Page 62 of The Two Wills

“Here are your sonnets, poet!” I cast the sonnets up into the air of the room, watching them flutter about the bed like a torrent of giant windblown leaves.

As he runs to close the window to protect any of the pages from escaping, I make my way to the door.

“We shall not see each other again,” I say through my tears. “You will no longer have my life to tarnish with your lies, nor steal for your plays!”

“Rose, please don’t go like this! Please!” He again tries to approach me, and again I raise my hand to stop him.

“Come no closer.” I turn the knob. “I promise you this, poet, you will never be happy. Never. Not with your wife, and not with your bastard youth. He will eventually see that you can never give him what he truly wants, and he will leave you forever. And when he does, you will feel what I am feeling, and your heart will bleed—your soul will bleed. As for me, worry not. I have immortal longings, poet, and shall outlive you, him, and even your precious words.”

I walk out the door, down the steps, and onto the streets. Hot tears slip down my cheeks, fall upon the ground, and freeze.

Twenty-SixThe New Season

Wherein Willy Hughes and the company return after a week’s rest to find that some familiar faces are missing.

ANTONIO:

In sooth I know not why I am so sad.

It wearies me, you say it wearies you.

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ‘tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn.

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me

That I have much ado to know myself.

—The Merchant of Venice Act 1, Scene 1

When the company returned for the new season, I was ill-prepared for the changes that awaited. Rose was nowhere to be seen. I questioned Alex, Beeston, and Ed Knight about her absence, and discovered that the accepted theory was that the Poet had grown weary of Rose and sent her packing back to her husband. I was not convinced of this reasoning. To deepen the mystery, one of the tiremen reported that he had seen the Poet drunk, with a cut upon his face and “celebrating” at the local bawdy houses, rather than having returned to his home in Stratford. The news of his unexpected debauchery created a great stir among the company, since, according to the tireman, an untethered Poet was grist for much gossip among the wives, as well as a cause for concern among the husbands. To me, this sort of behavior, not being his usual, suggested the Poet was in a muddle of some kind.

I must admit my own heart’s course felt out-of-sorts concerning Rose’s disappearance. While I was ecstatic that the main obstacle to my friendship with the Poet was gone, I still felt an odd sense of lamentation and unease. It wasn’t that I missed her per se, but she was an obstacle I understood. Now that she was gone, would there be other women with whom the Poet found sport—women who might present an even greater challenge? His recent sonnet had claimed my breast as being the home of his love. But if he was out sporting, would some new dalliance possibly fill the spot left by Rose—the spot I hoped to finally fill?

I sought out Little Goat to share my fears but could find him nowhere. I went to a nearby alehouse where the apprentices tended to bide their time and caught sight of Beeston, who was holding court.

“Oi,” I whispered to Beeston. “Have you seen Little Goat?”

“Not a hair,” he said. “Ed Knight had warned all to be back here by this day. Eleven sharp.”

Just then, among the apprentices, I noticed a fresh-faced boy sitting at the end of the table.

“What’s this?” I said. “Who is the cherub-cheek down there?”

“New apprentice. We got two of ’em for the Spring season. I’m assuming this one to be the replacement for Sam the Hedgehog, though he’s a bit scrawny to be sure, so maybe, seeing as Little Goat isn’t here, he’s taking over for him. Who knows.”

“That’s impossible,” I bristled. “Little Goat just went home to visit his mum. He was to be back today like the rest of us. Everyone knows that.”

“Do they?” Beeston said. “He was always so melancholy. Perhaps the sharers decided they wanted someone a little less pathetic—”

“Stop saying that!” I spat. “They’d never sack Little Goat. Not without telling me. You’ve always been a dim-witted scoundrel!”

“No need to hold my head to the ax,” Beeston said. “I was just offering ideas. If you don’t like ’em, ninnycock, then bugger off!”

I ran to find my master Augustine who always knew much more about who was in and who was out among the company. When I found him, he was talking to the other new apprentice. He, too, was the same size and age as Little Goat, but with blonde hair like me. I glared at them like two Judases.