Caesar
Are honourable men.
Yet did not Caesar weep when soldiers died in battle?
Did he not feel the hunger when wheat rotted on the stem?
Did he not ââ
âWhat are you doing?â
I opened my eyes. It was Ned. He wore a muddy shepherdâs smock, not the stockings he wore for school or church, but his hands were clean, even if his bare feet were not.
âNothing,â I said, flushing. And then, âStuff for school.â It was the first time I had lied to him. But how could I explain that the play still whirled in my brain as if I had been given mead to drink?
âOh. School stuff. Iâm not going back to school.â Ned shrugged. âSchoolâs stupid, anyway.â He flung himself on the ground and began to chew a head of grass. He wore his old darned hose under his smock. His hose were muddy too. But Iâd missed him so I sat next to him, and hoped I could brush the dirt off my stockings.
I looked at him closely. âWhatâs wrong?â
âNothing.â
âThere is. Youâve been crying!â
âHave not.â
âHave too!â
He shrugged again, then said quickly, âPa has sold me to the players as apprentice.â
I stared at him. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought of luck like this. A father could pay to apprentice his son as a glove-maker, smith, wool merchant or cooper. But an apprentice player! How had Nedâs father found the money to give his son such a chance?
âThe actors paid Father four guineas for me,â said Ned softly.
âThat canât be right. You have to pay to be taken as apprentice.â
âNot for players.â
âWhy not?â
Ned shrugged yet again. I could see he knew, but wouldnât tell me. He stood. âI have to go. Ma has killed a rooster for my farewell supper. I leave with the players tomorrow. Will . . . can you come and say goodbye to me, as we leave?â
âOf course.â I might get a beating for missing school, but it would be worth it, to wave the players off. And Ned.
âYouâll go to London, as soon as the theatres open again!â I said, trying to be glad for him, instead of jealous. Grief stabbed my boyâs heart, for I would miss him too. Not just because he was my only friend, but because he was himself, Ned.
Dimly through timeâs shifting veil I knew Iâd make other friends as years consumed my life. But a new friend does not replace the lost. I tried to cheer us both. âYouâll see dancing bears and . . . and the Queen maybe and London Bridge. The whole world!â While I was stuck here, studying grammar, with no one to climb the trees with.
âYes,â said Ned flatly.
âYouâll be in all the plays.â He would make a good girl player, I thought, with his red curls and soft white skin, and he was small and slight besides. You could put him in a skirt and no one would be able to tell the difference.
Nedâs face crumpled suddenly. I thought he was going to cry again. Instead he hugged me hard, so quickly I had no chance to hug him back. I watched him as he ran back to the farm.
I wrote my first poem that night. I do not know if it was for loss of Ned, or inspiration from the play. But all at once the words in my head formed lines that whispered, âWrite me on a page. Now!â No beatings from the usherstopped me. I took up the quill and found an inkwell, and then a scrap of parchment.
I began to write. The words looked like ants trotting across the paper, for no scrivener had taught me how to make the letters properly.
O, friend, âtis hard to part from you
For friendshipâs heart is strong and true.
Our beasts will leap and our birds sing
For you the London bells will ring.
I stopped. The poem wanted something more, but I couldnât think of what it might be. So I rolled it up, and sealed it with a blob of candle wax, as Father did when he sent an account.
I went to