Part Three of the series I wrote for The EXIT Theatre in 2021, this one was crafted for Katherine Park, the actress who had been cast to play Phillia in what was supposed to be my tenth show for Custom Made Theatre Company, Sondheim’s A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM. Smart, sexy, and just a little bizarre, Katherine’s sister was actually pregnant at the time of this piece being created and so a lot of Eleanor’s material comes from conversations the actress and I had about all the anxiety that mothers often feel when bringing a new life into the world. Additionally, we both agreed that we wanted at least one part of the quartet, as it was shaping up to be, to have unqualified optimism, and since this was the “summer” piece, there was a natural fit. Still, if you know anything about history, you know that this first child of Henry and Eleanor’s, named William, doesn’t live very long, adding another layer to this series of plays where everyone seems to have the same name… and nobody’s upward trajectory lasts very long, even if they themselves live very long (as Eleanor historically would). My single favorite figure in history, this also fullfilled a lifelong goal to write an “Eleanor” play, and for that reason I harbor an affection for it still.
THE CORONATING AND CROWNING OF ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE
by Stuart Eugene Bousel
(July of 1153. A meadow in full bloom. ELEANOR, 31, at the height of her beauty and health, 8 months pregnant and radiant, is wandering through the tall grasses, stopping now and then to pick a flower and add it to the small collection she carries, placed in a lace lined basket, the handle in the crook of one arm. She is reaching for a particularly lovely flower when she suddenly stops, troubled. The baby is kicking. She lets it do so for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, once again reaches for the desired blossom. She plucks it, placing it with the others. She gathers her skirts, preparing to move on, when the baby kicks once more. She stops. She lets her skirts fall. She holds onto the basket. She closes her eyes. She breathes. She opens her eyes again, looking out into the day, one hand placed on the bulge at her waistline. The other grips tightly to the handle.)
ELEANOR
I know what you’re thinking. I can feel you moving around in there. You want out. I hear that, and I understand, to be sure. But it’s not yet time. Not yet. And since Mother wants… since Mother needs to build a flower crown for the festival tomorrow, and since she is not going to quit until she has the very best blossoms with which to do so, you are going to have to settle for a little chat, and then go back to sleep, all right? You are going to have wait just a little bit longer. I know it’s hard. But you can do it. You can learn to wait. The best things come to those who do.
(For a moment, it seems as if the baby has settled…)
There. Sleep, Enfant. Sleep in peace while you can.
(…but then it moves once again.)
All right, maybe less of a chat, more of a conversation. I can concede that. I can meet you halfway. I can be accommodating, no matter what the Pope says. Or my husband. Or Uncle Raymond. Or most men. And a great deal of the women. That, is not the point. The point is: you are going to have to learn to be accommodating too, crown or no crown. Not so much because that’s the way of the world- though it is- but because, to be sure, you will be much happier if you can learn a little bit about being patient and a little bit more about being accommodating, sooner rather than later. I say that as one who learned later. Who is still learning. Peace, Enfant, peace. Peace, or otherwise this last month is going to be a long, long, long crawl, and it’s only going to be more of a trial from your first breath on till… well… your last. The world is, to be sure, one long game of who is going to blink first, and if you can’t learn to luxuriate in the Between Times then it’s going to be a lot of Before Times and a lot of After Times and suddenly it will be No Time and you’re going to be left alone in the dark and the cold wondering where it all went. Well, it slipped by while you were rushing towards tomorrow. That’s where. Rushing towards tomorrow when there is only today. So if I were you, Enfant, I would stay where I am just a little bit longer and practice being content. You’ll miss that feeling when it’s gone.
I know I do.
And yes, I know whose child you are and asking for a dispensation of this sort is like, as my Uncle Raymond used to say, pleading with God to have sympathy for the Devil. But so He does and so I do you and yet we are not going to begin Your destiny before I’ve begun the next phase of Mine and you will wait until you are done baking to cool in the autumn breeze. I was promised the summer and I shall have it. And if I can wait for Stephen to die than you can wait another month to be born, is that clear?
(The baby settles.)
Good.
Lord, I hope you are a boy. I would not mind another girl, to be sure, but I do hope you are a boy. It would make things so much easier, and it would please everyone, including Henry. Not that he would mind a girl either but… we need a boy, you see. Because Stephen has three. That’s Stephen, the current king. And we are… well, we are supposed to get the throne after he dies- and he is not doing well, to be sure- but just because we are supposed to get the throne certainly does not mean that we actually will get the throne without a fight and the barons- who we would be doing the fighting with- will be ever so much nicer about it all if we have a boy or three or five and I would much prefer the barons to be nicer about it all because it’s been a bit of a trek to this point and Mother is ever so much ready for a little bit of a halcyon reprieve and frankly, so is Father and, very frankly, so is the kingdom. It’s been a lot of up and down for nearly twenty years now and a little bit of boring old contentment would do everyone a whole lot of good. And I am not saying that sons keep people settled but daughters definitely do not and Mother does not have another Crusade in her. Or rather, she does, but wouldn’t it be nice to sit in the sun and listen to some music instead? Especially after all that trouble I’ve gone through convincing every worthy troubadour floating around the Aquitaine they should give up the sunflowers and the Spanish wines to come to this cold, windy rock where everyone drinks ale and they’re still singing songs about Stephen missing the boat while painting the beach brown.
It’s nice enough today though, isn’t it? The sun is bright, the breeze is warm. God feels forgiving and Time feels plentiful. So don’t ruin it, for me, Enfant. Let Mother breath in the flowers and think about her little festival and her little holiday and her little life for just a little longer. She’ll treasure you always for the kindness. How could she not? You’re going to be the first of the many miracles of my new life. You’re going to be the first promise kept, the first hope achieved, the first wall between me and whatever demon mistakenly thinks it’s going to haunt me. Isn’t that nice? Aren’t we both so lucky?
(The baby kicks.)
Yes, well, you certainly kick like a boy, so if that’s you trying to comfort me with the news then… declaration accepted. May it prove to be true. Meanwhile… I suppose it can’t hurt to keep this tete a tot going. But not standing. Not in this dress. Not under this sun.
(She sits down. It’s not exactly easy, but she’s more graceful at it than you would imagine. This is clearly a woman who has done this sort of thing before.)
Mind you, Enfant, this is not me capitulating. And this is not me giving you the go ahead. You stay where you are while Mother rests for a bit and gets a head start on her festival props. See, even in our moment of contentment there’s always something to do, always one more thing to mark off the list. And yes, I know, I could just hand this to a servant to fashion but they’ll just muck it up. There’s a lesson for the ages, Enfant: if you want something done right, do it yourself, always. Uncle Raymond taught me that and now I teach you. And they’ll be coronating me with this thing, you know, so it needs to be done right. Coronating, you ask? So soon? But what about Stephen? Well, we’re not talking a Westminster coronation, Enfant, not yet. No, tomorrow is just the coronation of the Queen of the Summer. Not very much, in and of itself, but very much the stepping stone to Queen of England, to be sure. You think I jest but, especially after having been Queen of France- an unpopular position to have held, according to the barons- one cannot miss an opportunity to make a bid for popularity with the little folk and the little folk do love their little traditions. And Queen of Summer is no small turnips. With my crown blooming on my brow, I will be knighting the sons of our allies the barons and rewarding the peasants who beat those same sons in tournaments held from tomorrow through Christmas and thus this crown… well… it’s going to have to be perfect. Temporary, but perfect. Luckily, being made from flowers, it will be both since flowers are temporary and perfect. Provided you have picked the right ones, of course. The secret to everything, Enfant, lies in choosing the right temporary things.
(She picks up a flower from her basket.)
Husbands, for instance. Husbands, which are always temporary, are very improved when they are the right ones. And I am saying this to you from the experience of having had the wrong one. Louis, was the wrong one. Well, wrong for me. Not that I had very much choice there. That was all Uncle Raymond and… well… his heart was in the right place. God rest him, to be sure. And certainly, Louis wasn’t bad. Well, not bad to me. A very kind man. A very good father. When it suited him to be either. And when it didn’t, well… he was very devoted to God. Which is certainly preferable to being devoted to whoring or to drinking but in his Holy Name, and please forgive me for saying it: what a bore. What a kind, gentle, devout bore Louis is. Was. No, is. And how sad he looked on the day of our divorce- which was mostly his idea, to be sure. Well, at least by the time he finally agreed to it, I think it felt like his idea and that’s all that really matters. Still. That look. That sad sad look on Louis’ face the last time I saw him. I think he knew that whatever he was going to gain by way of an obedient wife who begat him sons he was acquiring at the cost of the one thing that ever made his life interesting. But then, he’s married again too so… but no. I suspect he’s still sad. Whenever someone is that devoted to God, they usually are.
Now, Henry, on the hand… not very devoted to God, and certainly not a bore. Henry, is Daddy. You’ll meet him soon. Assuming he decides to make time for you. A very busy, very ambitious man, which suits me well. Does not sleep much. Does not let me sleep much either. Which also suits me well. I wonder which parts of him you’ll have? His hair, I hope. And his eyes. Hopefully not his nose. He’s a very handsome man, your father, but that thing could kill a person if he isn’t being mindful of it and it’s been known to change the direction of the wind, at the very least. But his smile. Well, that can kill a person too. Or at least a lady. Or at least me. So here’s hoping you inherit that, if nothing else. That and the kingdom, of course. Assuming we’ve secured it. Which I think we shall. Especially if you are a boy.
(She picks up another flower from her basket, and begins to weave them together.)
To be sure, I’m not always of the opinion that men and women belong together. I’m not certain it’s the way that God actually intended it and furthermore, if God did indeed intend it as such, I’m rather convinced God is also no longer agreed that it was such a great plan and I think we should all be open to reevaluating the regimen we’ve been fed for the last several thousand years. Most men just are, after all, so very very stupid, and most women are, (forgive me, Sisters!) so weak that it’s rather ridiculous of God to have tied the propagation of humanity to their conjunction. Rather like asking owls and rabbits to raise foxes together. But every now and then, that is what happens, and beyond that, if you’re a smart little vixen, you may even find yourself a smart little fox and then who knows what lies in store? Well, I suppose we’ll see when you are born, won’t we? Afterall, Henry is quite the smart little fox. And Mother is quite the vixen. There’s a real good chance you’re going to be a wolf, Enfant.
A reminder to myself to write Louis about the girls’ marriages. I mostly approve the choice for Marie but I’m very borderline on the choice for Alix and she’s definitely the better catch of the two. I will not have her be undermatched, even if Louis’ choice is the brother of my replacement. Note this, please, whether you be a boy or a girl, whether Henry or the Pope or the barons or even Uncle Raymond, standing in for God, are happy about it or not: Mother will be the one to determine what happens to you because Mother cares for all of her children. Even the ones from Before. And Mother plans to pass that duty and that expectation on. You will take care of one another, do you hear? Especially you, First of My Hopes and Dreams. You will set the example for the next wave. You will be fair and you will be just and you will be good to one another. Because the world can be very cruel, and very cold, and very very lonely, especially for people like us, and family is the most important thing we have and I’m saying that to you as a woman who lost her parents very young and, because of it, was thrust very quickly onto a stage that she was, to be sure, more than ready for, and yet… well… it would have been nice to enjoy a few more summers of maidenhood. It would have been good to have a friend through it all too. That is something I feel, deeply, sometimes. Usually late at night. When I’m up dreaming instead of being fast asleep like I should be. But Uncle Raymond said “No, we must get you married quick and proper, my young Duchess,” and Uncle Raymond was right. He knew the best thing for me was a stable place in the world, even if I would spend the next fifteen years doing everything I could to keep it anything but stable. But don’t worry, it won’t be like that for you, Enfant, I’m going to make sure of it. If there is one thing I learned from being married to Louis it’s that you can only expect your charm and novelty to get you so far. But I was very young then and practically a different person. I used to want to live like poetry. Now I much prefer to just listen to it. Which is why Mother packed the troubadours along with all of her best dresses.
(She selects a third flower from her basket, and weaves it into the beginnings of a flower crown.)
I hope you’re not a crier. Alix was. Marie wasn’t, but Alix certainly was. Honestly, there are moments I wonder if that, and not the fact that she was another girl, is what really drove the nails into the coffin of my marriage to Louis. For him. I had been done with it for quite some time by that point, to be sure, but we both needed to be in agreement that it was over or the Pope wouldn’t hear of us ending it. Vexatious little trolls, Popes are, remember that, Enfant. Never trust the Pope. And don’t be a crier. Mother’s not good with fussy little ones, I am ashamed and a little sad to admit, and I very much doubt that Henry has a soft spot for anything loud enough to distract the crowd from him.
(A moment.)
I hope he really loves me, Enfant. He seems to. This last year, certainly, has been… but then the first few years always are. Even Louis and I had our day in the sun. How could we not? We were children. And when you’re children everything new is wonderful until it’s not wonderful- usually because it’s not new. And that includes sex. That definitely includes sex. Not that Louis was much into sex. Which was a problem. And certainly isn’t one now. But then, Henry and I are still quite new. And there’s quite a lot of living left to do, I suspect. For both of us, to be sure. But especially for me. I seem fated to… well… but then, of course, anything can happen, and usually nothing does, so who knows? “Who knows what is to come, my young Duchess,” Uncle Raymond used to say to me. “Live long enough and it’s usually a matter of when, not if. And so whatever you are afraid of, even if it’s something so small, so ridiculous, so unlikely… well, better face it now while you’ve still got your wits about you.” Which makes me wonder if he had been afraid of being beheaded and if so, if he’d had the chance to make his peace with it before it actually happened. Death, I mean. Though also beheading. I imagine both come as a surprise no matter how prepared you are and that’s why, assuming we’re not beheaded, we cling to life even when we know it’s over. I suppose that’s what Stephen is doing right now. Holding fast to the door frame, knowing we are on our way, hoping he can outlast the battering ram for just a little longer. How lonely that must be, standing against the future.
This, Enfant, is why love is important. It provides a line, like a chain, to be sure, but also like a string through a maze, like in some story of old. It leads you from what you wish and desire to what you can actually achieve and rely on. And accept. Then again, it is also like a pillar, or a pedestal, holding you up and above the stumbling about and looking for things that is all we pretty much do from the moment we are born. Without love we are a Louis, we are a Stephen. An obstacle, something to be worked around or outlasted. So make sure you find some love, Enfant because that is what provides some stability in this very chaotic world where everything is always changing and your hopes are always turning out to be fears. Stability. And meaning too. Love brings both. Something to cling to rather than just clinging to cling. For a time. Of course. Love is perfect, like a flower. But it’s also temporary. It will fade, or wilt… or rot. So… bask in it when you have it, Enfant, and don’t ever try to rush it just so you can get to tomorrow because tomorrow will come of its own accord and on one of those tomorrows Love will go and once it’s gone… well, if you’re lucky, some day, you go first. When you’re not looking, and when you think you’re winning the battle. Like Uncle Raymond. But if you’re not lucky, if you live long enough to outlive your love, well… it’s not quite so bad as the troubadours all sing it out to be. It’s awful, to be sure, but you can recover, and you do. You treasure the memories, to be sure, but you start over again if that is what required of you. You start over because that’s what we, as humans, do. That’s what I imagine Uncle Raymond would say, if he still had a head.
He’d better love me, Enfant. Henry. Big nose and all. Henry. My true love. My hope. My future. He’d better love me and we’d better be in love. This time had better be our time. This age, our age. King Henry and Queen Eleanor. Sounds nice, does it not, Enfant? But it isn’t as nice as it sounds. But it needs to work out because if it doesn’t there’s nobody left. Mother will be down to some lesser cousins, a few rotten fruit barons, and David. David, King of Scotland. Not the worst option in the world, and to be sure, everyone I love is a little bit of a nightmare but that particular bad dream would be… agonizing. It’s not even him so much as what those people consider food.
I do hope you’re a boy, but just in case you’re not, I promise to name you anything but Matilda.
(The baby moves, gently.)
Ha! You liked that, didn’t you? Well, good. Mother appreciates a child with a good sense of humor. Also something you’ll need if you want to be happy in this world. Or just survive it. But truly: necessary. A good sense of humor about everything. From your spouse, to your children, to the barons, to the Pope, to Londoners, with their wildly judgmental view of the French and their unbelievably terrible hats.
“Find the humor in everything and anything,” Uncle Raymond used to say, before the beheading, and now, with my head yet uncrowned, that’s my advice to you, Enfant. Because everything is a cycle. The bad will come. But so will the good. Again and again. And it’s your ability to find the humor in it that cycle which allows for you to feel something akin to progress. And if you’re going to live you might as well progress. I laugh far more often at thirty-one, than I did at fifteen. I laugh far more often than I cry. Far more, and far louder, though I confess when I do weep it is deeper and for longer but… the laughter always comes. Eventually, and with an ability to heal that seems to only increase with age. Should I live to be eighty-one, I suspect I will be laughing all the time, and hope that I shall die laughing. To be carried away by the ridiculousness of it all. That is the true ambition.
(She adds a fourth flower to the crown, quickly weaving it in.)
Well, that and to be Queen of England and mother of a dynasty of kings. Starting with you.
(She now has a full circlet of flowers. She holds it up.)
There’s the foundation. See it? Not much at the moment, rather measly if we are to be honest- and Mother tries to always be honest, Enfant- but we have the skeleton and now comes the muscles and the flesh and the hair and the nails and the teeth. And then the hopes and the dreams. When they make me Queen of Summer at the festival tomorrow, it’s more than just honoring the new Duchess of Normandy: it’s saying they accept me as their sovereign. For now, of course. It’s always temporary. Whether it’s one summer or one hundred summers, there’s an end to everything. It’s a cycle, like any other. But the way up is always the best part and this will be the beginning of it. Of the new cycle. Spring is done. Summer has come. Louis is done. Henry is here. Queen of France is done. Queen of England is on her way. And Stephen will be gone before we know it, we just have to wait. And you will be here in no time, you just have to wait.
And you will be a boy.
I have a feeling you will be.
And if you’re not, well… we’ll try again.
(A moment. She puts the coronet in her basket. She looks around. With grace, and some struggle, she rises, brushes the grass off her gown, and stands there for a moment, eyes closed. She listens to the silence of the day around her. She opens her eyes.)
What a beautiful day, to be sure.
(End of play.)
EXIT Theatre, July 29, 2021, on Streamyard as part of the EXIT Presents Web Series. Directed by Nick Trengove. Technical Direction by Richard Livingston. Stage Managed by Curtis Overacre. Sets by Nick Trengove. Costumes by Katherine Park. Photography by Doug Despres. Cast: Katherine Park (Eleanor). Christina Augello (Hostess).