Page 7 of The Two Wills

I felt those fluttering dragon flies again as he held my arm tightly. His black eyes seemed to be begging me. Begging me! Is this all a dream? Will it all suddenly end, like every other happy moment of your life?

“What do you say, lad? Will you make a vow?”

My head and heart locked hands and spun in circles. “By the little curlies of Saint Crispin, I will come, sir. I promise.”

“O bless!” He sighed and placed both hands on my shoulders. His touch, once more, sparking me with shivers from noggin to nuts. “That’s most jolly news!”

“Hughes!” Cook shouted. “You’re up for the whip if you don’t get in here now!”

“I must go,” I said, turning to leave.

“But wait!” The Poet followed at my heels as I made my way to the kitchen. “I don’t even know your name!”

“It’s William Hughes, sir, but my friends call me Willy.”

“Willy Hughes?” the Poet repeated with a curious smile. “You know my name is Will as well! We’ll need to keep calling you Hughes then.” I was through the door already when he shouted after me: “No telling what can happen with two Wills!”

Later than night, in my cramped alcove, I had the most marvelous dream, in which the Poet carried me to a tower in Whitehall Palace, dressed me in a robe of golden thread, placed a crown of white lilies on my head, and made love to me.

When I awoke, I was puddled in sin.

FourThe Black Rose

In which we look no longer look at the world through the eyes of Willy Hughes, but we gaze now, for the first time, through the dark eyes of Mistress Rose Williams, another person of great significance.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

—from Sonnet 132

I first encounter the Poet at a feast for the opening of Mister Henslowe’s new playhouse. My husband, Jamie, has been overseeing the carpenters. They call this most impressive structure the “Theatre,” named for the Greek amphitheaters of yore. The feast is attended by the city’s most prominent actors, poets, and musicians, along with various other tradesmen. While I am merely the wife of the master carpenter, many still ogle me with either lust or jealousy. They struggle to understand my influence upon them. There are not words to describe my sort of dark beauty among the English. I am foreign born, from a region of which most have never heard. This upsets them greatly. I have skin the color of walnuts, dark eyes like wet black pebbles, and wild, clouds of black curls affixed into a billowy bun atop my head. I hold it in place with a stemmed red rose the color of blood. The thorns remain attached.

I watch as dozens of London’s best actors get up onto the stage to “christen” the boards with a jig, including London’s greatest leading player, Richard Burbage, with whom I’ve had several private rendezvous. Alas, our sport became a bit like the sweetest Shrewsbury cakes—the third helping sickened. However, we remain great friends, and occasional confidantes.

As the jig is ending, I notice one of the players stumble off the stage. His friends catch him and lay him at my feet, sweating and inebriated, like some slain offering upon an altar. I stoop to feel for his heartbeat. At my touch he opens his eyes and a jolt of sensual lightning flashes between us.

“God’s breath!” he cries drunkenly, peering up at me with his shimmering, bloodshot orbs. “Who are you, mi’ lady? A Moorish princess? Or the goddess Diana, back from her hunt? Please shoot me with your arrow, goddess! Or, better yet, I shall shoot you with mine.” He attempts a seductive laugh, but it is sloppy and childlike. At this I cannot help but smile.

From the glittering of his eye and the clarity of his skin, I guess his age to be eight and twenty—a full decade younger than I, which I prefer. Most men my age, after all, lack stamina. He will not guess my age. Because of the tone and suppleness of my skin, I do not wither like these dreary, pale English daisies. I, like an evergreen, will always remain beautiful, even in winter. This is not arrogance. This is truth.

“You have imbibed too much, sir,” I say as I stand so that I may look down on him in his drunken puddle, measuring his physical assets and deficits, as others have done to me. His beard is neatly trimmed to a point (a style I prefer, for it feels good on the lips, and elsewhere). There is a flush of color to his cheeks, most likely from the Madeira. His body, like most actors’, is taut with muscles. Mostly, he is the sort of Englishman who fascinates me—not noble, not a peasant, but that middle sort who are utterly and horribly as English as English can be.

It is settled, I think. I shall seduce him.

He attempts to rise. Rather than allow him, I place my shoe on his chest and shove him back down. He stares at me in shock. I consider he might scream for help, but instead a smile creeps across his hairy cheek.

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” I say, before slowly stepping on his right hand, testing for a yelp. None comes. A little more pressure; his eyes, now boiling, bid me to go further. I do. He tosses his head; a rapturous growl issues from his throat. With his free hand, he pulls me down next to him in the sawdust. He begins kissing me ravenously, allowing his wet tongue to fill my mouth. His breath stinks of drink, and his body of sweat, and yet I cannot get enough of his mouth, nor he of mine. It is as if we are feasting on oranges after weeks of thirst. I am astonished by the Vesuvian power of our attraction. I have never experienced anything like this with other men. (Certainly not my husband.) A moment later, so that we may hide our passion, we roll under the lip of the newly built stage (a stage my husband nailed down with his own hands). The drunken player’s fingers find their way up my skirt, and he diddles with my peach. Oranges, peaches, oranges, peaches. I swoon.

So few of these Englishmen even try to please a woman, but this one … he knows where and how to touch. As he goes deeper, I reach into his britches and find him. He is larger than most, firm, and well-formed. Our embraces begin to compete, each wanting to bring the other to the point of a glorious petite mort first, but at the same time not wanting it to end, so instead we collapse unfinished but filled to the brim. We gasp for breath, remaining speechless for a long time as we stare up at the underside of the stage’s wooden planks. The revelers periodically tripping over our protruding feet.

“I didn’t expect that,” he finally says, less drunkenly than before. “May I ask your name?”

“I’m Mistress Williams, wife of the master builder, James Williams. But you may call me Rose.”

“By gods! It can’t be!” he exclaims. “You’re old Jamie’s wife? The foreign beauty that has all the hens clucking, and all the roosters … erm … roostering. That Jamie is a most lucky man!” His face pales slightly. “I s’pose I should apologize to him.”

“You owe no apology. I do what I like, sir. And who, pray tell, are you?”