Page 40 of The Two Wills

The Poet stopped his thrusting, turned, and saw me staring back at them. He quickly pulled a blanket over their nakedness. I feared seeing anger in his eyes, but there was none. Instead, he looked guiltily at me, as if he had been caught by someone far more important than I. I swear I saw him mouth the words “I’m sorry.”

Both confused and ashamed, I dove out into the deeper water and swam as fast as I could. When I clambered onto the beach, my whole body shook with nerves, yet my face felt hot, like I wanted to cry. Since I had emptied my body of my lust, I could only feel more hatred toward that horrid woman who had used my watching for her pleasure, and at the Poet for his … what was it? Pity?

“How fare you?” Little Goat asked, already dressed. “I was worried they caught you.”

“They saw me, but neither said anything.”

“Perhaps they thought you were a mermaid or a sea nymph?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “She’s an awful woman. How could she do those things to him?”

Little Goat cleared his throat then offered plainly, “I do believe he liked it.”

“She’s a witch,” I said. “She’s entranced him. He’d never let someone do those things to him if he wasn’t bewitched.”

“I think you’re daft. Let us hurry to bed, before we’re too tired to perform. Come on.”

It took us twice the time and many stumbles to get to the top of the zigzag path. After we arrived back to our cart, Little Goat quickly fell asleep, but I could not. I went out into the field and lay down in the grass, staring up at the sky. Had the moon and stars, in their shameless shining, witnessed all that had happened? Or had they turned away like Little Goat, leaving me all alone to decipher its complexity?

I recreated the entire sinful scene again in my head, not once but several times—the marks on his back and buttocks, her kissing his wounds, her staring at me as she rode his member, that look of contrition in his eyes, and … the apology on his lips. Before I knew it, I had released myself yet again into a thorny tangle of dandelions.

SeventeenA Summer’s Day

Wherein Willy Hughes confronts the Poet

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

—from Sonnet 18

The next morning, while Sam and Little Goat practiced their broadsword, I lay in our donkey cart trying not to think about what had transpired the night before. I wanted to tell myself it was some waking dream Little Goat and I shared, brought on by our excitement at seeing the white cliffs and sea for the first time. It had also been an unusually warm summer’s evening, which is said to be a playground for fairies and other sprites who could distort a youth’s perceptions. I decided it was best for us to behave as if nothing had happened.

But as the morning sun grew hotter, and the gnats and flies circled my head seeking to suck the wet from my brow, the images of the naked bodies of the Poet and his mistress kept returning to my beleaguered mind. Their cozening appeared so connected, in a way I had not known was possible. And what of that look on his face when he saw me watching them cavort as I did? Had I truly understood its meaning? And if he did feel he was betraying me with her—then why had he still not proclaimed his love for me? Why had he not at least laid his lips on mine? Had he not called me exquisite and beautiful more than once? Had he not told me I was the “the one he had been looking for”?

I hissed reprisals at a lone mourning dove in the tree. “Fie on thee, scoundrel!” I blurted. “Must you treat my heart so cowardly?” The bird fled into the skies, terrified.

I then heard Little Goat and Sam cease their wooden swordplay and cry out, “Sir!”

I bolted up in the cart and saw the Poet standing there, looking at me. I feared he had just heard me shouting my madness to the sky.

“Sorry, sir!” I called over. “Just practicing my lines!”

“Not a line I writ,” he said as he approached. “Boys,” he said to Sam and Little Goat, “I need to speak with our young Hughes privately. Would you two mind leaving us to ourselves for quarter of an hour or such?”

“No, sir,” they sang out in unison.

As they left, Little Goat looked at me with woe in his eyes. He assumed, like myself, that I was in for a thrashing for having spied on the Poet and his lady. I prepared myself for the worst, though I knew my standing with the company must still be valued, or he would have sent Ed Knight to give me the sack.

The Poet came nearer. “So?” His voice was low and gruff in a way I had not heard before.

“So, what, sir?” I said, attempting to hide all that was within me. Unfortunately, my furtive eyes and inability to hide my disgruntled heart must’ve given me away.

“How now!” he chided. “What has come over you? Why do you twitch so?”

“Pardon, sir?” I strained my voice with indifference. “I can’t nearly know what you’re talking about.” But then I swore a knowing glint filled his eyes, and my performance faltered. “I mean if you’re speaking about last night, well … I mean …” I began to quake. “I had no rude intentions, sir. I just went for a swim is all! I didn’t see nothing! It was far too dark, I swear!”

He momentarily smiled at the squeaks of my transparent protest. The air was thick with my waiting. Say something!

Finally, he spoke. “Swim? What are you talking about, Hughes? Have you been lying too long in the sun and gone giddy?”