Page 81 of The Two Wills

“Sorry, Hughes, sorry.” He shook his head in apology. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, that anything I’ve done, no matter how good or kind, is just a ploy to get you back into the company. And you know something? You are a thousand times correct. That’s all I’ve wanted ever since you left. I can’t bear to write plays without thinking you might read my words. No one breathes life into my ladies like you, Hughes. All those months, I had to bite leather not to go mad and try and kidnap you myself. Then when I heard you had stopped acting altogether, it was the last straw.” His desperate gaze held my own. “To what end? You’re merely stabbing yourself in the heart as a means of revenge. Of course I want you back with the Chamberlain’s Men, and I cannot allow you to do this to yourself!”

I turned away.

“Please look at me and listen to me. Please.” He grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, and stared firmly into my eyes, “Give us another chance. Don’t you remember what it was like to be up there on the stage with me?”

Of course I did, and I did miss it. I always would. I nodded.

“Well, think of that, but three times over. The Globe will seat nearly three thousand souls. There is a mechanical that comes down from the Heavens, and we will have fire emerge from the trapdoor in the floor. We have instruments to make thunder and lightning, a canon. We’ve spent an even greater fortune on our costumes. The wigs will be made from real human hair for you, with gorgeous head-tires that will quite literally make your hair stand on end. Come, Hughes, and share my joy by opening the greatest arena England has ever known. Play my ladies for me again. Please. You can begin with our first production. It is a play I wrote of the tragedy of Julius Caesar. You would play Calpurnia, wife of Caesar, and Little Goat would play Portia, wife of Brutus. Calpurnia isn’t the biggest role, but I’ve several other ideas for new plays with you in mind …”

As he listed his ideas, which included new comedies, I could barely listen. I found myself once again overcome by his very presence, the sound of his voice, the smell of him, the reminder of how his eyes sparkled when he spoke of his new plays; and to know how hard he had worked to steal Little Goat back again—how hard he was working to steal me back. But still, to return as his eunuch muse, felt like I was surrendering something I didn’t want to surrender.

“I’ll be twenty-one next year,” I said, stopping him from pronouncing the litany of roles he intended to write for me. “What happens when I can no longer play your ladies?”

“Then you’ll play my heroes. I’ve seen you play both men and women now. You’ve never been just merely beautiful. You are one of the most gifted actors I’ve ever seen. I’ve spoken with the other sharers and we’re willing to offer you what you earned with Earl of Pembroke’s Men—six shillings a week. That’s better than anyone just out of apprenticeship has ever gotten before.”

“Six shillings, eh?” That it always came back to money with him jolted me, but I also knew the reality of my financial situation. I had no skills other than actor, porter, tart or thief. Had I learned nothing from my whore of a mother? The value of a trollop sours sooner than milk. Most of all, was I willing to forgo getting to be with Little Goat, Alex, and Augustine—the nearest thing I knew to a real family? “I want ten shillings.”

“Ten? You scoundrel!” He softened but set his jaw firmly. “I will give you seven.”

“Nine,” I countered. “And not a penny less.”

The Poet huffed in annoyance but then broke out into a smile. “Fine then. We shall settle with eight shillings per week. Kit clearly taught you how to bargain. I’ll need to pay the extra two out of my own pocket.” He took a step closer and entreated me with folded hands. “Please, Hughes, come back to where you belong. We all want you back—Little Goat, Alex, Augustine, Burbage … even Beeston!”

“So it is,” I said stone-faced, subduing the happiness I truly felt at the idea of returning to the stage. “I will return for eight shillings … at least for a little while.”

“Thank you, Hughes. You have no idea how much this means.” He approached to hug me, but I stepped back.

“No,” I snapped. “Don’t. I said I’ll come to play your parts, but know, we will not be friends again.”

I sensed from his expression he thought my words were merely the protestations of a hurt young man, but I meant them. I didn’t want a mere imitation of love after having what Kit had offered. I didn’t want just to be the Poet’s puppet-muse again, loaning him my boyish love from which to make poetry.

“Whatever you say,” he said, pressing his hands together effusively in thanks. “I’m just so grateful you’re coming back.”

“Yes. And I’ll need housing again.”

“Of course. We have marvelous new housing for the leading actors.”

“And I want Little Goat to live with me, each with our own bed.”

He appeared to do some calculations in his mind, then he smiled. “Yes, of course. A second bed in your room should be easy enough to accommodate. Anything else you wish? I mean within reason.”

His eyes were so open and willing as he looked at me. For some reason I wanted to cry again, not from happiness, not because it was a homecoming, not even for the loss of Kit or the reunion with Little Goat—it was that I could still feel the longing for the Poet in my heart, and it enraged me.

“We’ve reached our agreement,” I said coldly. “You can go now. I’ll need to tell my mother and the alehouse owner they will have to find another boy to muck out the privies.”

I turned from him and began to walk away, but just a flea’s heartbeat later he grabbed my arm and turned me to face him. The gentle smile on his face had vanished. I tried to pull my arm away, but he would not allow it and clenched my arm more firmly. He was breathing heavily, almost like a bull ready to charge. He looked on the brink of a grand fury. I would have protested loudly to embarrass him, but it would have been pointless since the alehouse was still empty. What is he on about? Is he upset with all my demands? Does he realize I have negotiated a fee more than my worth?

Then, just as I was about to use my fists to free myself, he pulled me to him and kissed me. Unlike that first chaste kiss he bestowed upon me some two years prior, the one he said had just been a salve to my sadness, this kiss was wholly different. This time his mouth devoured mine, his tongue wrestling my own, allowing the wet from both our mouths to intermingle. I surrendered to it. This kiss could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was—passionate. It was as if his mouth was casting a spell directly onto my heart to make all my resolve vanish. His kiss, like that first moment I saw him, caused my body to feel utterly and completely afire, and yet wholly at home. It was like no other kiss I had ever felt. I despised how much I desired it and wished I could pull away but could not. Is this just another appeasement? Yet another transaction or ploy to get me to say his words? But I had already agreed.

When we stopped to catch our breath, I said, “Please don’t pretend to love me this way, if you don’t truly mean it.”

“Shut up,” he growled, and covered my mouth with his own again to stifle my tongue. He then pushed me against the alehouse wall and lifted my shirt, kissing the hollow of my neck, then my chest and my nipples. Then he looked up at me and whispered, “You want proof, Hughes?”

He grabbed my wrist and forced my hand to the pouch of his pants. He, like me, had grown firm inside his britches. Only his cock was far larger and more rigid, which caused me to swallow with both surprise and a little fear. He must’ve seen it on my face, because he gentled his eyes, then took my face in his hands, and said, “I love you, Hughes. Even more than you imagine. You are my all. You always have been. You always will be.”

He sealed his promise with another passionate kiss. When I closed my eyes I saw a great field of poppies and corn flowers blooming behind my eyelids. All the red and purple blossoms reached joyfully toward the sky as if they had been waiting all their lives for the wet nourishment of that kiss. He was incorrect, however. It was not more than I had imagined. It was exactly the consummation I had long hoped for, the directness in action at which his poetry only hinted.

Suddenly, there was a stirring in the kitchen, the clang of pots and pans, causing the Poet to jump back. I feared the spell of the moment had been lost, and that he might once again deny that anything happened.