Page 58 of The Two Wills

We all laughed at Sam’s rude joke, knowing he was still a virgin. I feared he would struggle to find both a wife and another position as a player.

“What do you think you’ll do?” I asked. “Apply to another company?”

“Judas! Not a chance,” Sam said, spitting for effect. “I’m fed up with the stage. It’s a profession of arrogant knaves and water flies. I’m thinking of signing on to venture to the New World. They need a solid man like me.” Then, speaking quickly so as not to crack his voice with emotion, he said, “Well, this is a glum chat for a goodbye. I best go check if I’ve forgotten anything in the tiring house. I’ll see you both in a bit, lads.”

Sam walked off, leaving both Little Goat and me feeling even worse that we could be no use to him. This was the way of a player’s apprenticeship—some succeeded, most failed.

“What agony,” I whispered, as we watched Sam leave.

“’Tis,” Little Goat said. “Must feel like a wallop to the walnuts to be tossed away like soured milk.”

“Worse than that.” I sighed, thinking of how I had been so expediently supplanted as the Poet’s beloved muse. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not traded in for one of these new lads come spring.”

“No one will replace you, Hughes,” Little Goat said. “What with the Queen smiling at you the way that she did.”

“That’s true.” I still felt the warmth of the good Queen’s smile.

“Besides that,” Little Goat added, “Will loves you like no other actor I’ve seen.”

“No, he doesn’t,” I mumbled. “He barely speaks to me anymore.”

“There are more ways to love than one.” Little Goat’s eyes looked upon me gently as always. He had most assuredly become my wiser younger brother. “You’ll find that other kind of friendship one day, Hughes. I’m sure of it. After all, as they say, there’s a cork for every bottle—even for beef-witted jobbernowls like Sam the Hedgehog … though it would need to be a rather large cork in his case.”

This made us both laugh.

“Happy New Year, my friend,” I said, even though the New Year celebration had passed weeks before. “I wish you a safe journey home.”

“Thank you, Hughes, and let this be our greatest year ever. I shall make my way now. It will take me at least the night to walk to my mother’s house, but I can’t bear to wait one more moment. Be well, and I shall see you promptly on our first day back.”

Little Goat hugged me, and I was overcome with a sense of worry. His mother lived all the way past the village of Dulwich, and the roads were most dangerous at night with thieves and miscreants, not to mention the freezing weather. He still was so sleight in his build, and the scar on his face had mostly faded, returning him to near his original beauty, putting him at an even greater risk of succumbing to nefarious scheming.

Later, as I was making sure all my costumes and wigs were stored properly, I heard a commotion from out on the stage. Upon further examination, I discovered the sharers had arranged a surprise end-of-season feast for the company. They had purchased overflowing platters of sweets, fruits and nuts, an entire barrel of wassail, and even a boar’s head. It was as if they had delayed the Yuletide and New Year’s celebration just for us since we had been working through the festivities. I considered chasing Little Goat to bring him back, but I knew he wouldn’t want to be delayed any more from seeing his mother. I went out into the hall where they had already begun to dance. There was much joy among the company; even Beeston was on his best behavior. Alex looked marvelously handsome, with holly leaves in his hair, and several of the daughters of the sharers giggling around him. Will Kemp, drunk as always, started a jig wearing his wife’s bonnet, while Sam dug into the sweets, sneaking some into his travel sack for his journey to wherever he might lay his head.

“How goes it, lad?” my master Augustine called out. “Will you spend the week off with your mother?”

“Just for one night, sir,” I told him. “She’s preparing a fine supper.” It was a lie; I had no intention of paying her a visit, nor would she ever prepare me a meal. “Otherwise, I’ll be spending my free time learning my words as usual, as well as my dancing and fencing, sir.”

“Good boy,” he said. “But do give yourself some time for fun. Come have a dance with us …”

I declined, saying I wanted to get some of the boar before Sam had gotten to it and left nothing but its eyes for feasting. I walked over to the table and filled my plate with some cheek, as well as chestnuts, dried fruit, and a cup of wassail, which was marvelously strong. Moments later I saw the Poet climb upon the stage with Rose in tow. She looked gorgeous, draped with colorful ribbons around her green velvet dress. Upon her head she wore a crown of red blossoms rather than her single rose. All the company cheered their arrival; his plays having brought all the sharers much wealth and fame and given the rest of us hope for an even busier new year.

The Poet and Rose looked happy and content. So much so, I drank down my cup of wassail and filled it again to the brim as he and she approached me. I left my plate of food on a table untouched, not wanting to look desperately hungry, though I was.

“Good end of season, lad,” the Poet said, slapping me on my back in that brotherly way, completely disregarding the fact that he had practically ignored me for months.

“Good end of season, sir,” I said, before nodding my head at Rose. I had begun to feel the drink take its effect. “Good end of season to you too, Madam. Do those flowers on your head mean you won a contest?”

I could not tell if her smile was touched with pity or gloating. “Just being festive, Hughes,” she said. I cared little whether she acknowledged her triumph. What wounded me was how carefree and cocky the Poet looked, content in his artistic, romantic, and monetary successes, while I was feeling so utterly alone. Despite my belief that I had gotten past it; I was still in the throes of my love-madness. How humiliating it is to feel such gut-wrenching and undying love for someone who feels … what? Nothing? Oh, how I wish I had not come to this wretched feast.

“Did you say something, Hughes?” the Poet asked with a quizzical scrunch of his eyebrow. “Your face had contorted like you might have said something I missed.”

“No, sir.” I feigned a casualness in my tone, though the heat of the wassail was wassailing around my head, making the words tumble from my mouth in cumbersome ways. “I just was wondering if you’ll be staying in London for the break, sir?

“Alas, I shall be going to see my family up in Stratford. The children are growing; I’m told I must see them before they are too large to recognize.” He laughed. “I also have business to which I must attend. Rose, of course, will be staying in London with her family. And you?”

I wanted to say, You know well and good my only family is a whore of a mother and the alehouse drunkards who misused me, but instead I repeated my lies. “I will mostly be practicing by my lonesome, sir. As my master Augustine says, an out-of-tune lute sings for no man’s pleasure.”

“This is how we are alike,” he said. “We can never step away from our work for long. Well, happy season’s end, Hughes. We have something for you.”