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I disregard his insult, not wanting to waste more time. I borrow a small pony cart and set off down the zigzag path turning off past Dover Castle toward Martin’s field. The bumpy ride nauseates. And while I adore animals, and the long-haired red pony is truly charming, my desire is such that I must force myself not to whip the poor beast. Sensing my impatience, he finds his hooves and at last trots along nicely.

As I arrive at the players’ encampment, the air is filled with the smells of pig fat, ale, fire, and face paint. I tie the sweat-drenched pony to a tree and look for someone who can steer me to where I might find the Poet. After failing to gain the attention of several people, I encounter a squat man walking a goose on a string. By his lowly appearance, I suppose he is one of the gatherers or a tireman.

“Sir, forgive me for bothering you,” I say. “Know you where I might find the company’s ordinary poet?”

“God’s lid! Yet another lass looking for our Will, is it?” The man smirks. “Well, m’lady”—he points me to the far side of the field—“it’s the largest tent straight through there. You can recognize it because it is the only one with the words ‘STAY OUT’ painted in red on the side. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you. Didn’t know he liked your sort. What are you anyway? Italian? Moorish? From the Japans?” He reaches out to touch my skin, as many of these pink pigs often do. I consider whipping him across his repulsive cheeks, but instead, withdraw my arm abruptly.

“That’s exactly it,” I lie, having no desire to explain my heritage.

“Well, which is it?” he asks.

“All of them!” I call out as I leave him, making my way through the center of the camp. All around are acrobats tumbling, musicians practicing, dancers twirling, groups of boys reading lines with shirts on their heads pretending to be maidens. I see two older players practicing swordplay with wooden sticks and half-naked men wrestling. Watching so many practice their craft feels both sinful and thrilling. Several of the men look over at me, like hungry dogs salivating over a lamb bone. No doubt, I am a rare commodity in their fellowship: a woman. I have heard that only a handful of ladies ever travel with the players, most are older and hard-worn, having become more servant than lover to their husbands.

I soon notice that there are several mollies among the company, and not just the boys who play the ladies’ roles. These exuberant and effeminate men always share a knowing look with a woman like me, since we equally repel and outshine those who are more common and/or mundane. After all, we are extraordinary.

I am near the other side of the encampment when I finally come upon the tent with those red words painted on its side. The flap that stands in for a door is open. I spy the Poet sitting inside at a table urgently scribbling something with his quill. His shirt is wet with sweat. He writes a word, then scribbles it out, then writes more, his lips muttering. I assume he is testing his rhyme. My skin tingles at the sight. Why this happens, I am not fully sure. The alchemy of desire makes utterly no sense. In truth, as men go, he is most average in appearance when compared to some of the men I have bedded (and abandoned) in my lifetime. Yet, there is something about him that draws me more than the others. Perhaps it is how he doesn’t take his eyes from the page as he writes, how he appears to long for the right word more than most men long for a beautiful woman—including me. I adore a challenge. I finally cough to get his attention.

Without looking, the Poet gruffly shouts, “Fie on you! What in your mother’s cunt do those words on the tent say?”

“I beg your pardon, but I was just—”

He quickly turns to face me and all ire drains from his face. “It’s you. Hey-ho, I’m terribly sorry.” He leaps up and starts lacing up the front of his shirt. “I had no idea you were coming!”

His face grows pink with a youthful joy. This is another quality that bewitches me, he can make you believe he is both devil and angel simultaneously—which, of course, the Archangel Samael was, sayeth the holy book. But no matter which, I believe the Poet’s excitement and wish to make a portrait of it in my mind.

“Please come in,” he says, placing his papers in the blotter. “How did you ever find me?”

As I enter his tent, I quickly notice its contents. Along with the writing table are what look like a very comfortable bed, a cabinet, a collection of books, a bowl of apples, several bottles of Madeira (some empty, several not), and a large, expensive-looking rug covering the ground. He has given his itinerant player’s existence much comfort.

“Your men are quite good at putting up posters and handing out pamphlets,” I say. “Your name is everywhere in the market square. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not at all.” He pulls up a chair next to his at the table and holds it as I sit. “Did your husband come with you?”

“No. Jamie is busy in the city, building another playhouse for Mister Henslowe.”

“Ah,” he says. “We shall have him build us a grand arena someday. This is my dream, to have a permanent playhouse—two, in fact, one for the warm weather and one for the cold. What I could write if I knew for certain the limits and assets of our stages! Ah, well, someday. How did you convince him to let you leave the city on your own?”

“I told him how bored I was with having to stay inside and how there were numerous packs of diseased dogs scampering about Shoreditch and my fear that I might bring home a different disease than the one we were avoiding. I then reminded him that at least one of us would need to be alive to take care of his children, so the seaside was a much better option. Jamie always agrees to what I want—eventually, at least. He’s truly the perfect husband … sadly.” I laugh, though I also mean it. Sometimes I long for Jamie to be imperfect, to demand, to forbid, to be jealous, to be capricious. Nothing kills le petite mort like a martyr.

“How long will you stay?” the Poet asks.

“I told Jamie I’d at least be gone until the autumn, when the chillier weather should reduce the sickness. I’m staying at The White Cliffs Inn on Beach Street. I hope I didn’t misread your invitation, mistaking for true what was false?”

He smiles yet has a cautious look in his eyes. I know that look. Men yearn so badly for a woman, but as soon as they think she is completely his, they shy away, fearing they have made a mistake and could do better. I suppose that is a folly to which we all may fall—wanting most what we cannot have. Even one as brilliant as the Poet is not immune. But one must play the game. While I know I am not being fully honest about my intent, I decide to soothe him.

“Let me be clear, sir. You are not the first stage poet I have met. I want nothing from you other than some casual amusement. And perhaps the table scraps of your mind. I am here because I believe there is an understanding between us—a physical understanding that is exceptional and should be explored. While my desires are deemed sinful, to ignore them is a greater sin.” I stroke the pony crop against his neck and can see his flesh prickle. “I promise to only borrow those organs that are made for sport. As for your heart, your wife or mistress—or whomever—can keep that tucked in her biscuit jar.”

His masculine sense of free will restored, his lips curl lustfully as he takes the end of the riding crop and pulls it toward his codpiece. I make a quick move as if I will strike him there, but I pull the stroke and laugh. He feigns a pout, so, without him expecting it, I sting his thigh with the crop. His face flushes with pain … and hunger.

“Alas,” he sighs, “before we commence with getting to know each other better, I need to spend some hours writing. I’ve been inspired and don’t want to lose it. But tonight, after dinner, may we meet in your rooms? We’ll have more privacy there to have … a very loud discussion.”

I nod and wave my crop. “I’ll be there.”

He rubs his thigh where I wounded him and smiles. “I warn you. It’ll be your turn for a most pleasurable thrashing.”

As I leave his tent and return to my pony cart, my mind floods with all the adventures we might have—all that I might do to him and all that he might do to me. But then I think, will the wounds be worth it? I’ve seen other women, and men as well, turn mad with passion, and when it’s over find themselves walking the streets in the most abject state. I promise that shall never be me.

FifteenThe Rivals Meet