The Watchtower

did not follow you here, beautiful lady,” Will said. “I did receive the poet’s message earlier, but it did not banish me from the streets or the taverns. Had it, and had I known it came from your heart as well as his, which I don’t, I’d be at the bottom of the Thames right now, of my own free will. Draw your own conclusions as to why destiny has flung us together here tonight. I do!”
    Marguerite stared into Will’s fervent eyes. Once or twice her lips began moving as though she were going to speak again, but then she would lapse back into silence. Then, with no warning, she put her face in her hands and began to sob. Will moved in a gingerly way to console her, wondering if he might be so bold as to put an arm around her shoulders; which he did. He had only one, wildly exalting thought: If I’m in her tears, I could be in her heart!
    She sobbed so long that the serving woman, having brought Will’s ale to his table first, eventually brought the tankard over to him at his new table. When the sobs ceased, Marguerite looked back up at Will, took a deep breath, and said, “The poet has lost his mind! When I was fool enough to tell him of our encounter at the party, he flew into a jealous rage. He said you would never have behaved so disloyally without encouragement from me, which of course is untrue. Then he insisted that he and I marry immediately, to ward off further transgressions from ‘evildoers,’ as he termed you. This though he is already married and famously so. When I cited the law and Christian decency to him, he said we were beyond the ‘iron rule’ of both. As he put it, ‘Man’s loving heart is the greatest savior this earth has seen, and poetry is that heart’s scripture.’ Fancy words he has a gift for, and I was moved by them. But not enough to enter into a blasphemous marriage, for which refusal he then cast me out of what was suddenly ‘his’ house.
    “As I thought about all our circumstances during the very long afternoon, however, I forgave him his acrimony and cruel expulsion and decided to try to reconcile. After all, it was the depth of his passion that had incited his crazed proposal—alongside his deep sense of betrayal by you, if I may be so bold—and I could forgive him such passion, especially as he’d never laid a hand on me nor threatened to.
    “But when I came back in the early evening, just a few hours ago, with an open heart and even a tiny regret for not marrying him, I was treated on the doorstep to the sound of a woman giggling from an open third-floor window, our bedroom window, followed by loud, raucous laughter from two. I hesitated but continued to the top step, from where I heard the poet shout mockingly, ‘Marry me, marry me,’ in an affected high-pitched titter. Then he lowered his voice to an unnatural boom: ‘But I’m already married, you whore.’ The ensuing peal of laughter from whomever he was with was enough to frighten a crow from its senses, and indeed the sky then turned black with fleeing, cackling crows.
    “I saw no need to go upstairs and surprise him and whatever creature he consorted with. The picture was clear. Who knows what the poet told the poor wretch? Certainly, he couldn’t neglect his own loins for even a day.
    “I have chosen to move on. The poet is morally worthless. His words may be beautiful, but they grow like fetid orchids in rank soil.”
    Marguerite began to sob again, heaving sobs that would have made other heads in the tavern turn had anyone else been there. This time she was less alone in her sobs. She had collapsed as if unthinkingly into Will’s arms; Will picked her up and put her in his lap, and there she stayed.
    While holding Marguerite so, and the facts of her story, put Will infinitely ahead of where he had been just a few minutes earlier, he now began to lament his lack of prominence in her narrative. He seemed to have been a mere catalyst for tumult. After Marguerite regained her composure and returned to her chair, Will asked, “What possessed you to tell the poet about me in the first place? You might have suspected he would see my approach as a betrayal.” Her answer might not be kind, but after his suffering he had a preference for truth over fantasy.
    Marguerite wiped away tears with the delicate heel of her hand, then fastened her gaze upon him once more. Despite his trepidation, Will thrilled to this gaze, his blood tingling.
    “We share everything, the poet and I,” she said. “We