Tamburlaine Must Die (5 page)

`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 ale-house 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 your 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.

`There's
only one way to save myself. I must find this person who calls
himself Tamburlaine and put his head where he would put mine. In a
rope necklace.'

Grizzle
asked, `Did you sort those books you jumbled?

And
we told him, Aye.' Though they were scattered across the floor of his
stockroom like a booby trap.

He'd
known us liars and complained, `You take advantage of me. No doubt
half my stock is under your arm, just as half my gold is with your
creditors.'

I
looked at Blaize and he twirled his fingers, aping madness. As we
walked away from St Paul's, I caught him fingering a vellum-bound
volume. He met my look and smiled.

`Something
I found amongst the cheap stalls.' I stared hard and evil at him,
then we both laughed, pleased to be back in each other's company.
Still, I hoped that for once Blaize was telling the truth, because I
couldn't shake the feeling that to rob the blind man would be to
invoke misfortune. These days new ale-houses spring from the bones of
old, so fast it is barely worth learning their names, if names they
have. There are so many unlicensed places. Inns not consecrated by
bush or painted sign. Ale-houses that draw the initiated through
their doors by secret badges, a red lattice or a chequered board.
Blaize and I were in search of such a place. Somewhere near the Dutch
church and the start of my troubles. A tavern where drink was cheap
and loose talk might reveal news of my nemesis.

Our
journey was accompanied by the constant clanging of church bells, a
sound that plagues our city, so regular Londoners ignore the peals.
But that day it seemed impossible to shut them out. Each chime jolted
my bones as if they marked out my last hours. As we walked, I
considered shaking loose of Blaize. But he had scented the angels in
my pocket. And there was something in me that wanted to keep him
close. Maybe I was tired of being alone, maybe I felt safer knowing
where he was. Whatever the reason, we were yoked together that
afternoon. I told myself a man in company strikes up conversation
with strangers more easily than a lone fox and kept Blaize near.

At
last we found a rough, dark place, a cave of a pub crowded with men.
The din of their talk stretched into the street. A deep rumble rising
to crescendos of laughter and dispute. The occasional woman's voice
climbed above the men's, piercing the low babble with boozy shrieks.
As we entered the smoke-scented gloom, I recognised it as a nest
where poor men and rich rogues sup together, searching for the
deliverance alcohol can give. I felt my spirits lift. It was a kind
of coming home and I realised I would delay justice for the sake of a
good drink.

In
the corner a hump-backed fiddler scraped out a tune that was more
counter chord than true. He met my eye, then lowered his gaze to his
bow, moving with the music. Two Africans in tattered livery, their
skin faded from black to grey, slumped together over drinks, click
clacking in their own tongue, planning escape or maybe reminiscing on
sunshine lands. The tavern was one step up from a cunny-warren and
fostered women to suit most tastes, buxom and thin-boned,
stern-silent feigning sober, jolly drunkards who shivered their
breasts towards you for a draught of Spanish wine, or something less
fine. And if you wished another kind of company, the means to detect
it would be here.

Spies
are advised to stay sober. A little alcohol may sharpen the wits but
too large a dose kills judgement. It helps the flyest fail, renders
the slyest stupid and apt to let slip secrets. It makes us careless
of codes, a poor fist in a fight. It helps us forget what we need to
remember. Spies are warned not to fog their senses. They need the
concentration of tightrope walkers, the keen eye of an archer.

I
knocked back a cup of ale and then another. Blaize followed my
example and soon we were three cups down and the strain of the last
day was easing. I had met a thousand near-deaths through drink, and
felt the pull towards one more. I just hoped it wasn't a dress
rehearsal for the real thing. We were on our fourth cup when Blaize
reached into his jerkin and drew out a small envelope.

`I
forgot to give you this.'

The
fiddle sounded low. A woman gave a high laugh as she left the tavern
on the arms of two men. I hesitated over the anonymous seal, noting
it was unbroken.

`What
is it?

Blaize
shook his head but I persisted. `Where did it come from?

A
boy passed it to me a week or so ago.' Blaize swilled back his drink
and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. `He came into the tavern
where I was drinking, asking for me by name.' He adopted the
faltering voice of a nervous youth, "`Thomas B-B-B-Blaize actor,
friend of Christopher M-M-M-Marlowe,"' here Blaize made a comic
flourish, "`p-p-p-p-p-playwright of this parish."

I
thought at first it must be some message from you, but when I
identified myself he asked whether I would be willing to deliver
this. I saw no harm and accepted it as a favour.'

He
downed the last of his drink and called for more. I hesitated, unsure
why I was so reluctant to fracture the wax.

`Did
you ask the boy who sent him?

A
stranger who offered him a farthing, I added another for his trouble
and sent him on his way.' Blaize laughed, toasting me with his
refreshed glass. `I won't trouble you for the return of the coin.'

I
gave him a weak smile and unfastened the envelope. Inside was a piece
of plain white linen. I turned the scrap over in my hands for a
moment as if hoping its unmarked surface hid some trapped
communication, which would warm and reveal itself to the heat of my
palms. I looked at Blaize and he took it from me, examining both
sides, searching for something I might have missed. He shook his head
and returned the strange message.

`Some
obscure jest?

I
stuffed the envelope into my jerkin. `Which comes fast on threats to
my life.' `No,' he smiled with relief. `It was given to

me
before you returned home, prior to this adventure.'

I
took the scrap of fabric from my pocket and held its blank face to
him.

`Perhaps
it's a comment on my writing. The sender thinks my work empty?

Blaize
laughed, his large teeth seemed to shine in the gloom of the bar.

'Aye,
no doubt it'll be something like that.' `Nonetheless I'd rest easier
if I knew who it came from.'