“I never thought I’d grow tired of the sound of my voice, but I did,” Claudius says with a laugh, looking up. “Thou hast heard how I can talk, and talk, but there’s a tumult in my head that goes on for far longer — it starts before I even begin to speak, when I’m weighing each word, every pause and pointed emphasis. And I must be the most opinionated of men. So over-involved in other people’s affairs, so full of judgments and speculations, which I could no longer keep to myself. I spilled so few of my own secrets, because I went around telling everyone what I thought and felt about them. The one stranger I met I still formed a quick opinion on, and left with no ambiguity about where I stood.” Claudius rolls his eyes at himself. He speaks lightly, but it’s a lighter weight than he expected.

“To be fair,” he adds, in what he believes to be his own defense, “that stranger was Lancelot, Galahad’s father.”