A Dead Man in Deptford

by Anthony Burgess

  This was much like

  The same Machiavellian boastfulness was there:

  He was much possessed by hell, he noted, relighting his pipe. When Jack Lyly and Tom Nashe came to call on him they waved the smoke away like preachers denouncing heresy. Kit greeted with:

  - Lyly of the lilywhite boys. How go the squeaking thespians of Blackfriars? Ah, that is not too bad a blank-verse line. Sit, both. There is a kind of vinegar in that bottle. Find yourselves mugs.

  They were both thin men like blades with bladelike noses. Nashe said:

  - You have read the tracts?

  - I read Have you any work for the cooper? I laughed. It was right for Bishop Cooper whose wife empties pisspots on him. Married prelates are ridiculous. Celibacy is proper for priests.

  - There is a smell of the old faith about your Faustus, Lyly said. He looked with disdain on Kit's poor lodgings, he that had become secretary to the Earl of Oxford, no less. Which means you must be against Martin Marprelate.

  - I am against them all, bishops and black crows that preach through their noses. The bishops make me puke but Martin makes me laugh. Who is this Martin?

  - A Brownist of course they think to be John Penry, Nashe said. He has what is called the Pilgrim Press because it is ever moving. Never in one place, and a heavy instrument to push around. Yes, he has the comic gift which, alas, the bishops have not. But there is episcopal money about. Did you see our plays?

  - Martin's Month's Mind was at the Theatre. It lacked poor Dick Tarleton. That was of you both?

  - Answer a fool with folly, Lyly said. A bishop's commission. It is a strange new world we are in, bishops asking for plays.

  - And plays of some scurrility, Kit said. Martin poisoning Divinity to make her vomit. I do not think it decent.

  - This stink is not decent, Nashe waved as Kit relighted. Call it the devil's incest, pardon, incense.

  - It is by way of being a fumigant. There is a lot tc fumigate - bishops paying for low comedy, believers in God being burnt. You prefer the stench of the burning of heretics? Catch this Martin and he will be burnt and doubtless there will be godly laughter.

  - We come to you, Lyly said, with a view to collaboration. There was good comedy in Faustus, the clown and God forgive me he speaks Dutch fustian and the fireworks.

  - The comedy was mostly Tom Watson's. If you want from me comedy about the Christian faith you will not get it. Faith is a grave matter.

  - Strange words from one reputed to be atheistical, Lyly said primly.

  - So Greene and his bravo are still at it? You believe me to be that?

  - You may be what you wish, Nashe said, unnasally, since his handkerchief was at his hatchet nose. We are not here to exhort you to orthodoxy. We are merely at work on commissions. Your name would draw crowds and please their grades.

  - Listen to me, Kit said, and he knew, saying it, that the me to which he referred was one of a parcel of many within, and he felt a manner of despair or at least desperateness in not knowing well which was to speak. It is easier to believe in this Church of King Henry's founding than not to. I believe, I believe, your worships, and the question of what is belief never arises. So, with this thin surcoat of belief, we may do our work and drink our drink and never be molested. To question faith is a grave matter, and here you are bringing your clowns in. An atheist at least has set working the engines of thought, and it is no easy matter to throw God out of his heaven. The truth is that there are no atheists, since who would be so witless as to assert what he cannot prove? Simply and in all candour we must shrug and say we know nothing. God's book is man's book, since God handles no quill. These bishops with their termagant wives throw the book at us and say believe because I demand belief and by God I will burn or hang and quarter you if you do not. By what authority is it affirmed that Martin and his Calvinists are wrong? How has the Church that Peter founded in Rome become so suddenly the Scarlet Woman?

  - As I said, Lyly nodded, your Faustus is a work of the old faith. And by atheist we may mean you reject the Church of the Reform.

  - Martin Marprelate is also a reformer, Kit said. Will not the Reform go on for ever?

  - Come, Nashe said not unkindly. Your boldness is well taken. We did not visit you for all this. You are in a mood of protesting and this is not the occasion. All we came for was collaboration. To tell truth we are at our wit's end for new things the bishops will gladly pay for. If not comedy then some thunderous Tamburlaine lines on behalf of the God of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Then the trapdoor opens and Martin is thrust into hell to scream his heart out. It would be in a manner a fine fusion of your two plays. A few scenes only.

  - Hell in the cellerage, aye. Dust and beetles and a few squibs. Why this is hell nor am I out of it, that was the truth.

  - You believe in hell? Lyly asked. Certainly you savour the smoke of it.

  - Belief is not to the point. There are men around who do not believe in America nor in the existence of far constellations that reveal themselves through optic glasses. Hell may be there whether we believe or not. We are scurrying emmets or pismires with our sad little comedies. Religion is too great a thing for either the hen-pecked episcopacy or the followers of Robert Browne. Tell the Archbishop that. Belief makes nothing and unbelief strikes nothing out. Let me go back to my Paris massacre.

  THAT was a summer in which Kit was hardly to be seen in London. He took, he told me later, almost daily a boat from London Bridge to Deptford, there to wander, drink, think not solely on his play of the Paris massacre but of poems, Ovid translations, a sort of chronicle of an England that was at war indeed for greed and conquest but not on behalf of a faith affirming that God had a special love and care for a remote and misty island. Also he saw, somewhat remotely and mistily, that his two plays already seen and acclaimed yearned towards a third, for in the first he had shown power through conquest, in the second power through knowledge, in the third there would be power through what? Money, he thought, though there could be no tragedy in it, money was no tragic theme. Meantime he was soothed by the noise of the waterside taverns, where there was much hard drinking by joiners and caulkers and hemp-dressers, for here were the navy yards where ships, merchantmen and men of war, were built of English oak and Russian spruce. The smell of fresh-cut wood mingled with that of fish not so fresh, tarry sailors, ale vomit. And Drake's Golden Hind that had made the three-year circumnavigation lay at anchor to be chipped in sacred relics by those that came to admire. A mile downriver the Privy Council would be meeting at Greenwich Palace, and Deptford was by way of being a suburb of the court, with musicians that made up the royal consort at their blasts and tunings, to which the royal hounds in their kennels howled a forlorn faux-bourdon.

  In the tavern where he sat on a day sailors let loose after a long voyage regaled with stories not to be believed; it was the scurvies that did for them, aye, and the eating of rats for there was nought else but tallow and young blackamoors, and there be men that have one foot only so great that it serves them for shade in the heat, and there is fruit on the trees that does sing a catch, aye. The standing shadow in the doorway resolved on entrance into a known figure: a young man of grave face that hauled behind him his baggage, just landed.

  - Just landed on the Peppercorn, you will remember. The name being Dick Baines. I will sit.

  - And drink. English ale in a tankard of pewter.

  - Talk not to me of pewter. The coining goes on but at last I am sent home for different work. Did they find out that you had not seen the butterman?

  - No. But there was war just the same.

  - Aye, and it goes on in the Low Countries. It was a great victory and they are building ships here, I see, in great haste for the Spaniards are not yet done with us. And what work are you on?

  - No longer in the Service. I make plays for the playhouse.

  - No longer? You cannot speak so. Once in in always. I must report to Mr Secretary who is very sick. There will be a new master soon but who they know
not yet. We hear much of the Earl of Essex.

  - Here too. Well, I have done with it.

  - And what be these plays?

  - Plays that bring in money but not enough. You see that great house there on the edge of the green? That is the Lord Admiral's. I write plays for his men.

  - I do not see that clearly. Plays for sailors at sea?

  - The companies of players must have a protector who shields them for being rogues and vagabonds. There are others than the Lord Admiral's. There is even the Queen's Men, but that is the worst of them.

  - In Flushing there were no plays but ones in Latin done at the grammar school. But one that came visiting spoke of what he called Timber Lane with much swearing and cursing of God. Did you see that

  - It is mine. The title you have is not quite right.

  - Ah, you are still at your old business of God and Christ and the beloved disciple?

  - Not in Tamburlaine, no.

  - I think much on Jesus Christ.

  - As you once said. Where do you stay in London?

  - I will lodge where I can. I will lodge with you.

  - You cannot.

  - You lodged with me in Flushing.

  - That was different.

  - You are not friendly.

  - Mr Secretary or one of his secretaries will see to you. I am friendly enough.

  - I do not wish to go at once to prison. I need a little time to see London that I have not seen for long years.

  - To prison? What wrong have you done?

  - No, to prison to smell out papish conspirators. There is still a plenty of those. Robert Poley in Flushing told me of his work in prison, he came out after the Armada. Now Poley is everywhere in Europe pretending to be a Catholic again. He is even in Denmark.

  - I thought I was rid of Poley.

  - Rid of? He is not one to be rid of. He is a marvellous operator of the Service. He spoke much of you. He said the time will come to use you again. So I may not lodge with you?

  - Alas.

  - That is not friendly.

  AT the Rose that autumn there was rehearsal for a revival of Tamburlaine, and I was no longer the divine Zenocrate but the cringing younger son of the tyrant. Ned Alleyn, very hoarse, awaited a quart of ale sent for at the Dansker's while he listened in irritation to all Kit said. Kit waved his play about: it was full of scratchings and carets and his hand was vile. For him foul copy might well have been especially devised. Kit cried:

  - Your objections of last year are not now in order, Ned. What is here is the truth and truth red hot and fire new. The French king murdered by a Dominican friar and Henry of Navarre as king. It is the triumph of the protestant faith in France and what can any here have against it?

  Henslowe was there, fat of belly but gaunt of face, with his account book and a worry that the French pox had stricken one of his gentlemen clients. He said:

  - You must not urge this on Ned or myself. It is not for us to say aye or nay. All must now go through the Archbishop.

  - That is matter of a formality, man. Yet what Henslowe said was true. The Archbishop of Canterbury had been shocked by the excesses of the plays against Martin, many of them very filthy, and regretful that he had not merely approved but instigated, and now all plays must be handed to a triumvirate, most censorious, of one of the Archbishop's appointment, one of the Lord Mayor's, and the Master of the Revels himself. Yet this, surely, would go through, it was good protestant meat.

  - There are twelve murders and seventeen victims, Kit said. It will cost a fortune in pig's blood.

  - You give that fortune as a recommendation? Henslowe said.

  - I do not see the arithmetic of the murders, Ned said, though tempted.

  - Will you or will you not?

  - Let us have instead of this the usurious Jew you spoke of.

  - That is not ready. Will you or not?

  - Alas no, Ned said. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Take it to the Burbages at the crumbling Theatre and you will receive no different answer. Ah, thank God, here is my tankard. And Ned drank near all off in one breath, he had much of that. If we cannot have the Jew, he said, emerging panting, we must make do with this thing of Tom Kyd's. And there is Robin Greene coming up with the two friars and the comedy of devil-raising.

  - Another theft from Greene? I will have Greene.

  - Greene is not well.

  - He will be less so when I have done with him. And Kit gripped his sword pommel so that his knuckles showed white.

  - Well, then, there it is, we must continue the rehearsal.

  - The usurious Jew, Henslowe said.

  - Aye, and you shall play him. And Kit was off to the riverside where the boatmen cried Eastward Ho and Westward Ho, and he took a boat whose Charon had a roofless mouth and said hn hn.

  Tom Watson was at work in Kit's own house, away from a wife's scolding and the drumming of Latin into an inattentive boy that nonetheless smelt sweet of cinnamon. He had taken time off to add comedy to The Massacre at Paris and, as Kit entered, at once said:

  - I have this Murgeroun cutting off the ear of the cutpurse for cutting off Murgeroun's golden buttons, and the cutpurse cries 0 Lord, mine ear, and Murgeroun responds with Come sir, give me my buttons and here's your ear. That has the right laughter of cruelty.

  Good. We need money, Tom, and Henslowe and Alleyn will not take it.

  - Try the Burbages. They are playing this afternoon. You can at least try. It is but a step. Take three sheets of it only, they will taste its quality.

  - I will.

  And he left, and there was William Bradley waiting for him, very drunk, unbuttoned (no gold there) and waving a sword about. He cried:

  - I will have the bitch's bastard Tom Watson. Where is he?

  - Whatever you call him, scum, he is not about.

  - Scum yourself, atheist. Draw, I will have you first, swiver of boys' arses, and then I will have that hogsdrop Watson. Come on, thou.

  - I am not thou, pig. Now.

  And Kit drew and lunged. He was onstage, he had onlookers, they were gathering at Hog Lane corner. Kit panted and Bradley panted, drunk and on unsteady legs but eyes steady and right arm skilled only in pot-lifting, swiping, this craft. Kit had been offered practice in the foils by Tom Walsingham but had said no, reserving arm for pen. Bradley parried with overmuch ease, going haw. Real blood thou shalt have, not from bladders, and it shall be thine own, thou pickest at the air like a lady at a child's nits.

  Kit, seeing blood, drew it. Bradley's wrist. Bradley dripped, went haw, and took two hands to steady him for the piercing of Kit's breast. Kit leapt, that he could do, and to relief saw Tom Watson appear in his shirt, sword drawn. Bradley cried:

  - Art thou now come, then I will have a bout with thee. Out of it, frigger, I will have thee after like cheese after meat.

  Bradley had now sword in right and dagger in left. He caught Tom Watson most bitterly in the brow with dagger, there was a wound like a mouth that spoke blood. Tom ran to the ditch which was a border to the field where the windmills turned lazy and indifferent, and there too were some gathering to watch; Tom saw a drunken canvas-climber cry Codardo. Turn on him, caramba, madre de Dios. Tom would leap the ditch. Bradley staggered on its edge, recovered, Tom struck him on his beard so that blood enlivened the thistlefield of it, then drew back and thrust once forward into Bradley's chest that was bare being unbuttoned and gauged by the thrust that he had pierced six inches. Bradley was very surprised, took a palmful of his own blood to squint at, then struck unhandily, then fell. Muerto, the drunken canvas-climber cried. Kit came up to see. The blood issued in waves. He said:

  - That is from the arteries. It circulates.

  - Christ, panted Tom, I've killed him.

  - Self-defence, all here saw it. See it pumping out.

  Stephen Wyld, a decent small man that was constable of the precinct, had come with his two men with their bare bills for the quelling of riot. This was no riot. Murder, Wyld's lips framed silently as he looked up
from the blood tide.

  - Self-defence.

  - A man dead. That is murder. Which of you?

  - I hit first, Kit said. He came for me as I left the house, bravo-ing and with his sword drawn. Then Mr Watson.

  - Arrested, both. My duty, no pleasure to me. You both I know. Him I know, knew. The blood still galloped.

  - Where do we go?

  - Sir Owen, Hopton that is, Lieutenant of the Tower. Our justice of the peace here. Norton Folgate, a brief walk.

  - No resistance, Tom said. We come. There are witnesses enough of the self-defence. What do you do with the body?

  - Sir Owen will see it. None will remove it. Leave it for the flies. The flies are quick, buzzing there. They love blood, it is honey to them.

  Sir Owen Hopton was in his garden. It had been a dry summer, and he degged red Tudor roses. He was a stern man with a beard, apt for a gardener, cut spadewise. He must sign a warrant. They went into the house with him, and he kindly offered wine. With water, Tom said. They were both near dead of thirst. His forehead dripped, he begged pardon, his handkerchief was in the sleeve of the jerkin still in Mr Marlowe's house. Sir Owen said:

  - Well, here we have it. On Suspicion of Murder. The coroner will sit tomorrow, you must abide the jury's finding. Alas, you must suffer committal to Newgate. Need they be manacled, Mr Wyld?

  - It is what is done. But both are gentlemen.

  - Why why? Kit asked Tom while they were walked to Newgate. Tom was counting what he had in his purse, his wound in the brow staunched, his jerkin on. Their swords had been taken from them.

  - Something of a long tale. Jack Alleyn leaves the Unicorn to be with Ned at the Rose, Bradley owes him money he needs, bribes of protection construed as loans, he will not pay, Jack asks Hugh Swift who is the brother of my wife to threaten suit in the Court of Common Pleas, Swift calls on Bradley at the Bishop's Head his father's inn and is attacked by George Orwell who threatens a killing if the suit continues, Swift goes to the Queen's Bench for securities of peace against Orwell, Jack Alleyn and I, for Hugh drags me into this business as his sister's husband, we propose a like assault on Bradley to jolt him into paying what he owes, Bradley hears and gets securities of the peace against Jack, Hugh, myself, alleging himself to be in fear of death from us, you are into it as friend, associate, what you will. The rest you know.