padding about his narrow hips and arse, a curly red wig sitting awry on his close-shaven head.
‘So that is how it is done,’ Henry Wriothesley murmured, turning to smile at Will. ‘We did much the same in the university dramas. I played a woman of loose morals once, and was so convincing, I nearly fooled the Dean when he caught sight of me in the cloisters. He became quite apoplectic and shouted for the porters, thinking a whore had been smuggled into the college.’
Will grinned.
‘Tell me, have you ever thought of writing epic poetry?’ the earl asked, and perched on a side table while Will hurriedly dressed.
‘Yes, my lord.’ He fumbled with the fastening of his hose, wishing his clothes were not so humble. ‘Many times. But epic poems do not sell well unless—’
‘Unless the poet can find himself a noble patron?’
‘Just so, my lord.’
Henry Wriothesley nodded. ‘Then look no further, William Shakespeare. I shall be your patron, and furnish you with whatever help you require to write a poetic epic.’
His gaze flashed over Will’s plain brown doublet, then he snapped his fingers at the servant who had accompanied him.
The man drew a leather purse out of his jacket and threw it across to Will.
Will caught it and stood astonished, weighing the purse in his hand. So Burbage had been right when he thought Southampton was looking for a writer to support. But this was more than he had expected. The purse was heavy, enough to pay his lodgings for a few months. Or to put aside in the hope of buying a share in Burbage’s theatrical company one day, and so raising himself from humble player to part-owner.
‘That purse shall be my first incentive to you. Only for my sake, make it a love poem that you write,’ the earl insisted, standing again. He held a pomander to his nose, for the confined space smelt of men’s sweat and spilt ale, and he seemed suddenly impatient to leave. He gestured to his manservant, who approached and swung the cloak about the young man’s shoulders. ‘For poetry was invented to express love. And let it be written on a classical theme, if you know any.’
‘Venus and Adonis?’
Henry Wriothesley glanced back at him from the door, smiling, though clearly surprised by the speed of his response. ‘An inspired choice. You know the Latin original?’
Will gave an answering smile. ‘Yes, my lord. Ovid is a poet of great subtlety and range, and the comfort of my quieter hours since I was a boy.’
‘I am glad to hear you enjoyed an education in the Roman poets.’ The Earl of Southampton hesitated, looking back at him, then nodded briskly. ‘Send it to me when the thing is done.’
Will bowed very low, unable to believe his luck in having obtained such a lucrative commission. ‘You have my grateful thanks for this opportunity to prove myself, my lord.’
A playwright was a poor thing in the eyes of the court, he thought, writing for common groundlings and merchants, and paid only a few shillings for his sweat. But a poet was a creature set apart, and held far higher in courtly estimation than a backstreet theatrical. This poem on Venus and Adonis might not simply swell out his empty pockets, but confirm his reputation at the English court.
And who was at court but Lucy Morgan?
Seven
‘B UT Y OUR M AJESTY must see that I cannot be expected to remain at home,’ the Earl of Essex complained, turning impatiently from his contemplation of the bustling river below the walls at Hampton Court, ‘not when men like Drake are permitted to sail forth in your honour, seizing foreign lands for England. It is not right that gentry and commoners should take to the seas in your service, ungoverned by the hand of any nobleman. My stepfather would never have allowed such an outrage, and nor shall I, now that I have replaced him as your advisor.’
‘No one could ever replace dear Robert,’ she muttered, but Leicester’s stepson was no longer listening to her.
Elizabeth sighed,
‘So that is how it is done,’ Henry Wriothesley murmured, turning to smile at Will. ‘We did much the same in the university dramas. I played a woman of loose morals once, and was so convincing, I nearly fooled the Dean when he caught sight of me in the cloisters. He became quite apoplectic and shouted for the porters, thinking a whore had been smuggled into the college.’
Will grinned.
‘Tell me, have you ever thought of writing epic poetry?’ the earl asked, and perched on a side table while Will hurriedly dressed.
‘Yes, my lord.’ He fumbled with the fastening of his hose, wishing his clothes were not so humble. ‘Many times. But epic poems do not sell well unless—’
‘Unless the poet can find himself a noble patron?’
‘Just so, my lord.’
Henry Wriothesley nodded. ‘Then look no further, William Shakespeare. I shall be your patron, and furnish you with whatever help you require to write a poetic epic.’
His gaze flashed over Will’s plain brown doublet, then he snapped his fingers at the servant who had accompanied him.
The man drew a leather purse out of his jacket and threw it across to Will.
Will caught it and stood astonished, weighing the purse in his hand. So Burbage had been right when he thought Southampton was looking for a writer to support. But this was more than he had expected. The purse was heavy, enough to pay his lodgings for a few months. Or to put aside in the hope of buying a share in Burbage’s theatrical company one day, and so raising himself from humble player to part-owner.
‘That purse shall be my first incentive to you. Only for my sake, make it a love poem that you write,’ the earl insisted, standing again. He held a pomander to his nose, for the confined space smelt of men’s sweat and spilt ale, and he seemed suddenly impatient to leave. He gestured to his manservant, who approached and swung the cloak about the young man’s shoulders. ‘For poetry was invented to express love. And let it be written on a classical theme, if you know any.’
‘Venus and Adonis?’
Henry Wriothesley glanced back at him from the door, smiling, though clearly surprised by the speed of his response. ‘An inspired choice. You know the Latin original?’
Will gave an answering smile. ‘Yes, my lord. Ovid is a poet of great subtlety and range, and the comfort of my quieter hours since I was a boy.’
‘I am glad to hear you enjoyed an education in the Roman poets.’ The Earl of Southampton hesitated, looking back at him, then nodded briskly. ‘Send it to me when the thing is done.’
Will bowed very low, unable to believe his luck in having obtained such a lucrative commission. ‘You have my grateful thanks for this opportunity to prove myself, my lord.’
A playwright was a poor thing in the eyes of the court, he thought, writing for common groundlings and merchants, and paid only a few shillings for his sweat. But a poet was a creature set apart, and held far higher in courtly estimation than a backstreet theatrical. This poem on Venus and Adonis might not simply swell out his empty pockets, but confirm his reputation at the English court.
And who was at court but Lucy Morgan?
Seven
‘B UT Y OUR M AJESTY must see that I cannot be expected to remain at home,’ the Earl of Essex complained, turning impatiently from his contemplation of the bustling river below the walls at Hampton Court, ‘not when men like Drake are permitted to sail forth in your honour, seizing foreign lands for England. It is not right that gentry and commoners should take to the seas in your service, ungoverned by the hand of any nobleman. My stepfather would never have allowed such an outrage, and nor shall I, now that I have replaced him as your advisor.’
‘No one could ever replace dear Robert,’ she muttered, but Leicester’s stepson was no longer listening to her.
Elizabeth sighed,
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