Page 9 of The Two Wills

“Hughes!” a voice shouted from inside the tiring house. “Wait right there!”

The Poet stepped out onto the stage, hopped off its edge, and bade me forward. He looked disheveled and wore a white shirt with a large wine stain on it. (I would later learn he often neglected his appearance when in the throes of writing.) The shirt hung open loosely, which allowed me to peep his flesh. While he only had a meager few hairs upon his breast (I had normally yearned for more beastly men), it was still a solid chest, with striations of muscles and fine pink nipples. I had to be careful not to stare too shamelessly.

“Heigh ho!” He came close and shook my hand robustly. “Sorry I’m late. I was at the opening of the new playhouse and got waylaid. Did you find the entrance easily?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, noticing how, after he was done shaking it, he held my hand a few moments longer. I breathed in his stink of spirits and sweat. I didn’t mind it as I, myself, smelled equally odiferous having only been able to quickly swab my pits and arse before I set off for our meeting.

“We’ll be playing a scene from my newest play,” he said. “It’s a third in the series about the old civil wars. People have been clamoring for more history plays. Who knows, maybe this one will become as popular as that Tamburlaine you love so much.” He winked at me, causing me to realize how inept I had been in complimenting another poet the way I had.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I was just nervous, and it was the only one I’d seen.”

“It’s fine, lad. I’m merely jesting. And Marlowe is a master. But they say the quality of this new play comes close. And it’s about England, so has the potential to be even more popular than Tamburlaine.”

“As bloody?” I asked, hopefully.

“Bloodier, I’d say. Each day we will send a boy to the butcher’s to collect three buckets of swine innards!”

“Summer’s day!” I exclaimed.

“The play recounts the terrible reign of the humpback King Richard the Third and his ruthless and horrific murders.”

“Was he really a humpback?”

“Doesn’t matter. The Master of the Revels adored it, and we like to make the Privy Council happy, if we want permission to perform.”

There was something that disquieted me in what he had said, and I would have kept quiet but my nerves loosened my lips. “Pardon me, sir. You mean you just make up whatever ‘history’ you like in them history plays?”

“Of course. Some of it. It’s a play, so it’s all made up.”

“Marry, sir,” I continued, “it doesn’t seem fair to be conjuring fake stories about real people’s lives.”

I shocked myself that I’d so boldly offer my opinion to one of my betters. But there was something about how he spoke to me that made me feel brave enough to assert myself.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I see what you’re saying, but we can’t really know what happened in the past, can we? There wasn’t a scribe writing down people’s actual words. But we do know Richard killed those two poor young princes, so bugger him, I say.”

“I understand, sir,” I said, though I still didn’t fully.

“Good. Now, let’s go. You’ll be reading the role of Queen Anne.”

“A queen?” I said, clambering up onto the stage. “Well, la-dee-dah.”

“Indeed. So, imagine yourself a beautiful young queen who is very proud and strong. It’s not the biggest character, but she’s very important.”

It was then, up on the stage for the first time, that I fully absorbed the sublimity of it all. How grand the arena was, and how terrifying! My viscera turned somersaults, imagining again all those eyes staring at me from the yard and galleries as I made a fool of myself dressed as a lady. For one drunken mark, I could do it, but for thousands?

“Here, take some time and memorize this.” He handed me a small, unfurled scroll. My breath grew shallow, my hands began to quake, my stomach began to curdle. I’d never considered that reading would be a requirement for acting. I gawped at the paper with the black ink scratches on it. “Um … I don’t read very well.” (This was a lie, for at that moment I could not read at all.)

“Ah, I see.” He furrowed his brow but then shrugged as if it was nothing. “Well then, I’ll just read you the lines until you know them by heart. Later, if you have the talent, which I suspect you do, you’ll pick up reading quite naturally. But here. Let’s get on with it.”

For the next thirty minutes, he repeated Queen Anne’s lines to me over and over, and, much to my astonishment, I slowly began to memorize them. It was as if his belief in me had cast a magic spell. This, I would eventually learn, was the Poet’s greatest gift, inspiring people to do the impossible. If it served his play, he could coax a sparrow to portray a sausage. I felt thrilled watching him wave his hand in the air as if the words were music, telling me, “Good, good, lad, you’re getting it! Try it this way.” He then would speak the lines in a more queen-like manner. I found it easy to mimic his royal, snooty accent, and, obviously, I already had much experience in making my voice sound like that of a lady. Taking his beautiful words into my mouth felt as if I were drinking cool clean water when I had been dying of thirst.

“So do you feel you have it well enough to do it full out?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Do your best, but if you’re to become one of our apprentices, you’ll need to speak the speech the way I showed you. Right? Trippingly on the tongue? And loud. You must be loud. Use your belly here. Wait, let me show you.”

He lifted his hand below my jerkin and placed it at the base of my naked stomach, just above the pubis where my few golden hairs sprouted. My skin shivered at his strong, warm touch. I swallowed nervously, fearing my bodily reaction, just inches to the south, might be noticed.