by Louise Welsh
‘You seem tall enough to me, but there’s always room on the rack if you desire.’ I couldn’t wrest my gaze from the wrinkled smile. The spit-glued mouth. I placed another coin in the warder’s hand. He felt the weight of it, smiling as he accepted it as worthy of his due. ‘It’s good to gift the turnkey and the hangman, but better still never to meet them.’
‘True words. Tell me, what brought them to Kyd’s rooms?’
‘Don’t you know?’
I shook my head. When he spoke the old man’s voice held echoes of the torture chamber.
‘They thought he might be this new Tamburlaine who pasted the libel to the door of the Dutch church. Some say it should have been you they sent for, but something drew them to Kyd. Maybe some informer, eager for the hundred crowns offered for intelligence of Tamburlaine, maybe something else.’ He turned to go. ‘Be careful my friend, all roads begin to lead to you.’
We parted, each without a backward glance, leaving by opposite ends of the lane. I felt infected by the stink of the alley, the weight of Kyd’s torture and the taint of the gaoler’s friendship.
*
The spiked heads of criminals outside the gaol seemed to hold a smile for me alone. Their steady stare put me in mind of a youth I had once glimpsed across a crowded tavern. Neither of us spoke, neither made a move towards the other, but we recognised that there would be congress between us that night. True enough the boy trailed me from the inn and what followed was sweet.
I strode on, leaving the slack grins of the severed heads behind me, but the image of my tongue roving their rotten mouths persisted. The gaoler was right. There were many men I could betray. But probably only one whose life would secure mine, at least for a while. I wondered if he knew of my troubles, if he predicted my thoughts and if he was even now considering whether to stick me before I did for him.
*
The shadows of St Paul’s Cathedral cloak books to suit all humours. Poetry, plays, songs and sonnets nestle beside prayer books and improving tales. Fashionable romances, tied with ribbons the shades of ladies’ gowns, tumble against masculine manuals and dry theology. Ballads, cheap at half a penny, and clumsy woodcuts, perfect to brighten the bunks of homesick apprentices. Diseases of horse, man, dog and nation. How to raise children or raise the Devil. Descriptions of monstrous things and crimes that stretch credulity. Italian illustrations only gentlemen can view without corruption. It’s all there if you know where to look.
The bookshops that edge the churchyard are as different as the goods they sell. Simple booths and shanty stalls hung with pamphlets bracket three-storey tenements stuffed with volumes; warrens of learning to rival Alexandria. Stationers and print shops are haunted by authors; the humble hopefuls who try to wheedle a copy of their verse between the rollers of the press, the arrogant who lament the ignorance of a trade which rejects, or shifts too few copies to warrant the effort.
Mysterious names painted in pictures swing above each doorway: The Half Moon and The Hand; The Holy Ghost and Holy Lamb, The Bull’s Head, Bishop’s Head, Tiger’s Head and Maidenhead. St Paul’s churchyard is one of the safest places to lose yourself in London. Where grandees and vagabonds, the sober and the foppish, young ladies and old men tread the same paths and no one looks out of place.
The bookstalls which cluster in the centre of the courtyard had been open since seven that morning and now, in mid-afternoon, the strain of the hours was showing on the booksellers’ faces. Despite the crowds business seemed slow. The stallholders were all sighs and raised eyes, pursed mouths and pointed looks. They gossiped in low voices amongst themselves, suddenly quitting conversations to hover amongst the browsers. Casting unspoken curses on those who perused without purchase.
It was Thomas Blaize that I was searching for. My oldest and closest friend and a player who wishes himself a poet. Blaize has published verses that would set dogs howling, could they read. Never satisfied with being amongst the finest of actors, he haunts the literary world hoping to soak talent into his bones and foist his poetry onto readers. Where better to search for my frustrated wordsmith than amongst books? I spied him at last, deep in conversation with a grave and greying scholar and drew close enough to hear the old man bluster.
‘I am not obliged to buy a book simply because I put my hand upon it.’
Blaize is long-faced, with large teeth and a high forehead topped by a question mark of a fringe. His dark eyes and high cheekbones have earned him the nickname of the Viper, but it was a satire on his soft nature as much as his dark looks. Now he bared his teeth in a smile and leaned towards the customer.
‘I’ve no quarrel with that.’ The smile grew wider as Blaize raised his voice in loud conversation as only an actor can. His words travelled across the churchyard and booksellers and browsers turned towards the commotion. ‘There are many fine books in the world.’ He turned stage sinister and held up the volume in question, a slim green-bound book of verse I recognised as my friend’s sole publication. ‘I just wish to know what it was about this particular one that made you discard it?’
The old man took a step back.
‘I have already said, it was nothing in particular.’ He huffed a little, looking for a reason that might free him of this pest. ‘Perhaps it was the colour of the boards.’
Blaize examined the book, raising it to the light, neatly side-stepping a lunge from the ruffled bookseller whose property it was. A few titters echoed around the bookstalls. Other days I would have joined in the merriment, but now I wondered that he could jest with Kyd racked and his closest friend contemplating Newgate. My heart hardened as I watched him appeal to the audience.
‘What is wrong with these boards?’
The elderly man took another step backwards, but a small crowd had formed and he found himself hemmed in.
‘They’re rather dark. I fancy I like a brighter sort of cover.’
He turned to go but the audience were enjoying the show and no one made way for him. Blaize raised his large hands behind the man’s back as if, consumed by rage, he was about to grab the ignoramus and hurl him across the churchyard. He lowered his arms with slow theatricality, mugging desperate expressions, emphasising the strength required to restrain himself. The crowd laughed. The elderly man turned towards his tormentor as if scalded, but Blaize was once more composed and complaining.
‘I saw you open the volume before replacing it. You perused a page, raised your eyes to the ceiling, then slammed it shut quite abruptly. There was a look on your face, a look of …’ he hesitated, ‘a look I can’t describe.’
The man regarded him with exasperation.
‘Then perhaps it was the print, it is after all rather small and I am a man of middle years. Or, perhaps it was that the author seemed unable to describe all that he wished.’
The crowd greeted this sally with laughter. Blaize acknowledged his rival’s hit, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.
‘Sir,’ he said when the merriment had subsided. ‘I am going to make you a present of this book.’
The customer backed away.
‘I can’t accept a gift from a stranger.’
‘There is no obligation in accepting a book from its author, except to read it.’
The man looked like this might be the kind of obligation he feared. Someone shouted, ‘You’ve had enough sport from the old fellow. Don’t torture him with your poetry.’
There was more laughter and a flash of genuine irritation crossed my friend’s face. He recovered quickly and held up a hand against more interruptions.
‘Now,’ Blaize went on, ‘I take it you are a regular visitor to St Paul’s?’ The man nodded, tentatively. ‘I am also here most days perusing the stalls. When we next meet you can tell me what you think on this book and whether you were wise to so lightly pass it by …’
Perhaps he saw me from the corner of his eye or maybe he felt the weight of my stare upon him because Blaize ceased his patter mid-sentence. He turned as if he heard someone ca
ll him, then suddenly we were eye to eye.
Kit.
His mouth soundlessly formed my name. I thought I had never seen him so pale and wondered if he was sickening. Forgetting his sport, Blaize pushed through the crowd, coming towards me like a man woken from a dream.
Behind him the stallholder petitioned the elderly man for the price of the poems. The man began to insist the book had been gifted directly to him, by the author himself. The crowd started to disperse as a second, more pedantic argument broke out between the two elderly men.
Blaize kept his eyes on me, unaware of the show behind him.
‘I thought you lost.’
‘Near enough.’
He put his hand on my shoulder. It was the first friendly touch I’d felt since Walsingham’s. I reached towards it putting my hand briefly on his. He glanced at me and I felt his understanding and his fear and regretted doubting his affection. I remembered I might be placing him in danger and said,
‘Perhaps we shouldn’t be seen together.’
Blaize withdrew his hand.
‘Perhaps, but I’m glad you came to me. Come on, there are plenty of places round here where we may be private.’
*
Blaize led me along a damp and leafy lane towards the charnel chapel. I knew where we were headed, Blind Grizzle’s. A small, dimly lit concern, run by Grizzle, an ancient bookseller who could no longer see yet plied his wares with an expertise born of memory.
One day, consensus had it, Grizzle would be lamped by some ruffian who would make off with his takings, maybe even the gold he was rumoured to have hidden in some secret place. But, though logic supposed the shop should be beset by thieves, the old man rarely lost a book. He had strung the ceiling of the tiny premises with tinkling bells which trembled as you trod the uneven boards and the floor was scattered with piles of books Grizzle had mapped in his mind, but which often wrong-footed customers. He had a companion, Hector, a clever dog, who marked visitors’ comings and goings with a low growl, half welcome, half warning of what would befall anyone foolish enough to trouble his master.
The old man and his dog were the booksellers’ mascot. Held up as an example of canine devotion and triumph over infirmity. And those of his trade rallied to help, though Blaize maintained they were in league with the hound and cheated Grizzle of his best stock right under his sightless eyes. We’d visited the shop together often and knew the old man well, but I wasn’t sure of choosing it as a place to exchange confidences. I leaned towards Blaize and whispered,
‘Blind men have sharp ears.’
‘And tight tongues.’ Grizzle turned his unseeing gaze on us. ‘Go into my quarters and talk private there if there is something you’d rather I didn’t hear.’
‘We mean no slight.’ Blaize put his hand on the man’s arm and I noticed that Hector remained silent. ‘Some things are better not heard.’
The old man sighed.
‘And yet you bring them to my shop.’
*
The back room was dark and musty, heaped high with volumes. I tripped over something in the gloom and my sword glanced against a column of books. I swore and put my hand towards the teetering pile. It trembled upright for a second, then Blaize laughed and the books tumbled spine over page into a splayed and jagged mound. The dog barked and Grizzle shouted, ‘Be careful what you are about. These books are all arranged.’
Blaize returned his call.
‘No harm done. We’ll sort them before we go.’
There was a grumbling from the main shop, then the dog and the old man settled and we were left in silence.
We sat side by side on the bed. Blaize patted my hand once, but otherwise we didn’t touch, barely looked at each other as we recounted our bad news.
I spoke first, telling of my sudden summons from Walsingham’s house, my interrogation by the Council, my unexpected release and the news of Kyd that the turnkey had given me. I left out the night-time encounter with my patron, even best friends should not be trusted with news that might hang you. Blaize shook his head in disbelief at the outrages in my tale. But when I reached the end and the gaoler’s advice to flee to Scotland, his mood lifted and he laughed saying,
‘Better the gallows than that sorry country.’
I snapped, ‘It may come to that.’
And he apologised, though he still smiled as he shook his head. He tagged his apology with an explanation.
‘I remained in London the whole of your absence. The Plague put everyone in fear of their lives until Death became a joke to some of us. I joined an alehouse crew who toasted Death each night. And though I never met Him, He graced some of my companions with a visit. I learned to laugh at Death and have not yet shaken the habit.’
I could see Blaize wanted to launch into Plague tales, but I had no time for a litany of deaths and near avoidance. That war was fallow while my danger lurked near at hand. I interrupted him.
‘We can reminisce later. I need intelligence of my situation now. Have you any thoughts on the origin of this libel?’
Blaize turned his brown eyes on me and sighed. He rested his elbows on his thin knees then leaned forward, cupping his head in his hand, staring at the floor. His dark hair draped his face, hiding his features as he began to tell me what he knew.
‘There were mutterings about you as soon as the libel went up on the door of the Dutch church. To most you were a hero. You know how it goes when Plague is about. Your libel followed rumours that the pestilence does not creep like marsh gas from the ground or float like spores on the air, but is sprinkled through the streets by some foreign hand. Your name was whispered in every tavern and street corner.’
I felt my chest tighten. The Queen’s spies are everywhere and street talk can soon lead to a dungeon.
‘Did you never think to send for me?’
Blaize shook his head.
‘I wanted to relay the rumours to you, but it wasn’t so easy. I had no money, no horse and those around me were the same.’
‘You could have borrowed money. Stolen a horse. I would for you.’
He raised his head and stared me out.
‘You left me in a town stalked by Plague, never knowing when Death might call, while you rested safe and comfortable.’ His voice wavered. ‘Did it never occur to you that you might return to find me slung into some unmarked pit? Each morning I woke to the clang of the charnel wagons’ bells as they lurched through the streets, piled high with the bodies of the dead. You should have seen their load. Men and women tumbled together, old embracing young in poses that would have ruined them in life. Respectable ladies who’d guarded their modesty as rich men guard gold, splayed half naked, their flesh exposed for all the world to see. And children, who only the day before had been their parents’ delight, tossed carelessly amongst the rest. The men who drove the carts were drunk and so was I, from morning to night.’
His words stung, but I shook myself free of them.
‘I couldn’t save you from these trials. Walsingham regards me as a superior servant. He doesn’t grant me leave to bring an entourage.’
‘Aye, company might spoil his fun.’
I wondered what Blaize knew. We sat in silence for a while, then he continued.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t so simple. Rumours move like fire. A small blaze begins. You rush to quench it, then when you think you have succeeded and all danger is extinguished, you turn and find its sparks have kindled fresh flames behind you. Before you know it whole buildings are ablaze, then streets.’ He shook his head at the inferno he had conjured. ‘Anyway, people thought you guilty of slandering the immigrants, but they praised your guilt.’
I could imagine Blaize at the centre of some alehouse debauch, relishing the attention that association with my notoriety brought.
I hissed, ‘Blaize, these are times when we must all tread careful.’
He straightened in his seat and turned towards me, incredulous I should consider him disloyal.
‘I spoke only in yo
ur defence.’
‘Aye, but what kind of defence was it? That I was fearless and would stop at nothing? That because I had written Tamburlaine I was as reckless as my hero?’
‘Nothing so rash.’ Blaize rose from the bed and stood facing me. ‘Do you think Tamburlaine a name I speak lightly?’
*
I had always been half in love with Tamburlaine, my most ruthless creation, a savage Scythian shepherd-made-king who acknowledged no obstacle in his campaign of conquest. I had felt him at my shoulder as I wrote, pushing my quill to further outrage.
Tamburlaine had been a triumph, though some considered it damned. It was too unnatural, this viciousness that refused to be mastered by good. And it was true that there had been a cursed quality about the production from the first, a curse that had touched my friend and given him good reason to hate my hero.
Blaize had been one of Tamburlaine’s principal players. On the opening night he’d realised his pistol contained real shot just as he squeezed the trigger. Somehow he had swerved his aim, desperate to avoid his fellow actors, but instead of pointing at the rafters or to the floor, he’d wheeled the barrel towards the crowd who hardly had an instant to gasp, before the retort had sounded, thunderous even over the hubbub of the theatre, so loud that for an instant all were deafened. Then hearing was awakened by screams. Some thought themselves shot who were just shocked, others that the Spaniards were upon us. But when the confusion abated it was discovered that disaster had occurred. The shot had injured a man and killed a woman large with child.
Guilt had haunted Blaize for a long time. Indeed, thinking on it now I wondered if he had ever got over the calamity. It seemed to me that after the accident his work had taken on a desperate turn. And since that time he often looked as if the shot still rang in his ears.
I patted the bed beside me and said, ‘I know you meant me no harm.’
Blaize sat and I rested my hand on his shoulder hoping my touch would reassure him as his had comforted me.
