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“No. For the plan. I need you to make me look like Rose. I already found a green satin dress in the trunk of the tiring house that, from afar, will seem to be a double of the velvet one Rose wears.”

“We’ll need to darken your skin to match hers?”

“No need. The shadows of room will suffice to hide any difference. But you’ll need to find a wig that shall copy her mountain of black curls.”

Little Goat smiled devilishly. “It shall be a great challenge, but I think I can do it.”

“Hurrah! That’s my boy! After that, while your limping messenger puts Rose on the coach, I will ask Sam to go to Burbage’s room before that arrogant popinjay wakes and borrow his red coat and hat with the red ribbon. He will not wake until the bell strikes ten, so we’ll have time.”

Little Goat peeped up eagerly. “Zounds! Steal his taffety red coat? But why?”

“This is the heart of my plan. Sam shall dress himself in the red coat and hat. He is the same size as Burbage. You will make me look the mirror image of Rose. Once she is gone, I shall go parade around her rooms, so Will catches sight of her—meaning me. I shall feign not seeing him. Then when Sam enters, dressed as Burbage, we shall make a shameless show of embracing each other, proving to Will what a disloyal whore she is, and cause him to also question his friendship with Burbage—a revenge I’ve owed that coxcomb since he robbed me.”

“Why would Burbage rob you?” Little Goat looked puzzled.

“It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter since nothing will happen to Burbage. He owns a greater share in the company and is its biggest draw. But furious at the double betrayal, Will will cast Rose out for good, and I’ll finally have my chance with him.”

The smile dropped from Little Goat’s face as he said, “God’s teeth, Hughes, I fear the acorns in your oak tree have been shook loose.”

“But why?” I said. “Tell me where I’ve gone wrong?”

“You’ve conceived of a play, not a plan! Things like that don’t work in real life—”

“I disagree. I’m certain we can succeed. You yourself have called me an acting genius. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

Little Goat turned from me, folding his arms obstinately. “Do it on your own. I’m not helping. You’d be destroying that poor woman’s character. It isn’t right.”

“Please, lad! See here: If Will is not swayed to love me once she’s gone, then I promise to surrender my foolish hope. But I can’t do it without you.”

Little Goat sighed most forcefully but finally agreed to do it if Sam the Hedgehog also agreed. “I think I saw a black sheep’s wool wig in the tiring house we can try.”

“Yes! And I shall steal a stemmed rose from the market.”

Twenty-OneA Friend’s Advice

Mistress Rose Williams consults a friend.

When my love swears that she is made of truth

I do believe her though I know she lies.

—from Sonnet 138

I have just received word from the Poet that he will be returning to London before September’s end. As we have planned—and against my husband’s admonition to spend more time at home—I take a room above the disreputable Nags Head alehouse in Shoreditch so that the Poet and I may gaze across the alley to each other’s rooms. Our months-long separation has given me a sense of voracious longing to which I am unaccustomed, but I’m feasting on it. It appears I’ve always longed to long. Who knew?

For this second act of our passion, I am determined to gain more than a fraction of the Poet’s attention. To truly possess the Poet, one needs to also inspire him—the way that young player does. This requires me to become the better muse and move the Poet to write his greatest masterpieces for and about me.

Am I being selfish? Of course. Then again, was Alexander the Great selfish? Was Sir Francis Drake selfish? Was William the Conqueror selfish? Absolutely. Selfishness motivates one to adventure, and that’s what I crave—the adventure of true love. Nay, the adventure of winning.

But how? I learned long ago that to woo anything to your will, be it beast or human, you must attract it with something tasty. And what could be more delicious for a muse than the Poet? Why a greater poet, to be sure. And it just so happens there is no greater poet in London than my dearest friend, the handsome and scandalous Christopher “Kit” Marlowe, creator of London’s greatest stage triumph, Tamburlaine.

On the pretense of a friendly tête-à-tête, Kit and I meet at a tavern. (I couldn’t possibly ask him to the revolting Nag’s Head.) It’s late afternoon, and I can smell a pork and onion pie roasting in the kitchen. As soon as I enter the dining room, I see him. Despite looking like a laundry pile of a human, he is as dashing as ever. He is the same age as the Poet, but far prettier. His light brown hair, green eyes, and rakish beard make him look like an Italian painting of a handsome fallen angel.

“Hey ho! Kit, my dear friend!” I announce as I sit myself across from him at the table. He’s already on his way to being drunk and reeks of the bawdy houses. How he finds time to write between his debauches I’ll never know.

“Ah, there she is,” he says, with a flourish of his hand, “the most beautiful woman in all of England, France, and Byzantium—nay, the entire world! My sun-kissed Rose, with thorns that prick, and a cunt that every worthy prick in London wants to pluck or fuck or … Christ, I’m tired. You finish it.”

“I wouldn’t dare rewrite London’s greatest poet.”