Page 24 of The Two Wills

“Easy there, Hughes,” Little Goat pleaded. “That won’t happen.”

“Well, if it does,” I snapped, as if he, Little Goat, were my accuser. “It won’t be my fault! Will’s the one who thought I could do this! I’m not cut out to be a player!”

“Good cheer, Hughes!” Little Goat took my hand to calm me. “If Will thinks you have the stuff to be a player, then you do.”

How Little Goat could comfort me so. And yet he was a child, but a fraction of my age. His small face was so wise, with his lovely blue eyes and lashes so long one could use them to dust the great hall of Windsor Palace. Without thinking, I began to stare at the terrible burn mark on his cheek.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you come by that?” I gestured to the mark. “Did them filthy jackanapes do it to you?” I said, referring to a rumor I had heard about his mistreatment at the hands of the Children of the Chapel.

Little Goat touched the pink scar. “The men at the chapel never injure a body part that can be seen by the audience,” he said. “I did this to myself.”

“How now!” As one who understood my own beauty’s power, I was shocked. “Why would you do it? Your looks would be near perfection without it.” I saw his face flush with embarrassment. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”

He looked off to check if we were alone, then scooted closer to me and told me a most heart-wrenching story. It began with him performing in a nativity pageant when he was but eight years old.

“I played an angel who visited the blessed babe,” he said. “Everyone remarked upon my beauty. When I sang, all wept. My mother was so proud of me. My father though, claiming I sang and behaved as a girl, beat me so badly that my mother feared for my life. The following Sunday, my mother went off to visit her sister on the High Street and left me to my father’s care. Two men from the Children of the Chapel came to the door, and I saw my father speaking to them. They had seen me in the nativity pageant. The next thing I knew my father said I had to go with the men.” Little Goat gulped for air to stanch his tears. “I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to my mother.”

“They just took you?” I exclaimed. “And your father allowed it?”

Little Goat nodded. I could see the agony of this confession in his face.

“And your mother?”

“She complained to the bailiff, but the practice of kidnapping children is allowed if it’s for the Children of the Chapel Royal. I was not the only boy who had been stolen from his mother. The Queen, like most of London, enjoys the children’s acting companies the best.” He rubbed his nose upon his sleeve. “At first, I refused to perform. But they whipped me and punished me in other ways.”

His eyes turned inward, and I saw the struggle and anguish on his face.

“No matter,” I said. “You needn’t tell me all.”

“But I want to,” he said. “I need to tell someone I can trust.”

He went on to explain how, after too many beatings, he finally agreed to perform. He tried to endure it. But he could never surrender the desire to return to his mother, and would run away, only to be caught and suffer a worse punishment.

“It wasn’t only the masters who mistreated me,” Little Goat said. “Many of the older boys were also quite cruel. But worst of all …” Again, he hesitated, to stop himself from crying. I put my arm around his shoulder and said “there, there,” as I would have wanted an older brother to do to me.

He continued. “They’d insist I meet in private with audience members—old men mostly, who appreciated how much like a girl I looked. They would make me …” A storm of tears fell from his eyes.

“Shh, shh …” I pulled him closer. “You needn’t explain any further. I understand. I’ve met such monsters myself in the choir lofts. There, there, my boy.”

After a moment, Little Goat composed himself enough to speak again. “Since I could not escape, I finally did the only thing I could, I took the hot iron the tiremen used to smooth the dresses, and I burned my cheek so deeply it bubbled and bled. I made myself useless to them. They sacked me after that, and I ran home, thinking I would be welcomed, but that’s not what happened.”

He then told how his father, rather than being pleased with his return, was furious and refused to welcome him. His father, it turned out, had gotten money from the Children of the Chapel, and because Little Goat had marred his beauty, his father would need to return it.

“And so, I set out on my own,” he said. “I begged for my supper and slept outside down by the Thames. One day Alexander Cooke saw me by the river and, despite my scar, recognized me from my having performed the lead in a play by Dekker. Despite Alex’s arrogance, he was very kind to me and still is.” Little Goat blushed a little. “He told Will and Burbage about me. The next thing I knew, they invited me to apprentice with the Lord Chamberlain’s men. I figured my wounded face added pathos to certain roles. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.”

“What luck, eh?” I said, trying to sway his mood brighter.

“Yes,” he said. “The company has been fair to me, and I’ve made friends, and the food is good. There are no secret duties, and I like the plays.”

“And if your wound keeps healing, they will probably give you even better roles.”

Little Goat shook his head, with fear filling his eyes once more. “No,” he whispered, touching his cheek. “Don’t say that. If the scar becomes invisible on the stage, the Children of the Chapel might take me. I can’t go back.”

“Don’t think that way,” I protested.

“If they do, I swear I’ll do something far worse than a shallow burn.”

“Stop it. Will won’t let them take you. Everyone likes you here. I promise.”