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“Change his mind? Ha!” Beeston laughed, as did the other lads. “The only mind we changed was our own. Will and the fellows taught that knave Henslowe and any other greedy playhouse owner not to toy with the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, I assure you!”

He went on to tell the most shocking story. The Poet, along with Burbage and several of their men, went to the Theatre in the dark of the night, while Henslowe was out of town for the holiday. With no one on guard, they commenced tearing down the entire playhouse board by board, nail by nail. Their reasoning being that while they did not own the land upon which the Theatre sat, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men had, in fact, paid for and constructed the playhouse building itself and therefore were its true owners. They then transported the disassembled lumber and all its hardware to some secret place with the intention of building their own great new arena on the banks of Southwark.

“The sharers will build their own playhouse?” I asked.

“They shall,” Beeston said. “It will be the finest new playhouse in all of London!”

It was most incredible indeed. The Poet would finally have his dream of a permanent home for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. If I am to be honest, it was both a thrilling and bittersweet story to hear. While I cheered my former company’s bravery and daring, I felt melancholy that such a momentous thing was happening without me.

“And how are you, Hughes?” Beeston said, his voice softer so only we could hear. “Are things well with you and that dashing poet of yours? Is he writing you another triumph in which to make you even more famous?”

“He is,” I lied. “I can’t really talk about it, but it will premiere either this spring or later in the summer. It will be most glorious, I tell you. I’ve never been happier.”

“Good for you, Hughes,” Beeston said. “I know we never got on back in the day, but we’re all happy for you. I must say, even I miss having you around. He doesn’t say it, but I think Will does too. You inspired something in his ladies that none of us could. It was as if the parts were written exactly for you and no one else. I was horribly jealous of you, but now I miss the challenge.” He clapped me on the back. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing well.”

It was a few months after this encounter that my own life, once again, was to change dramatically. Like the Theatre playhouse, I was to be dismantled board by board, brick by brick, nail by nail. But whether I would ever be rebuilt again, I was uncertain.

It was the night of my twentieth birthday, and I woke from a nap after a particularly splendid performance of Dido Queen of Carthage to see that Kit was dressing to go out.

“You’re not leaving me on my birthday, are you?” I said, wishing there wasn’t such a childish tearing of my voice.

“No, my love. I won’t be gone long. I will be back before midnight to give you the present, which has finally arrived from France.”

“The blue doublet?” I asked, though I struggled to be too gleeful, for I worried anytime he left the house.

“The very one. You will love it. I promise you. But first I must do some quick business at Mistress Bull’s house.”

I scoffed. “The mysterious ‘business’ again? I won’t bother asking.”

Kit, looking especially contrite, crossed to the bed and took my hand as he sat. His face took on a look of understanding I had not seen before. “I’m so sorry, my love. I know how awful it’s been for you these past many months. You’ll be pleased to know that things will be changing around here. I’ve sorted everything out, and I will no longer be disappearing to France or anywhere else.”

I sat up brightly, cheered by his words. “Truly, Kit?”

He smiled at my exuberance. “You have my word.”

I felt such joy that I threw my arms around him and kissed him. It was the first time in so long that I trusted his word, and truly believed things were going to get better at last.

When we finished our embrace, he looked at me deeply as he pulled at my curls. “Seeing you on that stage these past weeks, so committed to my words, to your art … it’s changed me for the better, lad.”

Upon hearing this, I shivered with contentment.

He continued, “I’ve decided to remove myself from any sort of business that distracts me from you or my writing, and I don’t only mean the Queen’s business, but also too much drinking and gambling. Just you watch!”

I frowned at this. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Kit. Please.”

“Upon Christ’s wounds,” he swore, pointing to Heaven. “Have you seen me drunk in the last week?”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t, causing me to smile broadly. “No. Not at all, in fact.”

“You see.” He kissed my hand. “I’m a changed man. What’s more, I’ve gotten the most splendid idea for a new play. You’ll be very pleased. I’ll tell you more when I see you anon. I’ll also let you in on all that ‘mysterious business.’ ” He winked. “Until later, my love.”

He then kissed me on my mouth and left. I felt much joy that, at last, he was working on a new play, but even more thrilled he would not be slipping away in secret any longer. It meant so much that because of me, he would steer his life back into a more affirmative direction. He does truly love me.

For the next several hours, I lay on the bed, wrapped in the warmth of my happiness, and waited for Kit’s return, listening for any door opening or noise on the street that might indicate he was near. But the church bells rang past eight, past nine, past eleven. He still had not returned by midnight, nor as the bells struck one, or two, or three in the morning. I was furious that all his promises had meant nothing. Once more he had gone off to who-knew-where and on the celebration of my birth. I began preparing a speech in my head with which I would blast him as soon as he stepped through the door. But shortly after five bells, I fell asleep.

I was awakened hours later by an insistent rapping at the front door.

Thirty-FiveHell’s Limits