Page 2 of Love, Will

Chapter 1

“Hear my soul speak:

The very instant that I saw you, did

My heart fly to your service.” ~ The Tempest

The year was 1585; I had six shillings in my purse and three children and a wife to feed at home. London, the city of dreamers and late night adventures became my only hope. The only remaining opportunity.

I will never forget its beauty the first time I laid eyes upon her. She looked back at me with her churches, bridges and her beautiful curves of the river Thames. Everything resounded differently from what I imagined and all the merchant’s I’d talked to failed to describe the stupendous insanity happening on the streets. I hadn’t seen so many people gathered at once, not even in church. They were all talking and shouting and pushing each other to get through.

The lack of space seemed absurd. There was no way not

to touch the ladies, or at least invade their personal space in those crammed streets. They didn’t seem to mind, however, and behaved as though being accidentally groped on the muddy streets passed as a daily occurrence. Some of them even smiled at me or waved, inviting me to come closer. I later found out what sort of ladies did that, when my great friend Richard Burbage would invite me in those establishments so he could continue to be admired by the crowd after the plays were over. Dear Richard was the one who introduced me to the world of theatre after we met in a tavern on my very first week in London.

“To be drinking alone, in a place like this… you must be getting married or going to war, my friend,” he said while preparing to occupy the seat next to mine at the corner table. The one furthest away from the stairs, that no one ever wanted. I just laughed.

“Or, you are already married and she’s so ugly your prick fell off, eh?” He sat down laughing at his own joke. I just nodded, analyzing the hard jaw and brash lips of this young man who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Richard had always been a handsome man. His dark brown hair shone like an olive branch in the August sun and his tall stature made him easily distinguishable within any crowd.

“Come on, pretty boy, tell daddy what’s wrong and buy me an ale. I will need it if I have to listen to you denounce this beautiful life we call our own.” He grabbed my shoulder and gave it a gentle shrug, as if trying to calm me down. Why, I did not know for sure, but the reassuring gesture had been long awaited after the unsuccessful week I had in the capital. I had been encountered with failure after failure and even though I wanted to see myself as a warrior of life, my armies had long been defeated.

“Afraid I’m low on shillings, my friend, I can barely afford this ale myself, let alone bread,” I replied with a longing tone.

“Brother, I can sense you are not wealthy just because you are talking in shillings. And as the honourable gentleman, my father James Burbage, taught me to be, I must insist on ordering some bread and cheese, some more ale, of course, and investigate the story of this foreigner of London who fell into my way to the brothel on this fine evening.”

I could not help but laugh. “How did you know I was not from London?” I asked.

“Brother, if a goat could stumble upon your accent, it would fall and break its neck.”

We both laughed, sharing unexpected familiarity. Without understanding it yet, I felt an instant connection to Richard, the man who would become my companion in theatre, life, and my most trusted friend. That night, however, he was the only man in a brothel with money to spare and time for a chat.

As promised, Richard ordered us supper, and we stayed and talked for the rest of the evening. I told him about Stratford and how I came looking for work at the theatre, but seeing how harsh London was and knowing how much my family needed some extra silver, I became willing to do anything. I had spent all of my coin on the accommodation that was coming to an end the following day and my every attempt to find work at the theatre had been unsuccessful.

“Don’t tell me you’re the man from yesterday? The one with the flowers on stage?” Richard’s face turned brighter than a shining star, his features suddenly bursting with joy.

“Well, that would be me,” I answered, embarrassed.

His entire mood changed. His face turned slightly reddish, and he immediately burst into huge laughter, having to hold his belly from so much air escaping at once. It took him a few minutes to calm down while tears still rolled from his eyes in between laughing attacks.

“Who recites a sonnet holding a daisy?” He started laughing again, mocking my poor self, who had no other choice but to wait for the stranger who had bought me food to calm his giggling long enough to allow me to get a word in and explain myself.

“I thought it would reflect the romance of the moment and I did not have coins for a rose, fine?” I responded, a bit irritated.

“Come with me to see father tomorrow, we’ll talk about it again, I’ll convince him to give you something to do until you manage to buy a rose for your sonnets, poet boy,” Richard said while slapping my back and proceeding to drink another pint of ale.

And that is how I was remembered for the next year. They would call me Little Daisy or Rose Boy. Both meant to do harm at the beginning but said in a loving tone later on by all the actors and James Burbage himself.

Richard kept his word and took me to see his father the next day hoping to gain me a position at the theatre house. The Queen’s Men did not need any actors in those times, so the only position I could fill out for them was to be call-boy. Richard laughed at the offer, but I accepted gladly since it meant having some work at the theatre and becoming able to send coin home. It was not much. I would earn pence from Master James, but this way I got to know all the noblemen and help them with their horses. As fate strikes, I soon became renowned for it.

My duties comprised of receiving the noblemen at the theatre entrance, greeting them and helping them dismount while telling them about the play presented that afternoon, taking care of the horses during the performance and returning them safely to the noblemen on their way out. Sometimes I received a few pence as gratitude and on the good days, maybe even a shilling if the lord found his horse clean and happy. During the long hours, they left me to the company of horses, I could listen to every rhyme inside the theatre, learn every sonnet by heart and practice rhetoric’s in my mind. I imagined how I would play the roles and thought of ways I could do it differently and improve the scene presence.

Within a few months, I could recite parts of the plays by heart to the lords and noblemen coming through the gates. I saluted them like a king greets his generals on their way to the battlefield or like a noble lord would address his father on a Sunday morning. They loved it so much that they queued to be greeted by me and preferred to wait rather than be attended by the other call boys.

One day, Master Burbage came outside as there were four lords waiting to be attended while two other call boys had no one to service.

“My Lords, apologies for such clumsiness. Please, please allow me to take your horses,” he offered regally. He was even dressed like a king as he came straight from behind the curtain.

“That’s all fine and well Burbage, but we need your boy Daisy to tell us what the play is about first. You don’t expect us to pay three shillings to hear your mumbling without having a proper translator, do ya?” replied one lord.

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