Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (18 page)
The plot you devise for me is scrupulous.
In every detail – entrances, exits, marks,
contingencies and props – no blank is left.
No improvisation. Nothing left to chance.
In every detail – entrances, exits, marks,
contingencies and props – no blank is left.
No improvisation. Nothing left to chance.
If I’m arrested, Burghley will have me bailed.
He wouldn’t want me in a torturer’s chair,
blubbering awkward secrets, crying his name.
We will have days to set the plan in train.
He wouldn’t want me in a torturer’s chair,
blubbering awkward secrets, crying his name.
We will have days to set the plan in train.
My perfectly accidental death. A fight,
a scuffling over something trivial.
The reckoning – I saw you enjoy the pun.
Most folk would say that I had gotten mine.
a scuffling over something trivial.
The reckoning – I saw you enjoy the pun.
Most folk would say that I had gotten mine.
To be controlled it will occur inside.
At the safe-house. Widow Bull’s, close to the Thames:
easy to sail from, and inside the Verge,
jurisdiction of the Queen’s own coroner,
At the safe-house. Widow Bull’s, close to the Thames:
easy to sail from, and inside the Verge,
jurisdiction of the Queen’s own coroner,
ensuring that this too-convenient death
is stamped by the royal seal: no doubt allowed.
The Queen will sign it off, conditional
on an obedient silence spent in exile.
is stamped by the royal seal: no doubt allowed.
The Queen will sign it off, conditional
on an obedient silence spent in exile.
Exile. In all the haste to save my neck,
I hadn’t sounded out that word at all.
It sings its empty promise in my ear
like the coffin of a wife that I must join.
I hadn’t sounded out that word at all.
It sings its empty promise in my ear
like the coffin of a wife that I must join.
But now your job is: make me disappear.
A minimal cast whose loyalties are sound.
Chief witness: Robin Poley, king of lies.
Abroad, but he can be sent for. Offering
A minimal cast whose loyalties are sound.
Chief witness: Robin Poley, king of lies.
Abroad, but he can be sent for. Offering
his life in your service, as he had once sworn,
Ingram Frizer will play my murderer,
armed with his stone-faced plausibility,
and a plea of self-defence, to dodge the rope.
Ingram Frizer will play my murderer,
armed with his stone-faced plausibility,
and a plea of self-defence, to dodge the rope.
Was there no other way it could be done?
My reputation snagged upon that nail:
a man who’d stab his patron’s loyal retainer
over a tavern bill, and from behind.
My reputation snagged upon that nail:
a man who’d stab his patron’s loyal retainer
over a tavern bill, and from behind.
You brighten it up. You polish it like brass.
The second witness, Nicholas Skeres, a friend
to each of us in the past, dog-loyal, and skilled,
like Frizer and Poley, in the spotless lie.
The second witness, Nicholas Skeres, a friend
to each of us in the past, dog-loyal, and skilled,
like Frizer and Poley, in the spotless lie.
You bat away my doubt like summer flies,
distracting my mind with Italy: the art,
the poetry, the theatre, the wine.
‘And months of sunshine, Kit. Escape the rain.’
distracting my mind with Italy: the art,
the poetry, the theatre, the wine.
‘And months of sunshine, Kit. Escape the rain.’
Yet rain is the stuff of home, a constancy
that drums its comfort on familiar roofs,
washes the face awake, peels back the blooms
and lifts the smell of growth out from the grass.
that drums its comfort on familiar roofs,
washes the face awake, peels back the blooms
and lifts the smell of growth out from the grass.
My friend, you wrought a most ingenious plot.
As wedding to marriage, its complexity
masked future troubles. But no more than a scene
when I must go on acting to the end.
As wedding to marriage, its complexity
masked future troubles. But no more than a scene
when I must go on acting to the end.
The privy councillors are cleanly split.
The half that want their spy alive lock jaws
with the half who’d have me roasted on a spit.
Archbishop Whitgift has the faggots lit.
The half that want their spy alive lock jaws
with the half who’d have me roasted on a spit.
Archbishop Whitgift has the faggots lit.
Fear and the plague are one. What horrifies
is the thought of death come calling: close, now, close
as a neighbour’s son, the tailor, an old friend,
as each is smacked to bed, and rendered numb.
Carted to grey stone walls, dropped in the earth,
imprisoned in the lea of Christendom.
And fear is the contagion passed along.
is the thought of death come calling: close, now, close
as a neighbour’s son, the tailor, an old friend,
as each is smacked to bed, and rendered numb.
Carted to grey stone walls, dropped in the earth,
imprisoned in the lea of Christendom.
And fear is the contagion passed along.
Blame anyone, blame anyone but us.
Blame foreigners for eating bread and ale,
for speaking words we cannot understand.
Blame women for the looseness of their tongues,
for doing work we wouldn’t do ourselves.
Blame slaughter for the smell but relish meat;
blame sin on God, but heed the worship bell.
Blame foreigners for eating bread and ale,
for speaking words we cannot understand.
Blame women for the looseness of their tongues,
for doing work we wouldn’t do ourselves.
Blame slaughter for the smell but relish meat;
blame sin on God, but heed the worship bell.
At Lambeth Palace, cool upon the Thames,
heads come together.
Walter Raleigh spoke
against the Dutchmen, yet we passed the Bill
to welcome them; we need more Protestants.
Now the people riot. And who stirs them up?
Plotters and Catholics. Upstarts, atheists.
They work a plan. Two birds. A single stone.
heads come together.
Walter Raleigh spoke
against the Dutchmen, yet we passed the Bill
to welcome them; we need more Protestants.
Now the people riot. And who stirs them up?
Plotters and Catholics. Upstarts, atheists.
They work a plan. Two birds. A single stone.
The page is sent to get a literate man
who’s paid to keep his secrets. ‘Make a verse
condemning foreigners. Make
them
the plague.
Then have it written neat enough to read
and post it on the wall outside their church.
And you should allude to Marlowe. Marlowe’s words.
Let Marlowe take the blame, should any come.’
who’s paid to keep his secrets. ‘Make a verse
condemning foreigners. Make
them
the plague.
Then have it written neat enough to read
and post it on the wall outside their church.
And you should allude to Marlowe. Marlowe’s words.
Let Marlowe take the blame, should any come.’
The London streets are thick with discontent,
and someone must be blamed; and someone sought,
and someone’s cheek be forced against a wall
and someone’s parchments whipped up into snow.
and someone must be blamed; and someone sought,
and someone’s cheek be forced against a wall
and someone’s parchments whipped up into snow.
They arrest my former room-mate. It’s not hard
to get a nod to all they need confirmed:
they only have to crank his fingers out
and press a coffin’s weight on to his chest.
to get a nod to all they need confirmed:
they only have to crank his fingers out
and press a coffin’s weight on to his chest.
Out spills my name. Are these my papers? Yes.
They are not his. They are not mine. A scribe
copied some lines against the Trinity
from some old book. But I’m weighed against his spine.
They are not his. They are not mine. A scribe
copied some lines against the Trinity
from some old book. But I’m weighed against his spine.
My confidence, he took for arrogance.
I teased him. Now his muscles tear like lace,
his fingers too divorced from knuckle joints
to hold the pen he’d sign confessions with.
I teased him. Now his muscles tear like lace,
his fingers too divorced from knuckle joints
to hold the pen he’d sign confessions with.
A year or so from now, Tom Kyd is dead,
his ribs a cage around his silenced heart,
unable to sever by penitence or pen
his name from mine, or that word atheism;
his ribs a cage around his silenced heart,
unable to sever by penitence or pen
his name from mine, or that word atheism;
from the fact he set inquisitors on me.
But for now, he scribbles – starving, from a cell –
of his innocence, and of my crimes as well,
as he tries to hold his index finger in.
But for now, he scribbles – starving, from a cell –
of his innocence, and of my crimes as well,
as he tries to hold his index finger in.
Some twenty miles away, I knock a pipe
ash-free. But where the habit once relaxed,
it now rides agitation, stroking hackles
which rise on its passing; aggravates a throat
where emotion clusters with expectancy,
like schoolboys for the whip. Another smoke.
My fingers shake to press the new stuff in.
ash-free. But where the habit once relaxed,
it now rides agitation, stroking hackles
which rise on its passing; aggravates a throat
where emotion clusters with expectancy,
like schoolboys for the whip. Another smoke.
My fingers shake to press the new stuff in.
‘Kit,’ you said, ‘they won’t come looking here.’
But gave me a room with sight across the moat
to the arch bad news must broach. Now dusk descends,
and a mist lies on the water like a bride
waiting to be disturbed. Only the sigh
of trees, a moorhen’s cackle, and the bark
of a distant fox send quivers through her peace.
But gave me a room with sight across the moat
to the arch bad news must broach. Now dusk descends,
and a mist lies on the water like a bride
waiting to be disturbed. Only the sigh
of trees, a moorhen’s cackle, and the bark
of a distant fox send quivers through her peace.
My days I fill with telling another’s tale,
playing the loved and lover all at once:
lighting the lamp and swimming the Hellespont.
Evenings, we eat, and gulp wine by a fire
that crackles with hope, and prompts our talk of soon,
how this will pass. But this hour, in my room,
my faith deserts as swiftly as the light.
playing the loved and lover all at once:
lighting the lamp and swimming the Hellespont.
Evenings, we eat, and gulp wine by a fire
that crackles with hope, and prompts our talk of soon,
how this will pass. But this hour, in my room,
my faith deserts as swiftly as the light.
They’ll come for me. They’ll come as sure as sleep
comes to the man who’s been awake too long.
With warrant and dog, they’ll come as sure as sound
comes to the drum that’s beaten. Even now,
the name of Marlowe leaps from lip to lip:
not wonder of the age, but atheist.
You’re gentle on my shoulder. ‘Kit. Come down.’
comes to the man who’s been awake too long.
With warrant and dog, they’ll come as sure as sound
comes to the drum that’s beaten. Even now,
the name of Marlowe leaps from lip to lip:
not wonder of the age, but atheist.
You’re gentle on my shoulder. ‘Kit. Come down.’
Greene’s Marlowe has stuck. Now half of me says ‘low’,
the sound of which is like a cobbler’s knee.
And something of the flavour of the ditch
resides there also, if you listen for it.
the sound of which is like a cobbler’s knee.
And something of the flavour of the ditch
resides there also, if you listen for it.
Marlowe, the name that even friends adopt
because it means me now. But dangerous,
a shifting name that has me kiss the clay
and barely props my soul against the wind.
because it means me now. But dangerous,
a shifting name that has me kiss the clay
and barely props my soul against the wind.
Marlowe the name that slips into the ear
of blind authority and sleeping dog,
the name that rustles up the fishwife’s sleeve
and rattles dice across a tabletop.
of blind authority and sleeping dog,
the name that rustles up the fishwife’s sleeve
and rattles dice across a tabletop.
Fractured into a dozen parts; yet one.
For surely he sold his soul to understand
the nature of evil.
Faustus. Tamburlaine.
My name slipped by degrees out of my hands.
For surely he sold his soul to understand
the nature of evil.
Faustus. Tamburlaine.
My name slipped by degrees out of my hands.
They call me what they will. A devil, too,
and Machevil, as if my words have power
to topple kings and princes. Or the Queen.
It’s Marlowe on the warrant sent for me.
and Machevil, as if my words have power
to topple kings and princes. Or the Queen.
It’s Marlowe on the warrant sent for me.
‘What will you need?’ you asked, your quill hand poised.
‘I’ll need my books. Paper and ink. Some clothes.’
‘A decent horse. Money to get you through
until you meet your contact overseas.’
until you meet your contact overseas.’
You scribed it all with such efficiency.
I couldn’t bear to watch you shape that list
when all that was essential would be left
behind, in the very room I breathed in.
I couldn’t bear to watch you shape that list
when all that was essential would be left
behind, in the very room I breathed in.
‘You,’
I offered. At first, you didn’t understand.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You. Come with me.’
‘Kit, I can’t.’
You set the pen down gently, and stepped over
your sleeping hound to meet me at the warmth
of a dying fire, where I’d been standing, propped
for the last half-hour. You took my hands in yours
and a feeling shivered through me. ‘If I go
the minute you are dead, what will they think?’
your sleeping hound to meet me at the warmth
of a dying fire, where I’d been standing, propped
for the last half-hour. You took my hands in yours
and a feeling shivered through me. ‘If I go
the minute you are dead, what will they think?’
‘That it was faked.’
‘Or that I murdered you,’
you said, the words distasteful in your mouth
as a swig of milk that’s turned. The thought of it.
as a swig of milk that’s turned. The thought of it.
Your eyes dropped, and my hand rose to your cheek
as to a statue, banished from my touch,
whose beauty compels that most forbidden act –
to know you through my skin. My love. To feel.
as to a statue, banished from my touch,
whose beauty compels that most forbidden act –
to know you through my skin. My love. To feel.
You didn’t flinch. Indeed, you placed your hand
in the curls of my hair, and quietly met my gaze.
And as we kissed, the wide world looked away,
not understanding anything at all
about two friends who’ve never spoken love
but find themselves born helpless in its arms
embracing the silence that my death demands:
pretended death so resolutely played
that heaven might admit me, but not you.
in the curls of my hair, and quietly met my gaze.
And as we kissed, the wide world looked away,
not understanding anything at all
about two friends who’ve never spoken love
but find themselves born helpless in its arms
embracing the silence that my death demands:
pretended death so resolutely played
that heaven might admit me, but not you.
And what possessed me then, surprising you,
was the ageless hunger of a starving soul
who needs to eat and be eaten, to be one
with the feast that fills him, so he might be whole.
was the ageless hunger of a starving soul
who needs to eat and be eaten, to be one
with the feast that fills him, so he might be whole.
Later, aware of morning’s creeping chill,
you led me like a puppy to your bed.
you led me like a puppy to your bed.
We lay until eight: one sleeping like a lord,
the other, awake, preparing to be dead.
And when the stirrings of a country house
had you in breeches, I remained quite still.
the other, awake, preparing to be dead.
And when the stirrings of a country house
had you in breeches, I remained quite still.
‘Where will we get a corpse?’ I asked again.
‘If the man’s already dead, and I presume
you don’t mean to murder someone, how will he
seem fresh to the jury?’
‘If the man’s already dead, and I presume
you don’t mean to murder someone, how will he
seem fresh to the jury?’
You pulled on your shirt
across the urgent signature my nails
had made on your back. ‘He will be freshly dead,’
you answered, once again so matter-of-fact
the night might not have happened.
had made on your back. ‘He will be freshly dead,’
you answered, once again so matter-of-fact
the night might not have happened.
‘Dead from what?’
‘From the same disease that would have you dispatched.
Religious intolerance. There are enough
rogue preachers who await Her Majesty’s noose
for us to borrow one unfortunate.’
Religious intolerance. There are enough
rogue preachers who await Her Majesty’s noose
for us to borrow one unfortunate.’
So practical. I hated that in you
that morning. Though my life depended on it.
that morning. Though my life depended on it.
‘So he will be hanged?’
‘Ideally. And not stiff
before he is delivered.’
All the ‘he’
was making me nauseous. To discuss a man
as though he were a sack of grain.
as though he were a sack of grain.
‘This corpse,’
I said, ‘how will it pass for me?’
You paused
at the window: some commotion on the pond
took your attention.
took your attention.
‘Drakes will sometimes drown
the ducks they mate,’ you said. ‘By accident.’
My friend, each thought we have is meaningful.
The lightest observation weighs like lead
on a friend as vulnerable as I was then.
The lightest observation weighs like lead
on a friend as vulnerable as I was then.
You turned your gaze to me. ‘How will it pass?
The men will swear it’s you, and be believed,
as friends of yours. The bulk of England knows
nothing of what you look like.’
The men will swear it’s you, and be believed,
as friends of yours. The bulk of England knows
nothing of what you look like.’
‘But the servants,
and Widow Bull? If they see me arrive?’
‘Oh, death’s a great disguiser, Kit,’ you said.
‘And we will add to it. A gory wound
will make the sternest-stomached soul recoil,
look anywhere but at the corpse’s face.’
‘And we will add to it. A gory wound
will make the sternest-stomached soul recoil,
look anywhere but at the corpse’s face.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ I asked, afraid
of your calm, phlegmatic answer.
of your calm, phlegmatic answer.
‘It’s the eyes
where we feel vulnerable,’ you said, your gaze
proving your point. ‘A stabbing in the eye.’
proving your point. ‘A stabbing in the eye.’
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