Page 71 of The Two Wills

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad that I think good?

No, I am that I am; and they that level

At my abuses reckon up their own:

I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown,

Unless this general evil they maintain:

All men are bad and in their badness reign.

—Sonnet 121

That very day, I asked both the Poet and Kit to intervene on Little Goat’s behalf once more. Both said they’d make another effort but had little hope. My heart ached, thinking of how much Little Goat would suffer in the three years until his freedom. I worried about rumors that some boys disappeared or were even found dead after working with the Children of the Chapel. True or not, I could barely sleep that night.

Then a little good news arrived the next day when I met Marlowe at his rooms.

“I’ve had no luck in breaking Little Goat’s contract,” Kit said. “But my man at the Children of the Chapel has promised that Little Goat would no longer be forced to partake in any off-stage entertainment, nor be beat regularly. He’s going to make sure.”

My heart lifted in hope. “Are you certain?” I asked.

“I am,” Kit said. “Alas, you will not be allowed to visit him again until his contract is finished.”

“But why?” My face turned pale from this news. “How will I know they are not hurting him?”

“They won’t, but if you go there and upset him the way you did last time, I can’t say what will happen.”

“But three years?” I wanted to cry.

He appeared to be pondering the dilemma. “See here: Let’s wait six months, and I will make another approach. How’s that? By then I might have a new play that the Children of the Chapel may want, and I’ll be better able to negotiate.”

This gave me some comfort, but still I hoped to discover a way to free Little Goat sooner.

Beyond all my sadness over my friend, I also had to think about my own dilemma, that of confessing to all, including the Poet and Augustine, that I would be leaving the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.

I started with my master Augustine, who was bereft at my news, but understood my desire to work with Marlowe. He had worked on Tamburlaine and, like all, considered Kit an unparalleled genius. “As long as he shows up sober fifty percent of the time,” Augustine said. “But I shall miss you terribly, lad. I don’t like to get emotional when an apprentice leaves, but you have been the greatest of all the boys I have trained. You have made me extremely proud, and I count you as a friend henceforth.”

I wept at the end of our conversation. Augustine warned me that parting from the Poet would be much harder, but to be firm in following what I wanted. Then he said, “If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to find me, and if all goes awry, never fear that there is a place for you in our company.” He said none would object to my return since I had elevated the female characters beyond anything they had witnessed and was certain to grow into a fine player of the male roles.

Next, I told my news to the master of the book, Ed Knight. I felt I owed it to him, since he had saved me so many times by reminding me of a line. In response to my news, he merely grunted as he wiped away a tear.

Before I went to the Poet, I decided it was best to pack my things so my escape from the apprentice’s quarters could be swift. I knew the Poet might try to convince me to stay, but I needed to be steadfast. I wanted to work with Kit, and while I would never love him the way I loved the Poet, I wanted the chance to be with someone who was at least capable of loving me completely—as both muse and man.

As I was placing my past roles and the Poet’s old sonnets into my sack, I heard a knock at my door. I dared not answer, but a moment later the door opened, and it was him.

“What are you doing?” the Poet said.

My stomach sickened with both nerves and sadness. “I’m just … nothing. Just organizing things.”

“You’re packing,” he said. His jaw was set and his tone sharp. “I just spoke to Ed Knight. He said you’ve decided not to renew your contract. Have you gone mad?”

“I’ve not gone mad.” His belittling words jarred me, and I began to stammer. “It’s just … just … you see, things have presented themselves that made it necessary to be released.”

His eyes filled with panic. “Things? What things? Hughes, can you not be straight with me?”