The Marlowe Papers: A Novel

by Ros Barber

  with the right plays in place.’ Handing a purse

  over to Tom unconsciously, his eyes

  still taking the words in.

  ‘On the fire,’ Tom said,

  and Ned obeyed. It curled up, black as nightmares.

  ‘We will defeat them,’ Watson said, quite firm.

  ‘We will defeat them, Ned. You mark my word.’

  MIDDELBURG

  At Middelburg, the printer’s twitchy eye,

  its odd, incessant winking, puts me off.

  My accent deteriorates. ‘Monsieur Le Doux.

  You have a trunk for me?’

  The facial tic

  suggests he has it hidden. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It didn’t come?’ His wink says nothing more.

  ‘If I give you this angel?’ ‘There you are.’

  He snaps the money up. ‘It’s stored out back.’

  I follow him through. An apprentice at the press

  brings down black letter on to pristine sheet.

  I check the contents. ‘Everything is there,’

  he says politely. ‘Books are valuable

  but far too heavy to stand in for gold.

  I have some English titles you might like.

  Things you can’t get a licence for. You know?’

  The one time winking might have seemed to fit,

  his face is motionless as masonry.

  ‘Religious tracts of various persuasions.

  Wider debate than the English Queen allows.’

  ‘You publish poetry?’

  ‘If it will sell.

  None at the moment. You have written verse.’

  He knows. It’s not a question. ‘I have seen

  your manuscripts.’ He shrugs apology.

  ‘When I was checking things against your list.

  There might be a market for the saucy ones.’

  ‘We may do business later,’ I reply,

  tucking a ream of paper beneath my arm.

  ‘For now, I’m at these lodgings. Send the trunk

  as soon as you can manage.’ He folds the slip

  into his pocket, winks me to the street.

  I write all night. The lady of the house,

  who provided extra candles for a mark,

  is snoring on her purse. The moon is low;

  a cat is prowling shadows on the stairs

  and when I stop, my losses crowding in,

  I think of your lips, one kiss. As though I live.

  But I am the ruined queen of ancient Rome

  who killed herself, and left her words to sing.

  At noon, the trunk arrives between two boys

  who frown at my shilling. The tall one kicks the short

  to dig out a piece of parchment, firmly sealed:

  ‘Arrived this morning, sir.’ Another coin

  and both skulk off. It is addressed ‘Le Doux’;

  the seal’s unknown to me; the hand inside

  is unfamiliar. But beside the words

  is sketched the outline of a marigold.

  ‘Meet me at one. The Flanders Mare. T.T.’

  TAMBURLAINE THE SECOND

  ‘Oh, that was something. This’ll run for weeks.’

  Over my shoulder, ‘Robert, sir, you’re late!

  Where were you at this young man’s play?’ Ned barks.

  Greene almost flinches. ‘Though there’s nothing I

  would rather do than laud another’s art,

  I was unwell.’ There is a hint of truth

  around his lips; the lightest tint of green

  reflected from his cloak, or in his blood

  from the rumoured diet of fish and Rhenish wine.

  Tonight, exaggerating for effect,

  Greene is his name, his nature and attire.

  ‘On rewarding myself with a pint or two of wine

  for finishing that script I promised you,

  I find my head inoperative, too full

  to take this young man’s pounding poetry.

  But, Marlowe, you’re well, I trust. Another triumph?’

  ‘Marley,’ I say.

  ‘That doesn’t have the ring

  an author needs, my boy. Whereas Mar-lowe

  seems altogether fitting, since the sound

  paints you with either syllable. Mar, low.

  The play went well?’

  Ned chips in, ‘Like a trollop!’

  The insult doesn’t land with him at all.

  ‘That’s just as well for me. These fashions change,

  sometimes before a man can capture them.’

  He pushes a manuscript in front of Ned.

  ‘Alphonsus, King of Aragon. The part

  is made for you, Alleyn. Bold bombastic verse

  in quite the style you’re used to. Guaranteed

  to pack the house as full as Tamburlaine.

  Ten pounds is not too much to ask.’

  ‘Ten pounds?

  I paid half that for Tamburlaine Part Two!’

  ‘But this is twice as good again, at least.

  (Excuse me, no offence intended.) And

  the Spanish title makes it topical.

  You’ll more than make your money back again.’

  ‘Can I distract you?’ Watson, at my side.

  ‘A friend from Paris would like to meet the man

  who has a shepherd turn kings into beasts.

  Sir Francis’ cousin, Thomas Walsingham.’

  Thus, you have joined me in the tale I tell:

  your gentle face beside him, framed in curls.

  ‘Perhaps you’d call me Tom. Another Tom.’

  You grasp my hand. ‘I’ve read your poetry.

  You’re Watson’s heir. In English. And your play –

  it’s very brave.’ Your eyes are so intense

  I’m speechless for a moment.

  ‘How so, brave?’

  ‘To scold religions, have an atheist

  depose both Christian and Muslim kings.’

  Is it natural for a memory to scorch,

  word upon blistered word, that first exchange?

  Do you recall as clearly my new gaze

  falling upon you? Yours was torching me.

  ‘It isn’t bravery, but metaphor.

  Impassioned right slays cold hypocrisy.

  Those who swear oaths on sacred books and break

  their promises should surely feel God’s wrath.’

  ‘In the form of a shepherd?’

  ‘Why not in a shepherd?

  A shepherd’s a man like any king. But rarer:

  he keeps his word.’

  ‘You don’t see danger in it?’

  Instinctively, I draw back from the cliff

  of my own confirmed opinions, wondering if

  you fish for your cousin also.

  ‘May I speak

  not as intelligencer, but as poet?’

  ‘Can you separate yourself so?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  As though you’d entered, verbal sword half drawn,

  and we were locked now, hilt to hilt.

  ‘Then do.’

  ‘Truth’s dangerous to liars. But in art

  it’s softened by beauty. If we put both sides,

  as dialectic training teaches.’

  ‘Where

  were you educated?’

  ‘Cambridge.’

  ‘Tom, I swear,

  he works for you already. Interviewed

  by Sir Francis himself.’ The jest from Watson there

  only voicing my own discomfort. You stay fast

  on the subject as a ship’s own barnacle.

  ‘One of the sceptic colleges, no doubt.

  Not Christ’s. Say, Corpus Christi?’

  ‘You are sharp.’

  And serious. ‘My father kept blades like you

  for skinning rabbits.’

  Trying to prick a laugh,

  to distract you from your purpose. To no avail.

&n
bsp; ‘They train good heretics,’ you say as plain

  as if I’d just assented.

  ‘I would say

  they train young men to question and debate

  both sides of all positions.’

  ‘And is there

  a bar on what may be counter-argued?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The existence of God?’

  ‘Ah, come now.’ Watson leaps

  ahead of my answer. ‘Let us get to know

  each other first. Thank goodness it’s a play.

  As quite opposed to something serious.’

  He clasps your shoulders. ‘Come now, gentle friend!

  A play is only playful. There’s no threat

  if we are entertaining make-believe.’

  Your eyes assess the set of my mouth and jaw

  precisely as a housewife squeezes fruit;

  remain there lest I slip away. ‘I don’t

  believe he’s made it up.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The atheism. Are you an atheist?’

  Watson laughs loudly, ‘Faith, he isn’t, Tom!

  He’s toying with you.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say.

  ‘Not an atheist?’

  ‘Not toying with you.’

  ‘Oh,’

  you say, and I watch your face fall like a bird

  hit by a slingshot. So surprised by ‘Oh’

  that the fight quite leaves me.

  ‘Nothing more than “oh”?’

  There is a folding sadness in your face.

  ‘If you don’t know God’s not an argument,

  I cannot help,’ you say.

  ‘You want to help?’

  ‘A talented writer like yourself? I do.’

  The strangest sense, then, of your tenderness

  washed over me. I’d read you very wrong.

  ‘I’m open to help,’ I say, ‘all kinds.’

  And Tom

  slips in, ‘He hasn’t any money, Kit.

  He’s a second son. His brother has the manor.

  Handsome place, too. At Scadbury, in Kent.

  But Tom’s as penniless as the rest of us.’

  We spent some borrowed pennies anyway

  on further beers. You softened visibly.

  and as we parted, grasped my hand and said,

  ‘You know God’s name is Jove?’

  ‘Of course.’

  You dipped

  my finger in the frothy head that lay

  at the bottom of my exhausted cup and spelt

  across the tabletop: ‘I-O-V-E’.

  ‘As it is written,’ you said, quietly.

  I close that memory, and sleep alone.

  HOTSPUR’S DESCENDANT

  Just two days later, I was called away

  to the continent. The Spanish invasion fleet

  was building off the Netherlands. Inland

  the Duke of Parma’s army gathered strength.

  I crossed the Channel as a pious man

  and quoted verse at those who challenged me,

  defrauding death by blasphemous degree.

  Yet in the honest service of a faith

  and that faith’s defender; loyal to my Queen

  by counterfeiting service to a God

  I couldn’t quite believe in. If that God

  despised my actions, he left me unharmed

  to estimate men and horse, artillery.

  Flushing, the English garrison where I

  reported news that they might use at home

  was base to every spy and volunteer.

  The inns were choked with soldiers on alert

  exchanging rumours over watered beer;

  with tables squeezed, it wasn’t possible

  to eat alone, unless one was diseased.

  But I was halfway through a history play,

  preferred to eat alone than make small talk,

  and the inn, at least, had candles. I was glad

  scribbling in public frightens people off.

  It kept me out of trouble.

  ‘Can I sit?’

  The gentleman who joined me had a voice

  as singular as Fortune.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  I hoped he couldn’t read things upside down.

  ‘Do you mind my asking what you’re working on?’

  ‘Do you mind my saying yes?’

  He didn’t blink.

  ‘It can’t be secret if you’re writing here.’

  ‘It isn’t secret, but it’s personal.’

  ‘Looks like a play.’

  ‘Excuse me, have we met?’

  ‘Henry,’ he said, his hand entreating mine.

  I took it. ‘Christopher Marley.’ Back to the page.

  ‘Marley the poet?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘What luck!

  I finished reading, only recently,

  your fine translation of Ovid’s Elegies.’

  ‘That manuscript has travelled well.’ I wondered

  how the stranger came by it.

  ‘Indeed. Like fire

  through August hayricks. You have quite a skill.

  I write a little myself. Not fresh as you.

  I’m more of a reader.’

  ‘Very interesting.’

  I admit my patience wore a little thin.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting. Pay no heed.’

  He sat and tapped his fingers on the edge

  of the beery table. Like he dabbed the keys

  of some invisible virginal to scales.

  ‘Curious how, on the very edge of war,

  our thoughts are drawn to the wars of history.

  I couldn’t help noticing it’s a battle scene.

  Apologies.’ He’d been quiet a good two minutes.

  Time to give up. ‘You’re fond of history?’

  ‘I’m fond of learning. Fond of the arts, and science,

  debate. Though I avoid theology.

  As wise men should. But knowledge interests me.’

  Clearly he was no soldier. Though in clothes

  as practical as mine, there was an air

  of velvet and silk about him, suddenly.

  I wondered I hadn’t noticed it before.

  ‘When all this is over, if they don’t invade,

  perhaps you’d like to use my library.

  Come stay with me. I have two thousand books;

  you might find one or two of use.’ He grinned.

  ‘Do you know Thomas Watson?’

  ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘A mutual friend. Delightful. Well, I’ll go

  and leave you to your play. We’ll meet again.’

  I asked the tapster to supply his name.

  ‘That’s Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.’

  NORTHUMBERLAND’S SUBJECT

  At summer’s end, I crossed the Channel, thin

  and ready to rest, and made his Petworth home

  my own for several weeks. His own pet poet:

  he asked me to read my verse aloud to him,

  and had my portrait painted. We discussed

  Copernicus, that whispered heresy

  all clever men must orbit. But religion,

  which killed his father with a pistol shot,

  we never mentioned. Had I lingered there,

  and caught the habit –

  Oh, this thorn, regret.

  I catch my eye upon it every time.

  FIRST RENDEZVOUS

  A half-hour early, I search out a seat:

  a shadowed place, a good view of the door.

  As midday nears, the Flanders Mare fills up

  with Flemish conversation; working folk

  taking repast. At noon, a slender man,

  tall as a cobbler’s story, enters the inn,

  a drooping marigold in his lapel.

  I’ve never met the man, he can’t know me,

  and yet he logs my face and, du
cking the beams,

  traverses to my corner. ‘Thomas Thorpe,’

  he says; a proffered hand. I let it hang

  limp in the air, an unadopted flag.

  In both ways, he’s unshaken. ‘Marigold!’

  The hand I spurned leaps to the sad gold flower

  and dumps it on the table. ‘Am I right?

  It was murder to get it. Sorry. Figure of speech.’

  His eyebrows flash an inkling of the fate

  I’m rumoured to have suffered. ‘You’d be surprised

  how detestably obtuse the local soil:

  it’s not the soil for marigolds, I’m told.’

  I don’t know whether to take this literally

  or as a metaphor, since ‘marigold’

  has long been the service code for Catholic.

  I haven’t said a word to help him out,

  provoking the eager man to ask me straight,

  ‘Monsieur Le Doux, have I made a mistake?’

  ‘What makes you think that I’m Monsieur Le Doux?’

  He pauses thoughtfully, and tucks the flower

  back where its drooping head offsets his air

  of confidence. ‘Three men here are alone.

  One is as old as Christmas. One possesses

  a wooden leg. The other one is you.

  Your caution’s admirable; but you’ve the air

  of someone set upon and robbed, my dear.

  Thus I concluded you have lost something

  that’s as yet unrestored. Your name perhaps.

  I have on my person, however, something of yours.

  A publication fresh picked from St Paul’s.’

  He places the volume gently in my hands.

  ‘An author of some promise, I understand.’

  It’s Venus and Adonis. The long poem

  I wrote the previous winter when the plague

  had closed down all the theatres. The works

  I wrote while living never bore my name.

  Anonymous, to save me from the fools

  who thought that I was Faustus, Tamburlaine.