Page 13 of The Two Wills

“But this one, Will?” Burbage harrumphed, sneering over at me.

The Poet, knowing how to handle his arrogant leading actor, added, “Of course there’s nothing he has that would dull the radiance of your glory. He shall be the negative space in the night sky that shall define your star.”

Burbage rolled his eyes at the Poet. “Christ’s wounds! You didn’t just say that, did you?”

“I did. It’s true. Please, Richard. Give the lad a chance. I’ll ask Augustine to take him on for training.” He shouted over to me. “You’ll like Augustine, lad! He’s a fine fellow and a good actor!” The Poet looked back at Richard, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What do you say, Richard?”

Burbage looked at me again, and I lowered my eyes, praying the Poet’s words would sway him.

“This hedge-born maggot inspires you, does he?”

“He does. Remember I told you about that new tragedy I wanted to write—the one about the Italian lovers?”

“The one based on that poem?”

“Yes. It requires a youth of the most exquisite beauty.” He lowered his voice. “I think he could be the one. He’s also given me an idea for a possible comedy.”

“A comedy, eh? I wouldn’t mind a new comedy or two in our repertoire.” Burbage sighed. “Very well, we shall give him a try. But the contract will only be for a year.”

“A year?” I blurted. “Will said it would be for seven!”

“That’s for polite young men who can control their muttering!” Burbage called over to me. “If you prove yourself as Will says, we’ll alter the contract to three more … no, two more. You’re already at the peak of your pretty youth.”

While I longed to respond with a rude comment about the crow’s feet I saw at the corners of his eyes, I held my tongue.

“And one more stipulation,” Burbage blustered. “During this one year, the company can cancel your contract at any time.” He gave me a threatening stare. “So you better give us no more trouble.”

“He won’t,” the Poet said. “I promise. Now shake Richard’s hand, Hughes.”

I hesitated, Burbage’s words about me being at the end of my peak still stinging.

“Do it!” the Poet commanded angrily through his teeth. But then, out of Burbage’s view, he winked at me to show he was only feigning distemper for Burbage’s benefit.

With an aching smile, I crossed over and shook Burbage’s hand. And that was all there was to it. I was to become an apprentice with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men—and, I hoped, would also have my chance to learn the truth of the Poet’s heart.

SixA Pocket Full of Posies

In which the Dark Lady, Rose Williams, while buying plague preventatives, encounters the Poet for a second time.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

—from Sonnet 132

London has grown even more tedious with the pestilence. I cannot walk twenty yards without seeing a home painted with a red cross indicating the presence of plague, or hearing the church bells ring, alerting of more death. Worst of all is the stench of the pest houses burning the bodies across the river.

My husband, Jamie, poor thing, has convinced himself he has the sickness. This is nonsense, of course. He is healthier than most strapping youths. He always believes he has whatever malady is most current or he’s seen in a pamphlet. It has grown most tiresome. However, in this circumstance, his dark fantasies have proven convenient. To ease his conscience that his “illness” will cause his family ill, I’ve sent his children off to their aunt up in Shropshire, while he remains bundled at home in his bedsheets. Meanwhile I’ve taken rooms miles away in Shoreditch. (I refused the tedium of the country.) Of course, Shoreditch isn’t without the illness, but I chose to risk it, in hopes of encountering that delicious poet once more.

And I do—on my third day. Buying apples.

As I search for ginger, long pepper, and nutmeg at the High Street market, I recognize the back of his manly neck atop his broad actor’s shoulders. At the sight of him my heart beats most rapidly, and my loins shiver. He is sorting through a basket of red pippins. I watch as he considers each apple with such intensity; it’s as if they are words he is choosing for some verse. To disguise myself I pull my shawl over my head, then walk up close behind him, whispering, “You handle your fruit too gently, sir. I prefer a more brutal squeeze to test its firmness.”

Before he turns to respond, he takes a crisp bite from the pippin, making a show of slurping the juices. “Marry! You may hide your face, lady, but I would recognize that cinnamon-dusted voice anywhere. Mistress Rose Williams, how glad I am to meet you again. What brings you to Shoreditch?”

“I am living here, sir.” I let down the shawl so he can see my face fully. “At least for the moment. My husband imagines he has the plague—though I doubt him. For caution’s sake, he’s sent me away for my protection.”

“Alone, is it?” A slight smile slips across his stubbly cheek.