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The King is dead, long live the King! Let's eat.

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Peace has broken out at last in England, and good King Edward, victorious at last, invites you all to dinner. Just hand your coats to our master of ceremonies, Richard, Duke of Gloucester. But there are rumours that Edward is not well and rumblings are abroad he is more interested in the servants than the administration of the state. Perhaps a more suitable ruler lies waiting in the wings, and, as guests drop dead before the soup has made its entrance, the number of candidates for the English crown narrows with each course.

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'Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,

And cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

And frame my face to all occasions.

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?'

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