DRAMA: 5M & 2F

WhitbyA “chessboard” drama centered on powerful historical players.

The Venerable Bede, famed chronicler of English history, is having a rough morning. It’s a cold winter’s day in A.D. 728 and he’s due to complete a chapter on the Synod of Whitby – a pivotal event in Anglo-Saxon history when scheming kings, queens and bishops decided the fate of Northern Christianity.

What’s written in the history books, however, is only the beginning of the story…


ACT I, Scene 1

(Day. A dimly lit monastic cell in the monastery of Saint Paul’s, Jarrow. There is a slanted desk with a piece of vellum on it, a stool, an inkhorn, a sharp knife and a quill pen on the corner of the stage. It is early winter in the year A.D. 728. Bede, 59-years-old, a vigorous man who has survived the plague, enters. He is dressed as a monk and carries a wax tablet on his belt. He is feeling the effects of the cold.)

(beating his arms with his hands)

Laud my foot. Praise be that I still have feet after that debacle. When, pray tell, my lord, are you planning to admit Brother Ecgbert to the divine kingdom? The man appears to have no control over wits or bowels.

(BEDE sees the desk and sighs.)

Yes, yes, I know, bless me father, three lashings and the curse of chilblains forever more.

(BEDE sits down at the desk and picks up the knife and the quill pen.)

Right. Book Three. Chapter 25.

It is very hard to write history when you can’t feel your toes.

Especially English history.

Not that I am complaining.


The trouble is, of course, I want it to be good. No, not just good, important. Definitive. Alive in hearts long after I’m gone. My old, old sin. Lucifer would be proud.

Right. Mustn’t grumble. Application, Bede, application. Winter sceal geweorpan, weder eft cuman. We hope. Chapter 25: Anno Domini 664. How the controversy arose about the due time of keeping Easter.

ACT I, Scene 2

(A.D. 664. The courtyard of HILD’s double monastery in Northumbria. At the time the monastery was called Streaneshalch; today it is called Whitby. The Abbess HILD enters, walking briskly across the stage. Enter King OSWIU from the opposite side.)

Well, good morning, my lord.


I trust your accommodations are satisfactory.

Most. With one possible exception. Am I to take the straggly crown of hawthorn hung over my door as a decorative touch or an insult?

A reminder.

Ah, I had forgotten.

The perils of old age.

And what’s that? Thyme?


For my bedroom?

For the pain.