The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  “About my work. Any comments about my work?”

  “Nothing, except that you have stolen my Spanish idea!”

  “Stolen!”

  “I have been quietly working on a Spanish piece - The Spanish Tragedy - for months, and now you have stolen my thunder, if my not my words, with this Armada stuff.”

  Marlowe looked puzzled. “Stolen? Thomas, I knew nothing about your work. Besides, it was you that inspired me to write something contemporary. You should be pleased.”

  “Pleased? Huh! Now I have to re-think my whole play.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Thomas. By the time your epic comes out, mine will be totally forgotten. That’s the thing about plays. We write them, the people have a look at them, we raise either the ire or the support of a few nobles, and then they are forgotten until we can persuade some money-seeking printer to publish them.”

  Kyd turned to him. “I agree with you, Christopher.”

  “You agree with me? On which aspect?”

  “That your Armada play will be soon forgotten!”

  “Oh, thank you very much.”

  “However, mine will be such a masterpiece and such a bloodthirsty saga, that all that has gone before it will be erased from people’s memories, and it will live on forever. You know, Christopher,” Kyd went on, leaning forward with eyes sparkling, “I’m thinking that no one will be left standing alive on stage. Just imagine, all my characters will be killed off!”

  Marlowe smiled. At least when Thomas was talking about his own writing, the jealousy and surliness went out of his voice, replaced by an almost child-like enthusiasm.

  “I’m sure it will be great, Thomas. It will be brilliant. But if they are all killed, there’s no chance of The Spanish Tragedy, Part Two, hey?” He clapped Kyd on the shoulder, and the friends burst into laughter, a laugh so loud that the vibrations caused a pile of papers in the corner to topple over, making them giggle even more.

  “My God,” said Marlowe, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks as the papers spilled at his feet, “you must clean this place up, Thomas. How can you ever find anything? It looks like a third-rate Turkish brothel.”

  “And you would know!” said Kyd. And they laughed the laugh of friends again, so loudly that, at first, the knock on the door went unheard.

  But, the second time, when it was repeated loud enough to cut through their cackling, Kyd raised one hand and said “Ssshhh”.

  The third time, when the pounding on the door could well have been heard north of the river, Kyd got up, took the small candle with him, and walked the four paces across the tiny room to the door. “Who on earth could that be?”

  He swung the door open, and to his surprise, found no one there.

  He turned back into the room, shut the door, and shrugged.

  And Marlowe would reflect later that, from that seemingly innocuous point on, he and Thomas Kyd never really laughed heartily together again.

  The mysterious beating on the door at Kyd’s tiny garret was just the beginning.

  The same thing happened at Marlowe’s own little London rooms that Sir Thomas had rented for him - there would be a knock, but no one there when he opened the door.

  Before long, the pressure began to build.

  Marlowe began to get the feeling he was being observed closely. Was that someone behind me? Is that a shadow? Has someone been in my room? These questions plagued him more and more over the next few weeks as the feeling he was under intense scrutiny built to almost unbearable levels.

  He pitched himself into the writing of two heavy-going plays, The Jew of Malta and Doctor Faustus, both disturbing pieces about single-minded achievement of power at all costs. But not even their remarkable portrayal by the Admiral’s Men over the next months could totally alleviate the thought he was a marked man.

  There was only one solution. Face the enemy. But who was the enemy?

  What did the enemy want?

  Was there someone around who would know who the enemy was?

  He thought about this for a long time. Of course there was! He should call a meeting of the people who were in the best position to know.

  A few days later, all of the troupe had gathered in the inn - Marlowe, Kyd, Shakespeare, Budsby, Soho, Mr Mullins, Rasa, Emily, Sarah, even Uncle Percy, sitting quietly in his nightshirt at the end of the table and staring into the middle distance.

  But Samuel Davidson was the man Marlowe and Kyd wanted to talk to.

  “The person following the pair of you is … ” said Davidson slowly. “Is … are you sure you want to know ..?”

  “Of course, we want to know,” hissed Marlowe.

  “Yes, yes!” said Kyd. “That is why we have come to you, Samuel. You know what is happening on the streets.”

  The strongman nodded. As well as getting around town with the troupe and overhearing street-side comments, he was able to glean extra, more secretive information from his late-night journeys through the opposition taverns and inns to keep Shakespeare abreast of what was going on.

  “You have attracted the attention of Mr Baines,” said Davidson evenly.

  “Baines!” said Marlowe. “That awful man. The personification of snivelling evil.”

  “I’m lost,” said Kyd, looking from one to the other. “Who is Baines?”

  “You’ve never heard of Richard Baines?” said Davidson.

  “He’s the chief observer, spy if you wish, for the Court of the Star Chamber,” added Marlowe, shaking his head.

  “The Star Chamber!” said Kyd. “Torture. Hearings. Burnings! God save us.”

  “I wish he could,” said Marlowe dryly.

  There was silence.

  “So, why is he after us?” Marlowe eventually asked.

  “Not sure, Mr Marlowe,” said Davidson. But he winked imperceptibly. He knew.

  And deep down in his heart, Marlowe had a fair idea, too.

  Being a Free Thinker. Taking mysterious trips. Writing plays exposing weaknesses in society.

  Carousing with friends in pubs, especially the troubled and troublesome Kyd …

  Above all, publicly expressing love for a black woman.

  All these things had their own individual risks. But added together, they had a fascinating allure about them for a man such as Baines, who made a living spying on people, wrecking their careers, and often sending them to their doom.

  “So I would be very careful if I was you,” added Davidson. “Lay low. Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “But,” blurted Marlowe, “we are going to Norwich in the next day or two.”

  “Norwich!” boomed Budsby. “That awful place! That’s where we lost the late lamented Hercules!”

  “Norwich? That’s where we were lucky to make a handful of pennies,” said Shakespeare.

  “Norwich!” said Uncle Percy suddenly. “She left me. That’s where she up and left me for!”

  “Hmmm,” said Marlowe, “I take it Norwich is not a good place to visit, then?”

  The group laughed as one, but the feeling of joy soon trailed off.

  “Christopher,” said Budsby, rubbing the silver cap of his stick, “the only good thing that came out of Norwich for us was that we brought on board the wonderful Samuel Davidson here, who saved our lives from murderous vagabonds in the process.”

  “So, Christopher,” said Shakespeare, “why must you go there?”

  “There is a friend of ours up there.”

  “Francis Kett,” said Kyd.

  “Did I hear it right?” asked Budsby. “Same name as yours, Thomas?”

  “No. It’s Kett, Mr Budsby, Kett. Not Kyd. No relation, just a friend.”

  “And why are you visiting this friend?” Sarah asked.

  “With supreme irony, considering we are now the subject of the attention of Mr Baines. Francis Kett is also before the Court of Star Chamber right now, as we speak.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Budsby.

  “That’s right,” said Kyd.

  “And we
would like to lend him support.”

  “He’s a Free Thinker like Christopher.”

  “But they are calling him an atheist.”

  “An atheist?” said Shakespeare.

  “Atheist,” said Percy suddenly. “The bastard who took my wife was an atheist.”

  “Well,” boomed Budsby, clapping his old friend on the shoulder, “whatever comes of this, we seemed to have sparked some sort of revival within the previously shattered mind of my dear friend Percy, here!”

  The group laughed again.

  “We think we should at least attend the court,” said Marlowe.

  “Be in the crowd,” added Kyd.

  “Show him that we believe in him,” concluded Marlowe.

  “Isn’t that dangerous in itself?” said Shakespeare, looking worried.

  “Probably. But no doubt it would be a comfort for him if he could see some familiar faces in the crowd.”

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Shakespeare.

  “Nor am I,” Budsby agreed. “Nor am I, young Will.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” added Kyd. “Chris, do you think we should forget it?”

  Marlowe gave his friend a look to show he only needed one more push, and he would probably abandon the trip. And why not? he thought. Here it is, 1589, he is aged 25, and the world is at his feet.

  “Christopher,” said Rasa suddenly, speaking up for the first time, “you must do what you think is right. And if you think your friend needs your support then you must go.”

  There was a moment’s silence, as the pair wavered on their decision.

  Suddenly, Percy rose to his feet and banged the table. “Norwich! Go to Norwich, young lads, and give that scoundrel that took my wife a good hiding for me!”

  As the laughter rang through the empty tavern, Percy Fletcher sat down again and resumed staring into the middle distance.

  “Well, there’s the solution - we have at least one mission to complete there, haven’t we?” said Marlowe.

  There was burst of laughter, but it soon trailed off.

  The next morning, brimful of confidence, the pair of young writers sat on the coach heading north-east.

  A week later they returned to the tavern, wondering why they had bothered to make the journey, so little was the contribution they had made.

  They failed to come across Mrs Fletcher and her lover in Norwich, and had spent most of the time sitting helplessly in the Court of the Star Chamber, watching their friend be sent to his pre-ordained fate.

  “The lies presented against Francis Kett were overwhelming, the decision transparently pre-prepared, and any defence cynically rejected,” Marlowe gloomily told the assembled group when they returned. “And the burning at the stake itself! These two bumbling fools assigned the task could not even get the fire going properly.”

  “And,” added Kyd, “a would-be comedian kept amusing the crowd. People laughed when he said things like, ‘Come on, get it going, we’re freezing over here!’”

  Budsby shook his head. “The callousness of some people still amazes me.”

  Kyd, his eyes still rimmed with red from crying, took a deep breath and continued. “When Francis screamed from the stake ‘I am not an atheist,’ and the crowd yelled in glee, we had to look away.”

  There was silence as the group pondered the horrific scene.

  Budsby held his finger to his mouth, and pointed to the corner.

  There, sitting on the chair, was Soho, his twisted body hunched over, the silent tears tumbling down his cheeks.

  “And, Mr Davidson,” added Marlowe, changing the direction of the conversation, “you were right.”

  “I was?”

  “Yes, indeed. Richard Baines was there, following us, as you predicted.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, a hard man to get rid of once he goes after you,” said Davidson. “He would love to get you up before the Court of the Star Chamber. He’s one of their chief informants. I think you and Thomas should stay out of the public eye for a while.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Kyd, brightening up. “Christopher certainly made a good attempt to drive him off.”

  “I got him so angry that he turned on me and said, ‘I hate your type, Marlowe’. He said he loathed university scholars and writers.”

  “How did you get him to that point?” asked William.

  “I inferred …” said Christopher.

  “… you didn’t infer,” interjected Kyd, “you said it.”

  “I suggested that he might not have had the intellectual capacity to understand what I write. Or for that matter, to be able to even read what I write!”

  “And did he leave it at that?” interjected William.

  “No, he glared at me and said, ‘Let’s hope your words will not one day engineer your own death, Mr Marlowe.’”

  “So, what did you say?” said William.

  “I said, ‘Engineer my own death? Now there’s a thought, Mr Baines …’”

  The group laughed.

  Soho continued his silent sobbing.

  And William stared quietly out the window.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days after he had returned from Norwich, Christopher Marlowe’s worst fears about his future were confirmed when Sir Thomas Walsingham arrived unannounced at Percy Fletcher’s Inn early in the morning.

  “Can we speak?” he said to Budsby and Shakespeare. “It is important. Please get Master Marlowe down from his love-nest. I gather these days his bed at his little abode is usually cold, and he finds warmer lodgings upstairs.”

  Walsingham, the master-spy himself, was, as usual, correct. Marlowe had become so infatuated with Rasa that sometimes he slept in the tiny bed with her in the small cubicle next to Sarah’s.

  William called Christopher down, and along with Budsby and Soho - after Sir Thomas was assured the diminutive gargoyle would be the epitome of discretion - the five men went into one of the two small changing rooms that stood at each side of the stage.

  Walsingham took one more peek out the door, and then shut it firmly.

  “Gentlemen, I am afraid we have a problem,” he said gravely. “Christopher, you are, as they say, very visible at the moment.”

  “Sir Thomas, my work makes me that way.”

  “You work is exceptional, young man. It is brilliant. But it attracts the attention of people whose minds are closed. And you have certainly attracted it with your, how shall we call it, performance at Norwich.”

  “I couldn’t help it, Sir Thomas. Our friend was being burned alive, and there was that evil weasel Baines, lurking around the back, gloating.”

  “He was not only gloating, he was observing you, as part of ...”

  “Part of what?”

  “A total examination of many facets.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your relationship with Kyd, who seems to be hell-bent on being a like-minded rabble-rouser. Your friendship with Raleigh, a kingpin among the Free Thinkers, and those strange gatherings you have at, what is it, the School of the Night? Your thoughts, views and attitudes that do not necessarily run in tandem with the general consensus. Not to mention …”

  “Not to mention what?” said Marlowe leaning forward.

  “Your, ahem, friendship with … with …”

  “You mean, Sir Thomas, because I am in love with Rasa, a person of a different colour, they think I am dangerous.”

  “Christopher, you know how it is. These things can be misconstrued, misinterpreted. Perhaps if you were a little more, shall we say, discreet?”

  “Oh, I’m supposed to hide it, am I? Not show my love in public? Pretend Rasa doesn’t exist?” Marlowe stood up and thumped the table. “I don’t need to hide. The scholarship boy is standing on his own two feet this time. I love Rasa and I am prepared to show everyone.”

  “The trip to Norwich was not wise,” said Walsingham firmly. “Perhaps you could ease back on the plays, take a break. If your name was not in the public eye for a while, all
this might blow over, Baines might get off your tail.”

  “Never! I’m writing well. These things have to be said. And now is the time.”

  Walsingham was not to be put off. “For example, Christopher, the new work you have just finished, Henry VI. I believe we should hold it back for the moment.”

  “Hold it back!” shouted Marlowe. “Hold it back? No! Never. It is an important work, it is about the French and their relationship with us, it must come out now! Now, now, now! It must be staged at all costs. I don’t care how. At all costs.”

  “Christopher, please.” said Walsingham.

  “At any cost!” repeated Marlowe, banging the table again.

  “Then,” came a rumbling voice from the end of the table, “perhaps I have the solution.”

  The others turned as Budsby, nodding discreetly to Shakespeare, rose to his feet.

  “If the play must go on,” said Budsby slowly, “and I agree with you Christopher, now is the time for it to be performed, then, to take the pressure off you, perhaps we should ascribe it to someone else?”

  Walsingham stared for a moment then began to nod slowly. Marlowe calmed down, returned to his seat, and began staring at the table.

  “Put it out in another name?” said Walsingham eventually. “Not bad. Not a bad idea at all. What do you think, Christopher?”

  Marlowe sullenly waved him away. “I don’t care what you do, as long as it is aired, that is the important thing.”

  “Well,” said Budsby, “if we agree on that, who better to ascribe the play to, then, than a man who is acting in it, a man who is going to promote it, a man, young Master Marlowe, who is your kindred spirit?”

  And placing a hand on the shoulder of his beloved young protégé from Stratford, Budsby intoned warmly, “Gentlemen, let me present to you, the author of Henry VI, Mr William Shakespeare …”

  There was silence, followed by a small gasp from Shakespeare.

  Catching the spirit, Walsingham began to slowly applaud, followed by Budsby, Soho adding to the response by banging on the table with his fists.

  “Brilliant,” said Marlowe, applauding, and then standing up and shaking his kindred spirit’s hand. “Brilliant. I could think of no better man to carry my words than William Shakespeare.”