Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (26 page)
I find you waiting in my room, your face
an accusation.
an accusation.
‘What? Two years alone
and I should stay a hermit? Never trust
another living soul apart from you?
You think that after all these friendless months,
just one should be enough? You’re going away.
You said so.’
another living soul apart from you?
You think that after all these friendless months,
just one should be enough? You’re going away.
You said so.’
‘Kit—’
‘I have lost everything!
My reputation. Work. The very name
my parents had me blessed with at the font
is flushed like so much turd into the ditch.
Am I to sit here cloistered like a monk?
What’s left to nourish me that I should pass
on this sudden feast of friendship?’
my parents had me blessed with at the font
is flushed like so much turd into the ditch.
Am I to sit here cloistered like a monk?
What’s left to nourish me that I should pass
on this sudden feast of friendship?’
‘Kit, you’re drunk.’
The disappointment sinks you to my bed.
‘What if I am? What is the bastard point
of sobriety?’ You flinch. ‘And it’s not wine.
I’m drunk on the rush of feeling loved again.
And if it’s fleeting, all the more reason why
I should have my fill of it.’ What’s in your eyes
is sobering, however, and it brings
me to my knees in front of you: the boards
as hard and cold as penitence. ‘My fill.
Yet you would be enough for me, I swear,
if you would make a promise …’
of sobriety?’ You flinch. ‘And it’s not wine.
I’m drunk on the rush of feeling loved again.
And if it’s fleeting, all the more reason why
I should have my fill of it.’ What’s in your eyes
is sobering, however, and it brings
me to my knees in front of you: the boards
as hard and cold as penitence. ‘My fill.
Yet you would be enough for me, I swear,
if you would make a promise …’
‘Kit, the girl.’
‘The girl?’
‘The dark-skinned girl. Hung off your arm.’
The supplicant’s position I am in
has weakened me, and chafed against your mood.
I stand, brush off my knees.
has weakened me, and chafed against your mood.
I stand, brush off my knees.
‘Who is she, Kit?
I’ve never seen a woman look so knowing.
What have you shared with her? And who is she?’
What have you shared with her? And who is she?’
I stalk across to the window.
‘Jesus’ balls!
What have I shared? Who is she? Tom, a wife
would ask less prying questions. She has been
my comfort, is all.’
would ask less prying questions. She has been
my comfort, is all.’
‘You cannot be familiar,’
you say, ‘with anyone. What does she know?’
I bite my lip.
‘She knows I am not French.’
Your eyes say
idiot
.
idiot
.
‘What could I do?
She’s French! She knows a Frenchman from a nail.’
You punch the bed, send up a cloud of dust –
both your dead skin and mine launched into air –
then stand, your hands in fists, as though you might
punch me for satisfaction.
You punch the bed, send up a cloud of dust –
both your dead skin and mine launched into air –
then stand, your hands in fists, as though you might
punch me for satisfaction.
Dearest friend,
forgive me, that I keep our argument
fresh in my head as new earth on a grave.
Had you not left, I would have more to save,
but can’t discard this moment, or its pain.
fresh in my head as new earth on a grave.
Had you not left, I would have more to save,
but can’t discard this moment, or its pain.
‘There’s quicker forms of suicide,’ you say.
‘And ones that don’t put friends’ necks in the noose.’
‘And ones that don’t put friends’ necks in the noose.’
People are leaving. Carriages outside
rattle towards the gatehouse.
rattle towards the gatehouse.
‘Tom—’
‘And worse
you’ve let Southampton in on it.’
‘That’s not
my fault! I met him at the theatre.’
Your eyes roll to the panelling above
as if you hope for God to intervene
and bring the ceiling down. I’d been so ill,
I want to say, if you had seen me thin
you’d take me to the theatre yourself –
for all the risk – to let some life back in.
as if you hope for God to intervene
and bring the ceiling down. I’d been so ill,
I want to say, if you had seen me thin
you’d take me to the theatre yourself –
for all the risk – to let some life back in.
‘Your obsession with the earl cannot protect
you from his fickleness. You are his pet.
And now his thrilling secret. But be sure
the moment he sniffs disaster, he will shrug
you off like last year’s codpiece.’
you from his fickleness. You are his pet.
And now his thrilling secret. But be sure
the moment he sniffs disaster, he will shrug
you off like last year’s codpiece.’
And the rest,
the comparison with you, you leave unsaid.
Your loyalty thickens in my heart, like glue.
Your loyalty thickens in my heart, like glue.
‘You’ve lain with him?’
‘Never!’
‘But you’ve lain with her.’
I cannot lie to you; you read the Yes
in my dumb response. And like a beleaguered boat,
you half set sail, then lurch back to my dock,
quietly sinking.
in my dumb response. And like a beleaguered boat,
you half set sail, then lurch back to my dock,
quietly sinking.
‘Tom. This all stops here.
I promise. But be with me.’ I pull you close.
At first you are a sack of wheat; your arms
hung loosely at your side. But then your breath
responds to my kisses, and the huge machine
of mutual longing slides us into bed.
hung loosely at your side. But then your breath
responds to my kisses, and the huge machine
of mutual longing slides us into bed.
You cannot know how often I replay
our conversations in my head. Your voice
inhabits the space where friendship used to be,
which rattles less when I rehearse these scenes,
tell them like bedtime stories, tell them fresh
for ears beyond our own, should one day this
sad tome of cipher meet posterity.
our conversations in my head. Your voice
inhabits the space where friendship used to be,
which rattles less when I rehearse these scenes,
tell them like bedtime stories, tell them fresh
for ears beyond our own, should one day this
sad tome of cipher meet posterity.
I see us clearly: pillowed in our sweat,
recovering our breath and sanity
in the gentle flicker of fire and candlelight;
coverlet kicked to the floor, a trail of clothes
like offerings to the god of sodomy.
recovering our breath and sanity
in the gentle flicker of fire and candlelight;
coverlet kicked to the floor, a trail of clothes
like offerings to the god of sodomy.
What livens our bed-talk is the threat of death;
the scythe of its humour cutting me my lines.
the scythe of its humour cutting me my lines.
‘You said you would not have me here, and yet,
I do perceive you’ve had me thoroughly.’
I do perceive you’ve had me thoroughly.’
Though serious, your smile’s no more contained
than a rabbit captured in an open sack,
and yet you say,
than a rabbit captured in an open sack,
and yet you say,
‘I
would
not have you here.
My Kit—’ Your hand, a blessing on my cheek,
removed. ‘I swear to God, you are not safe.
The public are sheep and fall for any lie,
but private rumours circulate amongst
the curious and literate in town.
A lawyer playwright told me in faith last week
that
William Shakespeare
’s not a real name.’
removed. ‘I swear to God, you are not safe.
The public are sheep and fall for any lie,
but private rumours circulate amongst
the curious and literate in town.
A lawyer playwright told me in faith last week
that
William Shakespeare
’s not a real name.’
‘He’s a real man!’
‘But not that can be seen.
He comes to London only twice a year.
Picks up a play from Bacon, drops it off,
collects his cash. He is invisible.
To all intents and purposes, not here.
The masses are none the wiser, but the cream
of literate society suspects
the name’s a front for someone else.’
Picks up a play from Bacon, drops it off,
collects his cash. He is invisible.
To all intents and purposes, not here.
The masses are none the wiser, but the cream
of literate society suspects
the name’s a front for someone else.’
‘For me?’
‘For Bacon. Or the Earl of Oxford.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t be offended, Kit! You had a death
more documented than most royalty.
The lewder gossips spin it off in yarns
you could strangle cats with. Since you’re loudly dead,
the suspects are the living.’
more documented than most royalty.
The lewder gossips spin it off in yarns
you could strangle cats with. Since you’re loudly dead,
the suspects are the living.’
‘Oxford, though.
The man’s a nincompoop. He churns out verse
fit only for lighting fires.’
fit only for lighting fires.’
‘It could be worse.’
‘How so?’
‘They could be gossiping it’s you.
The clues you keep leaving, Kit, for pity’s sake.
As if your style itself weren’t badge enough
for your friends to work it out. Your enemies
must be gifted nothing.
Non licit exigius
.
Let them chase shadows. Let them not chase Kit.’
As if your style itself weren’t badge enough
for your friends to work it out. Your enemies
must be gifted nothing.
Non licit exigius
.
Let them chase shadows. Let them not chase Kit.’
These words float from that bed across the years.
And thus, the Turnip kept my greatest prize
and earned for his silence more than I was paid
for my verbosity. That a man discreet
as a bolted door, by nature taciturn,
should be rewarded handsomely to keep
counsel, is like a housecat crowned a king
for being good at sleep. And yet I knew
he could be trusted not to puff and crow –
and never claim he wrote them: only show
his face, and not his handwriting for then
he’d show he was a stranger to the pen
and risk his death as well as mine. So. So.
And thus, the Turnip kept my greatest prize
and earned for his silence more than I was paid
for my verbosity. That a man discreet
as a bolted door, by nature taciturn,
should be rewarded handsomely to keep
counsel, is like a housecat crowned a king
for being good at sleep. And yet I knew
he could be trusted not to puff and crow –
and never claim he wrote them: only show
his face, and not his handwriting for then
he’d show he was a stranger to the pen
and risk his death as well as mine. So. So.
‘Let them chase shadows. Let them not chase Kit.’
Writing these words I sense the tenderness
your staunch good sense kept from me. Finding my fist
resting against my lips, I kiss that flesh
lightly, as if to say, again, goodbye.
your staunch good sense kept from me. Finding my fist
resting against my lips, I kiss that flesh
lightly, as if to say, again, goodbye.
‘Who are you watching?’
You, in winter garb,
mounting a chestnut mare, exchanging talk
with our host in a cloud of breath.
with our host in a cloud of breath.
‘It’s just the hunt.’
I came down to the east wing’s sitting room
for a panorama of your exit scene
through its windows’ tall, wide-open eyes. Ignoring
my mistress installed in a chair, and quietly sewing.
for a panorama of your exit scene
through its windows’ tall, wide-open eyes. Ignoring
my mistress installed in a chair, and quietly sewing.
Lucille is clipped. ‘I have been hunting you.
Three days you’ve avoided me.’
Three days you’ve avoided me.’
‘I have been ill.’
‘You don’t look ill.’
I answer ‘You’re a nurse
as well as a nun?’
‘I’m more things than you know.
Today a seamstress. This dress has a tear
would make a harlot blush.’ I turn to see
the green dress she was wearing Christmas Eve;
her smile as she sews the rent across the breast.
would make a harlot blush.’ I turn to see
the green dress she was wearing Christmas Eve;
her smile as she sews the rent across the breast.
‘How did that happen?’
‘
Chéri
! Do you care?’
‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’
‘Nor do lies
suit you. Your friend is leaving now?’
‘He is.’
‘He won’t stay for theatricals tonight?’
Horses are stamping in the yard; the hounds
sniffing and milling round their hoofs. But you
will head not for the fox, but for the south.
sniffing and milling round their hoofs. But you
will head not for the fox, but for the south.
‘Pity, I hear the play is very good.
If a little bloody.’
If a little bloody.’
Titus Andronicus.
You couldn’t bear to see the players come.
Or watch Southampton’s surreptitious gaze
in my direction as my words were staged.
You found the play ‘too vengeful, anyway’.
‘Forgiveness,’ you said, ‘might bless you. Not revenge.’
Or watch Southampton’s surreptitious gaze
in my direction as my words were staged.
You found the play ‘too vengeful, anyway’.
‘Forgiveness,’ you said, ‘might bless you. Not revenge.’
You kiss the countess’s hand. Some final words.
From the portico, a thin-lipped Jaques Petit
steps forward, slides a letter in your hand.
You tuck it in your breast, oblivious.
From the portico, a thin-lipped Jaques Petit
steps forward, slides a letter in your hand.
You tuck it in your breast, oblivious.
‘He calls you Mr Disorder.’
‘Who?’
‘Petit.’
Despite the window’s frost, I watch you leave
through a clearing my hand has made upon the glass:
a static wave you never turn to see.
How perfectly you have forsaken me.
through a clearing my hand has made upon the glass:
a static wave you never turn to see.
How perfectly you have forsaken me.
‘Do you not care?’ she says.
Do I not care?
I care beyond all measure, and my heart,
already three-way splintered, sinks with lead.
already three-way splintered, sinks with lead.
‘I’ve been called worse,’ I say.
‘He is a rat,’
she says. ‘He means to poison everything.’
I turn. She is unpicking stitches made
in anger’s error. ‘I don’t like the man.’
I turn. She is unpicking stitches made
in anger’s error. ‘I don’t like the man.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Only that
he stirs the gossip in the servants’ hall.
And often enough, I leave my room to find
him in the corridor, starting away.’
And often enough, I leave my room to find
him in the corridor, starting away.’
‘Perhaps he is protecting you.’
She snorts.
‘Write to your Anthony. Tell him he must leave.’
You’re at the gatehouse, now, and rein the mare to the right. A six-day ride to Scadbury.
‘I think he’s here for me.’ Said absently,
but her hiss gets my attention. ‘I despair!
The man is running rumours, sure as rain.’
but her hiss gets my attention. ‘I despair!
The man is running rumours, sure as rain.’
Yet Anthony’s trust was not won easily.
And though the man was welcome as a flea,
obsequious and greased with copious smarm,
he seemed to serve a purpose. And perhaps
that purpose was to keep this ghost from harm.
And though the man was welcome as a flea,
obsequious and greased with copious smarm,
he seemed to serve a purpose. And perhaps
that purpose was to keep this ghost from harm.
She folds the dress across the chair, as if
it is the limpest girl, dragged from a lake,
and comes to my side. Her hand is on my cheek
as tenderly as yours has ever been,
and plants a simple need that I be held
as if you’d never left, and she was you.
it is the limpest girl, dragged from a lake,
and comes to my side. Her hand is on my cheek
as tenderly as yours has ever been,
and plants a simple need that I be held
as if you’d never left, and she was you.
I go to kiss her.
‘No,’ she says, ‘not safe.
No more for you till you shoo that rat away.’
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