat of arms, yes? Well, but why would it be anything else? Since the day I became the heir apparent, though apparently only to one out of three people, my life has been an endless barrage of shit, only instead of shit, it is armies. Armies from the right, armies from the left, armies from underneath and up above and anywhere else they could come from be it the trunks containing my wardrobe, the alcove leading to the garden, my wife’s left eye or the bloody chamber pot or worse… because there is always a worse… Wales. What a White Ship as a country, yes? And the latest, of course, is Matilda’s husband, from Normandy, again. The one everyone says is so good looking. By which they mean blonde since his nose, alone, could have, pushed me off the throne if he’d just lowered his head and charged hard but no, the bloody unicorn needed to bring an army too because that’s what they do, that’s what they all do. And then of course David had to throw his sword in too. Yes, David, King of Scotland. We’re cousins. Distantly. I think. I don’t know. At this point I assume I’m related to everyone who hates me. It’s… expected.

Still all those armies and only captured once, at the Battle of Lincoln where Matilda got me. They got me. As in her and David and the rest of them. She could never have done it alone. She likes to style herself this she-bear or whatever but really she’s both rather underwhelming and rather short, not to mention rude, which of course stupid people think of as powerful but honestly it’s just bullying, yes? Still. She did catch me the one time. They did me. But it was my Tilda who ultimately sprung me free. With her money. There was also a trade for Robert, Matilda’s half-brother, who we’d taken captive in Winchester, but that was a rook for a king, really. The queens always know how and when to bargain, yes? So thanks to my wife, I was back on the board and back at the war and I suppose I went and won it because here we are but not her, not Tilda any more.

She’d wanted it for our son, you see. Eustace. Oh, sure, she pretended she wanted it for me but really, it was for our son. Yes. You know him. You’ve dressed him too, yes? He’s the good looking one. Of the three. Don’t you think? Even if he takes after his Uncle Henry just a little too much? But also, I think, his grandmother Adela. Who he never got to meet. I see her in his eyes, and in his smile. Yes. There’s definitely some Adela in Eustace. The other two… they’re all right. They have their mother’s eyes. And her moustache. But she wore it better. And now she’s dead, and The Pope, that idiot, is refusing to crown him. Refusing Eustace! Refusing me. Refusing Tilda, not even in the ground yet… and what’s it all for, I ask. Yes? What’s it all for, my boy? All this running about, all this grasping at nothing and looking for Holy Grails and shitting on beaches… Who… cares? Who cares? Who cares? Who cares?

They do, that’s who. And me. It matters because I care. Because I wanted to impress them. And to please them. Even though they go. And they all go, yes? Adela, The Dead King, Tilda. Of course, they all come back, too. Well, not all of them. And that’s not what I mean, what you are thinking. That people stay, or go and come back, is not what matters because at some point we all go away forever. Even you, my little friend. Even me. The King. Even Eustace, when he is King, if he is King, and then some King after him. At some point we all leave forever. That’s just how it is. It’s what we learn from somebody… or rather, WITH somebody… that’s what we carry with us forever. Well, our forever, yes?

(He picks up the crown.)

Life is… what happens when you are taking a shit on the beach and everyone else who matters is drowning. Life is being held up and held in place until you aren’t useful to the right people any more. Life is outliving those people, either their lives or their need for you, and waking up, sixty, and realizing you have to go to this funeral because if you don’t it will look really bad, yes, and they already don’t think too much of you, do they? Life is realizing that your wife should have married your brother, but instead she’s laying on a slab in the cathedral and Henry is talking with God hoping to get them both a good seat together and maybe you too if you don’t fuck up this last act. Life is realizing that you’re actually going to miss the bitch. And that you’re probably going to disappoint her, and Henry, and Eustace, and everyone else, even Adela, even probably you my little friend, before you finally get to drink the Grail dry. Life is realizing that. And then realizing that life goes… on.

(He puts the crown on.)

Come. Put this junk on me and tie all the ties with those little fingers. Yes, we are putting on all the pieces and so we need to get a step on it. The sun has very much painted the city, and the people are no doubt gather in their best clothes and terrible hats. So. Help me put my armor on, and then, we go do the thing, yes? And then something sweet for you. Something with honey and nuts and… raisins? Yes. Now I see the smile again.

Don’t be afraid. It’ll all be over soon. Then something sweet for you. And for me, the Holy Grail.

(He sits on the throne, holds his arms out receive the first of many pieces of decorative armor. The sun shines through the window. End of play.)

EXIT Theatre, May 27, 2021, on Streamyard as part of the EXIT Presents Web Series. Directed by Nick Trengove. Technical Direction by Richard Livingston. Set and Costume Designed Nick Trengove. Lighting by Curtis Overacre. Stage Managed by Curtis Overacre. Photography by Doug Depris. Cast: Fred Pitts (Stephen). Christina Augello (Hostess).