Page 3 of Love, Will

They all laughed at his words. All but Master Burbage.

“You should bring the boy on stage, Burbage. This way he can even translate your farts,” said another and again, they all laughed.

That evening, after the play finalized, Master Burbage called me to his chamber behind the curtain. I had never been allowed to go in there. It was the place where he kept all the costumes and wigs. Richard was the only other person allowed in and sometimes they argued over parts of a costume gone missing. So the last thing I wanted to do was to step foot inside and damage something that would surely come out of my wages.

“Tell me about what you are doing here, William.” His voice sounded tired after a long play, but his posture appeared relaxed and he was looking at me with a kind eye.

“I only tell them about what the play is going to be, Master Burbage. Today I told them you are a king, from a faraway realm who will struggle in a fight between revenge and love. That you will have to look upon the past with a hardened eye, but seek the merriments of the future for it all to be well. Nothing more.”

“You... told them that?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes, Master, but only because they always ask me to tell them what the play is going to be about. They seem to enjoy knowing beforehand,” I defended myself.

He took a moment, looked out the small window displaying the inside of the theatre house while scratching his head. He seemed to think about something important as his eyes moved from one thing to another, as if imagining or trying to foresee the consequences of the decision he was about to make.

“Recite something for me as if you were on stage,” he asked imposingly and I absolutely jumped at the opportunity, reciting the monologue where the king asks death to give him a chance to seek revenge upon his enemy and defend his kingdom from their possession. By the time I finished, he had relaxed into his seat and, I dare say, looked impressed.

“Seven shillings a week. And if you blunder, you go back to the horses. Do you hear me, call boy?”

That very moment marked my passage from Daisy, the call boy, to Will Shakespeare, actor in the Queen’s Men Theatre Company. I received small parts at the beginning, as I had to prove myself to the actors and my costumes were no way near as pompous as the main character ones, but I was proud and happy.

The rhetoric and memorizing classes we’d been forced to take in school helped me a lot as I developed a splendid memory and after I learned my part, I even helped some of the other colleagues with theirs. That is how myself and Richard became loyal friends, as we were both put into the same category and played most of our parts together. We joked and played with the costumes, imitating the other actors, playing their parts and after performing during the day, it became a ritual to visit the taverns and enjoy ale and sometimes female company.

I do not dare describe the life of an actor as easy. We spent our mornings on stage, rehearsing, then we would all go to a tavern to have dinner and some ale, after which we had to return to the theatre and get dressed for the play that normally started at three o’clock and finished at around six. Then some of them went home to their wives and lovers while the younger actors, Richard and myself amongst them, would go to the tavern again for ale and supper. If I had to describe this life in one word, it would benoisy.

There weren’t a lot of moments for one to be left with their thoughts, let alone consider writing a sonnet or a play in this vociferous routine. Also, candles were pricey, so every night, when Richard and my theatre friends went upstairs to enjoy the company of ladies, I took out some paper, ink and a quill and started writing whatever my drunk self commanded me to.

I observed my surroundings, the many ladies and gents around me, and their behaviour and stole character traits to add to my stories. Within a few months, the result of my chaste nights took the nameThe Taming of the Shrew. I cannot lie, I had some nights where inspiration did not strike, so instead of putting my thoughts on paper, my drunk self put my prick forward so I too could go upstairs and live the same experiences as my fellow actors.

“You wrote a play in a brothel,” James Burbage exclaimed with sheer exasperation when I finally took the courage to show him my work.

“I only wish for a chance to try my luck, Master Burbage,” I begged.

Once again, we were in his room behind the curtain, amongst his costumes and wigs and in full dress-robes ourselves. He took his wig off and threw it on the table, then started fidgeting across the room while talking to himself.

“Luck he says... luck. Writing amongst whores… plays in a brothel? What is next, boy?” He glared at me.

“I only want….”

“Only want, want, want. That is the problem with young men. They want too much. Do you think I’d be where I am now if I’d run chasing my wants, boy? Do you think I’d be part of the Queen’s Men if I wrote a sonnet to every whore I met?”

“No, Master…”

“Don’t speak boy! It was a rhetorical question.”

My inner self smiled at this, but I did not dare tell him what rhetorical questions were.

“We went to Stratford last year, as you wanted us to. The Queen’s Men performing in a small forgotten village, so your wife and children can pride themselves. We even gave you a bigger share of the profit that week, so you have something to leave them. You looked pleased with your position.”

“I was, sir. I am still,” I only dared say, but grabbed the pages in my hand as tightly as I could, resisting the urge to hide them in my jacket and walk away.

“Then why do you come to me with a play from a brothel, boy?” The Master raised his voice so much that the last word echoed to the theatre balconies.

“Please read it, Master Burbage. It’s all I ask. If you dislike it, I will not expect payment.” I said this while slowly backing away to the door. The pages were still in my hand, so I rapidly threw them on the table and opened the door to leave and escape his wrath. He wanted to say something else, but did not have enough time.

I returned to my small room at the inn near the theatre and spent the night thinking about what the future held. It all depended on James Burbage’s decision,whether he would read my play and if he considered at least some of it worthy of the stage. The morning finally came, and we met at the theatre, as we usually did. Some actors shared tavern stories, some were hungover and some were quiet.

James Burbage entered from the back of the curtain and did not address nor looked at me. We rehearsed the entire play without his eyes meeting mine once. When it was time for us to go to dinner, he called me to his chamber. My heart stopped. This was it. The moment that would decide my future. I told the men I would find them soon and forced myself to place one foot in front of the other to follow our theatre impresario into his makeshift office.

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