The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  Christopher Marlowe was not like that. Not like that at all. In fact, he treated Rasa with star-struck respect, almost child-like adoration. So smitten was he by this person of unparalleled beauty that he babbled in her presence, dropped his hat, walked into doors. He couldn’t wait to see her, couldn’t wait to hold her hand, couldn’t wait to talk to her about, well, anything. Anything that would keep her amused, keep her in his presence, keep her, he hoped, in love with him. He prattled on about his boyhood in Canterbury where he grew up the son of a shoemaker with a glaringly obvious talent.

  “My life has never been simple,” he told her one day, as they walked through the manicured gardens of a park on the edge of the city. “Old, learned men would be continually coming to visit me. They wanted to see this boy genius - ha, what a phrase - this son of a cobbler who had defied the odds by being born with a brain, and who could sing in a choir, too. They would ask me questions, check my answers, explore my thoughts. Eventually, they put me on scholarship.”

  Scholarship was another word Rasa had not heard of. Her own life had not been that simple, either.

  Born of a wealthy and powerful Nubian tribal leader in northern Africa, she had impressed her father with her intelligence, capacity to learn, and her haughty spirit. But she had similarly depressed him by declaring that she was not going to bow to tradition and follow the usual path of the women of the village and settle quickly into a marriage. He was angered and saddened when, after a blazing row one night over the issue of an arranged link-up with the son of the chief of a similarly strong tribe, he discovered next morning she had run away.

  A posse of tribesmen were despatched to retrieve her, but lost the young girl in the convoluted alleyways of Cairo.

  Using her wits, charm, and a bag of gold that was supposed to be her dowry, Rasa had talked herself on board a ship. She eventually found herself in Portsmouth, where a travelling band of actors led by a large, generous chap with a booming voice recognised her beauty and talent, took her into the fold, taught her the language, and trained her to perform.

  Now, here she was in a London park, being romanced by the new shining star of the literary world - although some of his words were stretching her skills of comprehension.

  “Scholarship?” said Rasa quizzically. “A ship full of scholars? You surely mean sailors? I do not understand.”

  Marlowe laughed, the laugh of someone gladly in love. He pointed to a seat under a large oak tree, and they walked over and sat down. “It means that they pay for my education, for me to be a scholar, instead of my father having to pay.”

  “This is good?” said Rasa.

  “It is good, in some ways. My father would never have been able to pay the fees at school, thus allowing me to go on to Cambridge. But it can be difficult in other ways.”

  “How so?” Rasa said, angling her beautiful face to one side.

  “It is not easy being a scholarship boy,” said Marlowe. “All the other students have noble or wealthy parents who have no problem in paying - at least, they make out that they don’t.”

  “And?”

  “They can smell a scholarship boy a mile away.”

  “Smell?”

  “They don’t have to be told. They just know.”

  “So, what do they do, these boys with the very good smelling noses?”

  Marlowe burst into laughter. He stood up and dropped to his knees before the African goddess and took her hands. “Oh, Rasa, Rasa, you make me so happy,” he said. “You have such a wonderful view on life. It is … unique.”

  There was silence as they looked into each other’s eyes.

  Marlowe cleared his throat and continued. “Well, what I mean is, they can sense who you are, just as your father can no doubt sense whether a person riding across the distant hills is an enemy or a friend. They know from the cut of your clothes, the words you use, the body movements you make, even the way you hold your head.”

  Rasa flicked her head back.

  “I hold my head up high,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Marlowe, “as we should, my love. As we all should.”

  “So?”

  “So, they make life hard for you. They talk behind your back, they sneer at you, they set you up for pranks, they ensure you get the blame for anything that goes wrong. One day they will pretend to be your friend, and the next day they are cutting you off at the knees.”

  “In Nubia, my father would have such a person cut off at the neck.”

  “Er, yes, well,” said Marlowe with a wry grin. “I can think of a couple of people who probably deserved that treatment. However, that’s not the way we respond here in England.”

  “How do you, then?”

  “We take it on the chin, never complain, and get on with life - do something better than any of them could ever hope to do. Say to them, ‘There you are, you swine, take that!’”

  “And that is why you write the plays - to prove the point.”

  “Partly, yes,” said Marlowe. “And also to make comment on our society, on our history, on the world and its characters and their foibles.”

  “Foibles?” said Rasa slowly, trying to get her mouth around the word. “What is foibles?”

  “Weaknesses,” said Marlowe.

  There was silence. Marlowe clasped one of Rasa’s hands with his left hand, and rubbed the back of it with his right.

  “Do you have these foibles, Christopher? Weaknesses?” she said finally.

  Marlowe was taken aback. He knew Rasa was bright, intelligent, and forthright, but did not think she was as upfront as this. He looked down at their clasped hands and then looked up again, past the magnificent bosom, into the coal black eyes of the beautiful face with the high cheekbones. The eyes were drilling right through him.

  “Rasa, you will probably start hearing many things about me,” he said.

  “That you are a spy? That you are, how do they say it, a Free Thinker? That you may even be Catholic?”

  Marlowe let go her hand and drew back. “You have heard these things already?”

  “Christopher, we have travelled all over London promoting the two Tamburlaines. I see lots of people, hear lots of things. It is often murmured in the crowd. ‘A play by Marlowe?’ they say. ‘Isn’t he a spy?’”

  “Well, I … ah …”

  “Well?” said Rasa, leaning forward, “is the Christopher Marlowe kneeling before me a spy or not?”

  “I have done some work for her Majesty, yes,” he said.

  “Are you a Catholic?”

  “Er, no, that is not entirely right. Although the concept of Catholicism does not daunt me. I like to explore all the options.”

  “So are you a Free Thinker?”

  “Of course! The scholarship boy had to seek some way out, find something new, hitch his star to fresh thoughts, in order to leap over his ennobled, wealthy tormentors and prove his worth for ever and ever.”

  Rasa leaned forward and took his hands.

  “And do you love women?” she said evenly.

  Marlowe stared blankly at her, and whispered quietly. “I know I love you.”

  There was another long silence, as they calmly stared at each other.

  “Tell me about your spying,” she said ultimately.

  “There’s not much to say, really.”

  “Not much to say! They say on the streets that you left Cambridge and went over to France.”

  “To Rheims, yes.”

  “Where there was a French Catholic plot being put together to kill your Queen, what is her name again?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, Elizabeth. Some say that you …”

  “ … became a Catholic and joined the Papist plot, the Babington plot they called it.”

  “Yes! That is what they say.”

  “But that is not true.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “All I can say is that I was there, I did what I knew was right, that because of my help, the plot did not eventuate, an
d that her Majesty wrote to my teachers at Cambridge to say that I had done an excellent job and should be praised and not castigated. Ultimately, I got my degree.”

  “This is very good work for a Free Thinker.”

  “Sshhh,” said Marlowe, looking around the park. “Of all things, don’t say that loudly.”

  “What is wrong with it? It is a good thing, is it not? We should all be free to think, that is why I ran away from my father and his old-fashioned rules.”

  “Yes, but it is a phrase that can be easily misinterpreted.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Twisted around. Used against you. To make you to look evil. For example, they link Free Thinking with heresy and the worship of the wrong God.”

  “You have your God; we, in the desert, have ours. What is wrong with that?”

  “Ah, if it was only as simple as that, my beauty. If only it was that simple.”

  They held hands and talked more, about his student life, his passion for writing, and his important backing by Sir Thomas Walsingham - all the while ignoring the stares of passers-by, shocked by the sight of the handsome young man sitting with the strikingly beautiful black woman.

  As evening drew, and they felt they were safe, they strolled beyond the park into a wooded area and came across a small hideaway, obviously used at different times by poachers. It was like a cave, made of branches and brush, with a flat dry floor, on which Marlowe laid his cape dutifully and stepped back.

  “Now,” said Rasa, “let us see if the men of England are as good the promise they state so loudly in the street!”

  While Marlowe struggled with the buttons on his doublet, Rasa, the skilled entertainer, wriggled quickly out of her dress and fashionable silk stockings. In the darkness, by the light of a sliver of moon, Marlowe could see her perfect teeth shining, and the dappled rays on the ebony skin of her shoulders and breasts.

  “One thing for sure,” she added, as Marlowe finally got his doublet and shirt off, “is that they are very slow off the mark.” She dropped to her knees, grabbed his trousers and pulled them down with one swift movement. “Hmmm,” continued the voice, “but at least there is enough of a weapon in here to carry out the threat …”

  And there, in a small hideaway in a park, the rising star of English theatre stood, his head thrown back in delight, his shuddering body and soul in complete control of the beauty from the Nubian desert.

  He often felt later that perhaps he should have written down his recollections of that wondrous night. But he was scared that such a revealing document might fall into the wrong hands.

  In these difficult times, when notation of anything personal that ran against the norm was tantamount to signing your own death warrant, what would the spies, informers and the Court of Star Chamber make of such a personal narrative?

  A document that outlined how this sensuous woman had taken him and swamped him with her love – three times! – as they lay on the cape. How they fell asleep exhausted. How they awoke early morning, naked and in love.

  Fortunately, Marlowe resisted the temptation to write all this down.

  Rather, inspired by the events of the night, and his complete and utter falling for Rasa, he concentrated on writing his plays.

  He wrote at a prodigious rate, the words flowing from the pen as quickly and powerfully as the life force had poured out of him time and time again that night in the park.

  His hands grasped for the ink and paper at every opportunity. The only exceptions were either when Rasa flashed those beautiful eyes at him and it was time again to enhance their commitment, or the opportunity came to have a drink at the inn with Kyd and his friends.

  Indeed, it was a drunken Kyd who inspired, or rather, goaded Marlowe into his next play.

  “I will admit,” said Kyd one evening as they sat in the noisy tavern of Percy Fletcher’s, “I will admit, Christopher, that Tamburlaine has been a great success for you, and I drink to that.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you,” said Marlowe raising his glass. “Let us drink to both versions, in fact.”

  “Oh, yes, how could I not forget, Parts One and Two!” replied Kyd with just a hint of jealousy. “Between your brilliant words, the amazing promotion of Mr Shakespeare, and the fantastic tits of your girlfriend …”

  “Steady, Thomas, steady.”

  “Let’s face it, Christopher, her magnificently-proportioned body being paraded around the streets had a not inconsiderable impact on ticket sales to a play about some old geezer long since dead, did it not?”

  “It helped. But what’s your point?”

  “My point is, oh mighty shooting star of the London literary firmament - not that that means much, seeing as anyone with any brains, education or breeding dismisses what we do as roughhouse ramblings for the lowest common denominator - my point is …”

  “What we do?” laughed Marlowe. “Did I hear you say what we do? I haven’t seen too many works of Thomas Kyd The Wonder Writer up on the London stage as yet.”

  “It’s coming, it’s coming,” said Kyd with a wave of the hand. “You know I have a play on the way. It’s coming, and when it gets there, it will astound the world.”

  “So, my dear writer friend, what is your point?”

  “My point is, Christopher, Tamburlaine was about a Turkish potentate who’s been in the grave for two hundred years! Come on, Mr Author. This is 1588, the world is changing, you even say that yourself. Indeed, you are one of the ones dreaming up the changes. Write something about events that are happening now, I dare you.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the playwright, the star.”

  “Yes, yes, the shooting star of the London literary firmament, I know, I take your point.”

  Marlowe slumped back in his seat. He didn’t like what Kyd was saying. But throughout their friendship - and it was a friendship that had stuck, despite Thomas’ mood swings and flashes of jealousy - Kyd had an unerring, annoying ability to point to the weaknesses in Christopher’s approach to life.

  And now he was right again.

  It is true, Marlowe thought to himself. What have I done? Translated old Latin poems. Written plays about people long since buried and gone to their God, whoever he is.

  The pair sat in silence, Kyd sipping his ale and Marlowe staring into the middle distance, not even taking notice of the performance on stage, involving strongman Samuel Davidson displaying his newfound skills as a juggler.

  Juggling Soho, that is.

  The crowd roared as the big man threw the little gargoyle up in the air and caught him, whirled him around, and, using a leather contrivance that Shakespeare and Mr Mullins had devised, bouncing him like a ball. The noise was so deafening that Marlowe had to strain when Will came over and began talking in his ear.

  “Did you hear the news?” Shakespeare said.

  “News, what news?”

  “Your friend Raleigh has had a bit of a result. The ships he provided have been at the forefront of the battle with the Spanish.”

  “The Spanish?”

  “The criers were out, spreading the news all afternoon. The message just came through. Their armada finally turned up to hand us the defeat they have been threatening us with all these years.”

  “Armada?”

  “Hundreds of boats, packed with men and cannon, ready to do their duty for their Catholic king and crush us so-called Protestant infidels. But now they lie in a watery grave off Portsmouth.”

  “We won?”

  “Many of them were wiped out by a storm, but Drake finished them off. Mr Budsby is going to get up on stage at the end of this act and announce the news. Hang around - he might even put on a few free drinks.

  “Wait, Christopher, where are you going?”

  This last sentence blurted quickly from Shakespeare’s lips, for no sooner had he outlined in loose terms the English defeat of the Spanish Armada, than Marlowe was up onto his feet, grabbing his hat and heading for the door.
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br />   “Yes, where are you off to?” Kyd said, suddenly turning after him, and realising his drinking partner was leaving him.

  Marlowe came back, leaned down close to Kyd’s face, and said firmly, “To write, Thomas, to write …”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The words flowed quickly, in the freewheeling verse style that came naturally to him.

  Staying away from Rasa and avoiding the taverns, Marlowe rapidly put the dialogue, scenes and characters down on the cheap paper, driven by Kyd’s taunts and anxious to prove to everyone that he was more than a re-writer of ancient history. Inspired by the events that had shook the world, there appeared before him on the pages a play about the defeat of the Spanish Armada by the English, titled Edward the Third.

  When Shakespeare and Budsby sensationally promoted it - by converting the sedan chair into a galleon and having the entire troupe dress up as Spanish and English sailors and portray a mock sea-battle in the streets, complete with Rasa as a near-naked nautical nymph - he knew he was on the road to success.

  And when the Lord Admiral’s Men, including the new developing actor, William Shakespeare himself, did such a sterling job on stage with it, drawing magnificent applause, he felt he was on the verge of greatness.

  As a follow-up, he extended Edward the Third into Arden of Faversham - again, more contemporary history - and the sound of hearty clapping thundered throughout the city after every performance.

  It inspired him to begin work on a new piece, Henry VI, a visionary work about French and English relationships, and which he felt would work in three parts.

  “Any questions, Thomas?” Marlowe said one night in Kyd’s poky little south London garret, stacked untidily to the ceiling with papers, drafts, files and books.

  “None that I can think of,” replied Kyd, sitting gloomily at the tiny, scratched oak desk.

  “Any comments, then?” said Marlowe, idly pulling a sheet of paper from the pile nearest him and glancing through it.

  “About what?” said Kyd, snatching the paper from him. “And I would appreciate it if you would not to read my material, thank you very much!”