The Watchtower Read online

  After a week he’d had enough of these moments of being a shadow among greater shadows, alongside the dreary dankness of the Fawkes cellar. He purchased a two-year-old silver horse, Owlsword, from Stephen Fawkes and rode to London, three nights galloping and three days restlessly sleeping in the most secluded woods he could find. In a brief meeting before their mutual departure from Somerset, the poet had given him a note to obtain lodgings under the name Sam Andrews at the Hungry Steer, a tavern with rooms above at 10 Harp Lane. The location was in a fast-growing slum to the west of the Tower. The proprietress of the Steer was Ophelia Garvey, a woman of rough demeanor and advanced years whose response to most attempts at conversation was a glare. She was, however, helpful enough to direct him to a nearby inexpensive stable to board Owlsword, Will having gotten attached to the frisky but amiable young horse during their ride to London.

  His first few days in London were barely an improvement on his time in Cornwall. There was some obscurity in the crowds that bustled about, but not enough to let him comfortably linger in public, or dine out, or look for the poet at the Globe Theatre or at the building owned by the King’s Players nearby. And he had no idea where the poet’s lodgings were. Nor could he try to rekindle the handful of other acquaintanceships he had in the city. There had been no public disclosure or legal restraint by his father in regard to his flight, but that could just be his cagey stealth at work. Clarification—some communication if not a definite truce (reconciliation seemed out of the question)—was required before Will could feel safe in public. He would simply have to wait to be contacted by the poet.

  He spent his days in his room reading poetry by Thomas Wyatt, Philip Sidney, and Christopher Marlowe, or in random walks, the collar of his doublet pushed up and pinned together to hide his face as much as fashion allowed. His signet ring he took off and looped onto a chain he wore around his neck and under his shirt, lest someone see it and recognize the family crest. Nights he dined mostly on bread and beer in his tiny, barely furnished room, waiting, wondering if the poet’spossible abandonment of him might not be worse than his father’s scorn.

  Six days after his arrival, Mrs. Garvey knocked on Will’s door just at sunset in an unusually talkative mood and gave him a gilt-edged envelope.

  “Ay, some fancy-pants rode up just now with three black feathers in his cap, on a horse what looked like it had been polished like a statue. For Samuel Andrews, Esquire.” Mrs. Garvey paused to look quizically at Will, not for the first time, as if he might be Samuel Andrews and he might not be. No doubt many years of being a landlady for the transient had nourished some instincts in this area. “And look at the gold on it,” she went on. “Had I known you keep this kind of company, I’d be charging you twice as much. Three times.”

  Will laughed to humor her. “I am grateful for the consideration you have shown with your modest charge,” he said somewhat formally, wondering how best to flatter her. It wouldn’t have mattered, as Mrs. Garvey shut the door to his room before his sentence was fully out of his mouth and stormed away. Perhaps his language had been too upper-class for her taste.

  Will opened the note. It was from the poet. Will recognized his elegant script immediately from drafts of sonnets the poet had shown him:

  Dearest Will,

  Your becoming a member of our troupe has been mildly delayed by some Machiavellian shenanigans among the patrons but I nonetheless expect to have Lord Grosvenor’s signature on the necessary documents within a fortnight. In the meantime it is a great pleasure for Marguerite and I to cordially invite you to a celebratory gathering we will be hosting this coming Sunday evening at 6, at 22 Lyme Street. The point of the celebration you can guess!

  Yours in deep comradeship and with even deeper admiration.

  Three evenings later, Will walked to 22 Lyme Street for the poet’s Sunday gathering. He wore the fine gray doublet, crimson-tinted black silk cape, and ruffled white shirt he had purchased the day before at Gresham’s Royal Exchange. The buckles on his new belt and boots gleamed as though polished with a cloth made from light.

  It had rained hard until the middle of the afternoon, but the sun had been out for hours now, giving the soaked streets a gloss and gleam to match his apparel; the very air had a radiance to it as if its usual smoke and odor-stained texture had received a scrubbing. With little more to go on than the aristocratic stationery of the invitation, Will was anticipating as he walked an elegant dinner for a select few. It would be thrilling to see the poet again and meet some of his theatrical friends, not to mention the beautiful Marguerite. He felt as if he were strolling into his future.

  As he approached Lyme Street he could see, a mile away at the merge of Cornhill and Threadneedle Streets, the golden grasshopper suspended above Gresham’s Market, one of the latest additions to the still sparse London skyline. It shone like a second sun, just above the horizon. You are the sun to shine on all of England, a line from the poet’s sonnet celebrating him, ran unbiddn through his thoughts. He hoped the evening would be like a coronation, for more than one great public life to come.

  But as he approached 22 Lyme, he suspected that his concept of a refined occasion might not have been accurate. A raucous din seemed to be coming from the new, well-timbered house of three stories at that address, which had ceremonial pennants in an array of colors flying from all its eaves and windows. The din became more distinct the closer he approached, one percolating with chattering voices, loud guffaws, boisterous boasts, and even the occasional inebriated shriek. Will allowed himself the preposterous hope that another party was taking place in nearly the same location, but his final few strides forward educated him that this was not so.

  His mood sank in anticipation of a tiresome evening dodging drunks and feigning vulgar merriment, though he could not imagine how a sensibility as refined as the poet’s could have attracted the vulgar babble he was listening to. But he moved bravely onward. He wasn’t shy, and he could get through the evening—no doubt, if all else failed, by charming whatever circle of youthful females gathered around him.

  Will plowed through the throng congregating at the doorway and, once inside, began to methodically seek out the poet. But the crowd on the first floor was so dense that moving through it was like trying to navigate swamp grass. And the first few people he queried seemed ignorant of the gathering’s purpose, gazing back at him drunkenly, so asking for the poet’s location seemed futile. He found it convenient to fall in with a trio sitting at a cramped table playing ruff and honors in need of a fourth. After a round of introductions to Tom, Pete, and Finn, he managed to angle his rickety chair so that at least he could catch glimpses of the first floor’s entrance and main staircase and, in the meantime, pass the time tolerably well. Sooner or later the poet and Marguerite would no doubt be moved to introduce themselves to the crowd.

  Will gave an imitation of following the game’s fluctuating fortunes but primarily observed the first-floor hubbub. The swath of sound included everything from giggles to arguments; the quality and cost of attire male and female varied widely; an endlessly abundant supply of liquor was evident, though he couldn’t tell where the serving table might be; all in all the chaotic party looked as if it had been planned by pulling in random passersby from a busy London street, no more. It wasn’t a theater crowd or a rough crowd, an intellectual or a degenerate crowd, a devout or an anarchical crowd, though here and there individuals of all these stripes and many others could be distinguished. Even the footman, a dark-skinned Moor liveried in royal purple, defied easy characterization. In fact, he seemed the most regal of all the occupants. It was a flotsam-of-London, top-to-bottom crowd. Will grew more agitated as he perceived that the nature of this party contradicted the picture the poet had drawn for him, of personally welcoming him to London—surely a more intimate setting could have been found for their reunion!

  Then on some mysterious signal the crowd fell silent throughout the house. Will put his cards down on the table, got up without even a nod to his f
ellow players, and followed the direction of staring eyes into a large central room dominated by a wide staircase. The going was still tangled and impeded, but he was able to employ the stealth and steel of muscle that had stood him in deft stead as a fencer to maneuver all the way to the staircase railing. A roar of acclaim went up as, Will observed, the poet andilladiant-eyed, dark-haired lover strode out on the second-floor landing, basking with smiles in the applause. Will managed to catch the eye of the poet, who responded with a warm wave and a twinkle in his eye. The poet whispered to his lover, who glanced down at him with a welcoming smile as well.

  Meeting Marguerite’s gaze, Will experienced a transformative shock. He felt at once as if he had known her all his life and that he had never before beheld such beauty. Love for her surged through him, a love so complete it were as if he had physically merged with her. Not the simple merge of lovemaking, but a consummate merge as if their atoms and electricity had intertwined, their veins and brain cells, muscles and bones. For a dizzying instant, he felt as if a second person were within him, filling him with an unspeakable elation that nearly caused him to faint. Then for an even more fleeting instant he was actually inside her mind, gazing down at himself from the second-floor landing and seeing a young man whose face had been transported by ecstasy.

  In that moment of twin vision he noticed something else. The Moorish footman was also looking up at Marguerite with a similar expression on his face, only his passion was mixed with something else. Envy and hatred. Yet, Will wasn’t sure of whom.

  Then he retreated back inside a shaky self. But the upheaval inside him was transcendent. They were each other’s destiny. Not only had he encountered the great love of his life but he had learned something crucial about himself, Will realized. He could fly—not literally, but spiritually. His soul was not bound to his own flesh the way a living person’s should be. It could escape his flesh, as the souls of the dead did. But he wasn’t dead. He was very much alive.

  Will fought with himself to suppress this wild reaction. The poet was important to him, and his bonding in such a way with the poet’s love was worse than backstabbing, it was a sort of treason. Observed in another, it would have disgusted him. But he was in the grip of some unnatural force and could not suppress his emotions.

  The sound of two cymbals clashing came from Will’s left. The timing must have been choreographed: the poet and Marguerite began to address the crowd from the top of the stairs.

  “Heartfelt greetings, friends, without further ado … my beloved Marguerite and I have jointly composed a marriage sonnet by way of thanking you all for coming. Let us recite it now.”

  “Marriage sonnet!” an old man in a shabby black robe standing near Will muttered, with the faintest trace of an Italian accent. “Let the man be free of the wife he already has! Or is bigamy not a crime in sinful London?”

  Several people standing near him hushed him impatiently. Will caught a glimpse of a gleaming crucifix around the man’s neck as he turned his head to glare in turn at his critics with piercing brown eyes, then returned his sharp gaze to the podium. The man’s hostility disturbed Will, despite the deep inconvenience for his new emotions of any nuptials between the poet and Marguerite. Will resolved to keep an eye on him.

  The poet began:

  The sweetest words I’ve ever heard are those

  with which my Marguerite professes love

  for me eternally; this great crowd shows

  how much you too are moved and so I’ll wave

  in gratitude that you’ve come here today.

  The poet had fastened his gaze on Marguerite while reciting, but now he faced the throng and waved in a grand manner, to which there was an enthusiastic response with a few exceptions, such as that of the footman, who whispered to a man dressed in rainbow hues, “Such a union never will last!” What impertinence! Will thought, focusing instead on the familiar sound of the poet’s voice. Even though he himself had been struck with desire for Marguerite, he would never dare to interrupt the poet’s recitation. His voice had a ringing clarity, indeed majesty, to it Will had not heard in private, and he did not wonder at it given what depth of inspiration he now knew Marguerite could inspire.

  Marguerite continued:

  Our love’s a brighter sun than summer noon’s,

  and yet as soft as a slow breeze in May,

  and will survive in rhymes amidst the ruins

  of fortunes, mansions, nations. Let us cheer

  you all for your great warmth—that you’ve come here—

  Will swam in the flow of Marguerite’s voice as in the gentlest of rivers, near oblivious to the joy she showed in this proclamation of her and the poet’s love for each other. Somehow, he was managing to disregard that formidable obstacle for the moment.

  Marguerite went on:

  —to celebrate our union. Love has won!

  The poet stepped forward to conclude, smiling at Marguerite:

  Our marriage bed awaits, if not tonight

  then soon: our flesh and blood will be as one;

  enough of this world’s darkness. Love is light!

  To renewed applause, the poet and Marguerite then began a ceremonial descent down the stairs, greeting the partygoers, especially those they recognized, with a regal yet congenial air. Will leaned forward over the stair railing so that he could greet the poet and be introduced to Marguerite, but the couple went in different directions midway down the stairs, as if carried off by conflicting currents, so that in anoher minute Will found himself nervously bowing to Marguerite alone, taking and gently kissing her small, finely gloved hand.

  “Wondrous lady, I am Will Hughes, tutored by your beloved and now come to London to join the King’s Players.” He gazed into Marguerite’s eyes as he rose from his bow. Meeting Marguerite’s gaze was like diving into two deep pools of blue-green light. He felt himself again swooning with ecstasy. As he regained his composure, he saw a flash of recognition in Marguerite’s eyes and waited hopefully for something more—a profound look, expressive words, some other reassurance—but she just nodded with an amiable smile and appeared about to move on to her next congratulator. Was it possible she did not feel what he was feeling? Had the flash of recognition simply been her recalling his name? Or maybe, he tried to reassure himself, she was more adept at masking elation than he was?

  Perhaps in response to his perturbed expression, she did add, “Yes, Will, I have heard wonderful things about you. I am very pleased to meet you.” But she moved on.

  “Wait, please!” he called, catching awkwardly at her sleeve. “I must see you—”

  She glanced sharply back at him.

  “I mean, the two of you … in a less hectic setting and as soon as possible? May I pay a call on you tomorrow? Or Tuesday?”

  “I am sure there will be an occasion for it,” Marguerite said distantly. She seemed to reflect for a moment, then glanced more directly into his eyes again. Will thought he saw a tremor pass over her features. But if it had, she retreated from it.

  “I must go,” she said with formal coldness. “We will send you a note.”

  “I know you have something to tell me,” Will said with an uncomfortable smile.

  Marguerite’s expression grew pained, and she moved on to a large woman in a flowery dress, who held out both hands to her in a warm greeting. Will turned away then in despair, finding the front door with much more ease than he had found the stairs, and leaving the party without bothering to seek out the poet. His elation had turned to ashes with Marguerite’s final chill words.

  Darkness had fallen outside, broken only by intermittent torchlight along Lyme Street, as if Will had plunged into a pool of gloom emanating from his mood. He could not believe that Marguerite had not felt what he’d felt, but it appeared to be true! Why had she rushed away like that? And what did her pained look mean? Of course, things might be awkward among the three of them for a while if his and Marguerite’s feelings were truly aligned, but the poet’s plays were f
illed with more entangled circumstances than theirs that were nonetheless overcome by the parties to them. This woman wasn’t one of the inane flirtations at Swan Hall! She was his love and his destiny. He would suffer unbearably over her if she couldn’t be his.

  So engrossed in this view of possible heartbreak was he that he didn’t feel the intrusion of a hand in his satchel until it had begun to withdraw. Whirling, he caught the pickpocket by the arm. It was a young boy—one who had been at e party whom the others had called Finn. Round eyes blinked in a round face beneath a tattered cap.

  “I wasn’t stealin’ nothin’, sir, I was putting something in.” The falsetto voice made Will look twice at his captive. He might be a boy … or might be a girl, he couldn’t say. He snatched the cap from the pickpocket’s head … and was startled to discover pointed ears.

  “If you look, you’ll see I’ve given you the address where they stay. Go there tomorrow morning; the poet will be out. And do not delay. She is smitten by his words but she will be drawn to your blood.”

  “But how do you—”