Page 28 of The Two Wills

“Spit at him again, beauty!” a third bellowed.

I looked at Richard and saw rage in his eyes. I momentarily froze, forgetting what was to happen next, fearing I had thrown the great actor off his words as my spew dripped down his cheek. Finally I remembered I was supposed to next feign an exit. Burbage, as the humpback king, bid me to “stay a while.” Then, in a stroke of genius, he raked the spittle from his cheek and kissed it.

The audience went mad! It was the most glorious bit of stage business. In the rest of his speech he convinced me—the woman whose husband he had killed—to be his bride. I found myself, as the confused and distraught young queen, swayed by his rhetoric. Burbage was breathtakingly good. That he could take the impulsive actions of an ignorant young apprentice and make it into pure brilliance was proof to his reputation as one of England’s greatest actors. But I also suspected I would soon suffer for my impudence. No matter, I felt proud that I had remembered my words, and thought Blast him and the Poet for hiring an illiterate whore’s son in the first place.

At the scene’s end, the audience roared their approval for what we had just done. When I came offstage, Little Goat and Sam hugged me, excitedly, congratulating me on getting through it so well. Soon several other company members had filled the back of the stage and were staring at me in various states of shock—including the Poet and my master, Augustine. Something was not right. They had such perplexing expressions on their faces, which I read as a mixture of shock and disdain. Had I said the lines wrong after all? Maybe I only spoke gibberish? Oh great Jesus, I actually spit in the face of Richard Burbage! He’s going to kill me! They’re all going to kill me! How shall I make my escape?

“Say it,” I demanded, my voice quavering as my entire being absorbed the probable punishment I was about to suffer. “I did what I could! It was just too many words, and I was nervous, and something came over me. If you want to sack me, then fine, but it’s not my fault—”

“Shut up, boy!” the Poet demanded, crossing to me as if he would strike me, but instead pulling me into his arms forcefully and pressing my head into his chest. “You have astounded us!”

I was speechless, parsing the word “astounded,” and trying to feel the earth beneath my feet to prove I was not dreaming.

“Do you speak the truth, sir?” I mumbled to his breast, my eyes craning to see Augustine who was nodding, his own face flushed with pride.

“Well done, lad,” Augustine said, as he patted his heart. “Well done.”

The Poet pushed me to arm’s length and looked into my eyes that had begun to tear with the realization I had gotten through it and was not going to be sacked.

“Did you not hear the roar?” he said. “Your beauty instantly stole the hearts of the spectators. More importantly, your performance breathed new life and passion into our poor tragic Queen Anne. The spitting was brilliant!”

Ed Knight had to shush him, since there was a scene still in progress on the stage.

The Poet lowered his voice again. “I shall write it into the script!”

Burbage, after finishing the scene, walked into the tiring house directly past me and over to the Poet. He whispered loud enough that I could hear, “Will, you were correct in convincing me we should hire this bastard boy. What are the plans going forward?”

The Poet looked to Augustine, and I heard him whisper. “Do you think he’s ready?”

“You saw what I saw,” Augustine said quietly. “Besides, Alex’s voice strains at his upper register these days. It’s time he moved on.”

Both Sam and Little Goat looked at me with wide eyes. Beeston, upon hearing Augustine’s comment, went stone-faced, then ran off, no doubt to tell Alex how their plan had backfired spectacularly. I held my breath as I looked to the Poet for his response.

“I agree,” the Poet said. “In fact, I propose young Hughes takes over the role of Queen Anne henceforth.” He winked at me. “Upon Richard’s agreement, of course …”

“The change will do us good,” Burbage said imperiously. “Bravo, I say.”

I could contain myself no longer. “Thank you, Richard! Oh, thank you!”

Burbage flashed an angry glare at me, chilling my blood. He stepped closer and grabbed me by the bodice of my dress. “You shall refer to me as Mister Burbage, young man. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

His fearsome sneer turned to a smile. “That’s my good lad.” He then pulled me to him in an embrace that grew almost painfully tight. Then he whispered so only I could hear, “Don’t think I don’t remember how you tried to steal my purse in that privy, boy.”

I gasped, then whispered, “Sir, I’m sorry. Please don’t give me up—”

“Shut it,” he groaned and rolled his eyes. “If I wanted to expose you, I would have a long time ago. You simply proved my theory that all the best actors are thieves and liars.” He grasped my arm more tightly. “But hear me, welp, if you ever upstage me again, I shall cut off your bollocks and notify the authorities of your crimes.” Then with a small smile, he released me, slapped me on the back, and returned to the stage for his next scene, accompanied by my master Augustine who was playing the role of Hastings.

I was agog. I then began to more fully comprehend what had just happened. I had despite my terror (or because of it) caused a minor triumph. After more company members approached to whisper their congratulations, I peeped out the crack to watch Burbage finish his scene. My skin shivered with a desire to get back onto the stage. Was there anything in the world more dangerous or thrilling? To feel the paint on my face, the wig on my head, the Poet’s words in my mouth, the audience’s eyes on me—for the first time in my life, I was truly at home.

There was a tapping on my shoulder. It was the Poet again. He looked to see if anyone else was listening, then gripped the back of my head, and pulled my ear close to his lips. “Come to my tent after it gets dark,” he whispered. “We must speak. Don’t bring Sam or Little Goat. Come alone.”

ThirteenReading Lessons

Wherein the Poet makes a most unexpected proposal.

For where is she so fair whose uneared womb