Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (12 page)
An April night. A distant bell tolled ten.
The cobbles glittered recent rain; the elms
fringing the church shook drips from newborn leaves.
Chilled moonlight traced a figure at the gate
that turned out to be you.
The cobbles glittered recent rain; the elms
fringing the church shook drips from newborn leaves.
Chilled moonlight traced a figure at the gate
that turned out to be you.
‘Tom. Kit. You came.’
Watson’s whisper was louder than my boots.
‘How could we not? A secret funeral?’
He was a little drunker than we’d planned.
‘How could we not? A secret funeral?’
He was a little drunker than we’d planned.
‘Go in,’ you said. ‘The coffin’s on its way.’
Throughout, Tom Watson ran a commentary
into my ear like a gnat’s unsettling whirr.
‘He seems upset with us.’
into my ear like a gnat’s unsettling whirr.
‘He seems upset with us.’
‘With us?’
‘With me.’
Sir Francis Walsingham, or what remained,
came past in a simple coffin made of pine.
‘The man was like a father to him, Tom.
And his brother’s only six months in the ground.
Has drink made you stupid?’
came past in a simple coffin made of pine.
‘The man was like a father to him, Tom.
And his brother’s only six months in the ground.
Has drink made you stupid?’
‘Maybe. Maybe so.’
The bishop cleared his throat.
‘So few are here!’
Tom whispered. ‘All that effort for the Queen
only to die a pauper’s death. How rich.
Or not.’
only to die a pauper’s death. How rich.
Or not.’
The candles flung their shadows high
into the vaulted roof.
‘Lucky there’s room
in the tomb of his son-in-law,’ Tom hissed, ‘or he’d
be dumped in a common hole with the rest of us.’
be dumped in a common hole with the rest of us.’
Widowed, now fatherless, his daughter Frances
stood in the pew beside you, holding tears
and her three-year-old until the youngster squirmed;
a servant arrived to take the babe away.
Watson remarked, ‘As well she looks good in black.’
stood in the pew beside you, holding tears
and her three-year-old until the youngster squirmed;
a servant arrived to take the babe away.
Watson remarked, ‘As well she looks good in black.’
The bishop called you up. You read some words,
the emotion in your throat like broken glass
for the man who filled your father’s shoes.
the emotion in your throat like broken glass
for the man who filled your father’s shoes.
‘Is that
the Earl of Essex?’ The once deft whisperer,
his volume faulty, caused two mourners’ heads
to turn and glare at us. ‘By God, it is!
A sterling comfort for an orphaned girl.’
his volume faulty, caused two mourners’ heads
to turn and glare at us. ‘By God, it is!
A sterling comfort for an orphaned girl.’
She wept a river on that noble chest.
A stand-in for her father, so I thought;
but nine months later, she would bear his child.
A night so marked with endings and beginnings.
A stand-in for her father, so I thought;
but nine months later, she would bear his child.
A night so marked with endings and beginnings.
‘So who will pay intelligencers now,
seeing the debt it drove Sir Francis to?’
Tom Watson muttered.
seeing the debt it drove Sir Francis to?’
Tom Watson muttered.
When I heard your news,
my thoughts too had been half upon your pain
and half on my pocket. But I was all with you
as you closed your reading, crumpled like a rag
that has polished until it should be thrown away.
I wanted to hold you.
and half on my pocket. But I was all with you
as you closed your reading, crumpled like a rag
that has polished until it should be thrown away.
I wanted to hold you.
Watson said, ‘I must
be sick,’ and stumbled outside as we rose
to sing one economic psalm.
to sing one economic psalm.
Which left
just me alone to greet you afterwards,
as we stepped from candlelight into the dark.
We clasped like brothers, though your cheek on mine
felt like the moment Phaeton took the reins
of his father’s horses.
as we stepped from candlelight into the dark.
We clasped like brothers, though your cheek on mine
felt like the moment Phaeton took the reins
of his father’s horses.
‘Can you stay awhile?’
You shook your head. ‘Too many creditors.’
‘I miss your company.’
‘I miss your company.’
‘And I miss yours.’
A silence between us like a pact of kings
exchanging truces.
exchanging truces.
‘You could come to Kent.’
The orchards of my boyhood; sallow fields
and not a theatre. Only mumming plays.
‘I cannot leave London. All my work is here.
At least till Arbella returns to Derbyshire.’
and not a theatre. Only mumming plays.
‘I cannot leave London. All my work is here.
At least till Arbella returns to Derbyshire.’
And silence again, a wall we couldn’t breach
which needed no words, but some intense collapse
into the truth of what we had become.
Too hard to be the first.
which needed no words, but some intense collapse
into the truth of what we had become.
Too hard to be the first.
And then came Tom,
grinning skeletal, so recovered from
his beer-fuelled sickness that he startled me.
his beer-fuelled sickness that he startled me.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Sometimes one needs a purge.
A vomit and leak. And as I tucked me in,
who should pass by but our Lord Treasurer,
leaving the church, but not without a plan.
He stopped, and most conveniently conversed
about our working for him. Come this way.’
He tugged at my sleeve. ‘Shall we meet you anon?’
Addressing you. ‘The Golden Bear’s still lively.’
A vomit and leak. And as I tucked me in,
who should pass by but our Lord Treasurer,
leaving the church, but not without a plan.
He stopped, and most conveniently conversed
about our working for him. Come this way.’
He tugged at my sleeve. ‘Shall we meet you anon?’
Addressing you. ‘The Golden Bear’s still lively.’
‘I’m staying tonight with Frances.’ And your eyes
engaged with mine. ‘So we should say goodbye.’
Embracing Tom an unknown final time,
a punch on his arm to seal it off.
engaged with mine. ‘So we should say goodbye.’
Embracing Tom an unknown final time,
a punch on his arm to seal it off.
Then me.
‘Goodbye, good friend,’ you said. The weight on ‘friend’.
‘Goodbye.’ Another clasp. Another taste
of fiery horses hammering through my veins.
‘Goodbye.’ Another clasp. Another taste
of fiery horses hammering through my veins.
‘Be well!’ Tom said to you, and tugged me out
into the churchyard, cluttered with its stones,
towards the road where two grey horses stamped
and steamed. And waiting by his carriage steps,
‘Lord Burghley,’ Tom whispered, nodding at the man
in robes and chains. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
into the churchyard, cluttered with its stones,
towards the road where two grey horses stamped
and steamed. And waiting by his carriage steps,
‘Lord Burghley,’ Tom whispered, nodding at the man
in robes and chains. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
‘Morley? Or Marlowe?’
‘Either will do, my lord.’
He rearranged his gown, fussing his thumbs
around the chain of office. ‘Very good.
I hear you write poems in English. Latin’s fine’
(addressing Watson), ‘but the young prefer
poetry in their native tongue. I have
in my charge the young Southampton. Quite a fine –
no, quite is ungenerous, inaccurate –
an exceptionally fine young man, with all the arts
a responsible guardian should train him to:
a taste for poetry, debate, good wine,
but not, alas, for women. That is to say …’
around the chain of office. ‘Very good.
I hear you write poems in English. Latin’s fine’
(addressing Watson), ‘but the young prefer
poetry in their native tongue. I have
in my charge the young Southampton. Quite a fine –
no, quite is ungenerous, inaccurate –
an exceptionally fine young man, with all the arts
a responsible guardian should train him to:
a taste for poetry, debate, good wine,
but not, alas, for women. That is to say …’
I noticed how bright the stars, how velvet black
the sky this conversation fell beneath.
the sky this conversation fell beneath.
‘ … not so much that he looks the other way
but dreams of sport and of a soldier’s life
and says a wife would hamper him, where I
would have him settled down. He is sixteen,
and listens far more to poetry than me.
I wondered whether, for a generous sum,
you might persuade him of … the benefits …
that is to say, desirability,
of marriage.’
but dreams of sport and of a soldier’s life
and says a wife would hamper him, where I
would have him settled down. He is sixteen,
and listens far more to poetry than me.
I wondered whether, for a generous sum,
you might persuade him of … the benefits …
that is to say, desirability,
of marriage.’
Watson’s smirk, behind his hand,
he had to cough out, and excused himself,
leaving us momentarily.
leaving us momentarily.
‘My lord,
if you’re imagining I could write a poem
which would turn his thoughts to women, I’m afraid
my friends have made too much of me. Though women
boast charm, some men are naturally averse.
I could no more turn a fox into a frog
than persuade your ward to marriage.’
which would turn his thoughts to women, I’m afraid
my friends have made too much of me. Though women
boast charm, some men are naturally averse.
I could no more turn a fox into a frog
than persuade your ward to marriage.’
‘No, no, no,’
the Treasurer demurred. ‘He’s not
averse
.’
Watson dipped in, then out. His suppressed mirth
was proving hard to wrestle with. ‘My lord—’
averse
.’
Watson dipped in, then out. His suppressed mirth
was proving hard to wrestle with. ‘My lord—’
‘He’s simply not inclined. Indifferent.’
Lord Burghley was very used to being right.
A splat of late-stopped rain, held on a leaf,
was shaken upon him, yet he wiped it off
without distraction. ‘Certainly not
averse
.
No verse would touch
averse
. And yet a verse –’
(nodding the pun to congratulate himself)
‘– or several – might turn
him
in his course,
if executed with sufficient … grace.’
Watson rejoined us, his rebellious mouth
repaired on his sleeve.
Lord Burghley was very used to being right.
A splat of late-stopped rain, held on a leaf,
was shaken upon him, yet he wiped it off
without distraction. ‘Certainly not
averse
.
No verse would touch
averse
. And yet a verse –’
(nodding the pun to congratulate himself)
‘– or several – might turn
him
in his course,
if executed with sufficient … grace.’
Watson rejoined us, his rebellious mouth
repaired on his sleeve.
Lord Burghley skimmed him over
but remained intent. ‘For a substantial purse?’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I must meet him first.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But I must meet him first.’
The first of his words to me were angry ones.
‘Why should I marry who that man decrees?’
He was a boy, four months from seventeen.
The sky was in his eyes, intensely blue.
‘Why should I marry who that man decrees?’
He was a boy, four months from seventeen.
The sky was in his eyes, intensely blue.
His second sentence was in praise of love.
‘Love is what brings us close to the divine.
To wed for less is shabby compromise.’
The simplest shiver rippled through the trees.
‘Love is what brings us close to the divine.
To wed for less is shabby compromise.’
The simplest shiver rippled through the trees.
He softened to me then. ‘I liked your play.’
He patted me beside him on the wall.
‘So tell me, you’re a poet, am I wrong?
Should I forget my heart?’ There was a song
sung from an open window, light as lace
upon the moment. ‘Never that,’ I said.
He patted me beside him on the wall.
‘So tell me, you’re a poet, am I wrong?
Should I forget my heart?’ There was a song
sung from an open window, light as lace
upon the moment. ‘Never that,’ I said.
‘My mother loved,’ he said, ‘another man.
It killed my father. Truly. Broke his heart.
Women are fickle. Love makes lovers damned,
a marriage bed a deathbed.’ Yet his face
had all his mother’s tenderness; his rage
was all his father’s. He, the argument
for marriage, procreation, and disgrace.
It killed my father. Truly. Broke his heart.
Women are fickle. Love makes lovers damned,
a marriage bed a deathbed.’ Yet his face
had all his mother’s tenderness; his rage
was all his father’s. He, the argument
for marriage, procreation, and disgrace.
‘What is a woman for? The servants cook
and clean, friends entertain, and whores are cheap.
Why do I need a wife? For what plain good?’
The lavender was thick with scent, and bees
hung round the beds like baleful courtiers.
Above, his eyes, a sky’s idea of blue.
The thought occurred: ‘To make another you.’
and clean, friends entertain, and whores are cheap.
Why do I need a wife? For what plain good?’
The lavender was thick with scent, and bees
hung round the beds like baleful courtiers.
Above, his eyes, a sky’s idea of blue.
The thought occurred: ‘To make another you.’
In his perfection, here was Love’s excuse
for all her misdemeanours, every heart
that split to feel her bastard offspring’s dart.
And here was Love herself, conducting songs
from neighbours’ windows, rustling up the trees
to shed the spring’s confetti for his hair
and bring this moment, begging, to its knees.
for all her misdemeanours, every heart
that split to feel her bastard offspring’s dart.
And here was Love herself, conducting songs
from neighbours’ windows, rustling up the trees
to shed the spring’s confetti for his hair
and bring this moment, begging, to its knees.
Love is oblivious. All the love was mine.
And all the wisdom of a dozen plays
of wit and genius will not assist
the motley fool whom sudden love enslaves.
Except this was not love, but pure desire
for perfect beauty, for a taste of it.
And all the wisdom of a dozen plays
of wit and genius will not assist
the motley fool whom sudden love enslaves.
Except this was not love, but pure desire
for perfect beauty, for a taste of it.
For he was both man and maiden, boy and girl,
the consummate alchemy of human form.
Unworldly, godly, in his countenance,
a blazing sun round whom a room must turn,
the consummate alchemy of human form.
Unworldly, godly, in his countenance,
a blazing sun round whom a room must turn,
yet utterly insensible to his power.
Three years have gone, and still that blessed sight
– the jewel of Southampton, sitting on that wall –
accompanies me to my oblivion.
Three years have gone, and still that blessed sight
– the jewel of Southampton, sitting on that wall –
accompanies me to my oblivion.
Arbella was wild as a clipped goose smelling fox.
She lurched from wall to wall. ‘Why not go out?
There’s education in the wind and rain.
We could get wet and you could teach me why
it bounces off the sparrows.’
She lurched from wall to wall. ‘Why not go out?
There’s education in the wind and rain.
We could get wet and you could teach me why
it bounces off the sparrows.’
‘Read this book,’
I offered, patiently, the only poultice
that’s ever worked for me.
that’s ever worked for me.
‘Pah! Read a book!
Another dusty book? Another wedge
of dead man’s brain? No, thank you. What is it?’
‘It’s poetry.’
of dead man’s brain? No, thank you. What is it?’
‘It’s poetry.’
A snort. ‘What good is that?
What good are words? Words are not real life.’
‘But they create in here,’ I tapped my head,
‘whatever’s locked out there.’
‘whatever’s locked out there.’
Another snort.
She stamped her boot, and spun towards the view.
‘But not the Earl of Essex,’ she replied.
‘You can’t create him, can you?’
‘But not the Earl of Essex,’ she replied.
‘You can’t create him, can you?’
She was hooked
two years before, at court, when she was twelve.
Imagined they might marry, though I knew
by then your cousin Frances had his child
tucked in her belly.
Imagined they might marry, though I knew
by then your cousin Frances had his child
tucked in her belly.
‘You might be the Queen
one day,’ I said. ‘How to prepare for that
except to read and imagine how it feels?’
except to read and imagine how it feels?’
Knowing she’d marry whom the Queen decreed.
Be pawned to the Duke of Parma’s son, Farnese,
to end the war. Be dangled like a threat
to keep her cousin James obedient.
And me, determined to get close to both.
How powerful I felt myself to be.
Be pawned to the Duke of Parma’s son, Farnese,
to end the war. Be dangled like a threat
to keep her cousin James obedient.
And me, determined to get close to both.
How powerful I felt myself to be.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Prepare me.’ Still outside.
I turned the pages silently and found
the lines where the sultan’s riches glow like fire,
the pulsing light of each delicious gem
its own confection, savoured on my tongue.
And drawn across, as though the jewels were real,
Arbella knelt in front of me, her hands
open as though she thought this spell of words
would conjure and drop into her lap those stones.
the lines where the sultan’s riches glow like fire,
the pulsing light of each delicious gem
its own confection, savoured on my tongue.
And drawn across, as though the jewels were real,
Arbella knelt in front of me, her hands
open as though she thought this spell of words
would conjure and drop into her lap those stones.
I closed it, and we listened to the weather
beating itself against the window pane.
‘Now love,’ she said. ‘Now tell me how love feels.’
beating itself against the window pane.
‘Now love,’ she said. ‘Now tell me how love feels.’
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