Scene I opens out­side Holy­rood, where a rest­less crowd gath­ers, mur­mur­ing with antic­i­pa­tion and judg­ment. The name on everyone’s lips is Chastelard—a poet, a lover, and now, a man bound for exe­cu­tion. The peo­ple, dressed in every­day wear, bring with them opin­ions sharp­ened by gos­sip and col­ored by class divides. Sol­diers stand along­side com­mon­ers, their expres­sions a mix of curios­i­ty and dis­dain. Whis­pers spread like fire, sug­gest­ing that the Queen her­self may have shared more than court­ly affec­tion with the con­demned. One man recalls anoth­er hang­ing not long ago and won­ders aloud if Chaste­lard will weep or face death with dig­ni­ty. To them, he is not just a man but a symbol—of dan­ger­ous indul­gence, unbri­dled pas­sion, and what hap­pens when poet­ry strays too close to pow­er.

There is bit­ter­ness in their tone when they speak of art and nobil­i­ty, view­ing both with sus­pi­cion. One cit­i­zen remarks with con­tempt that songs prais­ing love have no place in a king­dom gov­erned by law and virtue. Anoth­er scoffs at the Queen’s rumored indul­gence in verse and romance, claim­ing her actions mock the throne. Their dis­dain for Chaste­lard isn’t only about his scan­dal but about what he rep­re­sents: a man from France who dared to touch the sacred. Reli­gion is not spared in their debate, as talk of Priest Black’s pres­ence stirs resent­ment. They accuse the cler­gy of hypocrisy, sug­gest­ing that holi­ness can be bought or taint­ed through prox­im­i­ty to dis­grace. Voic­es rise, not in sym­pa­thy but in fury, demand­ing that jus­tice be served with no room for mer­cy.

Among the noise, a qui­eter voice emerges—one that asks not for pun­ish­ment, but for under­stand­ing. A woman won­ders how a mere poet could ensnare a queen, not with scorn but with gen­uine curios­i­ty. Her ques­tion breaks the rhythm of judg­ment and intro­duces an unset­tling idea: that love, how­ev­er scan­dalous, might hold truth in its defi­ance. She is met with silence at first, the crowd unsure whether to sneer or agree. That moment reveals cracks in the crowd’s cer­tain­ty, expos­ing the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty behind pub­lic moral­i­ty. Could it be that Chastelard’s fault lies not in sin but in dar­ing to love beyond his sta­tion? This ques­tion lingers, unan­swered, yet deeply felt.

The gath­er­ing out­side Holy­rood becomes a mir­ror reflect­ing the nation’s unrest. Con­ver­sa­tions that began with cru­el­ty now flick­er with com­plex­i­ty. While most still cheer for Chastelard’s fall, their voic­es reveal lay­ers of fear, envy, and fas­ci­na­tion. His sto­ry has become more than scan­dal; it is a cau­tion­ary tale shaped by the mouths of many, each eager to assign blame or bask in spec­ta­cle. The Queen’s silence is also judged—her lack of defense tak­en as guilt by omis­sion. Yet no one can deny the pull of this dra­ma, unfold­ing not on a stage but before their very eyes. They’ve come to wit­ness not just jus­tice, but the unrav­el­ing of a love that dared to dis­turb the bound­aries of roy­al­ty and restraint.

As the hour nears, ten­sion builds like a storm cloud over the palace walls. Guards stand ready, their dis­ci­pline mask­ing the unease that hangs in the air. Some­where inside, Chaste­lard awaits, per­haps unaware of how the world out­side debates his lega­cy. Whether remem­bered as a crim­i­nal or a roman­tic, his fate is no longer in his hands but in the mouths of those gath­ered to watch him fall. The crowd does not just witness—they shape his­to­ry through their words. Their gos­sip, their opin­ions, their disdain—all fuse into the mem­o­ry that will sur­vive long after the scaf­fold has been removed. Scene I lays the foun­da­tion not only for a per­son­al tragedy but for a larg­er reflec­tion on judg­ment, pow­er, and the human desire to wit­ness a fall from grace.