Page 8 of Love, Will

“No.” During this entire conversation, since he brought up the kiss, his eyes turned to the fireplace and remained locked on the flames. There was something about the fire movement, the consistency of its presence that calmed him, and I realized this was not the first night he spent wondering about duty and kisses while staring into the flames. The young man I met months before seemed to carry the weight of all the stars on his shoulders and this made him look somewhat decrepit, his own light taken away. Taken by the fire that haunted his thread of thoughts. I did not say a word, leaving him in silence, understanding the importance of the moment.

He searched for company to seek advice and had chosen me, a theatre playwright, to entrust with whatever rested on his shoulders that shrugged him so. But he needed to comprehend that himself and tell me what he was preparing to say, if anything at all.

We spent more than a quarter of an hour in silence, sipping from our wine glasses from time to time. The heaviness of the wine made my blood travel faster, rushing in my feet. I focused on the sensation and followed my muscles as they got heavier and heavier, dragging my legs onto the floor, when the Earl turned abruptly, his face the portrait of determination.

“Master Shakespeare, I must marry.” He spat it out so quickly, like cutting the throat of a deer, needing the pain to go away immediately.

I nodded, deciding whether it would be adequate to add a smile to my wordless congratulation. He frowned, harshly.

“Master Shakespeare, I do not want to marry, and I need the poet of true love to counsel this decision.”

My eyes widened with realization, of his words. With what he was asking me to do, to say.

“My Lord, even if my plays may sound as though a man in love has written them, I am afraid your choice of counsel falls short on this end. I find myself trapped in a loveless marriage,” I confessed.

---