Page 78

Wherein Willy Hughes’s life is once again tossed into the unknown

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is there must we ever be.

—from Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

When I went to the door I found the great actor Edward Alleyn, he who had played King Edward to my Gaveston, standing there. He had become a dear friend to both Kit and me. His expression was most tender, but also distraught.

“Hughes,” he said, his voice catching. “I’m so sorry …”

As Edward relayed his dark message, it was as if my ghost had separated from my body, and I was watching from the outside. I didn’t cry out, nor tear up, but merely nodded my head as if he were delivering a bit of necessary but unextraordinary news. When he asked me if I wanted him to stay to comfort me, I said I thought it best he should go. I told him I would be alright, and that I just needed to lie down, for I was weary.

It was only later when I was alone in my bed chamber that I allowed myself to fully comprehend what Edward had just told me: Kit was dead, killed at the widow Eleanor Bull’s house, stabbed through one of his beautiful green eyes. I had lost the poet who happily had made me both his muse and his lover. I had lost the man who had taught me to claim my wholeness both in life and on the stage. I had lost the man who, despite his faults, was a true friend who had taught me so much about life and to be proud of who I was.

In the days that followed, I had to gather all my acting talent to put a false face onto my grief. Only the Thomases and Edward Alleyn knew the depth of Kit’s and my friendship. Most of those I encountered—business associates, members of court, Kit’s family members, other actors, and tiremen—spoke to me as if I were merely one of the many of Kit’s company members. It felt so diminishing, and I thought how Kit never would have stood by and watched it happen if he had been there. But he wasn’t.

The following Friday, the coroner and the constables questioned me whether I might know the reason as to why the killer, a Mister Ingram Frizer, would want to murder Kit or why someone else might have put him up to it. I told them I did not. But soon rumors began to spread wildly. One claimed that Kit, having been a spy for the Crown, was killed for what he knew about atheists on the Privy Council. They said our play Edward the Second was a coded message of those details, and that my role of Gaveston was meant to represent one of the atheist traitors to Queen Elizabeth. Another rumor said the murder was retribution for Kit’s many sins—sins like those he had committed with me for over a year. A thousand theories swirled around London, citing reasons of politics, avarice, heresy, drunkenness, crime. There were even whispers that other poets of lesser talent took his life out of jealousy.

The courts concluded that during an argument over the payment of a bill, Kit had pulled a dagger on Mister Frizer. After a struggle, Frizer turned the dagger onto Kit, and struck the mortal blow. This did not stop the gossip that something more scandalous and conspiratorial played a role, but for me the whys and hows no longer mattered. Kit was dead, gone forever, and I was horribly alone once again.

Thirty-SixThe Greatest Loss

Mistress Rose Williams expresses her deepest grief over the death of her beloved friend, Mister C.M.

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

—from Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

Fie on thee, selfish and cruel gods! My dearest friend and confidant Mister Christopher Marlowe has been murdered most cruelly—his beauteous green eye stabbed through. I sit at my dressing table and have not stopped weeping. Perhaps I never will.

There is an inquiry being conducted as to the motivations for the murder, though I doubt any truth will be discovered. What truth can be discovered by rulers who want no “truth” that they themselves didn’t design to their own benefit?

I am bereft. Who shall I confide in now? My husband? He listens not, nor can he construe the complexities of my heart like Kit could. Shall I try again to gain the friendship of those prune-lipped English housewives in the market? They despise me and would find nothing more pleasurable than to bring the foreign slut to her knees. They are rejoicing at the news of Kit’s death, no doubt, listing all his sins as the real reason for his damnation. I loathe them all.

Oh, dearest Kit, if you were only still here. This life is but misery and confusion without you, my friend. The only thing to do now is to return to my bed and wish for a sleep that will not end.

Thirty-SevenThe Next Chapter

Wherein Willy Hughes continues to mourn the loss of his love as life goes on with chilly indifference.

O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,

And you and love are still my argument.

—from Sonnet 76

For a long time after Kit’s passing, I wasn’t sure what I would do or how I could go on. I remained living in his apartments with the two Thomases until I was told by Kit’s relatives that they would no longer cover his part of the expenses. Moreover, his family intended to claim all of his artworks, furnishings, and clothing, including all that which Kit had given me—even the blue doublet with the gold thread, his final gift. I was to be cast out into the streets with merely the clothes I owned when I met him.

The Thomases offered to help me and said I could stay longer if I wanted. That is, if I could cover my share of the costs. While I had saved a considerable sum (for one such as I) from my work as a hired man with the Earl of Pembroke’s Men, I was loath to squander it on over-priced rooms, especially since they reminded me of Kit. I would also need the savings should I ever continue with the idea of being a sharer in a company—or, more likely, if I decided to do something completely different. My future had once again become the foggiest question. I decided to make a clean break and packed my bags. On my way out, I did steal one of Kit’s small porcelain figurines of a half-naked satyr ravaging a faun. But that was all I took.

I was firm that I would not return to the Lord Chamberlain’s Men nor the Earl of Pembroke’s Men. The thought of acting at all made me want to weep. My beloved profession had been the source of two of my worst heartbreaks, and I knew to go back would crush me. But then where would I live and how would I sustain myself without spending all I had?

With no other recourse, I returned to the only home I ever knew, and once again began serving beer and cleaning the jakes at the Nags Head alehouse. My mother welcomed me, especially since my presence increased her personal income. Now that I was too tall to sleep in the alcove under the kitchen steps, the alehouse owner offered me a small room in the attic, for which they deducted three pence a month from my earnings. It was humbling to find myself once again mopping up piss, beer, and vomit. But the job did give me time to think, as well as something to occupy my hands from doing anything drastic. I forwent any of my former side activities in the Nags Head privy. Neither for thievery nor sport. My heart just wasn’t in it. Even my whore of a mother—who no longer was whoring for her back had given out—was concerned for me.

“Hey-ho, what’s your sorrow, pet?” she asked one afternoon before the crowd came in. “Is it still because your gentleman friend got stabbed? It’s been months since. I think you best heal quicker, or you’ll be moping all the way to your own coffin and will miss what little happiness there is. Trust a woman who hasn’t seen happiness in some twenty years.” She touched my cheek gently with her cracked and dirty fingers. “Be happy now, son.”