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Bernardo, a guard

Francisco, a guard

Ethel, a pirate

Horatio, an Italian nobleman

Osric, a courtier

Setting: The Armory at Elsinore. A large, spare room, with tables, plain wooden chairs, various armaments (swords, spears, pikes, spiked balls on chains, etc.) hanging on the walls. If budget for props is limited, the room can be the ‘break room’—table, chairs, bare walls.
AT START: Bernardo, sitting, sharpening a blade of some kind—preferably a broadsword, but a saber, rapier, even a dirk is possible. Humming to himself quietly. Enter FRANCISCO, in full watch garb: helmet, cloak, breastplate, spear, sword, etc.
FRANCISCO: What ho, Bernardo? Stand and unfold yourself!

BERNARDO: (sighs, perhaps a muttered ‘oy!’—otherwise ignores FRANCISCO)

FRANCISCO: (insistently) I said, “Stand and unfold yourself!”

BERNARDO: (glares at him, glances at blade he’s sharpening and contemplates stabbing Francisco, looks away, continues to sharpen and hone.)

FRANCISCO: Are you deaf? Stand and unfold yourself!!!!

BERNARDO: Heard you the first time. Would you knock it off, asshole? We’re off duty. No need to use that macho bullshit down here.

FRANCISO: (deflated). Oh, OK. If you don’t want to play! (with a great clatter, drops arms, helmet, etc. on ground, carefully hangs his cloak up.)

BERNARDO: (looks on, disapprovingly. Waits, as Francisco goes to urn, dips out a cup of something – water? Ale? Mead? –then sits down, feet up on table. Bernardo pushes Francisco’s feet aside): What, were you born in a stable? Pick that shit up and put it away properly.

FRANCISCO: Jeez, who made you housekeeper in charge? Can’t I take a break? And you know I was born in a stable—in Pensebjorg. That was the warmest place that winter. You know I’ve been on those fucking battlements for four hours. It’s cold. And all night hubbub and tsouris. (He slowly begins to put gear away.)

BERNARDO: What, again?

FRANCISCO: Yeah, again. The ghost was stomping about, making cryptic remarks—and playing the “now you see me, now you don’t” game—vanishing, appearing, then going all transparent. Ran the ass off me. And I had to do that dumb “Stand and unfold yourself” routine each time. Ever since I didn’t do it last month when Marcellus was lurking—he cut all my leaves for two weeks.

BERNARDO: Seems really dumb to ask a ghost to stand and unfold. I mean, what’s to unfold? And what can you threaten a ghost with? What are you going to do? Run him through?

FRANCISCO: Right. Plus that asshole Hamlet was all over the place, trying to get a clear answer out of the ghost. So of course I had to do the dutiful retainer bit. “Yes, your grace. No, your grace. Good point, your grace.” What I really wanted to say was “Look, doofus, it’s fucking cold out here. Go back to your warm bed and stop bothering me.” It’s bad enough having the night shift without royalty getting in the way.

BERNARDO: Ever notice how whiney the prince is? Bleats a lot too. Real pain in the ass.

FRANCISCO: Well, at least he got cold! He kept chasing the ghost around for three hours, begging the ghost to tell him what happened. Ghost wouldn’t, of course. If he told, then he’d have no reason to haunt the castle—and what fun would that be?

BERNARDO: Did Hamlet drag Horatio along again?

FRANCISCO: He tried. Horatio was there for about five minutes, then said he’d go to the chapel and pray for the ghost to find repose. (smiles) Pray! You bet your ass he was back in bed three minutes later! Horatio’s no fool!

BERNARDO: Yeah, poor guy. Comes to visit his college friend—

FRANCISCO: Friend! I’d guess more than friend!

BERNARDO: He wishes. Hamlet’s too self-centered to notice that Ophelia’s always lurking about and clutching at him, let alone notice Horatio gazing adoringly at him.

FRANCISCO: Right. With Hamlet, it’s all about Hamlet and how he feels. If Ophelia slashed her throat in front of him, he’d worry about blood splashing his doublet.

BERNARDO: Good thing he always wears black then, isn’t it?

FRANCISCO: Oh, yeah. Why be cheerful and dress like a prince? It’s not like he can’t afford it. Oh, no. He has to always look like he’s at a funeral. The royalty’s supposed to set good examples for us peons, not depress us even more than we already are.

BERNARDO: Anyway, there’s poor Horatio, come for a vacation in a royal palace on the water in Denmark in the summer, longing for a little action, if not water sports, and what’s he find? Ghosts, dead kings, new kings, royal marriages, everything topsy-turvy.

FRANCISCO: And guests! Claudius and Gertrude not only get married without much warning, but they decide to celebrate! And the old king still warm in his grave.

BERNARDO: Or not, if he’s really the ghost—

FRANCISCO: What’s that latest crowd that arrived today? Look like pirates.

BERNARDO: They are pirates. From some place in England.

FRANCISCO: English pirates! What next? Well, they fit right in with that bunch of Vikings that Fortinbras left behind when he went off to Poland.

BERNARDO: Fortinbras! Talk about assholes. Scandinavian princes sure aren’t making much of an argument for keeping hereditary nobility these days. Hamlet mopes about whining and second guessing everything—

FRANCISCO: Yeah—and then Fortinbras doesn’t think at all, as far as I can see. Always off chasing Polacks, as he says. Doesn’t seem to have any luck catching any, does he?

BERNARDO: Well, they can hear him coming six miles away. Fortinbras all by himself sounds like a really noisy battalion. With a battalion of asskissers all imitating him, it sounds like six armies. You’d have to be deaf not to know he’s coming. And you have enough time to pack up all your valuables, get your livestock to safety, and escape with time to spare. No wonder his army’s always starved—can’t live off the land if you advertise that you’re coming all over the place. (Francisco gets up to refill his cup) As long as you’re up, get me one of those, would you?

FRANCISCO: Sure. (does so. Gives cup to Bernardo, then sits. He starts sharpening a blade of some sort.) (Sighs) I don’t know why we spend all this time keeping this gear battle ready. Hasn’t been a battle here since that siege two hundred years ago—was that the Normans who attacked? Or the gypsies? I’ve forgotten the legends—

BERNARDO: I thought it was somebody else. Maybe the Walloons?

FRANCISCO: Well, whoever it was, I guess nobody used the weapons then anyway. They just camped outside the castle, then had boiling oil dumped on them, so they went back to wherever they came from.

BERNARDO: Must have been fun to watch. Wouldn’t want to been the poor clunks who had to keep the oil boiling, however. Imagine trying to get enough wood to burn when you’re being sieged? And the smoke and fumes! Still, dumping boiling oil on Walloons or whatever would’ve made up for it.

FRANCISCO: Where are Walloons from, anyway?

BERNARDO: Don’t know—Walloonistan?

(ETHEL appears. Dark-haired, attractive, somewhere in her late 20s or early-to-mid 30s. In full pirate regalia: the scarf, the bloused shirt with sleeves, broad sword, knives, boots, pantaloons, etc. The only thing she lacks is a parrot.)

ETHEL: Excuse me. . (The men leap to their feet, with a clatter as they drop their swords)

BERNARDO: Milady—

Simultaneously

FRANCISCO: How can we help your ladyship?

ETHEL: Relax, I’m no lady. I was looking for the armory.

BERNARDO: This is the armory. What do you need?

ETHEL: I need to sharpen this sword. Dulled the blade slashing through some rigging on a merchant ship last month off the coast of Illyria. (BERNARDO and FRANCISCO look at each other)

FRANCISCO: Could that have been the good ship Antonio’s Dream?

ETHEL: Don’t know. Never pay much attention to names of ships. Why do you ask?

BERNARDO: A good friend of ours works for someone who had a wager with a Venetian merchant that was guaranteed by the cargo on that boat. Hasn’t been heard from—and the merchant is requiring that he be paid—

FRANCISCO: And the payment is a pound of flesh.

ETHEL: A pound of flesh! What kind of flesh?

BERNARDO: Our friend’s master’s flesh. From his body.

ETHEL: What kind of sick wager is that? God, what barbarians businessmen are!

FRANCISCO: Unlike pirates, you mean?

ETHEL: Well, with a pirate, you know where’re you’re at, don’t you? We rob, and rape (well, I don’t rape personally, but everybody else does) and generally lay waste, but it’s not a surprise. At least we don’t loot pension funds, or fix prices. Oh, I’m Ethel, by the way. I’m the Pirate King’s daughter. We’re here for the wedding celebration.

FRANCISCO: I’m Francisco. He’s Bernardo. We’re guards—and we don’t know much of anything about the celebrations. But if you’re the Pirate King’s daughter, doesn’t that make you a princess?

ETHEL: No. The Pirate King’s elected for a two year term. My father’s only going to be the king for another six months.

BERNARDO: You elect kings in England?

ETHEL: Only the pirate one. And only in our band. Other pirate groups tend to be more autocratic. We figured out a long time ago that electing the king was more efficient. Stopped all that competition--the best pirates kept killing each other trying for the top job. So I’m the pirate king’s daughter, not the pirate princess.

BERNARDO: Can’t your father be re-elected, and so rule for a long time?

ETHEL: No. He can be re-elected again—in fact, this is dad’s fifth term as king—but not consecutively.

FRANCISCO: Consec – u- tuv ---what?

ETHEL: In a row. Others serve in between. Samuel’s been king eight times. And young Frederick could well be the next king—he’s just turned 21, and he’s a hell of a fighter. Sings well, too.

FRANCISCO: A singing Pirate King? Who’d have thought it?

ETHEL: Oh, we all sing. Dad’s a baritone. Frederick’s a light tenor. Samuel’s a tenor. I sing alto myself, and of course Buttercup’s a contralto. When we do harmony while we’re fighting, it’s a real treat. We haven’t had a soprano since Frederick’s voice changed, though. Anyway, that’s why we were asked to come for the celebration. We’re singing at the banquet tomorrow night.

BERNARDO: Seems odd to us to have pirates as guests, whether they sing or not. But who are we to question the folks upstairs?

FRANCISCO: They’d hardly pay any attention to us anyway—

ETHEL: Well the folks upstairs could use some questioning. Can I ask you a couple of questions? And will you answer me honestly?

FRANCISO: Sure, as long as you don’t ask about our defenses—

ETHEL: (snorts) Defenses! Don’t worry—I don’t need to ask about your defenses! (laughs). No, I was wondering—are all the people upstairs nuts, or what?

BERNARDO: Nuts? Are you trying to insult our masters? (BERNARDO swings the saber he’s been honing menacingly. ETHEL draws her rapier.)

ETHEL: No insult intended, friend. But I’ll be happy to cross swords with you in a friendly bout, if you will.

BERNARDO: You’re on! Francisco, keep score!

FRANCISCO: (Leaps to his feet.) Of course! Places! (BERNARDO and ETHEL touch swords.) Salute! (They salute each other). And engage! (BERNARDO and ETHEL fence. Both are good, but ETHEL is terrific. She slowly backs BERNARDO across the room—then touches him lightly on the arm.)

FRANCISCO: A hit! A palpable hit!

BERNARDO: (lowers sword.) A hit! Are you nuts? She didn’t even touch me!

FRANCISCO: (Laughs). Then why is your sleeve torn? Her touch is so light you didn’t even feel it! BERNARDO: (Glances at slashed sleeve.) Damn you! My best doublet! (Raises sword. ETHEL touches it with her rapier.)

FRANCISCO: Ready! And - - engage! (They battle again. This time, BERNARDO backs ETHEL across the room. It should not be too obvious that she lets him push her back. She defends well, but BERNARDO reaches through her defense and lightly pricks her sleeve.)

FRANCISCO: A hit! Another palpable hit! One all.

ETHEL: Shall we declare this a draw, my friend? We seem evenly matched.

BERNARDO: Yes—well fought, Ethel! Now, what did you want to know about our masters upstairs? And you’re right—they are mostly meshuganeh.

ETHEL: Just some gossip, I fear—but they puzzle me. Is, for example, the Prince really as much a schlub as he appears to be?

FRANCISCO: Yeah. He mopes about, and whines, and analyzes everything to death. Doesn’t do anything, of course, just whines.

BERNARDO: Can’t make any decisions. What to have for breakfast, for example. Grumio, his valet, says he’ll take two hours worrying about scrambled or over-easy eggs for breakfast, till Grumio gives up and brings him oatmeal. Then it’s another hour over brown sugar or honey.

ETHEL: Grumio? I thought he worked for that macho asshole Petruchio, in Verona. At least he did when I was there.

FRANCISCO: He used to. But after that putz Petruchio got married, his wife fired all his old servants. Hired all her own people.

ETHEL: And Petruchio let her? Thought he’d tamed her, or something.

BERNARDO: Not according to Grumio. Said she was still bossy, but that Petruchio didn’t seem to notice. So Grumio took a job in Illyria with a duke named Orsino. Then he got married, and his new wife fired all his servants. Grumio thought he’d have better luck at a university. That’s where Hamlet hired him.

ETHEL: No way to predict what happens to people when they get married. And speaking of newlyweds, what about the Queen? She seems a bit dim.

FRANCISCO: Well, she’s not the sharpest wit in the castle, to be sure. We all thought she’d be lost when the old king died and the prince was off at college. But she surprised us by getting married right away, and declaring Claudius the new king.

ETHEL: The new king was the old king’s brother, wasn’t he?

BERNARDO: Yah.

ETHEL: Shouldn’t Prince Hamlet have succeeded his father? What happened to primogeniture?

FRANCISCO: Pri – mo – geni – what?

ETHEL: When the son takes over after his father dies?

FRANCISCO: Oh. Don’t know.

ETHEL: Seems surprising, that’s all.

BERNARDO: That was a surprise to us, too. But what’s done is done. And he’s been crowned. Doesn’t much matter to us who sits on the throne anyway. Though a coronation and a wedding back to back is a bit of a hassle.

FRANCISCO: Just more work. ‘Course for us guards, it doesn’t much matter what they do upstairs. We just keep walking the battlements keeping watch.

ETHEL: I hear strange tales about what’s been happening up on the battlements these nights. They say there’s a ghost . . . .

BERNARDO: Can’t talk about ghosts or supernatural things. We just watch for real things that might threaten the royal court.

ETHEL: What about the counselor—Polonicese or something—

BERNARDO: Polonius. He’s been counselor the last 50 years. Bit foolish now—he must have been sharp once. ETHEL: Well, he’s certainly not sharp now.

(HORATIO enters. He’s Italianate, dark haired and good looking. FRANCISCO and BERNARDO snap to attention.)

FRANCISCO: How may we help your Lordship?

HORATIO: At ease, men. I was looking for the Pirate King’s daughter—and I’ve found her!

ETHEL: What’s your pleasure, Lord Horatio?

HORATIO: Well, I was hoping to be able to spend some time with you.

ETHEL: With me, milord? Surely you’re here to visit with the Prince?

HORATIO: That’s what I thought. But frankly it’s a bit boring here. Hamlet just worries about things all the time, and doesn’t do anything at all but kvetch. And Ophelia has the conversational powers of a sponge. You’re a breath of fresh air, and I’d welcome the chance to get to know you better. I wonder if you might like to visit the gardens with me? The gardens here at Elsinore are famed for their perennial beds, I’m told. (FRANCISCO and BERNARDO glance at each other, smile, then glance away and make their faces neutral.)

ETHEL: Well, thanks, Horatio. Can’t spend time on gardens right now. I’ve got to get my weapons in fighting trim.

HORATIO: Are you expecting a battle of some sort? Should I be worried, or warn the guards that the Pirates are planning a sneak attack?

ETHEL: Maybe you’d better do that. We are pirates, after all, and pirates do that sort of thing all the time.

HORATIO: Even noble pirates?

ETHEL: Who told you that?

HORATIO: It is, after all, pretty common knowledge. But you don’t seem very dangerous or terrifying to me. ETHEL: I’ll show you dangerous. (ETHEL moves toward HORATIO, swinging her weapon. He draws his sword/rapier/whatever; a terrific duel ensues. Again, ETHEL is clearly superior. She drives HORATIO back, and with a sudden slash, disarms him. She puts her sword point to his neck.) Do you yield, milord? HORATIO: Indeed. I know when I’ve been overmatched. (HORATIO kneels. ETHEL lowers her blade, smiling.)

ETHEL: A wise man recognizes his limitations.

HORATIO: At least at swordplay. We Italians have other skills.

ETHEL: Modesty doesn’t seem to be among them.

HORATIO: Perhaps I really should alert the guards about your prowess and suggest they keep an eye on you and your fellow pirates.

FRANCISCO: The guards are right here, milord. We don’t need alerting about Ethel’s ability with a blade. She had Bernardo here evenly matched—and he’s the best swordsman in the royal guard.

HORATIO: Then, Ethel, I really must insist that you spend time with me in that garden. If you’re as good at conversation as you are with a blade, my time in Elsinore suddenly doesn’t seem as endless as it did a few moments ago. Will you join me?

ETHEL: Perhaps later. I need to sharpen this dull blade. Yours is pretty blunt, too. Maybe you should spend some time with it rather than trying to charm me.

HORATIO: I’ll send my squire down later. Shall I meet you in the gardens at, say, three o’clock this afternoon?

ETHEL: Oh, I suppose so. I’ll try to make it. There may be a rehearsal, though. We’re putting together a program with special lyrics for the newlyweds.

HORATIO: That could be risky. It’s been a bit rushed, after all, and there are all sorts of rumors.

ETHEL: We’re just hired entertainers. We were brought in to celebrate, not comment. It’s not a roast. So it’s all lovey-dovey stuff. Makes me a bit nauseous, but the pay’s good.

HORATIO: When will you know?

ETHEL: I’ll have to check.

HORATIO: I’ll hope you’ll be free at some point.

ETHEL: Let’s just say three o’clock. I’ll send word if I have to change the time.

HORATIO: Until three then. I look forward to it.

(And HORATIO bows, perhaps kisses Ethel’s hand, nods curtly to FRANCISCO and BERNARDO, then departs. FRANCISCO and BERNARDO explode in laughter)

FRANCISCO: Perennials!

BERNARDO: There haven’t been perennials in the gardens for years! Some scraggly firs and evergreens—

FRANCISCO: You can’t grow flowers with all this cold salt air. Any fool knows that! We only had flowers when mad Queen Margaret was here—she kept five gardeners at it fulltime to keep the flowers growing, and even then they couldn’t grow the red roses she demanded—only white ones. She was always livid about that.

BERNARDO: I still think they should have just sprayed them red. Would have solved a lot of problems. The Queen couldn’t see all that well anyway. She kept asking why the suit of armor in the hallway never spoke to her. At least she eventually went back to England. Garden’s been left alone ever since.

FRANCISCO: Yeah. Come to think of it, Queen Gertrude looks really smart when you remember Queen Margaret.

ETHEL: Well, I think it was sweet of Horatio. Besides, he’s from Sicily. What does he know about growing flowers in Scandinavia? And anyway, he’s sort of cute. Even if he is basically a schmuck.

BERNARDO: I guess you should know, Ethel, that there are rumors he knows a lot about growing flowers, if you know what I mean. They say he goes both ways. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And that he’s got a thing for Hamlet—

ETHEL: It seems everybody’s got a thing for Hamlet. There’s Ophelia, mooning about, Osric swooning at the sight of him, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hanging on his every word, not to mention that couple from Scotland. It’s embarrassing the way Lady Macbeth fawns on him after dinner, leaning over him until she almost falls out of her gown.

BERNARDO: Well, he is a prince after all. And he’s pretty good looking, in a princely Danish sort of way—blond hair, piercing blue eyes and all.

FRANCISCO: Of course there is that thing about dressing all in black.

ETHEL: Not to mention the way he makes everything revolve around himself. That sort of narcissism is pretty hard to deal with, no matter how handsome the narcissist. It’s even worse that he’s handsome, of course. Such a waste. But what does the guard think of the prince?

FRANCISCO: What’s to think? He’s the prince. That’s all that counts to us. We don’t really spend a lot of time in conversation with him.

BERNARDO: Unless he comes up to the battlements. But if he does, it’s not to chat about things.

FRANCISCO: You’re probably better off spending the time with Horatio, even if his tastes are, well, pretty open.

BERNARDO: Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

FRANCISCO: You might even enjoy the gardens. At least Horatio’s rich and presentable. And not any more self centered than most of the nobles that hang about the palace. Of course, just like the rest of them, he can’t be bothered with maintaining his own weapons.

ETHEL: Well, it’ll pass the time. Nor that Horatio’s particularly interesting. Or that this is anything other than a visit to the gardens. He’s Italian, and you can’t rely on Italian men. I was engaged a few years ago to a young man when I was studying in Verona. Then he dumped me for a girl who was barely thirteen. I was devastated at first. But I got over it.

BERNARDO: What happened?

ETHEL: Turned out their families had a long-term feud going on. Hated each other. Unthinkable that their children might even know each other, let alone have an adolescent romance going on. Moon calves, the pair of them. Stupid, too.

FRANCISCO: Stupid? What happened?

ETHEL: A great mix-up. Secret marriage, all sorts of intrigues and plots. And really terrible communications. You’d think if you’re going to go to the trouble of plotting an intrigue, you’d make sure everyone involved knew what the intrigue was.

BERNARDO: And they didn’t get it organized properly? Figures. Those rich aristocratic kids always screw everything up. Don’t have the common sense they should have been born with.

ETHEL: You got that right. He wound up committing suicide over it all, but by mistake. Served him right.

BERNARDO: Hard to keep up with the folks upstairs for sheer stupidity, sometimes. He must have been an idiot to throw you over for some young bimbo.

ETHEL: Tell me about it! I’d rather live and die a pirate king’s daughter then have to deal with all the bullshit that happens up there. Just imagine—I was walking through the side gallery last night, and overheard Hamlet ordering Ophelia to join a convent! And this is Denmark! Aren’t you all Protestants up here?

FRANCISCO: Well, yes.

BERNARDO: Hamlet’s always ordering people around, telling them to do things. Even if it doesn’t make any sense. So now he wants Ophelia to be a nun? How kinky is that?

ETHEL: Oh. But even so, she never said a word. Then this morning, she was outside, picking herbs and singing to herself. A regular nutcase, that girl.

FRANCISCO: You should meet her brother. He’s due back from a hunting trip tomorrow. He’s nuts too; always killing things. Goes hunting every few days when he’s not away at college. Brings back mounds of dead animals nobody wants to eat—and after a few days hunting, by the time he gets back the carcasses are usually pretty rank. But he insists that the cooks roast the wretched things.

BERNARDO: They usually throw most of it out. Never seems to occur to Laertes why a whole dead wild boar only produces a single sausage.

FRANCISCO: Or why a dozen deer don’t feed more than two people. But at least he’s a good swordsman—probably the best one upstairs. Perhaps he’ll give you a match.

ETHEL: Speaking of matches, what about you and me having a go? Bernardo could keep score.

BERNARDO: Why worry about keeping score? We can have a three way.

ETHEL; Great. En garde!

(They salute, then into a great sword melee, which ranges all over the space. It goes on as long as it needs to, interrupted when OSRIC appears. OSRIC is a small, fussy man, with a great deal of lace on his collar, sleeves and the front of his doublet. He could even be wearing lace gloves.)
OSRIC: (sharply). Bernardo! Francisco! (Unctuously) Milady Ethel. (They stop, swords in hand, and look at Osric.)

OSRIC: Bernardo and Francisco, you must go to the main gate at once, fully armed. A band of actors has been sighted, and we don’t know if they’re friendly or not. We must be defended, especially if there’s a playwright amongst them.

ETHEL: (Laughing) Defended? Against actors and playwrights? Whose ferkakta idea is that?

OSRIC: My lord Polonius. He says actors are all spies. Playwrights are even worse. They make up stories. Everything’s fiction to them, Polonius says. You can’t trust anything they say.

ETHEL: You can’t trust most people in castles. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?

OSRIC: It’s not for me to question my betters, milady. I just pass along the orders.

ETHEL: Right. But what if your “betters” have really stupid ideas and do really dumb things?

OSRIC: It amuses you to toy with me, milady. (Bows low to her.) Bernardo, Francisco, hurry up! We must be prepared for the actors.

FRANCISCO: How far away are they?

OSRIC: The scouts said about an hour. Claudius wants you to lower the portcullis, and Polonius said to heat up a couple of caldrons of oil just in case.

BERNARDO: Well, of course we’ll lower the portcullis. Claudius must think we’re all raving idiots. What’s the point of manning the main entrance with fully armed and alerted guards if you leave the front door open? (FRANCISCO and BERNARDO arm themselves.)

FRANCISCO: We’ll heat the oil too. Never had to do that before. Hope we get a chance to use it. It’d be the first time in two hundred years!

BERNARDO: I’ll get the respirators. Have to be careful with second-hand smoke.
FRANCISCO: Seems weird to get it ready for actors, though. Talk about a strong critical response! (FRANCISCO and BERNARDO laugh.)
ETHEL: You’re all nuts here, downstairs as well as upstairs! (She slowly advances on OSRIC, slashing her sword in the air menacingly.)
OSRIC: (backing away) I’m unarmed! You’re not supposed to attack an unarmed man! And I’m a royal messenger! I’ve got immunity!
ETHEL: Do I give a shit? I’m a pirate, remember?
FRANCISCO: A singing pirate, if I recall. A contralto.
ETHEL: Alto. But still a pirate. (She moves closer toward OSRIC, swinging the sword menacingly in broader arcs.)

OSRIC: Francisco! Bernardo! Defend me!

BERNARDO: Sorry, boychick--we’ve got to get to the main gate, to defend the castle against actors.

ETHEL: And playwrights.

FRANCISCO: And playwrights. As ordered. Can’t disobey a direct order from the king just to get into a private quarrel, can we? Good luck, Ethel. See you around—I’ve got oil to heat.

BERNARDO: And good luck, Osric! Maybe you can join the pirates’ singing group. They could use a counter tenor! (FRANCISCO and BERNARDO exit, laughing. OSRIC grabs a spear, or pike, or something, holding it in front of him.)

OSRIC: I’m armed now, Ethel. Throw down your sword.

ETHEL: Why should I? You couldn’t use that if your life depended on it. Come to think of it, maybe it does. (She slowly backs him around the room. He holds the pike or whatever awkwardly. With a laugh, she strikes it from his hand. He shrieks and runs off. She puts her sword down.)

ETHEL: No contest. And for this I left Italy? Oh well. This castle will be easy pickings. Glad I have the chance to reconnoiter. It’ll fall like a ripe grape! Wait till I tell Dad! We probably shouldn’t attack until after the performance and we’ve been paid. Wonder how well those yahoos upstairs will tip? (Laughing, she picks up her sword, then grabs a handful of daggers, glances around, and exits.)

END