Charles of Orleans [the Duke of Orleans]: Ow! My neck hurts.
His Wife, Marie of Cleves [AKA Marie of Gueldre]: Yeah, you dumb dingdong. Your hat is too big to fit under this tent AND it’s got that trailing doohickey that’s pulling your head over.
CoO: I’m BOWING to you. It’s COURTLY. I’m a noted medieval poet!* Remember how I wrote like 500 poems when I was a prisoner of war?* And they were surprisingly erotic!*
MoC: Right right right right right It’s TOTALLY not that you attached some long-ass scarf to your hat at the last minute and now you can’t even hold your head upright. Right, Charles. It’s because you’re poetic. I’M SURE.
CoO: You’re in a bad mood.
MoC: Why aren’t YOU in a bad mood? Your Dad was assassinated* and your mom made you swear to avenge him while she was on her deathbed.*
CoO: A little dramatic of her, maybe.
MoC: You ended up TRAPPED UNDER A PILE OF CORPSES once.*
CoC: I did not like that.**
MoC: You got sent to The Tower!*
CoC: That was much nicer than the corpse pile.** Anyway, they had a lovely party for me when I got out.* And then I lived a VERY long time as a patron of the arts.*
MoC: Your first two wives DIED.*
CoC: Opening the door for you, my treasure!
MoC: And after YOU die, I plan to secretly marry one of my gentlemen of the bedchamber.*
CoC: Sexy! It’s a shame I shall be dead, that feels like it would make a good poem.
MoC: He’s VERY young!*
Coc: Good for you! Also, that dress is very fetching. I like the stripes.
MoC: Thank you. It is good, isn’t it?
