The Watchtower

should—must!—do the same. Blood —possibly something about the kind running in his veins was special.
    Will then tried to dismiss his reaction, as it seemed ridiculously self-important, and he had practical concerns to weigh. But it wouldn’t go away even as he voiced his concerns to the poet.
    “Swan Hall may be a money-monastery as you put it, but it has been home all my life. I am flattered that you would even consider asking me to accompany you to London, but my father would disown me if he knew I considered the notion.” The exchange of the lands and wealth of his inheritance for the trumpeting of a sonnet seemed more reckless to him with each word he uttered.
    “You can be employed as an actor with none other than the King’s Players themselves at a considerable stipend,” the poet countered. “For they are my new troupe. We can continue our private lessons. You will become the great poet and actor destiny wants you to be.” The poet clapped Will enthusiastically on the shoulder. “You can be my protégé, Will Hughes. My offspring in the realm of beauty. As my own son, Hamnet, would have been had he survived. Think about it, man! An immortal. Living forever on the page and in the hearts of the English nation. The world!”
    Will was moved by the soaring enthusiasm of the poet. But though he admired the poet’s willingness to risk the small fortune Will’s father owed him, his bravery concerning Will’s far greater personal legacy seemed a trifle facile, like the brave noble fighting in the rear to the last yeoman. It hurt him to hurt the poet, but he stepped pronouncedly away, retreating into an alcove above which hung the family coat of arms—a black swan rising on a silver field—and a pair of crossed swords. Responding to the wounded look in the poet’s eyes, he murmured, “I need time to take this in. It would be such a different world. I feel like I’m standing now with both feet planted on either side of a chasm while the earth is shaking, the chasm widening.”
    “I do understand, Will.” Slowly, a bit sadly, the poet returned to his chair and sat down.
    Then came a fierce knock on the door. They knew from the imperiousness of the sound that Lord Hughes had returned. Will walked unenthusiastically to the door and opened it. He offered his father a distant but respectful bow, then stared appraisingly and for a painful length of time at the bashful young woman his father escorted, whom Will recognized as Lady Celia, the future Duchess of Exeter. She was attired in a billowing floor-length dress so modest it were as if the spirit of a nun massacred by King Henry VIII inhabited her. Her face was broad at the temples and narrow at the chin, giving the superficial effect of some strange drinking cup. Her shadowy gray eyes—at first cast down and then raised slowly to meet Will’s—glowed only like the faintest embers of dying coals. The scar across her lower left cheek did not help her loveliness, nor the faintness of her eyebrows. Will looked away with a cruel abruptness as her eyes met his, a mocking half smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was dangerous to behave this way in front of his overly dignified and occasionally bellicose father. But he couldn’t help himself. This woman could be the death of him!
    Lord Hughes was tall and retained both the lean muscles of his youth and the severe expression of his time as a military commander. Though long out of the king’s service, he wore a uniform this afternoon. His features had so many angles to them they might have been a geometry lesson; they were dominated by two piercing eyes that would have done any raptor proud. The angles sharpened and his eyes glared as he observed his son’s rudeness. But Lord Hughes was not going to stand down from the appropriate polite formalities with a sudden expression of wrath, at least not if he could help it.
    “Son, this is Lady Celia, the future Duchess of Exeter, whom you have once before met at court in London. Your ladyship, this is Will Hughes, my only son and heir.”
    The bow and the curtsy that followed were as feeble as if those performing them were no longer living. The lady had noted Will’s cold arrogance and might well have been said to be mortally offended already. Nonetheless, she began to steal furtive glances at his sleek and luminous features even amid her wounded irritation, showing a sudden spirit that Will had a history of evoking even among the most sheltered