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Twenty-TwoTwo Roses, Many Thorns

Wherein Willy Hughes’s tortuous and distempered plot is enacted with many flourishes.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,

And will to boot, and will in overplus.

—from Sonnet 135

Just as their letters had foretold, the Poet and Rose had taken rooms across from each other; she at the Nags Head and he at the Mermaid Tavern, so they could see clearly into each other’s windows. More than once, I’d catch the trollop waving her hand to pull the Poet’s attention from his pages. When he’d look over, she’d perform some lascivious dumb-show to distract him further.

“I must remove her for the sake of art!” I told my conspirators the morning we gathered to implement my cunning plan.

“Oh, tush,” Little Goat poked. “You are merely trying to make yourself feel better for doing the lady wrong. At least be honest with yourself.”

“Indeed,” said Sam. “Not to mention, if Burbage catches me wearing his red coat and hat, I shall be thrashed until dead. I’m not even sure why I agreed to join your stupid plan.”

“Burbage has never woken before ten bells in his life,” I protested. “He’ll never know. And no more nay-saying, please. Now, we all know the plot, correct? Little Goat, you will do my hair and face to look like her and then you will head over to her apartments as your limping messenger to—”

“I’ve decided to add a stammer too,” Little Goat said of his role, and then tried it. “P-p-please, Madam, h-h-here’s a note. Y-y-y-your husband says it’s m-m-most urgent.”

“Make it a shorter stammer,” I said. “We don’t have all day. Her husband lives all the way near London Bridge, which will give us plenty of time to do what we will. Once we know her room is empty, I’ll sneak in and sit at her glass near the window. Sam, once you get Burbage’s hat and coat, wait until the bell strikes eight times before you come into the room. I’ll give a little yelp of glee, copying the way I’ve heard Rose yell ‘woo-woo’ to Will. He’ll instantly look out his window and—”

“Wait,” Little Goat interrupted. “Why would Burbage just enter Rose’s room without knocking?”

“He’s got a point,” Sam said. “It’s most ungentlemanly.”

“Well then, you shall knock, and I’ll call out, ‘Pray thee, come in, my love.’ This shall get Will’s attention even more.”

“But why wouldn’t she just go open the door?” Little Goat asked.

I sighed in annoyance. “Fine. I’ll say ‘Come to the door, my love. I cannot because … erm … my leg is wounded.”

Both Sam and Little Goat nodded in approval.

“Then, you’ll enter, Sam, but keep your back to the window. Will shall recognize the coat and hat, but he can’t be allowed to see your face—”

“Hold on,” Sam interrupted. “You just told us you hurt your leg. Would you not be limping around the room?”

I sighed. “Very well, I’ll limp then—”

“We can’t all be limping,” Little Goat bristled. “It’s absurd.”

“What about blindness?” Sam offered.

“I pray thee both, shut it!” I yelled, before taking a calming breath. “I won’t say my leg is injured, I’ll call out that I am dressing and will ask you to let yourself in. Then, with full health to my legs, we go nearer the window and fall into each other’s arms and make a grand show of it. Will, I reckon, will fly into a rage and make his way over here. If so, I’ll quickly close our shutters, and you and I will escape down the back stairs before he arrives. Our hasty escape will increase his sense of betrayal.”

Little Goat and Sam looked at each other and then at me.

“This whole thing is daft,” Little Goat said.

“I have to agree,” Sam said. “I say we abandon the scheme and go see the bear baiting over at the Swan instead. I hear the bear is the size of a small house—”

“No! We must try, lads. Please.” I was desperate. I knew if I didn’t do something to immediately stop, or at least pause, the affair between Rose and the Poet, then their affection might grow into something immovable, and I’d never have my chance. “I need your help. As my loyal friends, I beg you.”

After more hemming and hawing, they both finally agreed to my plan and we commenced. First, Little Goat placed the black sheep’s wool atop my head and arranged it in Rose’s style. He then applied a smudge of rouge to my face. After I donned the slightly tattered green satin dress I had stolen from the tiring house, Little Goat painted the arches of a heaving bosom onto my chest—from afar it would look real. The final touch was the stemmed rose which Little Goat affixed at the back of the wig just as Rose did.

“How do I look?” I asked, not having a glass in our room.