Page 66 of The Two Wills

“A paid actor in one of your plays?” I said, my heart pounding at the thought that England’s greatest poet wanted me at all. “The character, who is she?”

“Not a she, lad. I would have you play a young man—just like yourself. Vain, beautiful, tragic. It will seal your destiny as one of England’s greatest actors.” He stepped even closer and took my hand. My flesh tingled at how he held it, and how he appeared to feel no shame that others might see.

“A man?” I said, astonished. “You wish me to play a man?”

“I do,” he said. “Yes, you do make a beautiful girl. But your true beauty is as a young man. You know the effect you have on others, don’t you?”

“A little,” I lied.

He held in a laugh. “You don’t need to feign humility with me. I never do. I know the only thing that holds sway over my own good looks is my talent. This play I’m writing needs someone who knows their sensual power. It’s not only your beauty, it’s the way you carry yourself on the stage—that arrogance. When you are up there no one can look at anyone else … I certainly couldn’t.” His expression turned serious, and his voice grew quieter, “See here, Hughes, you and I know who we are … we know what we are.” When he said this, my face grew hot, but not with embarrassment, but with a thrill. To meet someone who was not ashamed as I had been all my life stole my breath. “And I want to be clear, I’m not offering you this opportunity for any other reason than you are remarkably talented and beautiful. It’s a business agreement. That’s all. So, what do you say?”

My head flooded with fear and excitement. “My contract’s term with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men is coming due soon. I’ll need to think about it. They’ve been very good to me.”

“Then why do you look so unhappy when you’re off the stage?” His eyes bored into mine as if he were a fortune teller. I said nothing, but then he smiled, as if he knew he had found his way in. “When I finish the play, I’ll visit you again so you can read it.”

He started to leave, and, fearing I might not have another chance, I became brazen. “Sir,” I called to stop him. “There is a favor I would like to ask. I heard you began your career writing plays for the Children of the Chapel.”

“’Tis true. Although, I’m not a fan of their approach to finding child actors.”

“That’s the thing, sir. I have a friend, James Sands, who we call ‘Little Goat.’ He’s been forced back into the company, and I haven’t been able to see him. Might you know someone who could let me know if he fares well, and if I might visit him?”

“Your wish, my dear, is my command.” He again took my hand and kissed it, as if I were a lady and he my suitor.

At that very moment I heard someone step up behind us. I quickly pulled my hand from Marlowe’s lips and turned to see who it was.

“Will!” I yelped. My stomach turned, as if I had just been caught with the butcher by my betrothed. “Mister Marlowe here was telling me how much he enjoyed your play.”

“I did,” Marlowe said, smiling devilishly. “Especially those bits I wrote that still linger.”

The Poet’s dark eyes locked onto Kit’s with a jealous glare. Kit, for his part, returned the Poet’s glower, but with a challenging smirk. (Two of the most handsome and talented poets in London, facing off like two lions over me!)

“Hughes,” the Poet said, not taking his eyes from Kit as he spoke. “The troupe is going to the tavern for a round to celebrate. Get dressed. I want you there with us.”

“I shall let you to your company, Hughes,” Marlowe said, tipping his hat. “Think about what we discussed, will you?”

The Poet watched him go. When Marlowe was out of earshot, the Poet turned to me. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing much,” I lied.

He scoffed. “There has never been a moment in that rakehell’s life when he has been short on words. Now, tell me.” The Poet’s eyes flared with fury. I had never seen him behave as such, and it scared me a little, but also excited me that he feared losing me to another man.

“He just told me that he liked my performance and enjoyed the play. I asked him if he could bring me any news about Little Goat, since he was familiar with the company.”

The Poet stared me down. I sensed he knew I was still only telling a fraction of the story.

“Stay away from him,” he demanded with both threat and fear inside his voice. “You hear me? He’s extremely dangerous.”

Twenty-EightKit

Wherein Willy Hughes makes a deeper acquaintance of the rival poet.

O! how I faint when I of you do write,

Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

And in the praise thereof spends all his might,

To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.