Tamburlaine Must Die

by Louise Welsh

  *

  I watched as Blaize undressed the girl, unfastening her bodice, being gentle with her for she was rightly nervous at being alone with two men. I started to strip myself. We had visited this vice before. I knew how it went and could think of no better way to lose myself than this further degradation.

  The girl’s body shone silver in the darkness. Blaize presented her to me like an unwrapped gift. She smiled bravely, she had decided he was safe, but I was an unknown quantity, silent and stern while he was all tickles and smiles.

  I placed my palm on the small of her back, pulling the girl towards me. She let herself be drawn, but there was enough resistance to let me know she was still unsure or perhaps she thought it might excite me.

  ‘How now, Mistress Minx?’ I whispered. ‘I would that we had a light.’

  And she pushed herself against me, rocking against the hardness she felt there. I put my face in her hair, smelled smoke and evening air and heard her say, ‘We will make sparks by moonlight.’ And felt better. It was such an old phrase that I knew she had said it to other men and I was not the destroyer of her innocence. I ran my fingers softly around the curve of her rear, over the swell of her thighs, into the swoop of her waist. The contrast between her soft round flesh and my stiff arrow straightness was fascinating. I wished we had a glass, so I could see us side by side, watch my body merging into hers. I dipped my head to her throat, pushed a finger inside her, then rubbed her wetness against her nipple and pressed it to my mouth. She gasped, hooking her legs around my waist, helping me guide myself within her, clasping her hands around my neck. I placed my palms to her rear, leading her into a rhythm that had us both gasping until the strain became too much and I lowered her to the bed, covering her with my body. Conscious all the time of Blaize’s smile in the gloom.

  When we had finished and began to draw apart I felt the return of her nervousness and understood she knew this was the dangerous time, after the act, the moment men often turned and did harm to women. I stroked her hair in reassurance and looked towards Blaize. He shook his head and threw me a coin. It twinkled as it shot through the dark. I caught it and gave it to the girl, adding two of my own. Her relief hung in the air as she quickly dressed herself, eager to leave. When the door had shut behind her Blaize hissed, ‘You might go to Hell for this.’

  The liquid dark embraced us both. I whispered, ‘Hell is on this earth and we are in it.’

  His breath stroked my face, he reached towards me, then we were together. Sometime in the night I woke to the sound of sobbing. But whether it came from the street, or within my head I could not say.

  *

  Where else can a poet live but the bastard sanctuaries? Beggars’ breeding grounds where all are as welcome, or unwelcome, as the other. My lodgings are in a broken-up tenement in Norton Folgate. It was here that I headed, plunging into a bright new morning breezed through with the stink of the Thames.

  It was early by theatrical standards but the streets were already swarming with the need to make a coin. I crossed the bridge, travelling against a tide of travellers who were bound for the shore I had just quitted. A parade of people who, having nothing to sell, sold themselves. Jugglers and tumblers; coiners, cutpurses and cosiners; dancers, fiddlers, nips and foists, vagabonds of all description. Three generations of rogues swelled the throng. Ragged children studying the moves of apprentices and masterless men. Old soldiers, who were soldiers no more, just shuffle gaited beggars nursing their sores. All were making their way to the City from the night-time sanctuary of privileged places.

  Prominent amongst their ranks were the strangers. Those who, finding no sympathy in their own country, had sought out ours, bringing with them their own ways and customs and sometimes an expertise the Queen wished to claim for her own. They were unpopular amongst the people. The incomers’ differences and skills inspired jealousies and mistrust that resulted in attacks, woundings, murder and dissent. The Crown had countered with statutes promising harsh measures against anyone offering harm to strangers and promising the ultimate sanction of death. The paper the Council had shown me had taken my writings and implicated me in a rough plot against the newcomers for which I might be hung.

  Come dusk the traffic would reverse direction. And as the night grew dark so would creep the respectable rich and poor following in the rogues’ wake. Burgesses, merchants and aristocrats, esquires and gentlemen, stepping from the city into the unchartered quarters, heading for the bear-baiting pits and playhouses. Hunting for the company of harlots, whores and sixpenny strumpets. Bewigged and bedazzled they would drop their breeches in bawdy houses, thanking God for inventing a sin they would regret and renounce even before they had returned to the safe side of the river.

  In the midst of the crowd someone shouted, ‘Look to your purse!’ Most were wise to the old ruse and kept their hands clear of their money. Near to me though a youth in velvet breeches clutched at the chest of his jerkin, nicely marking the thief ’s target. A one-legged man vaulted past, nimble on one crutch, jolting the youth as he went. A second cripple followed in the first’s shadow, a legless long-armed rogue birling fast on a box fixed with rollers. Each man bore the leery marks of boxing bouts. In an instant the boy’s purse was snatched and passed and the thieves absorbed by the crowd. No one offered sympathy. London hands out such lessons by the minute and it is up to each to look to himself.

  Every fourth door led the way to a tavern or alehouse, every fifth to the house of a bawd. The interview with the Council still hung heavy on me. I wondered at it coming so fast on Walsingham’s attentions, but dismissed my suspicions. What we had done was a capital offence, but neither could implicate the other without incriminating himself and he could easily be free of me without recourse to law or murder.

  I turned my thoughts instead to my destination, wondering if my rooms remained free. I’d paid my landlady two months’ rent on the eve of my departure. She’d been in her quarters frying chitterlings. The chopped intestines had wriggled like grubs, bouncing and snapping in their own fat, filling the room with the sick-sweet smell of burning hellhag. She’d turned to face my knock on the open door with her usual sour expression. But my promised absence and the sight of so much coinage had wrought a transformation. The landlady had tested each bit with her teeth then gripped my arm in a nightmare hold, with hands even harder and more wrinkled than her face. She’d invited me to eat with her and, not offended by my curled lip refusal, began her feast, tripping forth a series of rusty smiles punctuated by chews, swallows and assurances about the cleanliness and security of my chambers.

  But in a world where men are cuckolds, a faithless landlady might rent out the bed of an absent tenant. Had my return been more auspicious I would have swashbuckled into the lodgings ready to repel all comers, but that day the thought of discovering some decayed gentleman amongst the few things I’d stored there was repulsive. Worse, if Kyd’s rooms had been ransacked, my own might have received the same treatment. Who could know what awaited me there? I ducked into a tavern across the street from my quarters, a mean low-ceilinged place that suited my mood. The main trade would arrive later in the day when men had worked up a thirst or crawled from their beds, but there were a few drinkers sitting in the shadows nursing their ale and their pipes at rough wooden tables decorated with the uneven chips and random scorings of careless men. I ordered sack, commissioned a boy idling by the door to deliver news of my arrival and a request that my rooms be made ready, then settled myself in a dark corner with a good view of the door. In the centre of the room a group of men were playing chance. The clack of their dice and low definite calls of their bets was the only noise within. The randomness of the numbers was soothing against the regular tumble of the dice. I sipped my drink and allowed myself to drift with the sound.

  The events of the previous days came back to me. The long journey from Walsingham’s house, the interview with the Council. I recalled my patron’s power, wondering again if the turn our last night had ta
ken would do me harm. Finally I fancied myself back in the peace of the forest. Recalled the intricate construction of ferns that flourished in the sylvan depths. Each with its own space, all their world supremely arranged. And yet these curling miracles were ruthless. Any unfurling too close to another or happening to fall too deep in the shade, would wither without hope of assistance.

  My musings were interrupted by the return of the boy with the news that my rooms had been ready ‘these past six weeks’. I detected the injured innocence of my landlady’s voice in these words. And nodded the boy’s dismissal. Instead of leaving, he proffered an envelope.

  ‘She asked me to give you this letter which arrived for you an hour ago.’

  I gave him the coin promised and another to acknowledge the untampered seal on the envelope. He lingered, hoping to be commissioned with a reply, but I sent him on his way with a look.

  My urge was to save the envelope for a more private place, but even if it contained bad news, it was best to know before braving the street. I held the missive beneath the table, broke its anonymous seal, tore open the envelope and drew out a small square of scarlet linen the same shape and cryptic blankness of the virgin fragment Blaize had given me the previous day.

  If it hadn’t been for the interview with the Council, the meaning of the strange messages might have eluded me until much later. But suddenly it revealed itself. I tossed back my drink and exited the tavern, shoving the blood-red note into my pocket, pulling my cloak about me as I went.

  *

  My room was as mean and dark as I remembered. I sat on the bed and took the pieces of linen from my pocket. Lines from Tamburlaine came to me and I whispered them out loud.

  The first day when he pitcheth down his tents,

  White is their hue, and on his silver crest,

  A snowy feather spangled white he bears,

  To signify the mildness of his mind

  That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood.

  My hands clenched into fists. I uncurled them and watched the crushed fabric unfold, trampled roses, one as red as the other was white.

  Tamburlaine had decked his siege camp in three successive shades. First white, offering peace should the enemy surrender. Next red, indicating the execution of all combatants. Finally black, promising death to every last man, woman and child. Not even a dog would survive the slaughter.

  The Privy Council had no need for these games. Tamburlaine was my best, most invincible hero, he had lent me some of his power and I never felt as good as when he walked invisibly by my side. His boast came back to me.

  I hold the fates bound fast in iron chains.

  And with my hand turn fortune’s wheel about;

  And sooner will the sun fall from his sphere

  Than Tamburlaine be slain or overcome.

  Tamburlaine the Great remained unvanquished to the last, reducing all in his path to rubble. But I was his creator and would outdo any angry God. I would destroy my creature turned enemy, just as soon as I knew who he was. I lay back on the bed, closed my eyes and slept, the scraps of linen growing damp in my curled palm.

  *

  The knock wasn’t my landlady’s tentative tap, but an authoritative rapping which brought to mind the Queen’s Messenger and set my heart racing. Bidding the visitor, ‘Wait one minute,’ I put my eye to the crack I had contrived in the doorjamb long months ago when I had first rented the rooms. The sliver wasn’t wide enough to reveal the whole man. Just an impression of brown leather jerkin and russet breeches. The figure moved, blocking the view as if he knew he was being watched. I kept my hand on my dagger and opened the door quick onto a stranger. He saw my combative stance and took a step back, making it clear he wished me no threat, but smiling as if amused I should think myself any match for him.

  ‘Master Marlowe?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I represent someone eager to meet you.’

  The man in front of me had the dimensions of a smallish oak. Though his bulk might hamper his swiftness, his strength would more than compensate. I guessed he wasn’t inviting me for a feast and bought time by wilfully misunderstanding him.

  ‘I appreciate the invitation, but I have many other obligations.’ I gestured towards the open door. ‘Bid your master good health and thank him for his compliments.’

  He looked around impatiently.

  ‘We have no time for disputing. Make haste, my master requests you come to his house where you will hear something to your advantage.’

  ‘Your master’s name?’

  ‘Is not for casual ears.’ He shifted impatiently. ‘I assure you no harm awaits. Though harm will certainly find you, should you refuse my invitation.’

  The unavoidable moment where I hit him and he knocked me around the room before taking me where he had always intended was fast approaching. I took a deep breath and hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. I made a flourish towards the open door.

  ‘I would rather you accept my invitation and leave.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Master Marlowe, I wish you no ill. But I have instructions to make sure you reach my patron’s house and reach it you will, alert or sleeping. You choose the way.’

  It is suicide to start a fight with a superior opponent in a small space. Especially if your enemy is in front of the only door. I put my hand to my sword.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘a sword once drawn is difficult to sheathe.’

  And though I knew the truth of his statement, I found myself drawing the weapon from its scabbard and lunging towards him in a clumsy thrust not illustrated in any manual of swordcraft.

  He side-stepped my attack, surprising me with his nimbleness, parrying my moves with three successive strokes each of which was a near strike until I was against the far wall and at his mercy. He kept his sword at my throat and knocked me a quick punch to the jaw with his fist. The blow drew a little blood and shook my brains around, though not enough to knock sense into them. He pressed the point to my Adam’s apple, gentle but firm enough to let me know the skin would soon break, then withdrew his blade and gave me a grin.

  ‘Ready?’

  I shook my head to clear the sound of bells, then nodded to stop him hitting me again.

  ‘Good,’ he smiled indulgently as I dabbed the blood from my face. ‘All is well, Master Marlowe. Remember, men’s interests don’t always lie at odds.’

  Which is true, but then he didn’t know what my interests were.

  *

  We travelled in a windowless carriage, hurtling along the uneven roads at a bewildering speed, which soon had me disorientated, though I began the journey calculating streets and turnings, half expecting to be bundled across the river. When we arrived, I was harried quickly, not with a rag or cap about my face, but wedged so tight between the coachman and my companion that I was blinkered and could make out only the impression of a formidable town-house.

  The room my new friend ushered me into was modest, an anonymous office which offered no clues about the nature of the person who worked there. A man of about thirty was seated behind a large wooden desk. He was small, more elf than gnome, with a clever, pointed face. He would have looked youthful were it not for his dark hair, which receded sleekly into a widow’s peak giving him a sinister aspect. He looked up, then signed something with a flourish and came out from behind the desk.

  ‘Master Marlowe, thank you for agreeing to visit us. May I offer you a drink?’

  I could have said they left me no choice. But there seemed little point. So instead I bowed and asked for wine. The man nodded to my chaperone who, reduced to the role of steward, poured us both a glass of malmsey before bowing and retiring. I had trusted his openness and was sorry to see him go for I could tell that the man in front of me was of a more sophisticated cast. We settled ourselves in adjoining seats and sat for a while in silence. My companion leaned back, steepling his hands beneath his chin, button-bright eyes examining me as if there was something he couldn’t quite decide upon. I
sipped my drink quicker than I meant to, and waited for the reason for my visit to be revealed. At last he spoke.

  ‘You seem to find yourself in some small difficulty, Master Marlowe.’

  ‘It is a fact of my profession. Theatre is built on difficulties.’

  ‘The theatre of life also?’

  ‘It is so for all men.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he smiled, a brotherly smile, sympathetic, yet with no illusions about my character, ‘but most men’s troubles are of a mundane nature. They lack money or have upset their wife. You are in danger of losing your life.’

  I took a swig from my glass and returned his grin.

  ‘That has the ring of a threat.’

  ‘It’s a fact. The city is unnerved by Plague and on edge with the threat of war. The Spanish are rumoured to be outside our ports. Only yesterday the Queen dispatched troops to waylay invasion. Times are desperate, tempers stretched and the Privy Council is investigating you. Should investigations go badly, you might swing.’

  And that is only the half, I thought. For though I feared the Council, Tamburlaine had been at the forefront of my concerns. I banished doubt from my voice.

  ‘I have confidence in the Council’s ability to find the truth.’

  He laughed. ‘Master Marlowe, you know as well as I that the Council finds what it seeks.’ He took a sip of his drink and turned serious. ‘Has it occurred to you to wonder why you are not locked safe and tight in Newgate?’

  The sound of a key turning in a lock and a poor view through a barred window had been my constant expectation since returning to London. But there was no premium in admitting it.