by Louise Welsh
TAMBURLAINE
MUST DIE
Louise Welsh
To Karen and
Best Boy Zack
What is our life? A play of passion;
Our mirth, the music of division;
Our mother’s wombs the tiring houses be,
When we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who does act amiss;
Our graves that hide us from the searching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we playing to our latest rest –
Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest.
On the Life of Man, Sir Walter Raleigh
Cut is the branch that might have grown full
straight.
Doctor Faustus, Christopher Marlowe
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
London 29th MAY 1593
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
LONDON
29TH MAY 1593
I have four candles and one evening in which to write this account. Tomorrow I will lodge these papers with my last true friend. If I survive the day, they will light our pipes. But should I not return, he has instructions to secrete this chronicle where it will lie undiscovered for a long span, in the hope that when these pages are found, the age will be different and my words may be judged by honest eyes.
Reader, I cannot imagine what future you inhabit. Perhaps the world is a changed place, where men are honest and war, want and jealousies all vanquished. If so, you will wonder at the actions of the players in this poor play of passion. But if you are men like us you may understand, and if you are men like us you will learn nothing, though I gift you the only lesson worth learning, that there is no better prize than life. Whatever the future be, if you are reading this, you read the words of a man who knew how to live and who died an unnatural and unjust death. And what follows is the true record of the circumstances leading to my assassination.
My name is Christopher Marlowe, also known as Marle, Morley, Marly, known as Kit, known as Xtopher, son of a Canterbury cobbler. They say shoemakers’ sons go barefoot. It wasn’t so bad for us, but my father had a fondness for style that stretched beyond his means and damaged family fortunes. I inherited his tastes, but desired none of his debt, so I have always been in need of money and have risked much where other men might have scrupled.
I was a clever child. My keenness was brought to the attention of a local Knight who sponsored my early education. Years later he would judge me on a murder charge, never meeting my eye though I knew he recognised me well.
When I was seventeen I persuaded an old Archbishop that my one desire was to enter the Church. He granted me a scholarship to Cambridge University where I was recruited into a strange shadow world, where I was assured I could help my country while helping myself. So it proved and when it seemed my degree might not be granted, due to various absences and rumours which placed me where I shouldn’t be, the Queen’s own Privy Council gave guarantees I had been on Her business and must not suffer for doing Her good service.
Eventually I moved to London as I always knew I would, and set the world of theatre afire. Men left Massacre of Paris with their sword-hands twitching. And when my Faustus was performed, some said Lucifer himself attended, curious to see how he was rendered. Yes, it is no vanity to say my plays were a triumph, and Christopher Marlowe so famous they had heard of me in Hell. And so I made shift betwixt two night-time realms and thought my life charmed.
I am of an adventurous nature. I have often invited danger and have even goaded men to violence for the sake of excitement. I like best what lies beyond my reach, and admit to using friendship, State and Church to my own ends. I acknowledge breaking God’s laws and man’s with few regrets. But if I die tomorrow, I will go to my grave a wronged man. Were this fate of my own doing, I would greet it not gladly, but with a nod to virtue’s victory. As it is, if I meet death tomorrow I promise to face him cursing man and God.
*
My story begins on the 19th of May, 1593. All of that month I had been installed at Scadbury, the country house of my patron, Thomas Walsingham. For reasons I will soon explain, it was after noon before I woke, but when I drew back my shutters the day seemed new minted. It was as if I had lighted in another land. A world riven with sunlight. I stood by the window enjoying the lack of London’s stink as much as the freshness of the countryside, then repaired to my desk where I worked like the finest of scholars, until the sun edged half the sky and a shadow crept across my words. I let the ink of my last poetry sink into the page and when all danger of smudging was past, locked the manuscript safe in my trunk, slipping one of my own hairs into the clasp, an old precaution, done more from habit than necessity.
It had become my custom to walk in the forest in the early evening. As I write, I search my remembrance, wondering if the weeks cloistered in the country, avoiding the Plague which once more threatened the City, had made me restless. I was used after all to the bustle of theatrical life, London’s stews, the half-world of ambidextors and agents. But it seems when I look back on this walk at the end of a perfect day, that it was the most untroubled hour of my life. I didn’t know that every step I took was echoed by the beat of a messenger’s horse speeding along the London road towards Scadbury. My fate galloping to meet me.
I had much to muse on that late afternoon. The events of the previous night should have been prime in my mind. But I thought of nothing as I walked through the forest. That is, I thought of nothing in particular. Pleasant images threaded through my daydreams: the verses I was engaged on; what might be served for supper; the thighs of a woman I had lain with last winter; the dedication I would compose for Walsingham; how perfect clusters of purple violets looked snug against the forest floor; whether a doublet of the same shade might suit me well. All mingled with contentment at the good fortune of my state. The assurance of my patron’s affection, the vigour of my blood, the good reception I felt sure would greet my poetry when I returned at last to London. I see now there was a complacence in my satisfaction and, were I prone to superstition, might suspect I invoked misfortune by displeasing God with my conceit. But such thoughts are nonsense. When making mischief, man needs no help from God or the Devil.
The sun slipped lower beyond the canopy of leaves. The forest’s green light deepened, tree shadows lengthened, intersecting my path like criss-crossing staves. I registered dusk’s approach and walked through bars of light and dark wondering if I might employ them as a metaphor.
Nature hath no distinction twixt sun and shadow, good and evil.
I saw no one, but the forest was secretly as busy as any London street. Night and daytime creatures crossed, invisible in the gloaming. Birds whistled territorial tunes and small beasts, newly awakened for the night kill, rustled beneath fallen leaves, fleeing my approach. Crickets scratched out their wash-board song and the wind whipped the treetops into a roar. But any crowd has its silent watchers and once I glimpsed the feminine form of a deer, trembling at the edge of my vision.
‘That’s right,’ I said out loud, ‘never let your guard down.’ Then laughed, because I had let my own guard down, walking unaccompanied through these woods on the verge of night. I remember I paused to light my pipe, trusting the smoke to repel the swarms of midges that hovered around my head, then strode on confident I could reach the house before dark.
So passed my last untroubled moments. I didn’t see the man ride uninvited into the courtyard, hear the familiar c
latter of hooves against cobbles, nor witness the manic roll in the eye or the sweat on the flank of the horse driven too fast. But I returned in time to register the customary pomposity of the Queen’s Messenger, who greeted me with sarcastic civility and an order from the Privy Council for Christopher Marlowe, playwright, to return to London immediately.
*
Does each escape increase or decrease a man’s chances? Each time he wrestles free or weasels beyond charges, does he advance his expertise or merely shrink the portion of his luck?
That I had previously appeared before courts and councils and escaped with only a month or two’s incarceration was scant solace as I jolted towards London on a borrowed horse, under arrest again. I recalled a middle-aged swordsman I had once seen confronted with a duel outside a Shoreditch tavern. The man had a reputation as a sword-sharp, but when the bout began, he was ill-equipped to parry what he had once dodged with ease. His opponent’s blade had found its mark and the hero of a hundred bouts had folded with a groan, that was more surprise than pain. His killer shouted in triumph. But I knew then that champions’ lives are often short and the thought returned now to snatch any comfort previous perils might have granted.
Walsingham had sent ahead to the city to check the messenger’s credentials. It had been confirmed he was no conycatcher come to diddle me with a false fine or useless bribe, but the genuine article sent direct from the Privy Council, the most powerful men in the country. Men that can sentence you to death or torture, or to wait your life away, anticipating charges that never arrive. A league who answer only to God, the Queen and each other.
Perhaps it was the rhythm of the horse that turned my mind towards the events of the previous night. But then I have found fear often inspires thoughts of love, and if not love, then lust.
My patron Lord Walsingham is magnificent, well set in every way. Strong-boned and even-featured, his ancestry shows in the ease of his walk, the readiness of his laugh. He ruled our dinner conversations with a charm that belied the steel in his eye. I remembered the other Walsingham, the spymaster, spider at the centre of a web of intrigue, and watched my words lest my patron had inherited the old man’s craft.
We had lived well at Scadbury. I had grown used to fine wines and august company and knew I would be loth to return to the poet’s life when my time there was done. The night before my arrest Walsingham and I had dined alone but the table was set for a feast. Spiced capons boiled with oranges, roast lamb and conies, a dish of larks and a salad of cabbage lettuce and rosemary. I didn’t mark the composition of the leaves that evening, but reflect now that a maid well versed in the language of flowers would have noted them and realised what was to follow.
Walsingham sat at the head of the table, I on his right hand like some old-world vassal. Dish followed dish, but I noticed Walsingham ate little and drank more than was his habit. I followed suit, matching him cup for cup so by the time the servants removed the plates and were dismissed, we were both drunk, and pleased with each other’s company. The night grew darker, the candles burned low and our pipe smoke wreathed the room like old ghosts come forth to join the merriment.
There are moments when an evening shifts from one thing into another. All were abed except we two when the mood turned. Walsingham grasped my shoulder in response to some jest I had made, squeezing it as if in gentle affection but resting his hand against my back, a breath or two beyond propriety. I hesitated, suddenly reduced to my senses, catching the sharp scent of him, hearing the shallowness of his breath. But those who know how to mark the signs, know how to respond. Intoxication tempered surprise. I fathomed him and brushed my hand against his arm, the briefest of touches, to indicate my assent. When Walsingham leaned close and whispered my own lines:
Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,
I knew how it would go. The time had come to grant my patron his literary droit du seigneur.
When Walsingham straddled my torso, broad-chested, veiny groin prick-stout, I was reminded of a back-arching centaur. The image persisted through the face-fucking interlude that followed. The smell of sea and sweat and the conquest of my poetry took place in my head to the image of a white horse running across hard wet sands. The rough stabbing of the patron-of-poetry’s cock which jarred this poet’s head against the bed’s head took on the rhythm of a gallop, until the Lord released with a groan, holding his pulsing prick firm between my lips because somehow satisfaction would not be complete until the mouth which reads him such fine verse consumed all Walsingham can give.
Afterwards I stared up at the canopy that tented the bed, hoping fellow feeling hadn’t fled. My Lord leaned over and ruffled my hair then, as he dismounted, concluded the verse, making me its hero.
And such as knew he was a man would say,
Marlowe, thou art made for amorous play.
The memory made me smile, though it twisted something like a fist in my belly.
*
I asked the messenger if he knew the cause of my arrest but he gave only a shrug of the shoulders in reply. Twilight shifted into night. The last bird finished its song, leaving the forest to night prowlers and highwaymen. I kept my sword-hand ready. Meanwhile my mind, busy as a late night gaming-board, shuffled through combinations of treason, and my horse carried me ever closer to whatever waited in London.
*
The city rose up before us long before we reached her, a confusion of red roofs slanting this way and that amongst high, pointed spires and smoking chimney stacks. Distance and sunshine made the place look fresh. Farm girls and silly country swains arriving here in search of golden streets must surely rejoice when they first see that view, never suspecting the stews that lie beneath. On Highgate Hill the sails of the windmills turned slowly, but no breeze touched us as we made our way towards the City.
Church bells were ringing as we passed through the city gates. London was as I had left it three long weeks ago when fear of Plague had closed the theatres and I had repaired to Walsingham’s house. We made our way towards the river, along roads edged either side by high, timbered buildings which blocked the sun and cast us into shadow. Here rich and poor live one on top of another. Already market traders were setting out their stalls. Milkmaids, muscle-armed and never as fair as the songs suggest, rattled below us, eager to sell their wares before they soured. A mountebank called the afflicted to his remedies and an old fishwife, as high as her catch, cried Four for sixpence mackerel. An ancient cove in tattered jester’s robes nursed a miserable monkey with a face like a Beelzebub and shouted Oh rare show! A pretty country maid sang Fair lemons and oranges and I wished we could stop and buy some for their scent, though they were soft and grey spotted. Somewhere tradesmen began to hammer out their day. Sedans, carts and coaches vied for space on narrow roadways already busy with a press of people. London assaulted the senses. The din of voices, superstitious church chimes, pounding mallets, busy workmen and street bustle, undercut by the smells of livings and livestock. My months in the country gave a clarity to my vision and suddenly I felt sure this place could not survive. There was so much energy, so little space. One day the City must surely combust.
Eventually we reached the waterside where the air moved a little freer, though it carried the stench of stagnant places. Beneath the bridge waterwheels groaned like tortured men. And the ill-favoured ferrymen’s cries of Next oars? seemed like an invitation to cross the Styx. We pressed aboard a barge packed tight with travellers and as we pushed into the swell, the messenger pointed towards a group of strangers gathered on the bank we’d quit. He spoke for the first time.
‘Soon there will be no pure English left. Just a mix of Blackamoors and Dutch and God knows what.’
His speech annoyed me and I answered, ‘Perhaps the Spanish will relaunch the armada and save us from the deluge.’
But it was an unwise jest; the kind that often escapes my lips when I’m in my cups or lacking sleep and I worried abou
t it for the rest of the journey, fearing I had added to whatever troubles awaited me.
*
‘You know why you are here?’
The room I had been called to was plainly wainscoted in dark oak, relieved only by a tapestry depicting a royal hunt, hung across the whole of the far wall. I found myself searching it for the telltale bulge of a hidden listener, but the arras was set out far enough to comfortably conceal any spy. Eighteen men faced me, each dark-dressed with an expression to match. I had thought I might wait days before being granted an audience. But relief at being brought straight into their presence was tempered by the confirmation that my position was deadly serious. This was the Privy Council. Ministers who cared enough for high office to profit from death. Who had committed men they knew well and men they had met only once to torture and death. Dangerous men, each with a ruthless core, who had played chess with their own lives and still lived, though some had sat in prison cells and listened to the hollow sound of nails splitting wood as their own gallows grew in the yard. I bowed and scanned their faces, recognising the Lords Cecil and Essex; at opposite ends of the long table, as far apart in their seating as in their sympathies. I knew this was not the forum in which to solicit allies, but hoped spymaster Cecil would think me still useful and speak in my support at one of those discreet meetings that take place in dark rooms where alliances are struck and promises exchanged.
The man who had spoken sat at the Council’s centre behind a long table of the same gloomy wood that lined the walls. Old and grey with the flinty stare of a survivor, he was an ideal companion to the ancient oak. Destined to grow ever more ancient in the service of the Crown. His gown was black, untrimmed by fur or jewels, but his ruff was intricately pleated, his long beard groomed with a vanity that suggested he had once dressed with more extravagance and might do so again should the age allow. He glanced at the papers before him, then turned his stone stare on me, repeating the question with the patience of one accustomed to completing difficult tasks.
