They call this Barkloughly Castle, don't they?

So this place is Barkloughly Castle?

barkloughly castle we're here home

Yes, my lord. How is the air agreeing with you, after all that rough tossing on the sea?

Yeah, it is. You feeling okay after getting tossed around on the waves?

yeah, my lord how're you doing after all that at sea

I have to like it well. I'm weeping from joy to stand on my kingdom again. Dear earth, I greet you with my hand, even though rebels have wounded you with their horses' hooves. Like a mother separated from her child, meeting again with tears and smiles mixed together, I greet you this way, my earth, and I honor you with my royal hands. Feed not my enemy, gentle earth. Don't comfort his hunger with your sweetness. Instead, let your spiders that draw up your poison and your slow, heavy toads lie in his way, harming the treacherous feet that trample you with usurping steps. Give my enemies stinging nettles. And when they pluck a flower from your breast, guard it, I pray you, with a hidden adder whose forked tongue may kill them with a deadly touch. Throw death on my sovereign's enemies. Don't mock my heartfelt prayer, my lords. This earth will have feeling, and these stones will become armed soldiers before I, her native king, will falter under rebellion's arms.

I'm loving it. I could cry just standing on my own kingdom again. Dear earth, I'm touching you with my own hands—yeah, rebels have beaten you up with their horses, but listen. When a mother gets separated from her kid and then sees them again, she cries and smiles at the same time. That's what I'm doing right now—tears and smiles—honoring you with these royal hands. Don't feed my enemy, okay? Don't comfort his hunger. Instead, let your spiders suck up the poison and those fat, slow toads block his path. Make it hurt when he steps on you. Give him nettles that sting. And if he picks a flower—protect it with a snake that kills him. Kill the people who are trying to take me down. I'm not crazy for saying this stuff, lords. This earth is going to feel what I'm saying, and these rocks will turn into soldiers before I give up.

i'm home weeping with joy holding my own earth mother and child reunited spiders toads adders kill them all stones into soldiers before i break

Don't be afraid, my lord. The Power that made you king has the power to keep you king despite everything. Heaven offers us help, and we must embrace those offers and not neglect them. Otherwise, if heaven wanted to help and we refuse, we're throwing away the help heaven sends us.

Don't worry, my lord. God made you king, and God's got the power to keep you king no matter what happens. But here's the thing—heaven gives us ways out, and we've got to actually take them. If heaven gives us a lifeline and we don't grab it, that's on us.

god won't lose this but we have to act heaven helps if we help ourselves

He's saying, my lord, that we're being too slow and careless. While we hesitate, Bolingbroke keeps growing stronger and more powerful.

He means we're being lazy, my lord. While we're just sitting around being careful, Bolingbroke's getting bigger and stronger.

we're wasting time he's getting stronger move now

You don't understand, cousin. When the sun hides behind the earth, thieves and murderers roam freely in the darkness, doing terrible things. But when the sun rises from the horizon and fires the eastern trees and throws light through every guilty place, then murder and treason and all the hidden sins lose their cover—they stand naked and trembling at their own wickedness. So when that thief and traitor Bolingbroke, who's been celebrating in darkness while I was in the other hemisphere, sees me rising like the sun in my throne to the east, his treasons will blush in his face. He won't be able to stand the sight of daylight; terrified, he'll shake at his own sin. No amount of water in all the rough sea can wash the sacred oil from an anointed king. Ordinary men's breath cannot destroy the king chosen by God. For every soldier Bolingbroke has forced to take up weapons against my golden crown, God has set a glorious angel in my defense. If angels fight on my side, then weak men must fall, because heaven guards what is right.

No, cousin, you're missing it. When the sun goes down and you can't see anything, that's when criminals go crazy—killing people, doing murders. But when the sun comes back up and lights everything from the east, when it shines through every crack and corner, then all that murder and betrayal—they get exposed. They stand there naked and shaking at themselves. So when Bolingbroke, who's been living it up in the dark while I was away on the other side of the world, sees me coming back like the sun rising in my throne—his crimes are going to show on his face. He won't be able to look at the light. He'll be terrified of his own sins. Nothing in the ocean can wash off the sacred oil from a king that God made. Normal people can't remove someone God put there. Every single soldier Bolingbroke dragged into fighting me—God has paid an angel to fight for me instead. And if God's angels are fighting on my side, how can regular people win? Heaven takes care of what's right.

when the sun rises i rise light burns away the darkness bolingbroke trembles no water washes off god's oil angels fight for me heaven guards the right

Not far away and not far off, my gracious lord—only as far as this weak arm can reach. Despair has taken over my speech, and I can only speak of hopelessness. I fear, my lord, one day too late has clouded all your happy days on earth. Oh, if you could call yesterday back and make time return, you would have twelve thousand soldiers fighting for you! But today, today, this unlucky day that came too late, has destroyed your joy, your friends, your fortune, and your power. All the Welsh soldiers, when they heard you were dead, scattered and fled to Bolingbroke.

Just as far as my arm can reach, my lord. Hopelessness is all I've got to say. I'm afraid, my lord, that one day too late has wrecked everything for you. You know what? If you could go back to yesterday and turn back time, you'd have twelve thousand men ready to fight for you right now. But today—today, this terrible day that came just a little too late—it's destroyed everything. Your happiness, your friends, your luck, your power. All the Welsh soldiers heard you were dead, so they all ran away and went to Bolingbroke.

one day just one day too late twelve thousand soldiers gone scattered fled to bolingbroke

Be encouraged, my liege. Why does your face look so pale?

Come on, my lord. Why're you losing it? You look terrible.

hold on why the long face stay with me

A moment ago, the confidence of twenty thousand soldiers showed in my face, and now they're gone. Until that much courage and power comes back to me, don't I have a reason to look pale and like a dead man? Everyone who wants to survive, get away from me now. Time itself has put a stain on my power.

Just before, I had the strength of twenty thousand soldiers in my face, and now they're all gone. So yeah, I'm pale. I look like death because I am dead without them. Everybody who cares about themselves, get away from me right now. Time has just marked me as finished.

the blood of twenty thousand gone all i had was them i look dead because i am

Be encouraged, my liege. Remember who you are.

Come on, remember yourself. You're the king.

remember who you are

I forgot myself. Am I not a king? Wake up, cowardly majesty! You're sleeping! Isn't the king's name worth twenty thousand soldiers? Arm yourself, my name! A nobody is striking at your great glory. Don't look down, you who serve a king. Aren't we high above everyone else? Let our thinking be high and noble. I know my uncle York has enough power to help us. But who's coming now?

I lost my mind there for a second. Wait—I'm the king, aren't I? Wake up, you pathetic majesty! You're acting asleep! Doesn't the name 'king' mean as much as twenty thousand men? Arm yourself, my royal name! Some nobody is trying to hurt my glory. Don't stare at the ground, you're the king's men. We're above everyone else, right? Think big. I know my uncle York's got enough soldiers to help us. But wait—who's that coming?

i'm the king wake up the king's name is everything arm yourself my name is my power

May my gracious liege receive more health and happiness than my worried voice can bring to you.

I wish I could bring you better news, my lord, but all I've got is bad stuff.

i wish i had good news but i don't

I'm listening, and my heart is ready. The worst worldly loss you can tell me—say it. Is my kingdom lost? Well, I was worried about it anyway, so what's the loss in being free of worry? Is Bolingbroke trying to be as powerful as me? He won't succeed. If he serves God, we'll serve God too and be equal with him. Are our subjects rebelling? That's something we can't fix. They're breaking faith with God as much as with us. Say whatever you want—ruin, disaster, loss, decay. The worst is death, and death comes to everyone.

I'm ready. Tell me the worst. Is the kingdom gone? Well, I was spending all my time worrying about it anyway, so maybe that's not so bad. Is Bolingbroke trying to be as big as me? He won't be. If he serves God, we'll do the same—we'll be on the same level. Are people turning against us? We can't stop that. They're breaking faith with God and with me at the same time. Go ahead. Tell me about the disaster, the loss, everything falling apart. The worst that happens is death, and death happens to everyone eventually.

tell me i can take it losing the kingdom losing the worry bolingbroke won't win everyone dies it's fine

I'm glad your highness is so prepared to hear disaster. Like an unseasonable violent storm that makes rivers overflow their banks as if the whole world is dissolving into tears, so the rage of Bolingbroke swells above all limits, covering your frightened kingdom with hard, bright steel and with hearts harder than steel. Old men with white beards have armed their thin, bald heads against your majesty. Boys with women's voices are trying to sound tough and are clapping their weak arms into stiff armor against your crown. Even the old monks who pray for you are learning to aim their deadly bows against your throne. And women with spindles are managing rusty weapons against your power. Young and old, everyone rebels, and everything is worse than I can describe.

I'm glad you're ready to hear this, because you need to understand how bad it is. Like a terrible storm that makes rivers spill all over the land as if everything's turning to tears, that's how big Bolingbroke's army is getting. They're all over your kingdom with their weapons and their hard hearts. Old guys with white beards—the ones who should be dying quietly—they've strapped on armor and are ready to fight you. Little kids with high voices are trying to sound tough, sticking their skinny arms into armor so they can fight you. Even the priests who spend all their time praying are picking up weapons against you. And women are fighting too, armed with real weapons. Everybody—old, young, women, kids—everybody's against you. And it's all worse than I can even tell you.

storm everywhere everyone old men boys priest women all with weapons all against you

You're telling the story too well—and it's a terrible story. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What happened to Bushy? Where is Green? How have they allowed the dangerous enemy to march through our borders so easily? If we win, they'll pay with their heads. I'm sure they've made a deal with Bolingbroke.

You're telling this story way too well, and it's horrible. Where's Wiltshire? Where's Bagot? What happened to Bushy? Where's Green? How did they let Bolingbroke just march through like it's nothing? If we win, their heads are coming off. I bet they already made peace with him.

where is everyone bushy green bagot wiltshire they're betraying me they've all turned

They have made peace with him indeed, my lord.

Yeah, they actually did make peace with him, my lord.

they made peace with him

You monsters, vipers, damned forever! Dogs who wag their tails for anyone! Snakes that I warmed in my own blood, and you bite me! Three Judases, each one triple-worse than Judas! They make peace? Terrible hell, make war on their corrupt souls for this!

You disgusting things, you snakes, you're damned! You're dogs—you'd lick anyone's hand! You're snakes I raised in my own body and you poison me! You're all three versions of Judas—worse than him times three! And you made peace with him? Hell itself should torture you for this!

villains venom judases three times worse sold me to hell with them

My lord, I see how love, when it changes its nature, turns into the most bitter and deadly hate. But undo your curses. They have already made peace—their heads, not their hands. The men you curse have already felt death's worst wound. They're buried deep in the ground.

My lord, I can see how love just flips completely into the worst kind of hate. But take back your curses. They're already dead. They made peace, but not with their living bodies—with their heads. The people you're cursing are already gone. They're buried.

wait love became hate but they're dead buried you're cursing corpses

Are Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

Wait—are Bushy and Green and Wiltshire actually dead?

they're dead? for real?

Yes, all of them lost their heads at Bristol.

Yeah, they all got executed at Bristol.

bristol all of them heads off

Where is my father, the Duke? Does he have an army?

Where's my dad? Does he have soldiers with him?

where's my father what's his power

Location doesn't matter anymore. Let's stop talking about comfort. Let's talk about graves, worms, and tombstones. Let's use dust as paper and write our sorrow with tears on the earth. Let's name executors and talk about our wills. But wait—what do we have to leave? Just our dead bodies to the earth. Our lands, our lives, everything belongs to Bolingbroke now. We can only claim one thing as our own: death. And even that's small—just this handful of earth that covers our bones. For God's sake, let's sit on the ground and tell sad stories about the deaths of kings. How some have been removed from power, some killed in war, some haunted by the ghosts of people they killed, some poisoned by their wives, some murdered in their sleep—all murdered. And here's why: inside the hollow crown that a king wears around his head, Death keeps his court. And there the jester sits, mocking his power and grinning at his ceremony. The king gets to play king for a moment—to be feared, to kill with a look—but Death fills him with pride and false confidence, as if his flesh were impenetrable armor. And then, finally, Death comes with just a tiny pin and bores through the castle wall, and the king is done. Put your hats back on, and don't mock human flesh with ceremony. Throw away respect, tradition, form, and duty. You've been wrong about me this whole time. I eat bread like you do. I feel want, I taste grief, I need friends. I'm just a subject like you. So how can you say I'm a king?

Never mind where York is. We're past comfort now. We should be talking about graves and worms and what gets written on tombstones. Use dirt as paper. Write our sadness on the ground with our tears. Let's decide who gets our stuff when we die. But—what stuff? All we're leaving behind is our dead bodies for the earth. All our lands, all our lives—Bolingbroke owns it all. The only thing we own for sure is death. Just death and this little bit of earth that covers your bones. Come on, let's sit down on the ground and tell sad stories about dead kings. Some got taken off the throne, some got killed in battles, some got haunted by people they'd killed, some got poisoned by their wives, some got murdered in bed—they all got murdered. And you know why? Because inside the crown—the metal circle around the king's head—Death has set up his court. And right there, inside the crown, Death sits like a jester, laughing at the whole thing, mocking the ceremony. The jester lets the king play at being king for a while—be scary, kill with a look—but he fills the king with ego and fake confidence, makes him think his body is stronger than anything. And then, at the end, Death just comes along with a little pin—not a sword, just a pin—and pokes a hole through the whole thing. And goodbye, king. Don't bow down and make ceremony feel holy. Drop the whole act. You've been wrong about what I am the whole time. I'm a man. I eat regular food, I get hungry, I feel sad, I need people. I'm a subject like you. So stop telling me I'm a king.

hollow crown death inside the jester mocking feeling nothing no kingdoms no power just flesh just bread just grief just death

My lord, wise men never sit down and cry about their troubles. Instead, they immediately take action to prevent further loss. Fear itself weakens your strength. When you give in to fear, you give your enemy the strength to beat you. Fear means defeat, and fighting to die is actually death defeating death—but giving in to fear is just serving death.

My lord, smart people don't sit around wailing. They act fast to stop things from getting worse. Fear destroys you from inside. You're basically handing your enemy your own strength when you're afraid. You either fear and lose, or fight and maybe die—but dying while fighting is actually death beating death. Giving in to fear is just bowing down to death.

don't sit crying act fast fear is weakness fight or fear but don't surrender

My father has soldiers. Ask him about them. Learn how to build a whole army from a single person.

My father's got an army. Go find him. He can turn one person into a whole force.

dad has soldiers find him make an army

You've given me good advice. Proud Bolingbroke, I'm coming to fight you to the death. This fear I've been feeling—it's passed. We'll easily take back what's ours. Tell me, Scroop, where is my uncle with his army? Speak clearly to me, even if you look miserable.

Good point. Bolingbroke, I'm coming for you. This panic I was in—it's over. We'll just take what's ours back. Scroop, where's my uncle with his soldiers? Tell me the truth, even if you look like something's wrong.

bolingbroke i'm coming fear is over where's york where's the army

You can tell from the sky what kind of day it's going to be. You can tell from my sad eyes what kind of news I'm bringing. My tongue has a heavy tale to tell. I'm torturing you slowly, drawing out the worst news I have to deliver. Your uncle York has joined Bolingbroke. All your northern castles have surrendered. All your southern lords are fighting for Bolingbroke.

You can look at the sky and know what the day's going to be like. You can look at my eyes and know the news is bad. I've got something heavy to say. I'm stretching this out, making it take longer because the worst part is so awful. York—your uncle—he's joined Bolingbroke. All your castles in the north have surrendered. All the lords in the south are fighting for Bolingbroke.

york joined him all castles gone all lords gone everything's gone

That's enough.

Stop. That's all.

stop enough

My lord, one moment — please.

Sire. One word.

wait one word please

You're hurting me twice over—wounding me with your flattering words. Release my followers. Let them leave and go from Richard's darkness to Bolingbroke's bright day.

You're killing me by being nice to me. Let my soldiers go. Tell them to go from my dark night into Bolingbroke's daylight.

let them go from my night to his day from my darkness to his light