Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (19 page)
How could I give up writing? You might ask
a man to give up breathing, or a hawk
to drop a strip of fillet in your hand
and starve itself. I am compulsion’s fiend.
And thought is as an irritating itch
that can’t be reached except in pen and ink.
I covet paper. Nothing inside is still
till I empty out my mind and order it.
a man to give up breathing, or a hawk
to drop a strip of fillet in your hand
and starve itself. I am compulsion’s fiend.
And thought is as an irritating itch
that can’t be reached except in pen and ink.
I covet paper. Nothing inside is still
till I empty out my mind and order it.
How could I give up writing? You might ask
a fish to give up swimming, or a horse
to ditch his kick and neigh, his stamp and snort.
Or ask a man brought up inside the trades
and elevated into velvet halls
to soft-relinquish everything he’s earned;
swap cloak for leather apron; kneel as if
he is a common man, and not to mind
his life turned back to nothing.
a fish to give up swimming, or a horse
to ditch his kick and neigh, his stamp and snort.
Or ask a man brought up inside the trades
and elevated into velvet halls
to soft-relinquish everything he’s earned;
swap cloak for leather apron; kneel as if
he is a common man, and not to mind
his life turned back to nothing.
Rather ask
a god to be your servant than request
I gag myself without complaint, when words
are all I have to stay this side of Hell.
I gag myself without complaint, when words
are all I have to stay this side of Hell.
Two names were needed for my afterlives.
A name to travel under, and a name
to write beneath: believable, yet blessed
with meaning, in the way that names can be
when not devised by parents. For the first
I settled on Le Doux: the gentle man.
A name so sweet, so radically at odds
with how my enemies would have me viewed
that I’m disguised completely by its sound,
the merest tap of a tongue inside a vowel.
A name to travel under, and a name
to write beneath: believable, yet blessed
with meaning, in the way that names can be
when not devised by parents. For the first
I settled on Le Doux: the gentle man.
A name so sweet, so radically at odds
with how my enemies would have me viewed
that I’m disguised completely by its sound,
the merest tap of a tongue inside a vowel.
The pen-name, though, kept me awake for hours.
What power might I invoke to hide behind
when every word I write, stamped with my voice,
might summon, like a sneeze in hide-and-seek,
my swift discovery?
What power might I invoke to hide behind
when every word I write, stamped with my voice,
might summon, like a sneeze in hide-and-seek,
my swift discovery?
Do you believe
in the power of dreams? I drifted, with my mind
hooked on the question, and when I awoke,
the name of ‘Shakespeare’ spoke itself. A gift –
or thus I was persuaded by the dawn –
from the goddess Athena, warrior of the wise,
whose shield, protected with the Gorgon’s head,
would freeze all those who tried to look behind.
How perfectly it works, that verbal spell.
hooked on the question, and when I awoke,
the name of ‘Shakespeare’ spoke itself. A gift –
or thus I was persuaded by the dawn –
from the goddess Athena, warrior of the wise,
whose shield, protected with the Gorgon’s head,
would freeze all those who tried to look behind.
How perfectly it works, that verbal spell.
The Christian name delivered like a foal
slipped all at once on to the stable’s straw.
I knew a boy at school called William Good.
Will I Am Good, we laughed; for he was caned
most often. And the Will I Am came through
as a floated prayer; the breath of my desire.
slipped all at once on to the stable’s straw.
I knew a boy at school called William Good.
Will I Am Good, we laughed; for he was caned
most often. And the Will I Am came through
as a floated prayer; the breath of my desire.
‘Will I Am Shakespeare, then,’ I mouthed to the face
in the polished mirror as I shaved away
the roguish beard I’d grown to give me age.
in the polished mirror as I shaved away
the roguish beard I’d grown to give me age.
‘William Shakespeare.’ Memorable yet bland
as a pat of butter shaken without salt.
If the name seemed half familiar, I took it then
as a sign of its rightness, not the distant knell
of a long-lost conversation overheard.
as a pat of butter shaken without salt.
If the name seemed half familiar, I took it then
as a sign of its rightness, not the distant knell
of a long-lost conversation overheard.
What destiny hunkers in coincidence?
What paths are knitted for us by the gods
who pull such strings together? Thus was summoned
like Hecate’s curse on any future road,
the printer’s friend who’d worn that name since birth,
discreet as married sex. It was agreed:
a grand idea. A cloak, an extra layer.
What paths are knitted for us by the gods
who pull such strings together? Thus was summoned
like Hecate’s curse on any future road,
the printer’s friend who’d worn that name since birth,
discreet as married sex. It was agreed:
a grand idea. A cloak, an extra layer.
The name is mine, I tell myself, it’s bought
as a doublet’s bought. Yet worn by two, not one,
it chafes where he narrows, rubs where I’m not free,
itches, fits neither of us perfectly.
as a doublet’s bought. Yet worn by two, not one,
it chafes where he narrows, rubs where I’m not free,
itches, fits neither of us perfectly.
Yet I am Will. I am. I say these words
over and over, like a hopeless spell.
Will I am Will. I’m Will. And Will is me.
over and over, like a hopeless spell.
Will I am Will. I’m Will. And Will is me.
Two classic narratives of thwarted love.
A pair of poems, like a pair of gloves,
A pair of poems, like a pair of gloves,
conceived together. One, discreetly lodged
with Field in my new name. The other dropped
with ‘Marlowe’ on its cuff, on Kentish soil,
to circulate in manuscript, unspoilt;
the hero strangely living. Leander swims,
not to be published; for his finish begins
with Field in my new name. The other dropped
with ‘Marlowe’ on its cuff, on Kentish soil,
to circulate in manuscript, unspoilt;
the hero strangely living. Leander swims,
not to be published; for his finish begins
when my death’s undone.
In each, the other sings,
their source identical. Brought side by side
the lie can be exposed: this author died?
Then how did the matching poem come to be?
And notice the motif: the telling scene
embroidered on the sleeve of Hero’s dress
from the other poem, authored by ‘W.S.’.
the lie can be exposed: this author died?
Then how did the matching poem come to be?
And notice the motif: the telling scene
embroidered on the sleeve of Hero’s dress
from the other poem, authored by ‘W.S.’.
So brought together, these two will confess.
The perfect bookends of this man’s distress.
The perfect bookends of this man’s distress.
On Deptford Strand, the famous
Golden Hind
whose fine prow Drake encircled round the globe
sits broken to its bilges: souvenir’d
into a ship of bones. On breezy air,
the blackhead gulls are circling for a spoil.
The river laps at mud and, on this turn
that loops a noose around the Isle of Dogs,
slides swiftly round the bend. A hint of salt
and fishiness betrays how close the sea
is to this widening gullet. And to me.
Golden Hind
whose fine prow Drake encircled round the globe
sits broken to its bilges: souvenir’d
into a ship of bones. On breezy air,
the blackhead gulls are circling for a spoil.
The river laps at mud and, on this turn
that loops a noose around the Isle of Dogs,
slides swiftly round the bend. A hint of salt
and fishiness betrays how close the sea
is to this widening gullet. And to me.
We meet at ten on the path up to the door.
Frizer’s eyebrows greet me, and he nods
at Nicholas Skeres. Frizer is strangely calm
for a man prepared to stage some murderous rage,
only Nick Skeres betraying signs of nerves
Frizer will shortly douse with beer. A twitch
as Eleanor Bull invites us: ‘Gentlemen.
The room’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘Young Martha here
will show you up. Dinner is pork and beans.
I’ll serve you there myself around midday.’
Frizer’s eyebrows greet me, and he nods
at Nicholas Skeres. Frizer is strangely calm
for a man prepared to stage some murderous rage,
only Nick Skeres betraying signs of nerves
Frizer will shortly douse with beer. A twitch
as Eleanor Bull invites us: ‘Gentlemen.
The room’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘Young Martha here
will show you up. Dinner is pork and beans.
I’ll serve you there myself around midday.’
Frizer enquires, ‘Is Master Poley here?’
‘He’s been delayed. He’ll join you presently.’
How does she know? ‘He arrived here yesterday.
Come from The Hague, or somewhere. He went out
first thing this morning, “tying up loose ends”,
he said I was to tell you. Never fret,
Master Poley is most reliable.’ She pats
me on the arm as if I were her son.
‘I expect you’ll want some drinks.’
‘He’s been delayed. He’ll join you presently.’
How does she know? ‘He arrived here yesterday.
Come from The Hague, or somewhere. He went out
first thing this morning, “tying up loose ends”,
he said I was to tell you. Never fret,
Master Poley is most reliable.’ She pats
me on the arm as if I were her son.
‘I expect you’ll want some drinks.’
‘Small beer,’ I say.
The window rattles with a puckish breeze
as I stand there looking down upon the lawn
lined by whispering bushes, and the path
that I expect him on.
as I stand there looking down upon the lawn
lined by whispering bushes, and the path
that I expect him on.
‘A friendly wind,’
says Frizer unexpectedly. ‘So long
as it keeps up its direction.’
as it keeps up its direction.’
He returns
to playing patience, Skeres pouring a glass
of warm ale down his gullet. Here we are.
of warm ale down his gullet. Here we are.
This is the house from which I’ll disappear
and swap my comforts for a dead man’s clothes,
give up all public substance, with my name
sloughed off like the reptile’s skin he has outgrown.
Kit Marlowe dies here. And with that thought, a pang
for a younger self who dreamt of being hailed
a wonder of the age, but now is holed,
like a galleon in warfare, and will sink
to the mud of history beneath a lie:
the coward conquest of a wretch’s knife.
and swap my comforts for a dead man’s clothes,
give up all public substance, with my name
sloughed off like the reptile’s skin he has outgrown.
Kit Marlowe dies here. And with that thought, a pang
for a younger self who dreamt of being hailed
a wonder of the age, but now is holed,
like a galleon in warfare, and will sink
to the mud of history beneath a lie:
the coward conquest of a wretch’s knife.
Poley arrives at last. I hear his smooth
placating patter in the hall downstairs;
the laugh of Mrs Bull, charmed to her corset.
‘Good fellows,’ he greets us, making sure the door
is firmly shut behind him. ‘Excellent news.
We have our substitute. John Penry’s dead.’
placating patter in the hall downstairs;
the laugh of Mrs Bull, charmed to her corset.
‘Good fellows,’ he greets us, making sure the door
is firmly shut behind him. ‘Excellent news.
We have our substitute. John Penry’s dead.’
And I must break this narrative to pause
and say a prayer for Penry, whose young wife
had begged for clemency. Who was condemned
for tracts he hadn’t written; for belief
that his eloquence might turn the hearts of men
to a different church. And almost, we were twins
exchanged at death, not birth; for it was speech,
and love of liberty that brought us both
to a silencing. And had he not, in truth,
been executed hurriedly that May,
I might have joined him in a common grave.
Our only difference, this twin and I,
was the influential aspect of our friends.
and say a prayer for Penry, whose young wife
had begged for clemency. Who was condemned
for tracts he hadn’t written; for belief
that his eloquence might turn the hearts of men
to a different church. And almost, we were twins
exchanged at death, not birth; for it was speech,
and love of liberty that brought us both
to a silencing. And had he not, in truth,
been executed hurriedly that May,
I might have joined him in a common grave.
Our only difference, this twin and I,
was the influential aspect of our friends.
‘Backgammon,’ Poley says. ‘You’ll have a game?
With money on the side perhaps?’ He throws
his cloak over a chair. ‘Come, come, man, sit.
We have three hours to kill before the corpse
can be delivered. A penny down to start
us gently?’
With money on the side perhaps?’ He throws
his cloak over a chair. ‘Come, come, man, sit.
We have three hours to kill before the corpse
can be delivered. A penny down to start
us gently?’
So we play away the hours
as though the time has no significance:
I lose two shillings in distractedness.
Food comes at noon as promised, though I have
no kind of appetite.
I lose two shillings in distractedness.
Food comes at noon as promised, though I have
no kind of appetite.
Poley seems charged
with a strange kind of enjoyment. Full of meat,
he stretches – ‘Time for a little fresh air, perhaps?’ –
as though he must put on the play for us,
though we are actors too. ‘A gentle turn
around the garden?’
he stretches – ‘Time for a little fresh air, perhaps?’ –
as though he must put on the play for us,
though we are actors too. ‘A gentle turn
around the garden?’
The breeze is playful still.
We walk in quiet conference; ahead,
Poley and I, the other two as close
as midday shadows.
Poley and I, the other two as close
as midday shadows.
‘The north side of the house
is windowless,’ says Poley. ‘By the gate
that backs on to the lane, there are some shrubs
that grow there thickly. Enter them as though
you must relieve yourself. You’ll find a trunk
containing Penry, separate from his clothes.
Leave yours behind, use his and flee from here
to a barque named
Pity’s Sake
, which waits for you
on the eastern pier.’
that backs on to the lane, there are some shrubs
that grow there thickly. Enter them as though
you must relieve yourself. You’ll find a trunk
containing Penry, separate from his clothes.
Leave yours behind, use his and flee from here
to a barque named
Pity’s Sake
, which waits for you
on the eastern pier.’
‘That’s it?’
Rob Poley smiles
that noose of a smile he saves for lethal words.
‘This is goodbye. The three of us will dress
the body in your gear. I’ll keep the Bull
and her Martha occupied with pleasantries
while Frizer and Skeres lump-shoulder in their friend,
the loll-headed drunkard who must sleep it off.
That’s you.’ He brims with the beauty of his art,
the joy of his own deception. ‘Go. Be gone,’
he says, ‘before we wheel around again.’
‘This is goodbye. The three of us will dress
the body in your gear. I’ll keep the Bull
and her Martha occupied with pleasantries
while Frizer and Skeres lump-shoulder in their friend,
the loll-headed drunkard who must sleep it off.
That’s you.’ He brims with the beauty of his art,
the joy of his own deception. ‘Go. Be gone,’
he says, ‘before we wheel around again.’
Penry is in his underclothes, and pale
as the winding sheet he lacks; a crumpled ghost
of indignity. One eye is not quite closed,
gleams jealously as I adopt the clothes
his wife had stitched, that he had buttoned up
to go to the gallows, opened at the neck
for the hemp to tighten on his throat; which wound
would be concealed beneath the awkward ruff
that you ensured I wore. Oh, guilty thief,
who slides on so efficiently his shirt,
without its preacher’s collar, and the gift
of being alive, in front of Death itself,
and slips on to the lane as casually
as one engaged in some delivery
of goods, and not himself.
as the winding sheet he lacks; a crumpled ghost
of indignity. One eye is not quite closed,
gleams jealously as I adopt the clothes
his wife had stitched, that he had buttoned up
to go to the gallows, opened at the neck
for the hemp to tighten on his throat; which wound
would be concealed beneath the awkward ruff
that you ensured I wore. Oh, guilty thief,
who slides on so efficiently his shirt,
without its preacher’s collar, and the gift
of being alive, in front of Death itself,
and slips on to the lane as casually
as one engaged in some delivery
of goods, and not himself.
The eastern pier
is poking its sullen finger through the flow
that now sweeps swiftly seawards. There, the boat
Poley had named jerks hard against its ropes
as though concerned to leave, knocked by a breeze
still keen for France. On the vessel sits a boy
picking his teeth distractedly, who swings
his legs round when he sees me, calls a word
to the boat’s invisible skipper. From below,
as unexpected as a perfect bloom
emerging from a plant that seemed diseased,
you show yourself. An innocent mirage
but, for a breath, I let myself believe
you’re coming with me, though your face says no.
that now sweeps swiftly seawards. There, the boat
Poley had named jerks hard against its ropes
as though concerned to leave, knocked by a breeze
still keen for France. On the vessel sits a boy
picking his teeth distractedly, who swings
his legs round when he sees me, calls a word
to the boat’s invisible skipper. From below,
as unexpected as a perfect bloom
emerging from a plant that seemed diseased,
you show yourself. An innocent mirage
but, for a breath, I let myself believe
you’re coming with me, though your face says no.
‘Your papers. And a letter you must give
to the Flemish contact. Certain points in France
where you’ll link with the network. And the name
of a guide who’ll safely take you through the Alps.’
You tuck them inside my jacket, and your hand
so warm, so personal, I want to grab
your wrist and keep it there, close to my heart.
Instead, I watch you like a wounded child,
saying goodbye to me. ‘And I will write
when it’s safe to do so. Not for several months.
I’m bound to be watched. But, Kit, please write to me.’
to the Flemish contact. Certain points in France
where you’ll link with the network. And the name
of a guide who’ll safely take you through the Alps.’
You tuck them inside my jacket, and your hand
so warm, so personal, I want to grab
your wrist and keep it there, close to my heart.
Instead, I watch you like a wounded child,
saying goodbye to me. ‘And I will write
when it’s safe to do so. Not for several months.
I’m bound to be watched. But, Kit, please write to me.’
And I am wordless, powerless to speak
the sentences that stampede to be said
and trample upon each other. In my head
I tell you my every feeling in a form
that changes the ending; thankful, warm with love,
we sail together.
the sentences that stampede to be said
and trample upon each other. In my head
I tell you my every feeling in a form
that changes the ending; thankful, warm with love,
we sail together.
In truth, I stand there, dumb,
watching us both as if we’re on the stage
forgetting our lines; have stumbled on a scene
that I stayed awake, not writing.
forgetting our lines; have stumbled on a scene
that I stayed awake, not writing.
‘Kit, be safe,’
you say, your hand extended to my face
and almost touching.
and almost touching.
‘Master Walsingham.’
The young boy, come like a shadow to your side.
‘Father thinks we should go.’
‘Father thinks we should go.’
The hand withdraws.
‘I leave you then. The trunk has all the books
you asked for. Paper, ink.’
you asked for. Paper, ink.’
‘My manuscript?’
Perhaps the waves’ unsteadiness beneath
the thin shell of the boat reminded me
of those lovers separated by the strip
of the Hellespont.
the thin shell of the boat reminded me
of those lovers separated by the strip
of the Hellespont.
‘I have a copy of it,
and you have yours,’ you answer, ‘to complete
when I, and other friends of yours, secure
an end to your exile.’
when I, and other friends of yours, secure
an end to your exile.’
‘Tom.’ I grasp your hand.
‘I shan’t forget your help.’ We grip goodbye,
brief as the pat the farmer gives his cow
before it’s sent to slaughter.
brief as the pat the farmer gives his cow
before it’s sent to slaughter.
‘Take my cloak.’
Though you read my shiver wrongly, I was glad
to wrap myself up in the scent of you
when the salt tang of the sea unleashed its spray.
to wrap myself up in the scent of you
when the salt tang of the sea unleashed its spray.
And half across Europe, something of you stayed
in the practical fibres of that everyday
reminder of you. The smell of Kent lay thick
like turf inside its hem. Sometimes I swore
as I slept beneath it, you were lying with me.
And then I’d wake, from the stare of John Penry.
in the practical fibres of that everyday
reminder of you. The smell of Kent lay thick
like turf inside its hem. Sometimes I swore
as I slept beneath it, you were lying with me.
And then I’d wake, from the stare of John Penry.
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