Page 75 of The Two Wills

“They merely had a business proposal about which they wanted my advice,” he said as he poured a large glass of Madeira.

“What sort of proposal takes from morning to midnight to explain?” I asked, knowing he knew little of business, other than how to spend too much money. “And what sort of advice would they want from you?”

“It’s been a long day, my darling-sweet. We can speak of it in the morning.”

And then he returned to his bedroom alone, taking the bottle with him, and we did not speak of it in the morning, nor later that afternoon, nor ever. I, of course, knew something dastardly was afoot. There had always been rumors of his being involved in circumspect dealings with the Crown, spying for the Privy Council, rooting out heretics or the most black-hearted traitors set on killing our queen in the name of Spain, Scotland, or other papists.

I knew little of politics, nor did I want to learn. I had seen the severed heads of too many dangle from London Bridge. I remember the Poet claiming that several of the executed were most likely not even guilty of their crimes. They were more likely the unlucky victims of royal power plays between Elizabeth’s favorites.

After those “friends” from court first appeared, Kit began to change. I once heard my master Augustine say, “A lover always wants their beloved to be perfect forever. But given time, no matter how sweet the melon, a spot of rot will appear.” Without warning, Kit started to disappear at night, often staying out until the sun rose over Saint Paul’s, stinking of drink and bawdy houses. While he had done this a few times before—usually in the periods just after a play went up—his wanderings became regular and seemed to be done joylessly, as if they were a bitter medicine he needed to take in order to silence whatever dark thoughts he was having. Those mysterious unfriendly “friends” began to visit more frequently, interrupting our work at the playhouse, or just showing up in the middle of the night at our home. Kit never questioned it when they’d ask for him to go with them.

One Wednesday morning, I awoke early and went into his room to cuddle. Once again, I found his bed empty and my belly began to churn with worry. I planned to confront him when he got home and threaten him with leaving if he didn’t change his behavior. But he didn’t come back that morning, nor for scramble-through, nor was he there for the play or after. It was then I began to worry most excessively. I visited all the taverns, gambling houses, and other bastions of lasciviousness that he had been frequenting, but none of the whores or his real friends had heard from him. He had simply vanished.

In a terrible dither, I knocked on Thomas Kyd’s room in the middle of the night, having woken from a dream in which a dead body appeared wrapped in a hessian. I sensed it was Kit’s. “Where can he be?” I said to Thomas with tears in my voice. “I just know he’s in trouble.”

“Not to worry lad,” Thomas told me. “He’s done this before. Of course, it’s been some time since the last. He always returns. Our Kit is a cat, after all, he’s got his nine lives and has only lost but six, I’d say.”

I wept myself back to sleep, certain my dream had been a premonition and that he’d be found in the river or a ditch somewhere. But he wasn’t and a fortnight and three days later he appeared, wearing fine new clothes, with a yellow handkerchief as a gift for me and no explanation. There was drink on his breath, but not so much that I worried he didn’t know what he was saying. When I pressed him as to why he had left for so long without telling me, he scowled and turned away from me.

“Beshrew thee, boy! Going at me like a fishwife. I’ll not have it. I’ve brought you gifts; is that not enough?”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” I said. “But I was so worried. My face was swollen on the stage all week from having spent so much time worrying. I could barely concentrate on my parts.”

“Well, then, stop worrying, my pet,” he said, as he flopped into a chair. He did not look into my eyes but spoke to the bottle of Madeira he was pouring into a glass. “We can’t have you forget your lines or have your beauty fouled. I’m fine. More than fine. I’m having a jolly time. Would you want to smother me and have me be just a boring everyman, like that Will of yours, where everything is business and poetry? There is so much more to life, and I will not be stifled.”

His tone had a bitterness to it I had not heard before.

“Kit,” I begged, “I’m not wanting to stifle you. But next time, can you just tell me that you’ll be gone so long, so I don’t worry? Or when you go out on your adventures for a night, can you take me with you? I won’t stop you from doing anything. I just want to know that you’re well and not lost somewhere.”

His cruel expression fell from his face, and his eyes softened as he stood and crossed to me. “The places I venture to at night are not safe for you, my beauteous boy.” Kit stroked my cheek with his soft hand. “I’d do nothing to risk your good health. I love you so much. Truly I do.”

“And I you, Kit. But if where you go is unsafe, why do you go? And why do you sometimes travel all the way to France and Scotland? Surely, London has enough merriment to satisfy you.”

His eyes grew dark. “When I leave England it’s not for merriment.”

“Then why?” I pleaded. “You can trust me, Kit.”

His smiled falsely and waved his hand. “It’s just business, lad.”

“You keep saying that. What sort of business?”

He once again grew distant, looking away from my face. “Business for the Crown, so I’m not allowed to speak of it.”

“Then at least tell me there is no danger for you there. Tell me whatever you’re doing has no risk to your life.” He went silent, which was enough of a confession to me. Water began to fill my eyes. “Please don’t go anymore.”

“I don’t have a choice!” he barked at me, more to crush how my tears must’ve touched him, than any real rancor toward me. “Can’t you see? I’m doing this for us! My plays don’t pay me enough to dress you in those glorious doublets I buy you. They don’t pay our share of these apartments, nor the tavern bills, nor the gambling bills!”

“But I don’t need any more doublets,” I cried. “I have enough doublets! I just want you!”

“You say that now,” he snipped, “but I know you’d be grousing if I didn’t bring you gifts after a time.”

“That’s not true!” I clenched a fist and punched my thigh. “Why do I bother staying!”

“Tush!” He again came to me and gently touched my lips to quiet my rage. “Stop that, my sweet darling. I wouldn’t want to write anymore if I didn’t have you here.”

“But you haven’t been writing, Kit,” I spat. “It’s been months since you did any writing, and you’ve spoken of no new plays. What good is a poet if he isn’t writing?”

He went silent while his eyes moistened, but then he shook his head as if to toss away whatever dark thought filled his mind. “Wait until you see the most gorgeous doublet I procured for you in France.” He spoke as if he hadn’t heard my words. “It’s being made especially for you and will arrive in time for your birthday. I know you say you want no more, but wait until you see it. It’s this most stunning indigo blue with gold thread around the buttonholes. It will bring out those staggeringly beautiful eyes of yours. You shall look like a prince.” The bell struck. “Oh dear, think of the hour. I must get going to meet the men from court. I shall see you after today’s performance. Act well, my beautiful boy.”