Page 4

“As you wish, sir,” my mother added without rancor, seeing if she might salvage his good favor. “Like me, my boy does have a gift for singing.”

“He sings, you say?” The Poet’s eyes widened with excitement. “Has he a pleasing voice?”

“In truth, he does. He’s a devil at heart but with a voice like an angel. Sings down at Saint Leonard’s with the choir. If you want, I might be able to get the cook to play his lute, and me and my boy can do a little ditty for you, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Poet quickly said. His face took on a puzzling cloudiness. “A servant and a choirboy, is it? Interesting. I’m thirsty, madam. Bring me and the lads a round of aqua vitae, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.” My mother curtsied awkwardly, then added with a whisper, “My room is just up the stairs around the back. It’s a very fair price.”

The Poet waved his hand to indicate he would not be partaking. But as she waggled away, he slowly turned his head over to where I was half hidden and again looked directly at me. My face, once more, felt crimson hot. This time, it was he who tossed his head toward the privies.

Happy Day! The con is back on! Being in boys’ clothes, I’d need to adjust my ploy, though not much. I gamely nodded my head, and, for discretion’s sake, I waited for him to exit the back door. My skin turned to chicken-flesh. Whether it was out of nerves for my impending crime or simply knowing I would soon be in this handsome poet’s (temporary) embrace, I could not yet be sure. But as soon as I felt it was safe, I made my move.

ThreeTwo Wills

Wherein our young ruffian Willy Hughes attempts his crime, but instead, has his own heart irreparably stolen (and his life changed).

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in overplus.

—from Sonnet 135

When I stepped outside to where the privies were, I saw no one. My heart sank. Has my mark played me for a fool and snuck away?

A whistle came from the shadows near the firewood pile. There, the slimmest beam of moonlight peeped through the clouds and illuminated the Poet’s manly face.

“Good even, sir?” I said, walking over to him with the most casual demeanor.

“Good even to you, lad,” he said. “The bar wench—erm—your mother, told me that you can sing.”

It was a most unusual opening for a customer wishing to arrange an encounter.

“Marry, I can, sir. I sings like the angels, they says. I sung soprano when I first joined, but my voice shifted when I got my hairs.” I lifted my shirt to expose the few golden hairs beneath my navel, proving I was man enough to perform whatever might be desired. “But I can also make my voice false and go as high as a sparrow if you like.” I dropped my shirt and sang a section of that most popular new song, “Greensleeves,” adding extra trills and flourishes. The whole time the Poet watched, enraptured, and I swear I saw tears come to his eyes.

“That was …” He paused and swallowed his emotions. “Magnificent.”

There’s a good man. Ready for the conning, you are! I just needed to locate his purse. “Thank you, sir. Choir Master likes to joke that he could toss the rest of the boys and use me for all the parts.” I shook the blonde curls from my eyes so he might note the length of my lashes and shifted my stance to feature the shapeliness of my calves. I then feigned scratching an itch under my pit, so this time it would open my shirt to expose the bare luster of my smooth chest, and the perfect pink of my nipples. He inventoried every asset. But his eyes lacked the lasciviousness of other men’s. His gaze seemed more of an acknowledgment of something he already knew. He recognized me as I had never been recognized before. And I recognized him.

There was something so familiar about those warm, searching eyes, and the way the stubble crawled up his ruddy cheek, and how his one eyebrow splayed inward with a manly flourish, and how one side of his smile was a little higher than the other. It was like I was recognizing a home I had never been to, but knew it was my own. My heart rolled itself in a blanket of warm wool, and there was a tingling all the way down to my chestnuts. Control yourself, Hughes, I said to myself. He’s just a mark. Steer this ship back on course and find that man’s purse!

“Is there something you want, sir?” My words came out as roughly as any trollop’s, which I instantly regretted.

He shook his head and laughed almost shyly. “I’m sorry. I’m ogling like a mad bull, I know. It’s just that … your beauty is so … it’s quite painful, really.”

“Painful, is it?” I smiled seductively. “I don’t mind a little pain, so long as it starts gentle.”

The Poet puzzled his brow. I began to see that an encounter of this sort—with a young man of my low breeding—might not be his usual fare. If he was to make his move, I would need to give him a little push.

“Come on, sir,” I said. “The church bell will strike ten soon, and I’ll have to get back inside. What exactly is it you’re looking for? Have no fear with me, sir. I’ll keeps your secrets to myself.”

“Oh, yes, right,” he stammered. “I’m sorry. It’s like this … erm … I was wondering—” He lowered his voice. “Have you ever acted before?”

“So that’s what you’re scared to ask, is it?” I said with a little laugh. “I can act anything you like, sir. What were you thinking? I can pretend to be a young handsome soldier who has taken you prisoner.” I lowered my voice to a brutish growl. “Down on your knees, villain, I wilt teach thou a lesson true.”

The Poet’s face brightened. “By Heaven! That was marvelous. Good! Can you act as if you were a young woman?”

Ah, so it is my lass-like looks he’s after. Whatever it takes.