Lord Barrington's Men

II. The Massacre of the Innocents

We have dallied at this tavern long enough. I am become spongy. One more drink and I shall be too cup-shotten to tell tales. Let us again make for the market square, as all is bent for the entertainment tonight. Follow close behind me in these crowded streets; they are infested with gypsies and cutpurses. Lo, the players have assembled a scaffold stage betwixt the gallows. I warrant there was a hanging today – the blood upon the noose is fresh hardened. Come, the show is about to begin!

Here comes the Player King. He is the first to take the stage. He shall relate a tedious prologue, no doubt.

The Player King: “While Languedoc burned, Paris starved, Burgundy grew fat and Aquitaine languished in slavery, the duchy of Berry remained a land of timeless beauty. For Pierre le Gamin, young knight of Berry, his thoughts were only of peace, and the woman he loved; but his destiny would be written in a battle for honor. Swooping down from the rat’s nest in Caen came the dreaded chevauchée, the mailed fist of the Black Prince, to end his world, and bring the kingdom to heel! Woe to the house of Plantagenet, that heralded Herod’s second coming. Woe to the women and babes of Berry, had they lived to feel woe.”

His lip is wet and quivering now, and his voice cracks. Tears are in his eyes when he speaks the couplet. He is quite good, I grant you, but this speech is too dour.

The Player King: “No glory comes from force of sword or lance / a lesson learn’d from the doom of France.”

Exit.

Much too dour.

Enter the Black Prince, Warwick, Pembroke, and Gloucester, wearing the crimson badge of England.

Gloucester: “This is a good valley, sire. The men will find much plunder here.”

Warwick: “And women.”

Pembroke: “And noble prisoners, sire.”

The Black Prince: “No prisoners. Kill them all, and fire their miserable hovels.”

Warwick: “Might I lead the vanguard, my prince?”

The Black Prince: You may, but fail me and the reproach will be very great.”

Warwick: “I shall not fail you, my lord.”

Exeunt.

What villains the English are made out to be! Methinks these players mean to curry favor with patriots.

Enter Pierre le Gamin, and Isabella, his beloved.

Pierre: “Mon cherie, I have known you from our earliest days, and even as a boy my eyes were only for you. But upon my father’s death, my uncle took me as his ward, and whisked me away to Rome. Now I am return’d, and wish to till my father’s fields in peace – fields my sons shall till after me.”

Isabella: “You would marry me, Pierre le Gamin?”

Pierre: “Your proposal is a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.”

Zounds! This is dreadful! I have heard tell that the first rule of playwriting is “do not tell that which can be shown.” And yet these characters tell all and show nothing! Let us go forward in time, to scenes of greater relevance.

Enter King Edward.

Here is the first scene featuring our hero Tarrare. He is dressed in red velvet, and a golden crown is perched imperiously upon his wispy hair; he plays King Edward III. Look how his eyes dart about and his sallow face drains of what little color it had. This does not bode well. The audience is ready for the entertainment to commence. All eyes are on Tarrare.

Two dwarves enter, pushing a wheelbarrow; within, many cuts of raw bull lung, and liver.

King Edward: “Normandy!”

He swallows a lung whole. Gasps from the audience.

King Edward: “Anjou!”

Now he drops a liver into his gaping face, and it slithers into the maw, disappearing behind those monstrous lips.

King Edward: “Aquitaine! Brittany! Gascony!”

The King swallows half of France before scraping up one final liver from the bottom of the barrow with greasy, bloodied, clawing fingers. He thrusts it before the gaze of the audience, shocked into silence now.

King Edward: “Berry!”

He chomps down upon the metaphorical region with his enormous, rounded, yellowing teeth, ripping it cleanly in half.

Two women, beholding this, faint into their husbands’ arms. They have never seen its like before. Tarrare, giant of the stage, exits with a swish of his royal cape.

Now, the climactic battle of the play begins; it is a fine bit of choreography, but we cannot stay to enjoy it. We must away to backstage, where the Player King is offering Tarrare his congratulations.

“My liege,” whispers the Player King as he hurriedly dons a costume change, “you were magnificent. Your small but vital role has stupefied our audience. Did you see their faces? They felt the dread of our ancestors. For a moment, they beheld upon our cockpit the lofty fields of ancient battle. Bravo, sirrah, bravo!”

“They truly liked it?” quethe Tarrare.

“Liked it? They devoured it.” The Player King smiles, and claps Tarrare upon the shoulder. “Get a drink, your majesty. You have earned it. First, however, I have something for you.”

He summons his dwarves, who come bearing a fat orange tabby cat. Tarrare takes it unto himself. It curls into his arms and purrs, content.

“But soft,” says the Player King, “’tis my cue. Until tonight, my lovely Tarrare. Welcome to Lord Barrington’s Men.”

The Player King exits, and enters, upon the stage.

Tarrare glances about, and sees that he is alone. He does not notice us secreted behind the players’ wagons. And, thinking he is unwatched, he parts his lips, throws his head back, and opens those gargantuan jaws. His gorge vibrates, gill-like, in anticipation of the kill, and strings of spittle cling wetly to his teeth, stretching like a spider web as the skin elongates, exposing the rotten gums.

The cat he takes by the tail and lowers, headfirst, into the cavern. It struggles, scraping his tongue and throat with tooth and claw, but Tarrare seems to take no notice. He quaffs the creature whole, and when he swallows, you can see it writhing against the walls of his stomach, like the protests of an unborn babe.