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“Oh no, do stay, Willy,” Anne implored, using my first name. “We have plenty of food for all.”

“You do what you will, lad,” the Poet said without even looking at me. He returned his gaze out the window. “I’m afraid I will be staying on up here a while to mend some business before returning to London. You and Burbage can share the carriage back. I will return in time for next week’s shows. Hopefully I will have made some progress on that new play. The quiet up here will be useful.”

“As you wish, sir,” I said.

He took his wife’s hand, looking so human in her presence, no longer my god, lover, and master, but her husband. It was at that moment I came to understand the different kind of love the Poet had for Anne, one that I did not have—nor ever would. Because of that knowing, a new sort of sadness opened up in my heart. I bid my farewell, kissed Anne on her cheek, shook the Poet’s hand as if I were merely a fellow actor, and made my way for the door.

FortyI May Not Evermore Acknowledge Thee

Wherein Willy Hughes anxiously awaits the Poet’s return.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee,

Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame,

Nor thou with public kindness honor me

Unless thou take that honor from thy name.

—from Sonnet 36

It would be weeks before I’d see the Poet again. I waited anxiously to hear news of his return. I wanted nothing more than for things to return to how they were prior to poor Hamnet’s death. This, of course, was naive and selfish of me. On the first day he showed up at the Globe, he was even more changed than when we parted. At scramble-through, other than his own lines as an actor, he barely spoke to anyone. When not engaged in the work, he’d simply stare into the distance. He never even complained when one of the other actors said his lines wrong. Then, in the days that followed, he didn’t show up at the playhouse at all, claiming ailment or other business. The hired man covering the Poet’s roles went on more than he.

After two weeks, the Poet appeared again. This time to act the role of the Prince in Romeo and Juliet. His performance was flat at best. Afterward, as he was gathering his things and no one was around, I got the courage to ask if I might visit his bed chamber again. He barely looked at me when he said, “Not tonight, lad. I might want to do some writing in the wee hours. Perhaps you and I can find some time tomorrow or next week to chat at least. I’ve been foggy-brained and befuddled. I’m sorry. I just need to find my footing again.”

It was the most he had spoken to me since returning, and I felt optimistic that maybe things were shifting. I lifted my head to his, hoping he’d kiss me, and he did, but on the forehead as if I were his child. “Now, off with you, lad.”

I hesitated, hoping for something more—anything more. “I’m glad you’re back, Will. I’ve missed you.”

It was then that he finally and truly looked at me. A melancholic smile crossed his lips. “Thank you, Hughes,” he said. “I shall see you at scramble-through tomorrow. Is it As You Like It?”

“No, sir,” I said. “It’s Much Ado.” I had never seen him forget what would be in the week’s repertory. “You’ll be there to watch, sir?”

“Of course,” he said.

But he didn’t show up for scramble-through, nor the show, nor to practice after. I finally spoke to Augustine about it, asking him if he thought the Poet had been permanently altered.

“Tut, boy,” Augustine said. “Our Will has more mourning to do. He’s lost his only son, the heir to his name. But fear not, he’ll be back to his old self soon enough. You can’t keep a poet like Will silent for long.”

But for the next month we barely saw anything of him at the playhouse, unless Burbage had demanded a rewrite for one of his roles. Alex had heard from one of the sharers that, during our practices and performances, the Poet had been seen at various less-reputable alehouses, all alone, drinking himself into a state of unconsciousness. It was said, several of the fellows decided to search him out and demand he come to his senses. But when they found him, he was in a most disreputable state. He claimed his absence was due to his being nearly finished with the new play, and would tell them all about it, as soon as he relieved himself in the privy. But he never returned, leaving Burbage with his extremely large bill.

One evening Little Goat, Alex, and I were supping together, and like all our company’s discussions it soon turned to the depressed state of our ordinary poet. “Word is,” Little Goat began in a hush, “despite his incessant claims that he’s writing, Will’s written nothing at all. I’ve heard some of the fellows are threatening to sue him if he doesn’t come up with the new play soon.”

“They wouldn’t,” I said, this news cutting my heart.

“They will,” Alex insisted. “He’s not even trying. Burbage and Will Kemp have said they’ve even bullied him, to put some fire in his fingers, but they claim Will just sighed ‘ah me’ or some such, then bade them both remove themselves so he could take to his bed. They said he stank of hard spirits and smelt like he hadn’t bathed since Lent. What about you, Hughes? When you’ve been alone with him, what’s he like?”

“He’s quiet,” I said, not wanting to admit I hadn’t been alone with the Poet for more than a few minutes since before Hamnet’s death. “But I do think he’s near done grieving.”

“Let’s hope so,” Alex said. “I don’t mind plays by the hired poets, but without one of Will’s new plays in the repertory, we might lose our audience to the Admiral’s Men, who seem to put up a new play every other week.”

Little Goat looked on gravely. “Zounds!” he said. “If the Admiral’s Men takes our audience, we might lose our best players, and then the King’s support, and then—”

“Cease, both of you!” I begged. “Let’s save all our tragic speeches for the stage, shall we? All will be well.”

But “well” it wasn’t. Not for days, weeks, or the next two months. Theories started to abound that the Poet’s lack of writing was not due solely to his son’s death, but because other sorrows were weighing on him as well. Some claimed he was bothered by those awful, black-clothed Puritan protestors who had doubled their efforts. Apparently, we were all “tempting the entirety of England to the fires of Hell.”

The Poet had never been that bothered by their blathering before. But I started to wonder whether that was also the reason he had been avoiding me. Had the Puritans swayed him to religion? Does he now believe our love a sin, worthy of divine punishment? I dared not ask him, even if I had the chance, for fear I would disrupt his mood further, and he had already suffered so much.