Love's Will by Meredith Whitford

performance.
    “I thank you, madam. Now, your business?”
    “Sir, we heard that in Thame one of your company was killed.”
    “Yes, William Knell, God rest him. Though Towne, who killed him, was acquitted. Self-defence. A quarrel. Yes, he’s a loss to us.” Real feeling lurked behind the mannered phrases.
    “And you have our sorrow for it. And it may give offence to ask you this so soon after his death, but I want to be a player.” William lifted his hand at the other man’s instinctive protest. “Please, sir, hear me out. I daresay you get all sorts of people wanting to join your troupe.”
    “Aye, we do. Runaway apprentices, boys who’ve gone too far with a girl and have an irate father after them; sometimes even the girls. We are not recruiting, young man. And certainly not in a country town.” He smiled, pleasantly but firmly, and began to turn away.
    “Mr Tarleton, I ask you only for a few moments of your time to advise me over a drink. I was one of a private troupe of players in the north, I have performed for Lord Strange and Lord Derby among others, and I have sold two plays to Mr Henslowe at the...the...”
    “The Curtain,” said Tarleton, looking at him oddly. “What’s your name?”
    For a moment William couldn’t remember. He looked blankly at Anne for help. She gave him a pitying smile.
    “Shakspere. William Shakspere.”
    “You wrote that piece about King Henry the Sixth?”
    “Yes, sir. You know of it?’
    Tartleton made a mouth. “It was inexperienced, but not so bad. How much did they pay you for it?”
    “A pound,” he said proudly.
    “Next time ask for more.” There was a moment when he almost bade them good-day and left, then he said, “You offered me a drink? I’ll accept, gladly, and if I can advise you I will, but only for half an hour.”
    “That is more than I dared to hope. Thank you.”
     
    He wasn’t home to supper, or by the time Anne went to bed. She tried to stay up but was too tired, and only woke at the sound of William’s boots hitting the floor. She pulled back the bed-curtain and saw him in his shirt, stretching until his arms cracked.
    “Will?”
    “Did I wake you? Sorry.” Shorry; he wasn’t drunk, but nor was he quite sober.
    Anne sat up, clasping her knees. “Where have you been all this time? What did Mr Tarleton say? Will?” Maddeningly he stopped to kiss the twins and tuck their covers in. “William!”
    He collapsed into bed beside her, folding his arms behind his head. “I’ve been out walking. Nowhere much, just walking. Thinking. I stayed an hour or more with Tarleton and some other players. Drank too much, I suppose. Then I walked. Out in the forest. By the river. Thinking.”
    “Did Mr Tarleton not encourage you?”
    “He was quite encouraging. He’d read the Henry play that Dick Field sold to Mr Henslowe, and he’d seen the comedy performed. I didn’t know they had actually played it. He said it went well, the audience liked it. He said I have great promise as a writer for the theatre.”
    “Oh, Will!” In the moonlight she could see the silly great grin on his face. “What else did he say?”
    “He asked if I could act. I told him of the little experience I’ve had and he made me read a piece through.” The grin widened. “He said I show some promise.” Suddenly he unclasped his hands and threw himself over to look at Anne. “He said I should try my luck in London. He can’t take me on with the Queen’s Men, it’s not for him to do and they’re the pick of England’s players; ’sides, they’ve others waiting for their turn, men who’ve done their ’prenticeship. Ap-prenticeship. Three years, is usual.”
    Rather flattened, Anne said, “And was that all?”
    “No, no. No. He says, said, I should go to London. Try my luck in London. He said, do I know anyone in London ’n I said, Dick Field, ’prentish to the printer. ’N he said, good, best to have some friends in the city. He said, when the Queen’s Men are