Page 67 of The Two Wills

—from Sonnet 80

It was two weeks later that I saw Kit Marlowe again. He had waited outside the playhouse for me. He didn’t seem drunk at all like before, but wide awake and carried a leather bag with him. He looked dashing in a green doublet and smelled of elderflower water.

“Your performance was astounding,” he said, offering me a small bouquet of violets.

“Thank you, sir.” I anxiously took the violets, holding them low in case the Poet or any of the other sharers were nearby. “We probably shouldn’t talk here.”

“I understand,” he said. “But I have some good news.”

“You do, sir?” I said, assuming he was about to tell me of something about his new play.

“When you’re ready, I’ve been assured you’ll be able to visit your little friend at the Children of the Chapel.”

A rush of joy filled my body. “You spoke to them about Little Goat?”

“I have. Just say the word, and I’ll make sure you are not stopped at the gates—nor encounter any problem upon leaving once you’re done. They know not to cross me. But they are quite prickly about their young actors having visitors, so be certain to have me send a note first.”

“Thank you much, sir!” I threw my arms around him, which he seemed to welcome, but then I nervously pushed myself away, knowing that the Poet might step out of the playhouse at any moment. “I much appreciate it, sir, but I do think I should be careful in case …”

“In case Will sees us?”

“Yes, sir. It might be awkward, seeing as …” Again, I let the words falter.

“Seeing as he knows your value and is fearful of losing you? I never said he was stupid. Just less talented than me. And balding.”

I wanted to laugh at his brazenness but also protest in defense of the Poet. (And all bald men for that matter!) “Sir …”

“My apologies. I know you’re fond of him. But I have other good news for you.” He took one of his dramatic pauses. “I’ve done it.”

“Done what?” I said, though I knew this time it would most certainly be about his play.

“Finished the play I told you about. The one I wrote with you in mind.” He dug into his leather sack and proffered me a thick stack of pages, the top page proclaiming the title The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of England, with the Tragical Fall of Proud Mortimer. “I had my scrivener copy out a separate book for you, so you can read the whole thing. It’s genius, if I do say so myself—and I do.” I appreciated how Kit could make jest of himself. “Piers Gaveston is the role I wrote for you. So please read it as such.”

I suddenly heard the Poet’s voice along with Burbage and other company members ready to exit the playhouse door.

“It’s them, sir,” I whispered. “Please, do walk away.”

“You will read it tonight, won’t you?” There was a desperation in how he said it.

“I will,” I hurried. “But please …”

I took several steps away and turned my back as the door swung open. The Poet, thank goodness, was not among the group but several tipped their hats to Kit, since all knew him, and a few had been in his plays.

“Kit!” Burbage said, hugging him. “Did you see today’s performance?”

“I did,” Kit said. “And you were marvelous. Will is lucky to have you elevating his work above what it is.”

Burbage laughed. “You two. Cut from the same cloth. Hopefully you’ll someday accept that you complement each other. The playhouses would be dreary if we didn’t have you both.”

“Thank you, Richard,” Kit said. “I hope to see you take the stage in one of my plays again.”

“It would be an honor, Kit. Come join us for a drink!”

“I’d love to, but I have an engagement with the Earl of Pembroke’s Men. They are set to do my newest.”

“They are, are they?” Burbage said. “Well, I look forward to seeing it. Let’s hope it’s another Tamburlaine.”

When the players had moved on, Marlowe approached me again, patted the stack of pages in my hand, and said, “I look forward to hearing what you think.” And then he left.