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Authors: Ros Barber

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates

The Marlowe Papers

BOOK: The Marlowe Papers
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THE MARLOWE PAPERS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Ros Barber
 
 
 
 
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.
When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded
with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more dead
than a great reckoning in a little room.
Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical.
As You Like It
, III, iii
 
The way to really develop as a writer is to make yourself a political
outcast, so that you have to live in secret. This is how Marlowe
developed into Shakespeare.
Ted Hughes,
Letters
 
Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.
Plato
Table of Contents
Title Page
TO THE WISE OR UNWISE READER
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE MARLOWE PAPERS
DEATH’S A GREAT DISGUISER
DECIPHERERS
CAPTAIN SILENCE
NON-CORRESPONDENT
THE SHAPE OF SILENCE
THE TRUNK
FORGE
CONJURORS
TOM WATSON
TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT
THE LOW COUNTRIES
ARMADA YEAR
MIDDELBURG
TAMBURLAINE THE SECOND
HOTSPUR’S DESCENDANT
NORTHUMBERLAND’S SUBJECT
FIRST RENDEZVOUS
THE FIRST HEIR OF MY INVENTION
THE JEW OF MALTA
LURCH
THAT MEN SHOULD PUT AN ENEMY IN THEIR MOUTHS
THE UNIVERSITY MEN
THE PACT OF FAUSTUS
THE TUTOR
SMALL BEER
SOLILOQUY
THE HOG LANE AFFRAY
ENVOI
LIMBO
POOLE THE PRISONER
A TWIN
NECESSITY
THE SCHOOL OF NIGHT
THE BANISHMENT OF KENT
TOBACCO AND BOOZE
COPY OF MY LETTER TO POLEY
HOW DO I START THIS? LET ME TRY AGAIN
BURYING THE MOOR
SOUTHAMPTON
ARBELLA
ALPINE LETTER
WATSON’S VERSE-COMMENT ON MY FLUSHING ASSIGNMENT
POISONING THE WELL
DANGER IS IN WORDS
FLUSHING
FISHERS
A RESURRECTION
A COUNTERFEIT PROFESSION
THE FATAL LABYRINTH OF MISBELIEF
BETRAYED
RETURNED TO THE LORD TREASURER
COLLABORATION
THE SCHOOL OF ATHEISM
HOLYWELL STREET
A GROATSWORTH OF WIT
DISMISSED
THE COBBLERS SON
RE:SPITE
A FELLOW OF INFINITE JEST
SCADBURY
A SLAVE WHOSE GALL COINS SLANDERS LIKE A MINT
THE PLOT
WHITGIFT
FLY, FLYE, AND NEVER RETURNE
KYD’S TRAGEDY
SMOKE AND FIRE
BY ANY OTHER NAME
DRAKES
MY BEING
MY AFTERLIVES
A PASSPORT TO RETURN
DEPTFORD STRAND
I FORGET THE NAME OF THE VILLAGE
THE GOBLET
IN A MINUTE THERE ARE MANY DAYS
THE HOPE
SICKENING
STRAITS
MONTANUS
BISHOPSGATE STREET
MADAME LE DOUX
THE THEATRE
INTERVAL
A CHANGE OF ADDRESS
HOW
RICHARD II
FOLLOWED
RICHARD III
BURLEY ON THE HILL
CORRESPONDENT
NOTHING LIKE THE SUN
THE GAME
PETIT
WILL HALL
MY TRUE LOVE SENT TO ME
STOPPED
DOGS
FRIEND
HAL
YOUR FOOL
THE AUTHORS OF SHAKESPEARE
MR DISORDER
REVENGE TRAGEDY
SO
IN DISGRACE WITH FORTUNE AND MEN’S EYES
ESSEX HOUSE
THE EARL OF ESSEX
SMALL GODS
MERRY WIVES
IN THE THEATRE OF GOD’S JUDGMENTS
WHO STEALS MY PURSE STEALS TRASH
SLANDER
A KIT MAY LOOK AT A KING
A ROSE
CHAPMAN’S CURSE
BARE RUINED CHOIRS
KNIVES
CONCERNING THE ENGLISH
ORSINO’S CASTLE, BRACCIANO
GHOST
THE AUTHOR OF
HAMLET
IN PRAISE OF THE RED HERRING
SOJOURN
T.T. & W.H.
TWELFTH NIGHT
AN EXECUTION
WILLIAM PETER
ELSINORE
I LIE WITH HIM
DELIVERANCE
MORE SINNED AGAINST THAN SINNING
LIZ
IAGO
A NEVER WRITER TO AN EVER READER. NEWS.
THE MERMAID CLUB
EXIT STAGE LEFT
What can a dead man say that you will hear?
Suppose you swear him underneath the earth,
stabbed to the brain with some almighty curse,
would you recognise his voice if it appeared?
 
The tapping on the coffin lid is heard
as death watch beetle. He becomes a name;
a cipher whose identity is plain
to anyone who understands a word.
 
So what divine device should he employ
to settle with the world beyond his grave,
unmask the life that learnt its human folly
from death’s warm distance; how else can he save
 
himself from oblivion, but with poetry?
Stop. Pay attention. Hear a dead man speak.
Writers and Actors
Christopher Marlowe
poet, playwright, intelligencer
Tom Watson
poet, playwright, intelligencer
Thomas Walsingham
gentleman, literary patron
Robert Greene
writer of prose romances, playwright
Edward (Ned) Alleyn
lead actor, acting company manager/sharer
Thomas Nashe
prose satirist
Thomas Kyd
playwright
Government
Sir Francis Walsingham
Secretary of State, head of intelligence
Lord Burghley
William Cecil, Lord Treasurer
Sir Robert Sidney
Governor of Flushing in the Low Countries
Nobility
Northumberland
Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland
Southampton
Henry Wriothesley, 3rd Earl of Southampton
Essex
Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, soldier
Sir John Harington
1st Baron Harington, first cousin to the Sidneys
Lucy, Countess of Bedford
his married teenage daughter
Arbella Stuart
first cousin to James VI of Scotland
Bess of Hardwick
Countess of Shrewsbury, Arbella’s grandmother
Intelligence
Robin Poley
intelligencer
Thomas Thorpe
publisher, intelligencer
Richard Baines
intelligencer
Gilbert Gifford
intelligencer
Anthony Bacon
head of the Earl of Essex’s intelligence network
Sundry
John Allen
Ned Alleyn’s brother, innkeeper
William Bradley
publican’s son
Hugh Swift
lawyer, Watson’s brother-in-law
John Poole
Catholic counterfeiter
Sir Walter Raleigh
courtier, adventurer
Eleanor Bull
Deptford gentlewoman with Court connections
Venetia
a maiden of Venice
Jaques Petit
Anthony Bacon’s servant
William Peter
gentleman
Church-dead. And not a headstone in my name.
No brassy plaque, no monument, no tomb,
no whittled initials on a makeshift cross,
no pile of stones upon a mountain top.
The plague is the excuse; the age’s curse
that swells to life as spring gives way to summer,
to sun, unconscious kisser of a warmth
that wakens canker as it wakens bloom.
 
Now fear infects the wind, and every breath
that neighbour breathes on neighbour in the street
brings death so close you smell it on the stairs.
Rats multiply, as God would have them do.
And fear infects like mould; like fungus, spreads –
folk catch it from the chopped-off ears and thumbs,
the burning heretics and eyeless heads
that slow-revolve the poles on London Bridge.
 
The child of casual violence grows inured,
an audience too used to real blood;
they’ve watched a preacher butchered, still awake,
and handed his beating heart like it was love.
And now the sanctioned butchery of State
breeds sadists who delight to man the rack,
reduce men from divine belief and brain
to begging, and the rubble of their spines.
 
From all this, I am dead. Reduced to ink
that magicks up my spirit from the page:
a voice who knows what mortals cannot think of;
a ghost, whose words ring deeper from the grave.
 
Corpse-dead. A gory stab-hole for an eye;
and that’s what they must think. No, must believe,
those thug-head pursers bent on gagging speech,
if I’m to slip their noose and stay alive.
Now I’m as dead as any to the world,
the foulest rain of blackened corpses on
the body that is entered in my name:
the plague pit where Kit Marlowe now belongs.
For who could afford for that infected earth
to be dug up to check identities?
And so, I leave my former name behind.
Gone on the Deptford tide, the whole world blind.
 
Friend, I’m no one. If I write to you,
in fading light that distances the threat,
it’s as a breeze that strokes the Channel’s waves,
the spray that blesses some small vessel’s deck.
BOOK: The Marlowe Papers
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