Page 69 of The Two Wills

I did want that—I at least wanted to want it. “I will think about it a little more—”

“Don’t think about it, Hughes. How often are we given a chance in life to play our true selves without fear—to express our art, which fulfills all we have ever dreamed of?”

His words dampened my eyes. To be seen and desired for who I really was, to not hide behind metaphor or the unspoken—it was as if my body became filled with warm gold.

Twenty-NineThe Children of the Chapel

Wherein Willy Hughes pays a visit to his lost and dear friend.

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.

—from Sonnet 80

And so, I decided to leave my apprenticeship with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and take on the role of Gaveston in Kit’s new play. The prospect both terrified and thrilled me, much like my feelings for Kit in general. I also was unsure how to break the news to the Poet and my master, Augustine. But before we moved any further, I asked Kit if he would be true to his word and send that note to his powerful acquaintances at the Children of the Chapel so I might finally visit Little Goat. He agreed.

Two days later I received a message from Kit that I would be allowed to pay my respects to Little Goat for up to an hour following the Children of the Chapel’s Wednesday performance. Little Goat would be appearing in a new play at the Blackfriars. The play was called The Dutch Courtesan by the poet Marston. I went. The play, like all their plays, was to be performed entirely by young boys, few over the age of fourteen from what I could see, and most being aged ten or under. While it might have been wildly entertaining to watch the uncanny performances of little boys playing doctors, lawyers, and bawds, my knowledge that at least a few of those tiny bodies had been kidnapped, whipped, and forced to perform lessened my enjoyment substantially. More disturbing was that the audience was made up of mostly older men, wearing gargoyle smiles on their withered faces. It was the same expression the punters in the Nags Head toilet wore—just before I stole their wallets. To think that Little Goat might regularly need to dodge their gnarled pinching fingers made my heart rage.

Little Goat played the title role in Marston’s play, a beautiful courtesan named Franceschina. His scar had mostly vanished and was also covered by thick makeup, making him look like he was working in a true bawdy house. Still, seeing him up on that stage, so beautiful and talented, touched my heart. When the play ended, the audience stomped their feet and threw flowers upon the stage. I ran to the back door of the playhouse, which was where I was to meet him. After several minutes the locked door was opened, and Little Goat was allowed to come out, but under the supervision of a man the size of an ogre. As soon as Little Goat cleared the doorway, I threw my arms around him.

“Save you! I missed you so much,” I cried.

“I missed you too, Hughes,” he said with a numbness to his voice. I saw in his eyes he was frightened of the beastly man who watched over us.

“Can we talk alone?” I asked.

Little Goat shook his head. “Not allowed. I’m still being punished.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my voice, but keeping a false smile on my face so his guard didn’t think we were discussing anything unpleasant. “Did you try and run away again?”

He nodded, also maintaining a lighter expression. “I did, but it was no use. They keep a hawk’s eye on me, as you can see.”

At that moment his guard took out an apple and became occupied with removing its worms with a small knife. We relaxed our false smiles, though maintained our low voices.

“How did they kidnap you this time?”

“They didn’t kidnap me.” He looked down at the ground, almost ashamed by what he was to tell me. “I was sold back.”

“Your father again?

“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “This time, it was my mother. It was all a lie about missing me and wanting me home for our holiday. It was she herself who had contacted the Children of the Chapel. Like my father, she sold me back for a price. I was only home but for a day when they came a-knocking. I tried to escape, but my mother …” He paused to gather himself. “She said she would sell my little brothers to the company if I didn’t go in peace. So, I signed the contract. I have three years left.”

“Three years?” I felt utterly guilty that I was free and he would be in a such a prison for so long. “Well, a pox on your mother and them that run that devil company.” I then fell silent for a time, not knowing what else I might say. Finally, I shrugged and whispered, “At least they’ve stopped beating you. I see no wounds, and you look healthy and fed.”

“They’ve gotten wiser,” he whispered, then nodded his head indicating for me to look down. He lifted his pant-leg and there were lines of burn marks from an iron. “But that’s not the worst of it. Sometimes I’m forced to befriend the audience members for their pleasure, and …” He couldn’t go on, all the pain of what he wanted to tell me stuck in his throat.

My entire body turned to a fist, and I wanted to tear the playhouse down. Instead, I cast a glare over at the guard who had finished deworming his apple and was again watching us as he loudly chomped on it. He glared back. “Oi! Do you find something ill with my face?” he bristled threateningly, fingering the apple knife in his hand.

“No, sir,” I said, smiling so he wouldn’t kick me out. “It’s just that apple looks marvelous good, and sounds even better.” I then whispered to Little Goat, “We have to get you out of here. I will talk to Will to get him to do something. I’m also friends with Christopher Marlowe now. He’s why I got to see you.”

Little Goat wiped his nose with his sleeve and smiled in earnest. “The famous poet Christopher Marlowe?”

“Yes,” I said.