Page 65 of The Two Wills

I first encountered this new man after a performance of the third part of Henry VI one afternoon, wherein I portrayed the young, bloodthirsty Queen Margaret (one of my favorite roles) and was cleaning my face at the wash bucket behind the playhouse. I was naked except for my undergarments. I heard someone walk up close behind me and felt certain it was Beeston about to shove my head in the bucket as he had done several times before.

“Just try it, you turd-toothed knave,” I snapped, “and I’ll kick you so hard in them tiny walnuts your pig-face will turn blue!”

“I beg your pardon?” an educated gentleman’s voice responded with a laugh. “Hughes, is it?”

When I turned around to see who I had so unjustly offended, I nearly yipped. It was none other than the famous (and infamous) Christopher Marlowe!

He was even more handsome than I remembered from seeing him pointed out after the performance of Tamburlaine. Fit, with long, light brown hair and green eyes like knives, stabbing the world with curiosity.

Being that I had been momentarily struck speechless by his presence, Marlowe repeated his greeting, “You are the boy player Willy Hughes, are you not?”

Suddenly realizing I was still nearly naked, I pulled the wash rag over my bare chest and managed, “I am, sir, and you’re … you’re Mister Marlowe.”

“I am. But call me Kit.” He took my hand, which felt incredibly warm and soft, and he held it for an unusually long time. “You are a fine actor … very fine. You know I inspired much of what you were saying up there this afternoon. Wrote some of it, in fact.”

“You did?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes. Will and I collaborated on the first of those Henry plays. Alas, both of us were too pig-headed to continue working together, though more than a little of my writing lingers in the plays. You did my words great justice. Too bad you are imprisoned with those lesser words that don’t deserve your exquisite lips.”

“Well, I like speaking all of them words, sir,” I said. While I was drawn to Marlowe for his fame and handsomeness, I didn’t like that he was slandering the Poet—especially since it was his words that had made me who I was. “There are them that say Will’s talent is a match for your own, sir.”

“Do they?” Marlowe said. “Perhaps. I did note some inspired moments when he wasn’t just lifting my best lines and repackaging them like some housewife making cleaning rags out of a queen’s ball gown.”

“Will does not steal, sir!” I responded far too vociferously, knowing quite well how much the Poet had stolen from other writers, not to mention his pickpocketing of my own life and Rose’s. Why, even his Cleopatra was Rose’s twin, to the point of borrowing some of the sayings she used.

Marlowe looked at me suspiciously and smiled. “Not you too?”

“What?” I said.

“You haven’t fallen in love with him, like all the rest?”

“Of course not. That’s … that’s ridiculous,” I said, though I could tell my face—no doubt pink from blushing—was giving me away.

“Oh, dear.” Marlowe held his stomach and laughed. “That Will is too much! He seduces everyone at some point with that befuddled, confused lover act. Always the same way and how he stares into the abyss, making every man, woman, and youth wonder, ‘Does he or does he not?’ ”

I was stunned at how Marlowe seemed to intuit what I had been going through, and obviously my expression was confirming it for him.

“He tried that with me as well, lad,” Marlowe said, voice lowered. “Oh yes, I felt moved by him at first. He had just moved to London, and was wide-eyed, focused, and quite fit—in that rustic country boy way. Different than the other miscreant artists who flit about the playhouses. He singled me out as—how did he put it—‘the most genius of our lot,’ and said he wanted to emulate me. He’d sit by me, quite close, our legs touching, our breath commingling as we tossed around ideas. But any time I’d make a parry for something more, he’d back away with a mischievous giggle, as if to signal ‘not yet, but soon.’ Then he goes and steals much of the first Henry the Sixth plays from me, leaving my name off completely when they published it.”

I felt a pall come over me, and stepped away, hoping he’d stop with his indictment. But he wouldn’t let it alone.

“I’m not saying he’s not talented,” Marlowe continued. “Will’s talent has grown far beyond what anyone expected from a man who should have been a country constable like his father. But he’ll do whatever he must to get what he needs.”

I knew of what he spoke only too well. My face burned with both embarrassment and anger.

“Poor beautiful boy.” Marlowe stepped closer and removed the rag I still held in front of me. Nearly a foot taller than I, he looked down upon me, raking his moss-colored eyes across my naked chest, his hot breath smelling of Madeira. All my agitation from just a moment before fell away, and I felt an erotic tingling. A thousand thoughts swarmed my head, while ten thousand flooded my heart. Why do I feel like I’m betraying the Poet, when I now know he does not want me the way I wish? Marlowe, as if he were reading my thoughts, leaned in, brushing his beard against my ear, and whispered, “A Pekingese dog should avoid being humped by a wild boar. Will loves only himself. You are but his muse—a painfully beautiful muse.” He smiled, almost to himself. “She suggested you and I would be a good match, but I didn’t believe her.”

I was momentarily confused by what he was saying. “Who suggested what?”

“Mistress Rose Williams.”

I was dumbfounded. “Rose, the … the master carpenter’s wife?”

He nodded. “She and I have been friends for ages now. She is the wisest woman in all of London, though few will acknowledge it. She suggested that if I saw you perform, I’d be instantly smitten. But I was away from England since December and only got to see you these last two weeks. She was right of course. You are radiant on the stage as a woman, but even more so in person—as one who is now a man.” He ran his finger down my chest and then laid his warm hand atop the spot where my heart was beating beneath. “I could offer you that which you truly desire.” He jostled my chin and forced me to look him straight in the eyes. “Come play with me?”

“Pardon, sir?” I whispered.

“You heard me. I want you to leave the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and come join the Earl of Pembroke’s Men. They’re doing a new play of mine in which you would take a primary role. Not as an apprentice, but as a hired man. I will pay you myself.”