The Marlowe Conspiracy (51 page)

Marlowe’s arrest
for counterfeiting
took place in the Dutch town of Flushing (rather than Portsmouth) in January, 1592. Under charges made by Richard Baines, Marlowe was arrested and deported back to England to face Lord Burghley. Strangely, he was never prosecuted for the crime.

Marlowe’s swordfight
in Hogg Lane, Shoreditch occurred in September, 1589. The aggressor was William Bradley (not an assassin) and Marlowe didn’t fight alone: he quickly withdrew from the fray after Thomas Watson, a fellow writer, came to his aid. Bradley died on the scene from wounds inflicted. Both Watson and Marlowe were arrested and sent to Newgate Prison (rather than Marshalsea), although both were later released after the coroner accepted Watson’s claim of self-defense.

Shakespeare’s torture
is invented, but it reflects the terrible fate suffered by Thomas Kyd, another talented and popular playwright at The Rose theatre. As part of the investigation into the libels, Kyd’s rooms were searched and documents “denying the deity of Jesus Christ” were found. Thereafter, Kyd was arrested and imprisoned on charges of atheism. Under pain of torture, he named Marlowe as the owner of the heretical documents (they had shared rooms in the summer of 1591) and denounced Marlowe as an atheist. Kyd never recovered from the harm inflicted by his torture and died soon after at 36yrs old.

The trial at the Court of the Star Chamber
in Westminster Palace is imagined, although the Star Chamber was a very real and notorious court. Instead, Marlowe appeared on trial for atheism on May 20th, 1593 at Nonsuch Palace in Surrey. Two days earlier, after the incriminations voiced by Thomas Kyd, Marlowe had been arrested at Scadbury Manor (the home of Thomas Walsingham) and was subsequently escorted to court to stand before the Privy Council. Top Privy Counselors at the time were the Earl of Essex, Archbishop Whitgift, and Lord Burghley and it is likely that Marlowe faced at least some of these figures at the trial. The ‘remembrances’ against Richard Cholmeley and the ‘Baines note’ were real documents that incriminated Marlowe, although they were not presented at the hearing. After the trial, Marlowe was released on an arrangement similar to bail – he had to make daily attendances upon the council for the indefinite future.

Marlowe’s death at Deptford
occurred on May 30th, 1593, at a meeting house belonging to the widow Eleanor Bull. Present at the scene of the death were Ingram Frizer (Walsingham’s secretary), Robert Poley (a senior spy) and Nicholas Skeres (a thief and sometime spy who is replaced with Baines in the novel). The coroner’s report records his killing as self-defense: he drew Frizer’s dagger, attacked Frizer from behind, and in the ensuing struggle received a fatal blow from the dagger just above his right eye. He was buried at St. Nicholas’s Churchyard in Deptford on June 1st in an unmarked grave. Much suspicion has surrounded his death ever since…

Further Research

For the writing of this novel, I consulted a wide-range of sources too numerous to mention here, but for readers interested in learning more about Christopher Marlowe there are a few selected works that I recommend.

Books:

Nicholls, Charles.
The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe
. Illinois: University of Chicago Press, 1995.

Kuriyama, Constance Brown.
Christopher Marlowe: A Renaissance Life
. Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2002.

The above works of nonfiction both provide scholarly, balanced, and comprehensive accounts of Marlowe’s life. They also examine the documents and circumstances surrounding his death in great detail.

Documentaries:

Much Ado About Something
. Dir. Mike Rubbo. The Helpful Eye and Chili Films, 2001.

Very few documentaries about Marlowe currently exist. However, the film cited above involves an excellent, insightful discussion of Marlowe’s death (and also ventures into the Shakespeare-Marlowe authorship debate).

Websites:

www.gutenberg.org

For readers wishing to enjoy Marlowe’s works, I suggested downloading the free public domain texts at Project Gutenberg. This site contains a complete collection of his plays and poetry, including the poem
‘Hero and Leander’
.

www.marlowe-society.org

The official site of the Marlowe Society based in the U.K. The society promotes Marlowe’s work and provides education about his life. They present extensive biographical information for free on the web, but also offer newsletters, research journals, events, and meetings to their members.

www.mgscarsbrook.com

Readers may also consult my own website for a biography, timeline, descriptions of Marlowe's known associates, and transcripts of all the key Marlowe-related documents.

Ultimately, wherever the reader goes to learn more about Marlowe I emphasize the importance of critical thinking in all matters. If Marlowe’s plays can offer us any wisdom it is this: the individual’s own thoughts and feelings are of paramount value in the world. As Marlowe himself once wrote:
“There is no sin but ignorance.”

M. G. Scarsbrook

Southern California, 2010

Read an Excerpt of M. G. Scarsbrook's Novel

P
OISON IN THE
B
LOOD

The Memoirs of Lucrezia Borgia

1497, Renaissance Rome

As the daughter of Pope Alexander VI, Lucrezia Borgia is a young noblewoman immersed in all the glamour of the Vatican Palace. Yet after a brutal killing shocks the city, Lucrezia learns that a dark truth lies beneath the surface of the Papal Court: in their ruthless quest for power, her father and brother are willing to poison their enemies.

Her family are murderers.

After discovering that her new husband is next to die, Lucrezia struggles to help him escape from Rome before the assassins strike. Against a barrage of political intrigues, papal spies, and diabolical tricks, Lucrezia uses all her wits to defy her family and save her husband from assassination. But as tragedy looms ever closer, and her plans gradually fail, she finds herself confronting an enemy far more sinister than she ever imagined…

Read An Excerpt Below

I

The Roman Carnival

February 1497

O
ne hour before a man was killed, his body run through with a sword, the city of Rome gave no warning of the violence yet to come. Excited people bustled in the twilight streets, their faces hidden behind painted masks, their tunics or bodices now swapped for brilliant costumes of white, red, or gold fabric.

I wandered through the crowds to enjoy the final minutes of the celebration. Around me, candlelight gleamed in every quarter of the city, shining among the shadows, burning away the darkness. Tonight was a time of merriment and mayhem, a festival that upturned the world and made anything possible.

“Without a light!” a voice shouted nearby. “Without a light!”

Such chanting filled the air as my brother Cesare and I weaved along the Via del Corso. The cobblestone avenue was now engulfed in the most riotous event of all, the Night of Candles. All hands carried a glowing candle, and everyone played at extinguishing all other flames while guarding their own light. Whenever revelers snuffed a flame, they chanted
“without a light, without a light!”
in celebration of their victory. I watched and marveled at the intensity of their games: the year was already marred by plagues, famines, and bloodshed, and yet the people could still banish their worries in the joy of the Carnival. I envied them deeply.

Cesare kept pace at my side and raised his torch high above any grasping hands. Firelight glistened off his silver, unicorn mask. His shoulders lay broadly under a silver satin doublet. In contrast, I wore the plain clothes of a peasant girl – a brown leather bodice and green circle skirt. My mask was small, concealing my eyes and cheeks, but it kept snagging in the waves of my golden waist-length hair.

“Doesn’t it feel strange to be here without a papal escort?” I said to Cesare, as we strolled through the crowds. “It’s a shame we can’t normally walk the streets in safety without a disguise. I like being in Rome without being noticed or stared at, don’t you?”

“I don’t care,” he replied in his deep, monotone voice. He looked down at my bodice and skirt. “Tell me your costume again?”

“I’m a peasant girl. I wanted to be an ordinary person, for a change.”

“Why?”

Before I could answer, a firecracker boomed overhead and distracted us. I stopped and held my hands protectively around the candle I carried. Suddenly, a carriage laden with youths, confetti paper, and sugar plums jostled past, nearly running us beneath its wheels. My brother grabbed my arm and yanked me to the side of the road.

“Villains!” Cesare shouted at the carriage, as it disappeared back into the mob. “They should be hung – all of them!”

The roar of his voice cut through the chants and conversations nearby and a few people turned their heads to look at us.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I said, rubbing my arm where his fingers had pressed my skin. “But you can’t blame them. Nobody knows who we are, remember. They can’t be expected to treat us as the son and daughter of the pope. What would be the use of disguises, otherwise?”

“They’re still scoundrels,” he replied, allowing his temper to ease.

I looked toward the south of the city and thought of a plan.

“Why don’t we return home now?” I said. “We’ve seen enough of the night’s festivities. Carnival’s almost over, anyway.”

“There’s no need to rush back to Città del Vaticano,” he replied.

“Yes, but I thought we might take the longer route to our quarters. We might even pass through the southern roads and piazze?” A tiny sense of guilt tingled in my bones. I felt certain he would know exactly where I wanted to go, and precisely whom I hoped to see.

Instead, he gave only a shrug. “If you insist.”

We moved away, still gaping at all the sparkling costumes, the wild dancing, and the cunning tricks. Nearby, two women dressed in white feathers huddled past us. Remnants of red, green, and blue confetti speckled their hair. A jester wearing crimson breeches danced in front, pelted them with eggs, and knocked out both their flames. Behind him, youths leapt from the street onto passing carriages to snuff the lanterns. Oranges and sugar plums buzzed overhead and bombilated the walls of homes, shops, and palazzi, infusing the air with tangs of citrus. Above all the mayhem, ladies leaned over balconies and poured honey down onto candles below.

Careful to avoid Sant’Angelo, the rione controlled by our enemies, we left the Via del Corso and wandered down quieter streets. The lights around us were gradually doused and the city became darker and less chaotic. As we ambled along, five-story homes and palazzi loomed overhead. Aromas of cooked artichoke, rich meats, garlic and mint, wafted out from open arched windows.

Cesare and I soon passed by the piazza of Campo de’ Fiori, a small marketplace surrounded by ale-houses and inns, many of them catering to pilgrims who came to visit the tomb of St. Peter. From the distant doorways, laughter spilled into the piazza, and a group of drunkards amused themselves with silly antics. One man sat on a barrel while the others tried to roll him across the marketplace.