Page 10 of The Two Wills

“Now,” he commanded, “I want you to loudly pronounce ‘ha-ha-ha!’ ”

In example, he barked like a goose to the back of the uppermost galleries, then implored me to “Support the voice like this …” He lifted his shirt and placed my free hand upon his lower abdomen, which, it turned out, was much hairier than his upper torso. (This excited me beyond comprehension.) “Ha-ha-ha!” he barked, punching my hand with the warm muscles of his bare belly, while his own hand did not leave its spot on mine.

I hoped his touch had more of a meaning, but there seemed to be no hint his actions were anything but purely mechanical. Still, I was near fainting for the pleasure of it.

“Do you understand, lad?” he asked.

“I do,” I said. Although, in truth, my mind was half-fog, for I was pleading with my arousing fiddle to stay quiet.

“Now you try.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” I bellowed. “Ha-ha-ha!” I repeated again and again, hoping my flesh would connect more fully with the Poet’s warm hand each time.

“Fine, Hughes! That’s a good lad. Enough now.” He removed his hand briskly which saddened me greatly. “So, in this scene, as you’ve heard, the character of Queen Anne is enraged at the humpback Richard for having killed not only her father-in-law, Henry, but also her beloved husband, Edward.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Fie upon him! The snake! Why is she even there? In’t dangerous?”

“Well … erm … because she wants to tell him off.”

“I’d stick a fork in that poxy bastard’s balls, I would.”

“Exactly! That’s what she’s feeling … but not those words. She’s a proper lady—a royal. So, you need to express that feeling but say it like a proper queen. Try your best. I’m going to run way up there.” He pointed to the farthest away spot in the arena. “You stay on stage and remember to be very—”

“Loud?” I finished. “Should we test it with that hands-on-our-belly exercise again?” I lifted my shirt and reached for him eagerly.

He smiled and patted my hand. “I think you’ve got it,” he said, before leaping off the stage and running up to the galleries. “All right!” he hollered down at me. “Get on with it!”

I took my breath and repeated the lines loudly in a high snooty voice as he had instructed.

“Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity;

For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood

From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;

Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,

Provokes this deluge most—”

“Stop!” the Poet shouted.

“Did I do something wrong?” I called up to him. I knew I had repeated his words precisely, though perhaps a bit too spritely.

“Why are you saying them like the playhouse is on fire?” he shouted down to me. There was a pricking to his tone, which distressed me greatly. “You must allow the poetry to breathe! Do it again! Remember the rhythm (he clapped his hands angrily to a rhythm)—de dum de dum de dum de dum de dum. But also, where is her passion? Why would the audience love her, if you sound like that?”

“Sorry!” I shouted, my face turning red from his upbraiding. “It’s just that … I was just nervous!”

He suddenly disappeared from the gallery and galloped back down to me on the stage. “You’re supposed to be a queen,” he said, breathing heavily. “You must show breeding and bearing. And allow your voice to sing lightly like a lady. Yes, I want you to be loud, but do not bellow. Use your lower belly like I showed you. Do you understand?”

“I do,” I said, though the sting of his admonishment only fed my self-doubt. At least my weapon had withered from the embarrassment.

“Surely, you’ve seen the Queen’s ladies on the High Street, with their noses held aloft. Think how you would behave if a man had just killed your mother and your best friend … but as if you were a fine lady. Let your voice be that dagger you’d stick in his balls.”

“Fork, not dagger.”