by Louise Welsh
‘Then we are at odds. If I don’t hand Raleigh over, I die.’
Dee smiled sadly.
‘If you try, even if you succeed, you’ll die. Raleigh will make certain of it.’
‘So I die either way?’
‘All I can say is Raleigh will not countenance any attack from you. Sign papers against him, and you sign your own death warrant. Undertake to leave him alone and should you die, he’ll grant you immortality.’
I looked around the room taking in Dee’s jars and books, the potions and strange instruments that aid him in his famous art. I laughed.
‘Old man, I do not wish to be immortal as a speck of dust or wisp of smoke, nor do I wish to become one of your angels.’ I smiled. ‘I doubt the gown would fit.’
Dee shook his head impatiently.
‘Your ignorance shines like phosphor. How could I make you immortal? I said he offers you immortality – Raleigh. He wants an alliance. If you promise not to sign this affidavit, he pledges not to dispatch you. He can’t banish your enemies, but he reveres your talent. Raleigh promises not to pursue you if you make a pact. He also undertakes that should you die, he’ll ensure your writings live beyond your death, beyond these troubled times and into the future.’
‘Raleigh makes a promise he can’t deliver. My work will die with me.’
‘No. For a while it may seem lost, but there are always men who recognise worth. We will keep your flame alive with them and when the time is right sow the seeds of your renaissance. I guarantee that if you spare Raleigh, even if it be your death, men will know of the genius of Christopher Marlowe. Four hundred years hence and beyond they will perform your plays and write your story. Surely,’ Dee smiled kindly, ‘that is the only immortality you would acknowledge?’
*
Night was fading by the time I left Dee, but the river looked no better by dawn’s light. I wondered what kind of a death drowning would be, thought of Raleigh and remembered his talk of voyages to the New World.
One evening when pipe smoke had mellowed our talk from science into reminiscence, he’d told me how the green bloated body of a stranger had once rushed from the deep, fallen from some other vessel he supposed, though he had thought his ship the only one to reach these uncharted waters. The body had bobbed on the surf, riding the tide as round and as buoyant as an inflated bladder. The captain had ordered the crew to drown the cursed man again. But sailors are superstitious, they’d claimed it an augur of the future and defied him to the point of mutiny. The captain had retreated and the drowned man trailed them half a day, caught in the ship’s swell, banging against the hull with the even thud of an undertaker’s hammer until they lost him somewhere in the terror-stricken night.
*
I’d asked Dee if he had any knowledge of Tamburlaine. He’d stared into the distance.
‘If Kelly were here, he could skry for us. I’ve no doubt he might find the identity of your foe in the crystals.’
I’d shaken my head.
‘I trust your wisdom more than his. I’ve told you all I know, what does it make you think?’
‘This person tries to write in your fashion? The style of the note was yours you say?’
‘Inferior to mine, but with the same rhythm, he talked of my plays.’
Dee had smiled.
‘You’re vain even in extremis.’
Then he’d laid his hands on the table and raised his face upwards. Dee’s mouth took on a serious set and his eyes lost their focus. The candles flickered. Shadows hung in the hollows of his face, and I felt I could see the skull beneath the skin as white as any death mask. We sat for a moment in silence, then he began to speak in his soft voice, his Welsh accent more pronounced than before, hesitating now and then as he grasped for words.
‘The person who wrote this libel admires you even as he sets in motion wheels that may kill you … He cloaks himself in the identity of your creation, as near to being you as he can get … He would rather make himself Marlowe, but while Marlowe lives he will settle on the most ruthless of your heroes. Or perhaps the one he thinks most like you … There is jealousy and love in this mix. Your enemy Tamburlaine is a man who wishes to be you and yet wishes to kill you … and so invites his own death.’
‘Tell me his name,’ I’d commanded.
Dee had started from his trance, alert and rested.
‘How can I?’ His tone was sharp. ‘Only you and he can know who Tamburlaine is.’
And all at once I realised I might.
*
Blind Grizzle’s was dark, veiled in shadow and as silent as the charnel chapel. I called his name as I entered, expecting Hector’s growl to echo my greeting, but the only sound was a soft tinkling from the bells that strung the ceiling. I wandered through the bookshelves, past the old man’s empty chair, trying not to trip on any of his booby traps, drawing my sword against the dark and the silence, though it pained my injured hand. I hesitated at the door to Grizzle’s private quarter, then swiftly pushed it wide.
The interrogator had been right. Death wasn’t the same whoever brought it. Hector was splayed across the floor. Dispatched by a swift cut to the throat. His fate had been better than his master’s. The old man lay drowned in his own blood, draped across the bed Blaize and I had sat on two days before. The killer had played with Grizzle. The tracks of a sharp blade descended like bloody tears down each of the old man’s cheeks. His mouth had been slit wide into a harlequin smile and his cheekbones bloodied by a crosshatch of cuts until they resembled the rouged cheeks of a player. It struck me the mutilation had been torture designed to find his fabled fortune. The injustice of the old man’s death, killed for a rumour of gold, hit me and I lashed out with my good hand, pushing a bookcase to the floor.
The bookseller’s cloudy eyes were wide open in death. He’d told me once he could see the difference between light and dark. Now everything was black. I dropped down on my haunches, leaning forward to close his eyes, hoping but doubting he’d died before mutilation began. I’ve seen many dead men, but most died knowing the risks. I swore that if I ever found Grizzle’s killer, I’d become the agent of his long and painful death. Hector’s eyes were open too, dark brown shot back into his skull. I didn’t bother to close them but found myself stroking a finger along the rough hair of his nose. A touch he would never have tolerated from me when he was alive.
If I hadn’t bent to give those last simple ministrations I would have missed it, the envelope was so steeped in blood. It lay there tossed on the corpse of my old acquaintance. Even if it hadn’t borne my name in the same cursive hand as the other messages, I would have known it was intended for me. I tore the seal, sure of what lay within, a scrap of linen as black as Grizzle’s future. But where my other missives had been blank this held one word, white chalked across it, SOON. I hesitated. The horrible suspicion that had sprouted tentative roots in my mind was coming into full flower. Then all thought was banished by sounds from the front-shop.
Whether it was the noise of my rage or Hector’s silence that had alerted the stallholders I didn’t know. But three low voices were heading my way. I realised how I must appear, a desperate bloodstained character, standing sword drawn over a corpse. The back room was windowless and tiny, piled high with books. The only furniture was the simple pallet of a bed, which bore the old man. There was nowhere to hide so I kept my sword by my side, took a deep breath and secreted myself behind the door.
I peered through the slit in the doorjamb. For a full second the horror of the corpses held the men. They fell silent, looking at the blood-painted face of their friend. Then, as if a spell had lifted, everyone moved at once. One ran to raise the alarm, while the other two dropped to their knees, checking for signs of life, though they must have known him dead. The men’s low whispers mingled prayers and expletives. They glanced at each other, like hostages in a dream realm. I knew this daze would pass, shock would turn to anger and my inevitable discovery would be fatal. The only hope lay in escape.
/> I slid beyond the door and landed a hard boot in the centre of each of their rears, knocking them off balance and onto the bloody bodies of Grizzle and Hector. I didn’t like the further desecration of the old man’s corpse, or that of his dog, but I had no urge to catch their condition. The muffled shouts of the felled booksellers followed me, but I didn’t look back as I ran, hurdling the booby-trapped piles of books, ripping the strings of bells that tangled my hair, praying no one would enter before I had fled. I thanked the Fates Grizzle’s shop was in the loneliest portion of the churchyard and ran towards the chapel, hiding myself amongst the long grass that edged the graves, peeling off my bloodied jerkin. Hoping my white shirt had escaped the stain of blood.
*
Dee had been firm in his insistence that only I could know the identity of Tamburlaine. I’d said, ‘So I’m to give you my life and you give me nothing?’
‘You may escape your other enemies and Raleigh offers you a considerable thing, the survival of your work. How many great works have died with their author? Of your plays only Tamburlaine is printed in ink.’
‘My patron may do that anyway.’
Dee had looked away.
‘What?’
His answer, when it came, was hesitant.
‘Your patron is a weak man. He loves you, but finds Raleigh and the Council more persuasive. He stands between the two and does nothing.’
‘And so he knows of this?’
‘Walsingham knows many things.’
*
Walsingham and I had been alone and drunk often, with nothing but fellow feeling between us. Now I wondered if he had bedded me because he knew it was the last time we would be together. Maybe he felt a rush of affection for his old protégé. Maybe he thought dead men don’t tell tales. I wondered if he felt my flesh grow cold beneath his touch, if he had smelled decay on the mouth he left unkissed. I wondered if he saw the glow pleasure cast on my face and imagined these drained lips peeled back against my teeth, the cheeks and brow he caressed specked green with rot. I shivered. My patron had surpassed any vice of mine. He had slept with a dead man.
I thought of all of this as I lay in the high, damp grass of the churchyard, listening for the sound of pursuers. Tiny insects plied their trades, bustling to and fro like costermongers setting up stall on market day. The smell of earth and meadows reminded me of childhood and I remembered listening to my brothers’ calls as they searched for me one long hot afternoon. I’d watched them from my hiding place, refusing to be found, relishing the power concealment brought. It was a long time since I’d thought of those days and the remembrance added to my unease, for surely every man remembers his beginnings when he is about to die.
*
Eventually, when it seemed a long time since I had heard the crash of pursuers, I slipped from my hiding place and made for the embankment. My mind swam; Dee’s voice echoed in my head and I felt the ghosts of Grizzle and Hector join me, running at my side through the streets. I welcomed them with a shout and they whispered the name of my enemy soft in my ear. They seemed happy with their role in this poor play without encores. Tamburlaine had set the first act and led me through his shadow show, but the death of the old man and his dog were a new beginning, an overture to slaughter. I would rewrite history. This time, Tamburlaine must die.
*
Blaize cut a ridiculous figure. My tall and hirsute friend strode across the stage decked in a woman’s gown several sizes too small. It gaped at the back where the stays refused to meet. The bodice rode high on his waist, the lace-trimmed neckline stretched across his chest just low enough to reveal a thicket of hair. He was instructing a group of apprentice players on how to act like a lady. Though the objective eye would never cast Blaize in a female role, he made a fine matron. There was no mincing in his walk, hardly any sway at all in fact, just the sensation of soft round hips gliding beneath the skirt. The apprentices watched him spellbound. It should have been a scene to warm the heart of any playwright, but I was already on fire with fury. I charged through the empty audience pit roaring like a baited bear. Blaize heard me and turned. His face lit up, then just as quick his smile was extinguished. He made a bow, whose flourishes were all mockery, and drew himself upright, salting my savaged heart with Kyd’s words.
Awake Revenge, if love, as love hath had,
Have yet the power or prevalence in hell.
Icarus’s wings could not have hastened my approach. I charged onto the stage, drawing my sword in my injured hand, fury beating the pain from me. The apprentices scattered to the sidelines. I must have made a terrible figure. My hair was tangled with grass and twigs. A day’s growth disfigured my face, the bandages that wrapped my pierced hand were grass-stained and bloody, and the wound Baynes had inflicted in my side had leaked onto my shirt.
Theatre would demand we parlayed for a while. Set out our dispute in fine phrases before embarking on the brawl. Blaize saw me coming and ran. But ladies’ gowns are not designed for flight. I caught the tail of his skirt, upended him and kicked him on the jaw. Something snapped and he howled, tooth, blood and spit spraying the stage. The tide of little boys surged backwards. One began to cry, but most were actor enough to close observe our fray. Blaize tried to rise. I kicked him on the head and he fell forward, crawling away from me on all fours, his dress trailing a red smear of blood. I let him creep across half the stage, then strode to where he tried to rise and stood hard on his hand, feeling bones give beneath my foot, then pulled him upright by the same ruined limb. The apprentices’ worried jabber reached me over Blaize’s pleas and groans.
‘Watch boys, and learn,’ I shouted. ‘This is the theatre of blood.’
It seemed the funniest thing in the world and I started to laugh as I pitched my old companion downwards with a punch to his broken jaw and a kick in the ribs.
Two stage-hands edged from the wings. I drew my sword.
‘My quarrel is with Judas here, but come forward if you want some of this.’ I brandished the blade. ‘There’s enough for him and extra for you if you want it.’
The men hesitated, then retreated back from whence they came. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before they returned with help. One of the boys ran towards his master.
‘Keep away from him,’ I growled, grasping him under the arms and hurling him into a crowd of his fellows. ‘Unless you want to feel the sharp end of my sword!’
Blaize pulled himself half upright. He leaned, dazed and damaged against a pillar, holding his injured jaw. He looked up at the painted heavens that tent the stage, as if searching for some sign. Then shook his head softly in wonder and turned to face me. His eyes, deep and innocent, stared heartbroken into mine. He slurred through spit and blood.
‘What fury is this? Have you lost your senses?’
I put my sword to his face, scoring two deep rents down his cheeks, marking him as he had marked the old man.
‘Familiar? No doubt you meant me take the blame for that death too?’
He shook his head and his voice returned weak and defeated.
‘I love you.’
‘Like the Devil loves holy water.’
‘No, like a brother.’
‘Then let us decide now who is Cain and who Abel.’ I laughed bitterly. ‘We’ll rewrite history and the ablest of us will live.’
‘You have crippled me.’
‘And you have killed me.’
I became aware of a bustle down in the audience pit.
‘Our business isn’t finished.’
I dragged Blaize to his feet and huckled him into the labyrinth of dark corridors that lead from the stage to the recesses of the theatre and up towards the gods.
*
I pushed Blaize ahead of me. His blood spotted the steps, leaving a trail for our pursuers.
‘Stop bleeding,’ I barked.
And he made a bitter noise that might have been a laugh. We were in a dark corridor, dusty with disuse. I shoved him onwards, towards a dim flight of stairs. No o
ne had been here since the start of the Plague and cobwebs strung the stairwell. As we climbed I wondered how many of the playgoers who had busied these passages with anticipation now lay in Plague pits. I remembered how the noise of the audience stretched into the tiring house, adding an edge to the actors’ preparations. How we would hold each other’s gaze and bet on the size of the crowd, guessing their mass by the measure of their roar. And suddenly the memory was so real I had to stop, sure it must be the noise of a chase behind us. But all was graveyard quiet and we resumed our climb, Blaize’s low groans the only sound. At last we reached a turning in the lobby, the kind of dark place where women are assaulted for their honour and their jewellery. I pushed him up against the damp wall, stuck a knife at his throat and spat one word into his face.
‘Why?’
For a second I thought he was going to deny everything, perhaps I hoped he would, for when he raised his head and I saw tears glistering his eyelashes, my fractured world shattered. I whispered, ‘Oh you really did it. You killed me. You’re talking to a dead man, dead man.’
It was hard to believe this was the Thomas Blaize who had held whole audiences in his sway. He clutched his hand to his broken jaw and his voice was tired and muffled with pain.
‘I never meant it to end this way.’
Frustration made me shake him. Blaize kept his hand at his chin, but offered no resistance, letting the back of his head bang against the wall until I stopped for fear I’d dash his brains from their skull.
‘You owe me names.’ I slammed his head again for emphasis. ‘You haven’t the guile to achieve all this on your own. Tell me who stands behind you and I’ll grant you a few more last breaths.’
Blaize looked into my eyes.
‘We were the best of friends.’
I hit him again, knocking his hand from his face. A thin stream of blood flew from his mouth splattering the wall like a devilish signature. He staggered and I caught him.
‘Now talk.’
Blaize placed his hand back on his wounded face as if its presence lifted some of the pain. His voice was broken and at times he faltered. But there were no more appeals to friendship or times past. He turned inwards, searching for the truth of the story as he told it.
