The Gallant Gravedigger by Lyra

The Gallant Gravedigger

Read The Gallant Gravedigger

Atanacalmo of Armenelos, right hand to the King and main censor on top of that, heaved a sigh. A new play had made its way onto his desk through slightly nebulous channels. Apparently, the artistic director of one of Armenelos' better playhouses had found the script on the stage of his theatre one morning after he had - strange coincidence - forgotten to lock the gates safely. Ordinarily, he might just have shelved the stack of paper for later use, but as it happened, he had just been on the lookout for a new play, and so he had devoured the script, quaintly titled The Gallant Gravedigger. The theatre - another strange coincidence - happened to be one of the favourites of Princess Vanimeldë, who had also read the mysterious drama and was apparently very excited about it. In fact, she had already announced that she intended to play the main role, the eponymous gravedigger. And thus, instead of awaiting its turn in the censor's office amongst dozens of other manuscripts, it sat on Lord Atanacalmo's desk right away, with the Princess' highest recommendation for approval.

Atanacalmo had already read it all, but now - waiting for the director to arrive - he was leafing through the pages again. It was ridiculous, really. Ridiculous - but well-written. The drama followed the unlikely story of a gravedigger who, despite his lowly occupation and lowlier birth, was of such a sweet and noble nature that he could have been thoroughly boring, if his gallant character didn't go through a series of cruel and increasingly unjust ordeals. It was a wild tale, full of the conflict and all the staple characters a good drama needed - the beautiful wife, the wicked father-in-law, the villainous king, a whole chorus of beggars and townspeople - and would doubtlessly be a crowd-pleaser. It was fast-paced, too, with clever dialogue and a merciless, barely veiled criticism of the hypocrisy of society. Atanacalmo found himself wondering who the playwright was. Someone who had observed the whole mess about the embalmer, clearly - the details differed, but Atanacalmo suspected that this was a nod towards deniability rather than ignorance. So who was it? The King's scribe, maybe, as a way of revenge for his father's humiliation? Unlikely, Atanacalmo decided. The scribe doubtlessly had the wits and the knowledge, but he would surely be wiser than provoking the King further. For the same reason, the embalmer's wife was an unlikely candidate. Who, then? Displeased, Atanacalmo shook his head. Just as the whole affair had begun to blow over!

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the artistic director; the door flying open without even waiting for a reply announced the arrival of Princess Vanimeldë. Atanacalmo had not sent for her, but it appeared that the director didn't want to take any chances. Vanimeldë came rushing in, all bright smiles and enthusiasm. "Have you read it, Uncle? Isn't it absolutely marvellous? - Oh, come on in, Hannor, have a seat." That last bit was directed at the director, who had politely lingered by the door, but now - after a questioning glance at Lord Atanacalmo - entered.
Atanacalmo studied the man, who met his eyes for a moment before dropping his head into a sort of half-bow. Atanacalmo nodded in greeting and gestured at an empty chair.
To his grandniece, he said, "I have read it. I'm afraid I'm not quite as delighted as you are."
She gave him a winsome smile. "But you must admit that it is a thrilling tale!"
A little too thrilling, Atanacalmo thought, especially once the King would get wind of it. "A little too close to life, maybe?" he suggested.
Her eyes widened - she had the same round blue eyes as her mother, but she put them to far more dramatic effect - into a perfect mask of innocence. Atanacalmo found himself wondering whether perhaps she had written the play. No; she was a lot more modest about her own writing, and she had never to his knowledge produced anything of this length. Still, he might want to look into it.
"What are you saying, Uncle?" she said, tilting her head. "Surely you don't mean that anyone would believe that any of it is real?"

Glancing at her sharply, Atanacalmo tried to figure out whether she was as innocent as she acted. She had been actively discouraged from taking an interest in politics, of course, but it seemed unlikely that none of the events of the past decade or so had trickled down to her. Palace servants gossiped, after all. Guards gossiped. Delivery men gossiped. Everybody gossiped, which was probably how the playwright, whoever they might be, had found their inspiration in the first place. Unimaginable that she didn't know that there was a core of truth underneath the layers of change. He felt his eyes narrow.
Vanimeldë, having grown up under his tutelage and her father's moods, was unfazed. Atanacalmo turned his keen eyes on the director instead. "Master Hannor," he said pleasantly, "maybe you agree that this script is a bit... political?"
"I'm sure people can differentiate between a play and the real world, your lordship," he said. "Art imitates life, not the other way round."

"Hmmm," Atanacalmo made, leafing through the accursed manuscript again. "You admit that it might imitate life, then?"
The man had the good grace of turning a little red. "Well, there have been certain rumours," he said in an emphatically dismissive tone. "But that was years ago. I'm sure they have nothing to do with the Gallant Gravedigger, my lord; it's a very unlikely story, really, isn't it?"
"You will approve it, won't you?" Vanimeldë said before Atanacalmo had a chance to probe further.
"Sweetheart, can you imagine what your father will say?" Since sternness did not work, Atanacalmo found himself reduced to appealing to her sense of familial duty.
Of course, that sense of duty had long been somewhat strained. "Why should I care?"
Atanacalmo sighed. "Well, he is the King, you see," he said with deliberate patience, as though she were still a young girl. "And there is a king in this play who is not exactly a pleasant character. You know your father; he will take it personally."

Whether it was his patronising tone or the subject matter, the Princess suddenly dropped her charming smile and playful manner. "Perhaps he should be a kinder man," she said coldly. "Then we wouldn't need to worry that he feels attacked by an unflattering portrayal in a silly play, would we?"
"If it were no more than that," Atanacalmo said wearily. He could see the director perk up, curiously, and called himself to order. They had already drifted into dangerous waters, and they certainly should not have this discussion in front of a witness - a witness, moreover, who could be expected to put it onto the stage somehow. (Was he the author? No scripts had been submitted under the name of Hannor so far, so Atanacalmo had assumed that the man did no writing of his own, but perhaps he should rethink that assumption.) He forced himself to smile at his niece.
"Look, dear, you are the Crown Princess - "

"We are indeed," she said, drawing herself upright in a manner that would have been endearing in a little girl and was slightly worrying in a grown woman, particularly one who actually was the King's heir, and would one day come into her full power.
"You are the Crown Princess," he continued gently, "and it would be quite improper for you to play that little embalmer-"
"Gravedigger," Vanimeldë corrected him.
Atanacalmo rolled his eyes, in part at himself. "Whatever he may be. However gallant, it's hardly a suitable role for you! I understand that the gravedigger's wife isn't as good a role, but maybe it would be... less provocative?"
She shrugged. "The wife is alright, but she's a supporting character. I intend to be the main. Besides, he's supposed to be a gentle and fragile-looking sort of person, so it's going to be suitable enough."
"He gets flogged, what, three times in the course of the play? Not the kind of position you should be seen in, least of all on a public stage. And that's not even considering the torture scene --"
"Oh, we would not strip her highness, of course," Hannor interrupted. "And of course, there's not going to be any real flogging or the like. There are very efficient ways of simulating these things with pig's blood, it actually looks much more convincing when the actor is wearing a shirt--"
Vanimeldë's innocent smile was back in place. "And I will bind my chest, Uncle, nobody will see anything untoward. For the play-" she raised her hands disarmingly - "I shall be the man my Father so desired."

Atanacalmo stared at her for so long that (he felt) stronger spirits would have quailed. Instead, Vanimeldë was looking quite pleased with herself. "Come on, Uncle, you know that it's a good play."
It was a good play, he had to admit - dramatic enough to be cathartic, absurd enough to be entertaining, and far enough removed from the truth to pass censure, if the censor hadn't been quite so closely involved in the actual proceedings.
"The play as such is decent," he conceded, "but the ending, at the very least, cannot stand." He raised his hands dramatically, though not as convincingly as his niece. "If only we knew who had written it. Then we could ask them to change the ending, and you could have your approval." He leaned back and studied them both, princess and playhouse director.
"Since the playwright gifted it to the theatre anonymously, I'm sure he cannot object if we make some changes," Hannor said after a moment's pause. "What do you have in mind, my lord?"

"Well, we obviously cannot have a play inciting people to rebel against their sovereign lord," Atanacalmo announced firmly. "Life may not imitate art, but some people do find that kind of thing inspiring, and then where would we be?"
He could see Hannor bite back a reply, just barely. Ah. Not opposed to rebellion, was he? And on good terms with the Crown Princess. A dangerous combination.
Vanimeldë, in contrast, gave her best impression of round-eyed innocence again. "There are alternatives," she said airily, and when Atanacalmo tilted his head at her, she said, "for the ending, I'm sure."
Suddenly, Atanacalmo wondered whether his grandniece was perhaps more politically ambitious than she admitted, or he would have thought. That, too, would need to be investigated. "I'm sure," he replied calmly. "It is a play. It should have a moral but pleasant ending. Goodness rewarded, wickedness punished and all that."
"What do you suggest, your lordship?" Hannor asked, leaning forward in an almost conspiratorial manner.

Briefly, Atanacalmo pursed his lips. Then he said, "Perhaps you should let the little gravedigger live. He has suffered enough, hasn't he? It would be easiest if the king realised that he was in the wrong. Astounded by the outstanding inner nobility of the gravedigger, he sees his error, apologises, elevates him to a lordship, and they become the best of friends." Highly unlikely, he thought to himself. But it was a play, after all.
Hannor looked disappointed. "But as you said, wickedness should be punished," he said.
"My dear fellow, kings get away with all sorts of wickedness," Atanacalmo said bluntly. "Do you think your friendship to the Crown Princess can protect you if the King takes umbrage with your play?"
And he would. Even in a tamed version, the play would absolutely enrage the King. Atanacalmo already knew that he would have his work cut out to defuse his nephew's anger, convince him that the play was in fact doing him a favour by obscuring the facts, and, above all, keep him from taking revenge wherever he saw fit. At the same time, it was a rousing story. And who knows? Perhaps it would inspire the right people.

"It is a dangerous play, whatever its qualities, and a dangerous game you're playing," he continued in a conversational tone. "I think a reconciliatory tone would be the best... for all parties involved." He glanced at the manuscript again. "In fact, perhaps it would be better if the king weren't involved until the very end? The trial and torment could be, say, the result of a bet between two lords. Then the king could enter the scene only to dispense justice - punish the wicked lords, elevate the gallant gravedigger, give a rousing speech on mercy. Curtain. Yes, that would be best."
"But it is not true," Hannor said with strange urgency.
Atanacalmo raised an eyebrow. "Master Hannor, I thought we agreed that the story has no basis in reality? Besides, the great strength of the theatre is that you can show people as they should be, rather than as they are."
Hannor continued to look displeased, but Vanimeldë announced, "I like the new ending. Much better than having the poor gravedigger put to death and the king killed. It's powerful, but it's so depressing. Uncle Atanacalmo is right; people love plays because they give them a world where things work out for the best."
Well, that was a relief. So it was not her plan to depose her father and put herself in his place, so early. Maybe she genuinely did care about the play, rather than its explosive potential.
"Indeed," Atanacalmo said. "At any rate, if you amend the ending, I can probably approve the play. Otherwise, I'm afraid I cannot."

"Oh, the ending will be changed," Vanimeldë said, adding cheerfully, "maybe you should write plays, Uncle? You seem to have a knack for it!"
"I think not," Atanacalmo said in a light tone that had an edge of steel underneath.
Seeing that his royal supporter had changed her mind, Hannor relented. "We shall alter the ending. Something reconciliatory. No execution and no rebellion. "
Smiling, Atanacalmo said, "As soon as you bring me the amended script, I shall be happy to read it. A pleasant day to you." Turning to the princess, he said, "Thank you for your visit, dear. Will you be staying for dinner?"
Defeated, Hannor had made his way to the door. Atanacalmo stopped him just before he left the study. "Master Hannor? While you're altering the script, do change the name of the protagonist. Hârazar is, perhaps, a little too unsubtle. Oh - and perhaps you could show me the original that you found in your playhouse. This is only a copy, isn't it? I thought so. I am so curious about the handwriting."
"As you wish, my lord," the director said, casting a slightly desperate glance at the princess, who merely smiled.
"My uncle will keep it safe, I am absolutely certain of it," she said cheerfully.

"Are you?" Atanacalmo couldn't help asking once Hannor had left. "What makes you so certain that I won't toss the script - or the whole playwright, if I recognise the handwriting - to Alcarmaitë, to appease his thirst for revenge? And he will thirst for revenge, my dear. Even with you playing the little gravedigger, he will be absolutely furious."
"I am not worried for the script because I know that you will recognise the handwriting," Vanimeldë retorted with another flash of a smile. "As for Father, I'll leave that to you. After all, you're so good at getting him to do what you want."
Atanacalmo made no reply. He must be getting old, he thought.