Page 24 of Love, Will

Chapter 5

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.” -Romeo and Juliet

The next morning, the Earl could not contain his joy. I was told by Keith to come to breakfast at seven thirty, but apparently Henry had been too excited to sleep much that night and arrived earlier to the dining room.

“I barely shut an eye, too much to think about, too many ideas running through my head,” he said instead of a greeting as soon as I walked through the doors.

I smiled and took a seat, gratefully nodding my head towards him.

“When are we going to publish it?”

“Publish it?” I almost choked.

“Well yes, of course, Will. We need to publish it. I hope you are not expecting menotto brag about having a poem written exclusively for me. The entire country needs to read it.”

I smiled again but said wearily, “Generally, when a poet publishes a dedication towards a Lord and the Lord accepts it, they are united by the bond of patronage.”

I blinked and did not speak further, awaiting his reaction. “Not that I expect anything more Henry, please do not misunderstand my intentions.”

“Will, just say it, don’t confuse me further,” he sighed, shoving his loose hair behind his shoulder.

“It will mean that as my patron, you will be expected to support my work and not accept any dedications from any other poets. I know Nashe has been writing for you…”

“But I did not accept his dedication, did I?” he breathed.

“I am only suggesting that….”

“Will, stop suggesting!” He rose from his chair and stepped towards me to place a hand on my shoulder. He pierced my eyes with a sharp stare. “Will, I want to support you and only you. I want to be your patron.”

I blinked my tears away. “You do?”

“Will, I want to be your everything.”

My heart bloomed as he kept smiling at me for a few seconds more, after having offered me the greatest honour a poet could dream of. That a man could dream of.

The Earl and I travelled to Titchfield in the autumn, as he needed to organize finances for the yearly purchases and I had been invited to come along as this would be a long visit and Henry wanted me to spend more time by his side.

A year passed since I took refuge under his service, and our relationship had developed immensely. Last autumn he would be away for weeks at the time to visit other noble households or take care of affairs while I remained in London, writing and performing my duties, but now he refused to spend more than a few days without my company.

I was most grateful for the honor and boomed with delight to accompany him. If the journey was longer than a day, we travelled by carriage, drinking wine and discussing books on the way, then we would stop at a tavern and converse some more until the first rays of sun. We talked so much that we shared everything about each other. I learnt about his father’s issues with the church; we seemed to have that in common; he told me about the first poem he wrote at age eight and the first girl he kissed at age ten.

We could talk about anything without the fear of being accused of heretic thoughts or having to censure ourselves. This applied especially to Henry when the second bottle of wine popped open.

I remember how I burst out laughing the first time he said a bad word and then completely froze from the realisation. It sounded along the lines, “And this Baron is a fidgety disgusting cunt of a pig with horns.”

I looked at him confused, partly not understanding what a “fidgety disgusting cunt of a pig with horns” was, and partly because I never heard Henry mouthing even anything remotely vulgar until then. When he realized what words escaped his mouth out loud, his face froze and looked at me, stunned, to which I burst out laughing so hard that I couldn’t stop my tears for minutes. He started smiling as well, first ashamed but then laughing out loud, probably determined by my own hysteric giggles.

Shortly after our arrival, Henry cooped up in the study with his mother, the Countess for the remainder of the evening and I only set my eyes upon him the next afternoon, when he invited me to ride on the field of his estate. I enjoyed watching the stags running in the afternoon and that time he joined me. We rode quietly for a while, but I could sense something has shifted in him since meeting with the Countess.

They had been locked in a study without asking for any refreshment and skipping dinner. Sometimes we heard loud sighs or the Countess crying slowly. When the door finally opened, Henry strode off and commanded me to join on my journey to see the stags that afternoon. The sky gleamed beautifully, and the sun prepared to paint it in a soft shade of purple, almost lilac, that blended perfectly with the dry field of wheat.

“I am not getting married,” he said at last while continuing to look away from me, straight at the sun.

“I see,” I could only master.

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