Page 30 of The Two Wills

“In truth, sir, I cried for a week and then some. I swore never to love me someone again. But—” I paused. “I’m not sure I will keep that promise.”

I was nearly certain the Poet received my meaning, but for emphasis, I tilted my head so that when I looked up my eyes would be wide and inviting. It was a technique I had witnessed my mother do while serving beer at the Nags Head—it often sealed her negotiations, and so I employed it robustly.

“I see,” he said. I could see from his expression he was losing himself in his creative haze. “Lovers torn apart because of the enmity of warring families.”

His comment about war confused me, and I thought I might have been misunderstood. “Oi, we wasn’t warring or nothing,” I said. “My sweetheart’s father just thought I was trash and, in truth, I was.”

He ignored my clarification and continued his discourse according to his own will. “As soon as we met,” he said, “I sensed you were not any normal young man, but one who has already experienced the greatest wound of life.” He cupped his large warm hand against my cheek, and I thought I might spill my spirit right then. “They say the lips of true beauty are made redder by the flush of a broken heart.”

I felt he went a little overly lavender there in his wooing, but he was always trying out such poetry, so I forgave him. Of course, with how my loins were burning, I would’ve forgiven him anything.

“Is that right, sir?” I said, wiggling my fingers into the loops of my britches, readying to rip them from my buttocks, should he say the word. “What was it about my lips then?”

He took a breath, then bit his lip, as if he was pondering how to explain. “Sit please,” he said, gesturing to the bed. I sat as commanded. He then joined me, sitting closely, our warm thighs touching, the smell of his breath, the shivering of my own body.

“This is the thing, Hughes,” he began. “What you did tonight onstage has changed everything for me. I suspected something glorious from that first moment we met, but tonight you surpassed even my wildest hopes.” He took a very deep breath. “You are the one I’ve been searching for.”

“I am, sir?” Will he kiss me now? I leaned in further into his body and lifted my face so my lips would be in proximity to his. But rather than respond, he appeared to wake from his reverie, and for the first time become aware of his own semi nakedness and the touch of our bodies. He nervously stood from the bed and crossed to the table to retrieve a shirt with which to cover himself.

“Yes,” he began again, his voice shaking. “Where was I?”

“You were saying,” I attempted to get him back on course, “that I was the one you was waiting for …”

“… as an actor,” he finished. “That’s what I meant. You were the one I was waiting for as an actor.”

My glow fizzled at his response. “Oh, I guess that’s good.”

His brow furrowed at my lack of enthusiasm. “Can you not comprehend what your performance has done? You set my mind ablaze with a whole army of potential new characters. You have the divine genius, lad. I saw it in Burbage, and I see it in you.”

“So, this is why you wanted to talk to me alone tonight?” The disappointment bled out in my tone. I have never been one to hide my true feelings.

“Yes,” he said. “Well, not completely. But first and foremost, we have much work to do!”

“Work?”

He stood up and gathered some papers from his table. “I understand from Augustine that you’re still struggling with your reading?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Little Goat has been helping, but …” I shrugged.

“Not to worry. I’m going to tutor you myself.”

I gawped with surprise. Really, sir? When?”

“We can start now, of course.”

“Now? But it’s bedtime, sir.”

“We’ve no time to waste!” He clapped his hands like a school master. “You and I will meet every day until you’ve got a solid base. I’ll need to steal some hours from Augustine. It’s not as if you need any more lessons in acting. You already have more talent than I did when I first followed the Queen’s Men to London.”

“Is that how you came to be an actor? The Queen’s Men?”

“It is, but in truth I would have followed a troupe of shit diggers if they would have gotten me out of dull, dreary Warwickshire. Luckily, it turned out I had a knack for writing and, well, here we are. So, let’s get started!” He handed me one of the papers from the desk.

“What’s it?” I asked. “Is it new lines for Queen Anne?”

“No.” He laughed. “She’s set for the time being. This one’s a sonnet.”

“What’s a sonnet?”