England, November, 1487. The battle between the church and the crown continues to rage, and the Duke of Winchester, the greatest landowner in England, is dying.
[The Duke of Winchester is on his deathbed, and both King Richard IV and Godfrey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, are by his side with ready-made wills]
Dying, my lords? Am I dying?
Never.
[laughs] Never!
Yet, my son, to pass away the idle hours until your recovery- [the Duke moans in pain] Let us imagine you yourself were to pass away. To whom would you leave your lands?
Ah, to me, of course.
Yes. To my beloved king.
May your filthy soul be prepared for Hell, my son.
Hell?
Yes, Hell, where Satan belches fire and enormous devils break wind night and day. Hell, where your mind is never free from the torments of remorse, and your bottom never free from the pricking of little forks.
No! Spare me the little forks!
[confused] What is this nonsense?
Hell, where the softest parts of your nether regions are everybody else's favorite lunch.
Oh, Christ! [to King Richard] Forgive me, Sire. I must change my will and leave my land to the Church.
[shocked] WHAT?!
Blessed be thy stainless soul.
[to Duke] Ah, you will change your mind later. I know it.
[With a final, weak moan, the Duke dies]
[smugly] I think not.
[King Richard IV, enraged, looks around and sees one of his men standing in the room, wearing a helmet with a spike coming out the top]
[Opening theme]
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