Page 11 of The Two Wills

“Whatever you said, let it be sharp, loud, and queenly. You’re no longer some two-penny trollop bawling out a customer.”

I felt a surge of indignant rage. Perhaps he may not be in love with me (yet!), but I will not let any man call me a trollop—whether it’s true or not! “Oi, that’s not very nice, sir.”

“We’re not here to be nice, Hughes,” he barked. “We’re here to make a play! To bring the audience to tears and rage! Now, do it again!”

His sharpness toward me ignited my ire. Unable to control myself, I aimed it at him, as if he were the crooked-back king. “Blush!” I hissed. “Blush thou lump of foul deformity …”

“Better!” the Poet said, urging me on. “Very good!”

My entire disposition changed as his tone turned kindlier and more affirming.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“But remember you’re heartbroken as well, lad. The man you love lay dead on the floor. Can you imagine that? The person you love most in the world gone forever?”

His words brought memories of my first beloved, Barnaby Stubb, lost to me up in Devonshire. I was keenly aware of what it meant to have a wounded heart. I began again, adding my sorrow at the loss of Barnaby, but recalling my momentary hatred of the Poet for calling me a trollop.

“Blush! Blush! Thou lump of fouled deformity!” I pointed my hand angrily at him, and widened my eyes, putting pressure behind them in a way I knew would form tears. I had often utilized the technique when one of my muck-house marks caught me lifting his purse. I had no problem imitating a lady’s tempestuous anger yet hiding the wounded soul underneath. For extra measure I beat my breast most ardently and tore at my hair. “For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood from cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells …”

“Yes, yes, yes!” the Poet shouted, his eyes aflame. “Well done, boy! I knew you had it in you. Do it again, but beat your breast and tear your hair a little less. It distracts from my lines.”

I did as he demanded. The fire in his eyes was something to see while he mouthed his lines as I spoke them. It was as if there were a direct passageway from his brain to my lips. I loved it, playing Queen Anne, following his orders, thrilling him with how I brought his words to life. My heart reverberated with each syllable of his praise.

“Can I learn more?” I asked. “I like this Queen Anne. Will you play Richard? Or my lover, Edward?”

“Easy there, lad, easy …” He laughed heartily.

“I do have the apprenticeship, don’t I? Please, give me another chance!”

“You have the apprenticeship, Hughes. Of course you do. You’re a natural. Your voice, the heart you are not afraid to show. You are marvelous. However, you will not be playing Queen Anne … at least not yet.”

My heart fell. “But why?”

“For one, someone already has that part. As a new apprentice, you’ll be covering for that actor should he fall ill. Meanwhile, you’ll be playing one of the ladies in waiting, various servants, children, and so forth while we train you. Alexander, our lead apprentice, will play Queen Anne—he’s a genius. Memorize each movement he makes. He has an exquisite voice. Though, I’ll admit, there was something in the way you played Anne, a ferocity and longing I haven’t seen before. You’ll need to start learning your lines and movements at once—both your small roles as well as Queen Anne’s and any other leading roles you’ll be covering. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, though I did not fully comprehend the immensity of the assignment at the time. “Thank you, sir!”

“Zounds! All the things I want to do with you,” he said, looking at me with an almost pained expression, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. He then stepped in far closer than is normal for a man, took me by the shoulders, and I felt his hot breath on my face. “Hughes, there’s something I need to tell you.”

I swallowed, knowing it would be the moment he would reveal himself. I allowed my mouth to moisten should he kiss me. “Yes, sir?”

“That first day I met you I just knew—”

But before he could get the words out, something dreadful happened.

“Will! There you are!” An intruder’s strangely familiar voice echoed in the arena, forcing me to jump back from the Poet. “Why did you leave the festivities so soon?” he said. “I’ve come up with the most blistering business for the King’s death scene.”

When I saw the stranger’s red coat and hat trimmed in red ribbon, I gasped in utter terror. It was him—that drunken popinjay from the Nag’s Head privy, Richard Burbage, the coxcomb who had stolen my purse two weeks prior and to whom I had vowed revenge. What in God’s name is he doing here?

I tried not to look him square in the face, since the stunning blue of my eyes might give me away. I will keep my head down and mouth shut, until that poxy bastard disappears back into his filthy rat’s hole.

“Now what do we have here?” Burbage said, trying to catch sight of my face. “Tush, why do you turn your face away from me, lad? I’m not going to hit you.”

I slowly turned my eyes toward his and prepared myself to run. But Burbage merely sniffed.

Is it possible this beast does not recognize me? Thank the Lord! I prayed the arrogant animal would not stay long, in case more time in my presence might loosen his memory.

The Poet crossed the stage to embrace Burbage. “Ah, Richard! Allow me to introduce Mister Willy Hughes, our company’s newest apprentice—should you approve.”