Once, just once, I'd like to take a coach service
that fulfils its obligations to the travelling public
according to the promised schedule.
I don't like this heath.
It's spooky.
Well, if they can't manage that, at least be honest about it.
Time of departure... when we can be arsed.
Time of arrival... some point in the latter part of the 16th century.
Well, in fairness, Will, the coach did throw a wheel.
Because the lane was rutted and the axle weak, Kit.
And why is that?
Because the exorbitant fares we pay
go to line the puffling pants of bloated shareholders,
and none be spent on upgrading the rolling stock,
mending the tracks or ensuring there be an adequate supply of
soft leaves and damp moss in the coach house privy.
How far is it, do you think, Mr Shakespeare?
I really don't like this heath.
Oh, about a dozen furlongs, Kate.
Mainly bog with patches of swamp.
Well, it's better than being in London.
You do not want to be in Southwark with the Black Death in town.
Such a shame they had to close the theatres.
Hmm, a grim business.
We were giving my Richard the night it struck.
Awful moment, I thought half the audience had nodded off.
Big relief to discover they were dead.
Course, some of them had died in their sleep.
A few, Bottom. Ten, at most.
Well, we'll make a merry crew in Warwickshire,
and no mistake... you at Stratford,
and me staying at Sir Thomas Livesey's manor house nearby.
Particularly with Burbage and his company forced out of London on tour
- and booked to perform. - Ah, well, I may skip that.
The Livesey children have a French teacher who teases most cheekily
whenever I come to visit.
Always whispering I'amour and then running away.
Well, this time I hope to catch her.
Prenons un petit seau, avec un chou le-dedans, hein?
Which is French. It means "chase my little cupcake into the larder".
Actually, Mr Marlowe, it means,
"Grab a small bucket with a cabbage in it." - Really?
- Gosh, Kit, you're such a cool chap. - Yes, I am.
It was kind of you to invite me along as well, Mr Shakespeare.
I can't wait to meet your daughter Susanna.
I hope we shall be best of friends.
Hmm. I... I'm not sure I'd call her friendly.
Oh, Mr Shakespeare, I'm sure she's perfect, and I shall love her.
When I was young, I didn't have a lot of friends... or any, in fact.
That's dead sad, that.
No, no, Bottom. It was my own fault.
I was a bit of a swotty try-hard.
Always trying to chat to girls in Latin at slumber parties,
or discuss the oppression of the female sex.
John Knox's book,
A First Blast On The Trumpet Against The Monstrous Regiment Of Women,
had just come out, and I was so angry about it.
Oh, this heath is really, really spooky.
Oh, for goodness' sake, Bottom. Desist!
It's the 1590s, not the Dark Ages!
- A glorious age of reason and logic. - You still believe in wood nymphs.
I'm torn. I think the jury's out.
After all, if dew be not the tears of scolded fairies,
- then how do you explain it? - Well, exactly!
There'd be no rain in the night, yet, come morn, the ground be soft.
I mean, how does that work?
I did try to make friends.
One time, I organised a pink-themed girlie party
with strawberry pudding and raspberry lemonade, but nobody came.
Perhaps it was a mistake to write the invitations in Greek.
You think
But this time, with Susanna, I am determined to make a proper... pal.
Double, double Toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
All hail Will Shakespeare.
Owner of your house in Henley Street.
Owner of a fine, new suckling pig.
And owner of New Place hereafter.
Owner of New Place hereafter!
- Well, that was a bit weird. - Ever so.
Such strange prophecy.
I am the owner of the house on Henley Street,
but I have no new pig
and I'm certainly not the owner of New Place.
New Place? - The second-largest house in Stratford.
Own water, extensive family area, with room for second cow.
Anne and I would kill for that house.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
What be that ghostly shriek?
Just a bit of road kill, Master.
'Tis a fine suckling pig. Still living...
Now dead.
Good fortune indeed.
Mrs Shakespeare'll be thrilled to have a nice pig for supper.
Well, that's a bit blooming spooky, isn't it?
- What? - The witches' prophecy.
They knew you were owner of the house on Henley Street.
Which you are.
- They said you'd own a pig. - Which you now do!
And then they said you'd be owner of New Place hereafter...
ha-ha, ha-ha... which you just said you'd kill for.
Kate's right. That's spooky.
- Spooky. - Spooky.
Not spooky at all.
And yet do I feel my spirits quicken within me.
I would love to own New Place.
Property is going crazy in Stratford right now.
Oh, God, I'd love that house.
It's a common little hovel.
When I was a girl, I lived in a manor house...
... but then I was an Arden and of noble birth.
Oh, shut up about your noble birth, woman!
What music do you like? I'm totally into madrigals.
They're crap!
Yeah. No, totally, so lame.
Hate them.
Shall we make a den and talk about female emancipation?
Who are you?!
Shall we have a midnight feast?
This New Place looks like a pretty good buy, Will.
Put us Shakespeares back on the town map.
After you comprehensively rubbed us off it.
Oh, shut up, woman.
It was only a bit of fiddling.
You used to find it quite titillating till I got nabbed.
Anyway, Will, what if those witches' prophecy came true?
Actually, I don't think witches are witches at all,
just women who don't fit in.
Learned, creative, reluctant to accept the repressive social
and economic restraints forced upon their sex.
Uh... what?!
Men find that threatening and so they burn them as witches.
Totally obvious to me.
Uh, Kate, the three learned
and creative women we encountered on the heath
had huge hooked noses,
numerous enormous warts,
cackled incessantly and wore pointy hats.
Exactly what part of not being a witch are you getting at here?
Anyway, can we please stop talking about New Place?
Duncan MacBuff owns it,
and I'm afraid I could never do business with him.
Don't be soft, lad. Why not?
Because he is Scottish and I am English,
so no matter how much I pay or how generous the terms,
he will still claim to have been given a raw deal
and then bang on about it for ever.
- Ah, Mrs Shakespeare! - Speak of the Devil.
I'll trouble you for a jug of milk
unless, being English, you prefer to deny sustenance to a Scotsman.
God, MacBuff! Again with the victim thing! Let it go!
What have you got to feel victimised about?
King Edward I invading.
His soldiers murdering William Wallace.
It happened in 1296!
Wallace was topped in 1305!
When will you let it drop?
God's boobikins! At this rate,
you'll still be banging on about William bloody Wallace
in the next millennium.
Longshanks did plenty cruel
and bloody slaughter to innocent Scots.
Well, it was your own fault.
I'm sorry, but painting yourself blue is just not a battle plan.
It made us look scary.
It did not make you look scary. It made you look silly.
We pulverised you at Bannockburn.
Absolutely, because I am 300 years old and was there
You dishonour a great and noble heritage, sir,
but I expect nothing else from an Englishman.
The milk, if you please!
You're very welcome to go next door to Moll Sluttage, if you wish.
She is English, too, and so, like you,
sees it as her birth right to...
to cheat and abuse us Scots, who are, as the world knows,
a decent, industrious, fair-minded and egalitarian people...
in permanent occupation of the moral high ground.
Thank God we're a separate nation!
Yes, well, I think we can all agree with you on that one, Mr MacBuff,
and long may it remain so.
Here's your milk, Mr MacBuff.
I shall be back early morning before church for a second jug,
unless, being English,
you've murdered me in my bed for being Scottish.
That Duncan MacBuff, he's so bloody self-righteous.
It drives me potty.
It'd serve him right if I did put water in his milk.
Or worse.
Hmm. Worse?
Oh, it'd be so easy, too.
There's a bucket of white lead paint
all ready to do the plaster on the half-timbering.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
Anne, I've told you, I'll get round to it!
Just put it on my "dad job" list.
Some blokes would just take the witches' hint
and kill the Caledonian bastible!
Yes. Well, fortunately, I'm not some blokes, am I?
I'm your husband, whom you do oft call Snugglington or Tiny Knob.
And those be no names for a wild and dangerous killer.
Yeah, I know. Nice to think about, though. Lovely dream.
Night.
Is this a milk jug which I see before me...
.. the handle toward my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still!
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
as this which now I draw.
Thou marshals me the way that I was going,
and such an instrument I was to use.
I see thee still.
And on thy spout and handle gouts of white paint containing lead,
ready to do the outside plaster,
which is on my "dad jobs" list that I keep meaning to get round to.
The bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan,
for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.
Wife, a terrible, terrible dream I had.
Ah, me! My hands be all gooey and covered in pale slop.
Yes, well, you've had plenty of those dreams, Will.
There's no need to wake me up about it.
No, I did walk in my sleep.
I must put a stop to this before 'tis too late.
- Where's the jug? - What jug?
The jug of paint... milk!
Oh, the jug for Mr MacBuff?
Yeah, he came round really early on his way to church,
- saw my candle lit and came for his milk. - Oh, no, Bottom.
You shouldn't have given it to him.
What? Because he's Scottish?
That's just prejudiced.
No, because I poisoned it.
Well, that's really prejudiced!
Could we get off the geo-political aspect of this for a minute?
The crucial point is to stop me from being hung for murder.
He's drunk the paint.
What am going to do?
I wouldn't worry.
I reckon your plaster's good for at least another year.
- I don't know what Mrs S is on about. - I'm not talking about my dad job!
I'm talking about MacBuff! He's dead!
Maybe he's asleep.
Asleep? Shakespeare doth murder sleep.
I've killed him and I'll be found out.
Milk will have blood!
God, you're so dramatic, Master.
Yes, funny, that.
Except, hang on, it's what I do!
It's got to be perfect, love.
I've never been to a dinner party before.
If you need any alterations, I can do them.
I love girlie dress-up stuff.
Well, OK, thanks. Got this.
Anne, I must speak with thee. Susanna, Kate, would you mind?
Well, can I stay and she go?
Please, Sue, I need a moment.
Come on, I'd love to meet some of your mates.
- That is not going to happen! - Please!
I can't believe I'm going to dinner at Sir Thomas Livesey's.
Me, a farmer's daughter,
supping with the cock-snobbled folderols!
Anne, I've killed him.
What?
MacBuff. I've killed him.
- Don't jape. - I'm not japing.
Trust me. You'd know if he was japing,
because you wouldn't get it.
I-I've murdered MacBuff!
In the night!
I filled the milk jug with lead paint.
'Twas a vision that led me. I thought it was a dream,
but it wasn't a dream. I really did it!
That's terrible, Will.
I know. I know!
Still, it does mean you can buy his house.
Actually, that's true. We can buy his house.
Anne, I don't think you heard me right.
I've murdered MacBuff!
Which is terrible, Will, terrible.
Wife, how canst thou take this so lightly?
Oh, I'm not taking it lightly. I'm just trying to see the upside.
We live in tough times. Life's cheap.
I mean, the average bloke's dead by the time he's 25.
I suppose, put like that, MacBuff should consider himself lucky.
Yeah, course he should. Selfish bastible.
I mean, how long did he want to live for, anyway?
There's no reason why we should be suspected...
not unless we bring it on ourselves.
Tonight, we dine at Sir Thomas Livesey's
and we must both appear innocent and carefree.
Smiling and laughing.
Yes, you're right. Innocent and carefree.
Of course, Burbage and his company are booked for the entertainment,
so smiling and laughing might be harder.
I think we should aim for forced grins.
I'm telling you, it's time to take some risks.
Push the boundaries. Mash it up, yeah?
But, Kempe, we have given Gammer Gurton's Needle
at every private engagement for over 30 years.
Oh, hello! What are you not getting?
Gammer Gurton's Needle is old.
- It is therefore, by definition, crap. - Oh, it's very harsh.
The world's moved on, mate.
A little thing called the Renaissance. Heard of it
We've got to challenge the form, do some proper clowning.
For God's sake, Kempe. All right, just talk us through it again.
Commedia dell'arte, mate. Cutting edge. We'll do a lazzi.
A lazzi? - Oh, yes, sorry. Forgot. You're English.
You don't know about new comedy.
It's a pre-agreed scenario around which we'll improvise.
- Impro-what? - Improv, mate. Yeah?
Going with the flow, yeah? Picking up the ball.
Free forming. Finding the comedy ooh! in the moment.
But I don't need to find my comedy.
I know exactly where it is.
I simply take my inflated pig's bladder.
I drop it on the floor. I stoop to pick it up.
Mr Condell kicks me up the bum-shank.
I go, "Ooh!" He says...
"Oh, Master, now thy arse be as red as thy face!"
And the whole room explodes in merriment!
Yeah. Sorry, mate, but people don't want jokes.
They want attitude.
We'll do a famous lazzi the fly. It's brilliant.
I'm only going to do it if you stop laughing that laugh.
Can't, mate. Sometimes it's the only way I have of expressing
the breadth and depth of my comic instincts, so live with it, yeah?
Well, now, Mrs Shakespeare,
Lady Livesey and I are most happy to welcome you to our mansion.
Oh, yes, it is splendid to be dining with the gentry, Sir Thomas,
now that my Will is advancing in the world.
Kit Marlowe, whom you know, of course, will be joining us.
He's just finishing a French lesson with our governess.
Ooh! Ooh-la-la!
And we have another guest come in refuge from the plague...
- Robert Greene. - Greene? Here?
He gave you a poor review, did he not?
Yes, he did. He called me "upstart" in his Groatsworth of Wit.
I am honoured indeed that a great poet like yourself
remembers my poor slander.
After all, I only studied classics at Cambridge University,
whilst you, great Hermes, did reading and adding up
at Stratford Bumbling School.
I care not for your slanders, Greene,
although methinks a better title than a Groatsworth of Wit
would be to take "wit", subtract two Greenes
and add a call for silence.
I do not follow you, sirrah.
Why, you, sir, are Robert Greene.
So two Greenes is double you.
Take W from "wit" and you have but "it".
A call for silence is a very "sh", and add a "sh" to "it"
and you have a groatsworth of what you write!
Brilliant, Husband!
Nobody would guess you'd murdered a neighbour this morning.
Oh, yes, my Will is much raised up in the world.
Soon, we are to buy ourselves a bigger house here in Stratford.
Ah. - New Place, which we have coveted for years.
Perhaps you know it?
New Place? Why, that belongs to Duncan MacBuff.
- A fine house for a fine man. - Mm. Also dead.
Dead?
But I saw him but last week.
He was fit and well and, being Scottish, also honest,
wise, good-humoured,
even-tempered
and possessed of a sparkling, dry wit.
I think it's the accent that I find most attractive.
If ever I were to seek counsel from an independent financial advisor...
... I would want to hear it in a Scottish accent.
Poor MacBuff.
We'll miss him.
It had nothing to do with me. I didn't kill him.
So, this MacBuff dies all of a sudden
and the upstart crow is all a-tremble
at the mention of his name.
What is more, the shrewish Mrs Crow would take the dead man's house.
'Tis strange. 'Tis passing strange.
I hope young Marlowe hurries himself.
We are to have rice pudding and curds,
and it gets a skin if left to stand.
Oh, monsieur!
Which of you has done this?
Never shake thy milky chops at me!
What ails you, sirrah?
Stay back, vengeful spirit!
He sees some vision!
His eye is fixed with terror.
Some say 'tis conscience
that maketh men see vengeful vision.
No, no. 'Tis just a little fit.
He has a very active imagination.
It's his thing.
For Lordy's sake!
It is just a painting of fear.
Like the air-drawn milk jug you saw in your wet dream.
Look, Wife! Look!
God save us all! Sorry I'm late. Slight accident.
The chef says the curd pud will be another half an hour.
You all right, Will? You look like you've seen a ghost.
Boogedy-boogedy!
Methinks I see a chance to rid myself of this unctuous oik.
Well, if pudding be delayed, then let us have our show.
Bring on the player!
Hi. Yeah, right. Hello. Hi.
Erm, we're going to do something a bit different, yeah?
It's called a lazzi.
It's commedia dell'arte.
It's cutting-edge comedy from Italy, where I have performed...
.. and won several awards.
Just saying, so...
Right, Punchinello, servant to Pantalone.
See, my master comes.
Well, now, Servant, I wonder if we shall have any visitors today.
Oh!
Go and see who that is.
Ah.
Anybody there?
Not a fly, sir. Not a fly.
Loving it? Yeah?
It's Italian, see? Proper comedy.
Ah! Go and see who that is.
Second.
Anyone there?
Again, sir, not a fly. Not a fly.
Yeah? Yeah? Keeping up so far? Yeah?
Not too challenging or ground-breaking, is it?
So, yeah, right.
Ah, this time I shall go myself
to...
Right, right, this is the funny bit. Yeah?
This is where it gets really good, right?
And if you don't love it, well...
.. your problem, so...
Ohh...
I have been robbed and beaten.
There are hooligans there, you fool!
Yeah, but there wasn't a fly, was there?
Brilliant, yeah? Oh, God...
Just a bit there.
We're dying on our arsingtons.
Condell, quickly!
What's this here?
Oops! Me old pig's bladder!
Oh! I've dropped it on the floor!
I'd better stoop to pick it up.
Ooh! - Oh, Master, now thy arse be as red as thy face!
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
And so Anne's conscience doth betray her, as mine did me.
You do wander in your sleep, Anne,
ever trying to wash away our crime...
.. but all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten that little hand.
Oh, don't be so soft. I went out for a wee.
Don't you wash your hands after visiting the privy?
I can't go on like this!
Bottom! Bottom, get up!
My mind is much troubled.
I would seek advice and counsel from the weird sisters.
You want me to leave this nice warm cow
to come wi' you looking for witches on a blasted heath?
No, don't be silly, of course not. - Oh, good. - I'm not going.
Double, double toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Uh...
Hello.
Uh...
Ladies.
Sorry to bother you while you're... cooking.
But my master's all of a doo-dah.
He thinks Robert Greene suspects him of murdering MacBuff.
Tell Will Shakespeare to fear not.
No man born of woman shall accuse him of this crime.
Oh!
Well, that sounds all right.
What's in t'pot?
Eye of newt and toe of frog...
Wool of bat...
And tongue of dog.
Can I have a bit?
So, they said that no man born of woman could e'er accuse you.
But this is brilliant news!
Greene, like all men, was born of woman.
- We're off the hook. - Absolutely.
We have it on the authority of three homeless derelicts
with clear mental-health issues.
And, quite frankly, the way I'm feeling, that's good enough for me.
As long as Greene was born of a woman, I'm in the clear!
In that case, sirrah, you will hang,
for untimely was I ripped from my mother's womb,
born by the Caesar method!
No, the prophecy!
Hang on! What difference does that make?
You were still born from a woman.
I mean, tummy or front bottom, it's still a birth, isn't it?
Shakespeare, you murdered MacBuff, and I will see you hang!
See! See! He returns!
The vision is come again!
I see him too!
I'll trouble you for a jug of milk, Mrs Shakespeare.
- Mr MacBuff, you're... you're alive. - Of course I'm alive!
I'm Scottish!
We're more than alive!
We are vibrant, creative, uniquely generous,
strong, fair-minded, even-handed, good-humoured.
Look, I... I saw you out cold in your parlour yesterday morning.
I... I thought you were dead.
I was just having my morning nap after church.
A big jug of milk always makes me sleepy,
and I got it all slopped over me.
But the milk... I... I poured it from the...
The milk bucket!
That be Mrs Moomoo's milk bucket, Husband!
And if you're looking for the paint to do the plaster,
it's over here beside the wash tub.
Such milk, Mrs Shakespeare...
full, creamy... I... I came to thank you,
and as a neighbourly token,
here is a gift of sweetmeats for the children.
- Oh, lovely. - Yeah.
Taken have I a solid base of nougatine,
spread upon it burned caramel
and enfolded all in a sweetened cocoa paste...
Oh, that sounds utterly delicious.
.. then dipped in batter and deep-fried it.
You see, now you've gone too far.
I bid you goodnight.
No need to kill him for his house.
Simply sit back and wait for him to die of a heart attack.
Owners of New Place hereafter!
I can't stand her any longer!
She's driven me mad! Mad, I tell you!
Susanna, where is Kate?
Your hands be blood red!
You've murdered Kate!
Kate! Kate!
Yes, Mr Shakespeare?
If you don't get her away from me, I will murder her!
We're just having a girlie slumber party
with strawberry pudding and raspberry lemonade, Mr Shakespeare,
but I think Susanna might have had enough now.
You know, it seems to me, Husband,
all these doings would make a really good play.
Yes, you're right. Of course.
A light and breezy comedy
about a laughable misunderstanding over some milk.
Well, actually, I was thinking more of the weird sisters,
the ghost at the feast,
the conscience-struck wife,
endlessly washing her hands in the night.
You know, a proper blood-and-guts thriller.
No, no. I think comedy's the way to go.
Two Milky Jugs by William Shakespeare.