the top of the page. This small amount was almost his total output for the day. Every time he concentrated and slowed his heartbeat and moved the quill nearer to the page, the coach seemed to lurch, jerk to a halt, and collect more passengers. Body after body crammed into the cab and squeezed him tight into the corner. Moreover, the carriage wheels constantly tripped over rocks and bumps, jogging his hand, spitting ink spots everywhere. Five messy, crossed-out pages later, he had written the opening of a poem, not a play. The struggle to create made him irritable for the rest of the night and he rarely answered more than “yes” or “no” to Will as they ate and slept at an inn.
The next day, Will joined Kit in writing as they trundled through the countryside. Now the carriage was empty of passengers they both put their heels up on the seat in front. Kit laid a new sheet of parchment on his knees and stared at its clear open form. The blankness unnerved him. He rolled the quill's nib between his thumb and forefinger. The blankness was still there. He glanced over to Will and watched him fluidly scribble words. Somehow he needed to write a description of Hero. As he sat there in a quiet torture of thought, his eyelids slowly sagged and he lapsed into a doze.
A laugh rang in his ear. His eyes popped open and he frowned, wide awake. It had sounded like a woman's laugh: joyful and lilting but with an undercurrent of plight, reminiscent of the way Audrey had laughed in the tailor's shop. He’d seen many of Elizabeth’s handmaids and gentlewomen before, most of them doll-like replicas of the Queen, but Audrey had wit and charm and beauty. It wasn’t long since he had seen her in London, yet he hungered for her presence, her embrace more than ever. He bent over his parchment and began to write about Hero:
‘ The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.
Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,
When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,
Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,
And branched with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold.
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined
And looking in her face was strooken blind.
But this is true: so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother.
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.
So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft.
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,
Since Hero's time...’
Kit's hand paused. He tried to think how to end the passage – how to complete the rhyming couplet. Minutes later he still had nothing.
By contrast, after filling over ten pages, Will had finished his writing for the day and now turned his
The next day, Will joined Kit in writing as they trundled through the countryside. Now the carriage was empty of passengers they both put their heels up on the seat in front. Kit laid a new sheet of parchment on his knees and stared at its clear open form. The blankness unnerved him. He rolled the quill's nib between his thumb and forefinger. The blankness was still there. He glanced over to Will and watched him fluidly scribble words. Somehow he needed to write a description of Hero. As he sat there in a quiet torture of thought, his eyelids slowly sagged and he lapsed into a doze.
A laugh rang in his ear. His eyes popped open and he frowned, wide awake. It had sounded like a woman's laugh: joyful and lilting but with an undercurrent of plight, reminiscent of the way Audrey had laughed in the tailor's shop. He’d seen many of Elizabeth’s handmaids and gentlewomen before, most of them doll-like replicas of the Queen, but Audrey had wit and charm and beauty. It wasn’t long since he had seen her in London, yet he hungered for her presence, her embrace more than ever. He bent over his parchment and began to write about Hero:
‘ The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.
Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,
When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,
Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,
And branched with blushing coral to the knee;
Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,
Such as the world would wonder to behold.
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,
Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined
And looking in her face was strooken blind.
But this is true: so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother.
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.
So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft.
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,
Since Hero's time...’
Kit's hand paused. He tried to think how to end the passage – how to complete the rhyming couplet. Minutes later he still had nothing.
By contrast, after filling over ten pages, Will had finished his writing for the day and now turned his
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