Page 60 of The Two Wills

Mistress Rosalind Williams reads another of the secret sonnets—the most revealing of the Poet’s heart yet.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair …

—from Sonnet 144

It starts to snow. The Poet and I leave the holiday feast shortly after Burbage vomits all over the boar’s snout. It is a merry celebration nonetheless, and we would have stayed longer except for the Poet’s need to wake early to make his journey home to Stratford-upon-Avon. As we walk back to his rooms, I glory in the success I have made of the previous year. I have become the Poet’s greatest muse. My proof? For the last three months, when he wasn’t fucking me, he was at his desk writing rapaciously. Writing and fucking, fucking and writing. Sometimes he’d do both at the same time, grabbing a quill and his little book to write a note on my naked back while still inside me. He was in his bliss, as was I.

Sometimes I even asked him directly, “Am I your muse, my love?”

His face would glow in affirmation, while his cock throbbed. “There is no doubt you a-muse me, my love! Now let us a-muse each other again until the dawn breaks!”

I no longer worry about that pretty young actor being a distraction. Hughes has kept his promise and has stayed away. Their only interactions are upon the stage.

As for Hughes, it’s nearly impossible to look away when he is performing. His portrayal of Rosalind is thrilling, brave, and romantic. He learned much of that from me and still wears the black wig with the rose in it. I was told by a confident at court that even the Queen has noticed the similarity in Hughes’s portrayal and my appearance.

“What were you just thinking about?” the Poet asks me as we enter the door of the inn.

“Just how much I want us to be naked and under the sheets together right now,” I whisper.

Our heads still dizzy with drink, we run up to his rooms and engage in a most scintillating frolic involving a blindfold, ostrich feathers, hot beeswax, and a nutcracker. It is agonizing bliss. As soon as we finish (or rather, after I finish twice, him only once) the Poet takes to his table and begins another heated flourish of scribbling. I lie there glowing in the tangled sheets, knowing he once again has pulled a bouquet of glorious words from my loins. After his brainstorm has calmed, he looks up and asks, “When you and Hughes were together, you know—in a country matters sort of way—did you enjoy it?”

It is the first he has mentioned my affair with the youth in months. My skin prickles. “Enjoy is a strong word.” I am cautious with what I say, not wanting him to regress into jealous melancholy. “We lost our heads.”

“I see. Was he a good lover?”

“Is this related to something you’re writing?” I ask.

“In a way. So, tell me—was he generous? Rough? Was he good at—?”

“It wasn’t that he was bad … he is well-formed and can be overly excitable, but teachable. The unfortunate part was, he didn’t seem completely present … when we were, as one might say, making the beast with two backs.”

He gave a short titter, and scribbled something on the page, saying, “How so?”

“He rarely looked at me during the act.” I surrender a sigh. “I wondered who he was really thinking of while he was coupling with me.”

“Who?” the Poet asks.

“Judas! You know who.” I widen my eyes in feigned exasperation. The Poet turns away, because he knows well enough. “It doesn’t bother you that he loves you?”

“Young actors become enamored with their stage poets all the time. It’s normal,” he says, and returns to his writing.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about—”

“Enough!” There is a prick of anger in his voice. “Sorry. I mean, let’s not speak of it anymore.”

I scoff. “You were the one who brought it up.”

“I know, and I apologize. I was foolish to mention it. The important thing is you’re here with me, love, and that’s all that matters.” He goes back to his quill.

“It is,” I say, and I smile, but there is disquiet in my heart. The Poet’s full attention is now on the page, and as usual I feel forgotten. “What are you writing, anyway? You’ve been very focused.”

“A new play, of course. The words are spilling like … well … like vomit from Burbage’s gullet onto that roasted pig’s snout.” We groan at the repulsive memory. “Pardon the metaphor.”

“Did I do that?” I ask, pleased. “Inspire you to such spillage?”

“Of course. You add gush to my words. The company as well, of course. We’re a favorite of the court. Our audience is growing like a raging fire. Burbage and Hughes perform together as if they were born to it. I tell you, I’ve never felt this productive in my life. I’ve gotten several new ideas for plays just this week.”

“Wonderful.” I take to my feet to peep over his shoulder.