Awake early, I slipped out of bed, full of anticipation and a shadow of worry. In the kitchen Ella gave me apricots, bread, and a slice of ham.
“I’m off for a bit of exploring,” I said, keeping my voice light. “I shall return before dinner.”
Just before I turned off on the path to Mag’s cottage, a horseman in blue livery came riding on a fine roan steed and stopped before me.
“Is this the way to Audley Inn, lad? They sent me this way, but I fear I’m lost.”
“Just ahead,” I said. “I stay there myself.”
“Then you can tell me: are masters Shakespeare and Marlowe in attendance?”
“They are.”
“Good, good. I’m Lord Strange’s advance guard: Richard Clayton, assistant steward. Today my master arrives.”
“Carry on straight and you’ll find them.”
He waved his hat and rode off.
I recalled Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, our company patron, dressed in pristine white at the Queen’s Christmas revels. Curious that he should be coming here.
[The next section of The Secret Player is omitted: a scene with Sander and Johnny, and a secret visit to their Gran. Johnny wants to leave Saffron Walden as soon as he can. After he and Sander agree to meet later in the summer at Stourbridge Fair, Sander returns to Audley Inn. Jack tells her Lord Strange and his entourage have arrived; Stanley will judge the poetry contest the following night. The story continues at dinner, with Sir Thomas Howard joining them. ]
Stanley’s face bore more signs of strain than when last I saw him, arousing both concern and curiosity: what had been causing him such distress? So elegant, so wealthy, so honored: I couldn’t imagine he had a worry in the world.
We were beginning our meal when another guest was announced. Sir Thomas rose, but before he could take a step, John Donne stood under the arched trellis of the bower, hat in hand.
Sir Thomas extended a hand to him. “I’m glad you came, Master Donne. I was grieved to hear of the loss of your brother.”
“Thank you, Sir, and for your kind invitation. It came at a most welcome time.”
“Make room for Master Donne on the bench—at this end, by me and Lord Strange. You know everyone here?” Thomas Howard asked him.
Donne greeted everyone, going around the table, name by name. He stopped when he came to me.
My heart skipped a beat with those black eyes full upon me.
“Aren’t you Alexander Cooke, the player boy?” I nodded as he moved on down the table. “What’s your name?”
“Jack Wilson, Sir.”
“Where is Lady Howard?” Donne asked. “None but men and boys at table. Did you gentlemen make a scholar’s vow? I should like to see what happens if a party of ladies came begging refuge here.”
“Ladies?” Marlowe looked aghast. “We came for poetry!”
“Ladies can be great patrons. Think of the Countess of Pembroke. And they grace us as muses.” Donne smiled. “I’m in need of a muse at the moment.”
“You won’t find her here,” said Nashe. “Except our sweet serving maid.”
“More’s the pity,” he said, his glance flickering over and past me like a darting butterfly.
I scarcely touched the slice of lamb or sorrel salad on my plate and crumbled my bread to bits before I’d even realized. I’d admired this man from a distance for so long–and now he sat across from me. Too much altogether.
“They’ve invited me to Cambridge, can you imagine?” Donne said. “I wasn’t allowed to matriculate there, and now they want me to read my poems at Trinity College.”
“Why wasn’t he allowed?” I whispered to Kemp.
“Catholic.”
I remembered overhearing Donne say in the Mermaid that he was none such. Perhaps he’d meant “anymore.”
“Audley Inn is not exactly on your way,” Marlowe sounded surprisingly ungracious.
“Sir Thomas Howard suggested I take this route. Don’t worry, Kit: I didn’t come for a poetry prize. I needed to leave London. Besides plague and the heat and the reeking streets, I have my private sorrow.”
“My heartfelt condolences for Henry’s loss,” Shakespeare said. “An injustice and an outrage.”
“No doubt his death benefited someone. But he’s gone, whoever is to blame.”
“I’m surprised you stayed in London as long as you did,” Nashe said. “Even in this blessèd place, plague haunts my imagination, Lord have mercy upon us all.”
“Despite plague and plotting, here I am. Safely out.”
“What plotting?” I asked.
Donne’s mouth, half opened to speak, shut tight as Kemp answered, “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Me!” I tried to laugh. What did he mean? Me as an actor, me as a pretender—or just me as a boy. Boys have no worries, or so might these men think.
A summery breeze cooled the warmth surging through my body, and I realized I had emptied my wine cup. Much besides my attraction to John Donne crackled the atmosphere around the table. Kemp refilled my wine and I sipped, feeling scarcely myself as banter danced back and forth across the table.
John Donne was adamant about not participating in any contest, so after supper Sir Thomas pressed him to read from his own poetry.
“I call this poem ‘The Prohibition.’”
At the opening lines I felt he spoke to me. Blood rushed to my cheeks.
Take heed of loving me;
At least remember I forbade it thee;
Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste
Of breath and blood upon thy sighs and tears,
By being to thee then what to me thou wast;
But so great joy our life at once outwears.
Then, lest they love by my death frustrate be,
If thou love me, take heed of loving me.
Was this a warning? Surely I know better than to waste sighs and tears upon such as you, John Donne!
Take heed of hating me,
Or too much triumph in the victory;
Not that I shall be mine own officer,
And hate with hate again retaliate,
But thou wilt lose the style of conqueror
If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate.
Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee,
If thou hate me, take heed of hating me.
Nor dare I hate.
Yet love and hate me too,
So these extremes shall neither’s office do;
Love me, that I may die the gentler way;
Hate me, because thy love is too great for me;
Or let these two themselves, not me, decay;
So I shall live thy stage, not triumph be.
Then, lest thy love, hate, and me thou undo,
Oh let me live; yet love and hate me too.
“Die the gentler way.” Virgin that I was, I knew what that line meant: the little death in a lover’s arms. In Donne’s presence I risked both love and hate.
“I never know with you poets,” Sir Thomas said. “Do you speak your heart’s truth or do your sentiments come from the imagination?”
“What’s your guess?” Marlowe asked.
“I could take the safe course and answer both. I’ve heard that your character of Dr. Faustus owes no small debt to Dr. John Dee, but I doubt you believe that Dr. Dee bargains with the devil. As for poems of love, I cannot say. Poets are known for their wild fancies.”
“Question Master Donne outright. Did he write this poem to a particular woman?” Kemp asked.
“Easy answer. He writes to all women, and a good warning it is,” Marlowe said.
Donne laughed. “You spare me the trouble of a reply.”
“Trust the poem, not the poet. Our hearts do not necessarily partake in our verse,” Shakespeare said.
“You equivocate.” Lord Strange smiled. “None of us can be trusted for three words running,” Marlowe laughed. “Yet we speak truth. Solve that paradox!”
From The Secret Player, revised edition © Jinny Webber