Page 59 of The Two Wills

Rose pulled a hessian tied with a rope from a large bag she carried. Inside the package was a pair of britches, newly sewn. It was an extravagant gift. “Thank you, sir!” I said.

“We wanted to show you our company’s appreciation for your astounding work this year,” the Poet said. “It is rare that the Queen smiles at anyone, much less one of our apprentices. You have a great future with this company, I promise you that.”

He then shared how his two newest plays would also feature me. One, another play about long dead royals where I would play a French queen who speaks little English. “He does accents quite well,” the Poet mentioned to Rose, as if I were his carnival dog. But then, when Rose became momentarily distracted by Burbage, who managed to be drunker than anyone else, the Poet leaned in and whispered to me, “I know the last few months have been awkward between us. Please know, I couldn’t have written what I have without you. Also …” His voice lowered even more. “Check the pockets later. But when you’re alone.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, knowing he would have stuffed coins in the pockets. Many of the other sharers had already handed out a small bounty to the other apprentices.

“Do you like the britches?” Rose asked, having pushed Burbage back in the direction of the wassail barrel. “I hope they fit. Geeves, one of your tiremen, sewed them up for us. You’re turning into a very handsome man. You won’t be able to wear those dresses forever.”

“I suppose not, Madam.” I forced a smile. “They are fine britches.” I turned back to the Poet. “I need to be on my way, sir. I’ve drunk too much of this wassail. And I need to go and see my mother. She’s prepared a goose for our supper.” I could see from both his and Rose’s expressions, they knew I was lying. “Until the new season, sir.”

“Yes, lad,” he said with another clap on my back. “It shall be our greatest season yet!”

I stumbled from the feast as fast as I could, not collecting my plate of food, nor even saying a final goodbye to Sam. All I wished was to weep unbothered. How unfair, I thought, that the Poet had both Rose and his wife and children, and I had no one at all. I then began to wonder about Barnaby Stubb. Were he, his wife, and two babes feasting on leftover plum potage in front of a warm fire? Was it just for that moment, or would I forever be unloved and alone? It was a pathetic thought given to lonesome young men like me, oblivious to the reality that so many were alone in the world, and far worse off since they were starving and had no warm place to rest.

Not wanting to return to my empty apprentice lodgings, I walked in the cold, past the poorest shivering by the fires down by the Thames. Once I arrived at my own favorite spot near the water, I remembered the coins the Poet had given me and decided to treat myself to a hot potato and mackerel from a seller. I dug into the pockets of the britches but found no coins. Instead, I felt a tautly wound scroll with familiar soft ribbon. It had been months since he had given me his last sonnet. I thought since he had chosen Rose, there would be no more poems. I suspected this one would be another confusing ode to my beauty or perhaps he had reverted to convincing me to procreate. But that wasn’t it. It also wasn’t just one sonnet … it was three.

The first began:

O, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify;

As easy might I from myself depart

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.

That is my home of love. If I have ranged,

Like him that travels I return again …

My mouth fell agape and my heart quickened. These poems were so different than his previous.

In another he wrote:

Most true it is that I have looked on truth

Askance and strangely; but by all above,

These blenches gave my heart another youth,

And worse essays proved thee my best of love.

And then the other these:

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o’er the very same,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

I read all three once, then twice, and then again. He called my breast his “home of love.” He explained how his heart’s excursion with Rose proved me his “best of love.” He laid claim to me as his own: “thou mine, I thine.” In each sonnet he appeared to be asking forgiveness for abandoning me. He wanted back into my heart. His love for me wasn’t only in my mind!

As always, what he had written could be taken many ways, and, no, he had not asked me to his bed yet, but these sonnets were my proof that there was still hope. I began to shout over the black, freezing Thames, “Happy season’s end, London! Happy season’s beginning, Will!”

Twenty-FiveTwo Loves