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OneThe Muse in the Muck House

Wherein we meet young Willy Hughes, the narrator and hero of our tale.

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That Time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose

But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

—from Sonnet 64

Before I describe that first, momentous glance that would inspire so much heart-wrenching, bodice-tearing, codpiece-ripping, sonnet-spewing romance, I should first tell you a little about myself.

I was born in Shoreditch, just outside London’s city walls, a parish perfumed with the stench of piss, shit, fish guts, and (on a good day) rose water. When visiting one of our area’s many lurid establishments, gentle folk were forced to skirt past the pest-houses, leap over the carcasses of dead dogs, scurrying rats, drunken punters, and whatever other recalcitrant scum had been tossed out the windows of the previous night’s whorehouse. All, it must be said, was an excellent preparation for my life on the stage.

That life, however, would not commence for another seventeen and a half putrescent years.

My father, as familial legend had it, was a traveling musician named Willem Van Steenkiste who specialized in playing the virginals. My mother, Charlotte, however, was anything but virginal. My own substantial beauty, they say, was a perfect copy of her youthful exquisiteness—no matter that I was a boy.

My mother gave into my father’s urges without even a promise of marriage. After he had his fun, he found the Lord—who apparently told him to run as far away from my mother as possible, leaving her destitute and seeded with me. Beauty being her only skill, she began a life of sordidness, taking the position of barmaid at the Nags Head, one of our parish’s lowliest alehouses. That was where I was born and spent my first years, strapped to her bosom while she served drink from noon until she stumbled upstairs to where we slept, cuddling me as I gnashed at her nipples with my newly formed teeth.

As I grew and needed more food than what leaked from her breasts, she took to whoring after working hours. I’d peep out of the closet where I slept to see men rutting atop her. The first time it happened I cried out, thinking they were hurting her. She came to comfort me, whispering “Shh, shh, my little pet. Not to worry. This nice man is just helping me with my bad back. Go back to sleep.” Then she took me downstairs to the kitchen and put me to sleep under the cupboard near the stove, tucking a rag doll in my arms.

I knew early on I was not like most other lads. I did not like game-ball nor wrestling, nor other rough sport. I assumed I would find my place as lover and husband when I grew a beard. Yet as I matured into my teens the hair barely came, except in my pits and around my prick, and still I never developed a desire to gawk at Mistress Dibble’s heaving bosom. Instead, I found my kindred spirits among the men haunting the public baths or in the shadows of the boat houses along the river Thames. It was in these hidden places where I first set out to discover who and what might be my true destiny.

Being a bastard, I had no father to show me a trade, and it was assumed I would find some sort of apprenticeship. I was too slight a boy to haul, chop, lay brick, or do anything that required the strength of a small mule. So, I became a servant at the same filthy alehouse as my mother. My work involved wiping the tables and collecting and washing mugs, but mostly mucking out the privy. One can’t imagine the sheer volume and variety of vomit (as well as other bodily extrusions) an inebriated Englishman can produce. I was paid the unfair salary of two pence a week, which my mother promptly took from me. I did get the benefit of room and board, although my lodging—while no longer under a cupboard—was in a tiny, back-breaking alcove under the kitchen stairs, which boiled in the summer and froze in the winter.

By the age of fourteen, it had become clear that I’d need to earn additional income if I had any hope of escaping my wretched state. Fortunately, my singing voice was often described as angelic by those who heard it, and I was able to secure a second job in the choir lofts at Saint Leonard’s—an ancient church that once had been a temple of the old religion but was now steadfastly Protestant and very dreary.

Choirboys, despite their cherubic appearance, are a backstabbing lot full of conspiracy and jealousy. I was not popular among my peers, owing, I knew, to my exceptional beauty and exquisite falsetto. I was, however, much lauded by the choir master and vicar. Unfortunately, this additional income was not enough to free me from the horrors of Shoreditch. However, being a choir boy, with all its angelic falsity and dodging of the choir master’s diddly fingers, did train me for what would become my third, much more lucrative career.

As I reached the age of seventeen, I still had very delicate features, not a hint of beard, and long hair that tumbled in yellow curls to the bottom of my neck. It was this God-given feminine appearance, as this story will show, that eventually gave me a life beyond my wildest imagination. But let me not get ahead of myself.

Knowing how my sex was often mistaken, I fomented a plan where I would dawdle outside the privies, let loose my hair, swaddle myself in a long shawl, and market myself as if I (like my mother) were a pretty trull willing to provide a service to those men too drunk to make their way to the bawdy houses. First, I’d negotiate a price for whatever loathsome action these men wanted but demand the money up front. Then, as the drunkards started with stroking my hair and kissing my hands, I’d coo and moan with a most convincing tone of a young lady. Once they began their molestations in earnest, I’d suddenly cry out in my young man’s voice “Help! Stop! Thou dost touch me rudely, sir!” The nattering-ninnies would turn purple with shame, stumble over themselves to escape, never ask for the return of the fee, nor notice that I had relieved them of their entire purse. It worked without fail and was most profitable for a youth of my age and position, and I will confess I often enjoyed the work, which was more than I could say for cleaning up the corporeal leakage of inebriates and avoiding the choir master’s advances.

But then came one Friday night when, while looking for my next mark, I spied a wobbly man giving me the eye while releasing the water from his nozzle. He was tall and wore a ridiculous hat edged in bright red ribbon with a matching red coat. The coxcomb appeared to be in his late twenties, with a handsome face that looked familiar, and yet I could not place it.

“Zounds! You’re a pretty lass,” he slurred. “Come here and give me a kiss!” He stepped closer, his pizzle still protruding from his britches like a hairless mouse. “Let me see your arse,” he growled aggressively, grabbing my arm. “I said c’mere!”

“Calm now, sir,” I said in my peeping high falsetto. “I’ll give a tug to your kicky-wicky if you like, but it’ll cost you sixpence. Anything else will be more.”

“A whore, is it?” He snorted and then, despite his drunkenness, enunciated his words like one of those snobby spangle-babies from court. “A whore, a whore, my kingdom for a whore …” (His reference made no sense to me at the time, but now when I think on it, I find myself laughing still.)

“Work you on the stage, sir?” I asked.

“Bless! You’re not just a fine-looking draggletail, but smart too. I am, in fact, an actor. The name is Mister Richard Burbage. Surely you’ve seen my work.”

And so I had. He had been the leading player in Marlowe’s Tamburlaine—the only play I had ever seen at that point. Though, being utterly uneducated, my enjoyment of the spectacle came predominantly from the sheer quantity of pig’s blood splattered on the stage rather than with any particular performance. But more importantly, at that moment in the privy, I thought mostly about the contents of this great actor’s purse.

“I have, sir. I am much impressed. Most especially with the leading player’s handsomeness.”

The arrogant knave proudly smirked. “So, how much for a handsome, leading player like myself to harbor his wooden ship in your silky slip?”

“In truth, sir,” I said, “I am not a common harlot. I was a good girl, until I fell on hard times. The plague took my beloved parents, and I got left alone to beg on the streets. I will allow you such a harboring in exchange for half-a-crown.”

“The prices in this city have gotten ridiculous …” Burbage shoved the coins into my hand. After returning his fat purse to his pocket, he pulled me to him roughly. His drunken breath smelled of ale and rot. I threw my arms around him as if I were responding to his amorousness, and in one swift move snatched his purse. But, sensing my ploy, he quickly snatched it back, then twisted my arm behind my back.