Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (31 page)
Guests are arriving at the great Noon-Hall,
and snow is falling like small promises
as I cross the courtyard ‘wrapped as a corpse should be,
in winding sheets’. (As Thorpe said, when I swam
through my ancient haunts, first time in seven years,
without a flicker I was seen at all.)
and snow is falling like small promises
as I cross the courtyard ‘wrapped as a corpse should be,
in winding sheets’. (As Thorpe said, when I swam
through my ancient haunts, first time in seven years,
without a flicker I was seen at all.)
A small and foreign man, his skin deep brown
through race or cobbler’s dye; they wouldn’t care
to look close enough. In the country, people stare,
but London chooses not to notice who
takes shelter in her, bumped as if he’s air.
through race or cobbler’s dye; they wouldn’t care
to look close enough. In the country, people stare,
but London chooses not to notice who
takes shelter in her, bumped as if he’s air.
Three months I’ve ducked through mishap and mischance,
scribbling a play to celebrate misrule,
which tonight, by the grace of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men,
will play before Her Majesty.
scribbling a play to celebrate misrule,
which tonight, by the grace of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men,
will play before Her Majesty.
‘Percy!’
A young man dressed in finery hails a shadow
lighting a pipe outside. ‘You coming in?’
The answer both sweet and tart, like damson jam.
‘Not yet. I’m waiting for a visitor.’
Puffs at the pipe, his eyes searching for stars
that the falling snow obscures.
lighting a pipe outside. ‘You coming in?’
The answer both sweet and tart, like damson jam.
‘Not yet. I’m waiting for a visitor.’
Puffs at the pipe, his eyes searching for stars
that the falling snow obscures.
‘My lord,’ I say.
‘My lord Northumberland.’ He shakes my hand
distractedly, his gaze towards the gate
where others enter. ‘Delighted. We will speak
later, perhaps, when we are introduced.’
distractedly, his gaze towards the gate
where others enter. ‘Delighted. We will speak
later, perhaps, when we are introduced.’
He takes me for a foreigner, unschooled
in proper etiquette. I hold my ground,
and remember a line that he will recognise.
‘Above our life, we love a steadfast friend.’
in proper etiquette. I hold my ground,
and remember a line that he will recognise.
‘Above our life, we love a steadfast friend.’
He stares at me intently.
Then,
‘My word!
The note – I’d not imagined your disguise.
Your mother would fail to know you.’
Your mother would fail to know you.’
‘Then all’s well.’
He reads my face intently as a page
of mathematics. ‘You are keeping safe
in this monstrous lie?’
of mathematics. ‘You are keeping safe
in this monstrous lie?’
His breath surprises me:
enriched with liquor.
‘I am glad to be
in England again.’ He huffs. ‘If England knew
she’d have you quartered. Such does England treat
its poets and thinkers. We’re all heretics.
You’d like some tobacco?’ Offering the pipe.
‘It doesn’t suit this Moorish outward show.’
He nods, ‘A shame,’ and puffs as if for me.
Taps out the glowing heart. ‘Shall we? Inside?’
she’d have you quartered. Such does England treat
its poets and thinkers. We’re all heretics.
You’d like some tobacco?’ Offering the pipe.
‘It doesn’t suit this Moorish outward show.’
He nods, ‘A shame,’ and puffs as if for me.
Taps out the glowing heart. ‘Shall we? Inside?’
Noon-Hall is lit for Christmas with enough
candles to burn a thousand heretics.
A crush of courtiers and titled guests
mingle, or sit, before the fervent hush
preceding the Queen’s arrival.
candles to burn a thousand heretics.
A crush of courtiers and titled guests
mingle, or sit, before the fervent hush
preceding the Queen’s arrival.
Here she is,
gleaming and pale, her dress a nest of pearls
but in that nest a thin-armed woman, frail
as eggshell after hatching. Power rests
in her hawkish eyes alone: as if shrunk there,
withdrawn from withered limbs until it set
in two blue points of purpose. Yet the dress,
the dress is the outfit of the freshest girl.
And with her Duke Orsino, and with him
Archbishop Whitgift. Like a pair of cruets –
one oil, one vinegar – these opposites
who, singly, threw me out or took me in.
but in that nest a thin-armed woman, frail
as eggshell after hatching. Power rests
in her hawkish eyes alone: as if shrunk there,
withdrawn from withered limbs until it set
in two blue points of purpose. Yet the dress,
the dress is the outfit of the freshest girl.
And with her Duke Orsino, and with him
Archbishop Whitgift. Like a pair of cruets –
one oil, one vinegar – these opposites
who, singly, threw me out or took me in.
At the back of the hall are Heminges and Condell
in their livery as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men:
not acting tonight, but managing the purse,
guarding the props. And here a thought occurs.
‘Is Shakespeare here?’ I whisper.
in their livery as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men:
not acting tonight, but managing the purse,
guarding the props. And here a thought occurs.
‘Is Shakespeare here?’ I whisper.
‘Never comes,’
Northumberland says. ‘Or, rather, he came once.
He rarely comes to London, to avoid
requests for improvised revisions, but
he did come to a court performance, yes.
Hoping to meet the Queen.’
He rarely comes to London, to avoid
requests for improvised revisions, but
he did come to a court performance, yes.
Hoping to meet the Queen.’
‘And did they meet?’
‘Most certainly they did. And never again.
Your stand-in had not reckoned on the depth
of the Queen’s own knowledge of this matter. She
humiliated him.’
Your stand-in had not reckoned on the depth
of the Queen’s own knowledge of this matter. She
humiliated him.’
‘What did she say?’
I confess myself eager to imagine him
deflated by the monarch he admired.
deflated by the monarch he admired.
‘“Why have you brought this puff-cheeked, small-chinned man
towards me like the pudding course?” she said.
When told he was the author, she replied,
“Of his own conceits and folly. Send him home.”’
towards me like the pudding course?” she said.
When told he was the author, she replied,
“Of his own conceits and folly. Send him home.”’
My heart glowed then with more love for my queen
than a pup feels for its mother. For this night
I dropped all longing for her death, and grinned
so madly, on and off, that servants stared.
than a pup feels for its mother. For this night
I dropped all longing for her death, and grinned
so madly, on and off, that servants stared.
These are my notes. Yet I was taken past
the point where words have any use at all.
For how to describe the sharp surprise of tears
as the lute and harp began to pluck my song
before the Queen, and my words echoed there
to the thousand-candled ceiling glittering
on a scene now more than my imagining:
‘If music be the food of love, play on.’
the point where words have any use at all.
For how to describe the sharp surprise of tears
as the lute and harp began to pluck my song
before the Queen, and my words echoed there
to the thousand-candled ceiling glittering
on a scene now more than my imagining:
‘If music be the food of love, play on.’
Essex was exiled only to his house.
Yet how exclusion wounds a righteous man,
bruises his heart. I know the depth of it.
And though he had his country and his name,
his reputation tattered in the wind,
like a standard flag with endless residence.
And though he had wife and child, wine and friends,
the nearness of the thing denied to him –
his queen, the Court – buzzed madness in his brain
as a bee will knock against a window pane
to sense the flower outside, so bright, so close.
Yet how exclusion wounds a righteous man,
bruises his heart. I know the depth of it.
And though he had his country and his name,
his reputation tattered in the wind,
like a standard flag with endless residence.
And though he had wife and child, wine and friends,
the nearness of the thing denied to him –
his queen, the Court – buzzed madness in his brain
as a bee will knock against a window pane
to sense the flower outside, so bright, so close.
The year turned, and he sickened. So unjust
to be condemned for speaking truthfully –
and he more loyal than those whisperers
who fawn and aye and bow extremely low,
unpicking the seams of kingdoms as they go.
to be condemned for speaking truthfully –
and he more loyal than those whisperers
who fawn and aye and bow extremely low,
unpicking the seams of kingdoms as they go.
Determined to speak to her, and right these wrongs,
he gathered those who loved and honoured him,
would vouch for his loyalty and love for her,
and marched on the Court. Not in rebellion,
yet the boots, in concert, had a martial ring,
and the righteous anger spurring them towards
their queen caused dogs to growl and doors to bolt.
And those who’d cheered him on for Ireland
peeked behind curtains, mimed they were at work.
The wind had shifted unaccountably,
and the streets fell silent, empty bar the march
of Essex and his band. And then a shot,
a challenge, lines of soldiers shuffling up
and aiming nervously at noble heads.
he gathered those who loved and honoured him,
would vouch for his loyalty and love for her,
and marched on the Court. Not in rebellion,
yet the boots, in concert, had a martial ring,
and the righteous anger spurring them towards
their queen caused dogs to growl and doors to bolt.
And those who’d cheered him on for Ireland
peeked behind curtains, mimed they were at work.
The wind had shifted unaccountably,
and the streets fell silent, empty bar the march
of Essex and his band. And then a shot,
a challenge, lines of soldiers shuffling up
and aiming nervously at noble heads.
How blind and mindless do old rulers grow,
afraid for their legacies; more fearful still
of their snuffing. Jealously extracting oaths
as insubstantial as a smudge of soot
from those who do not love them, while the pure
untainted soul is viewed suspiciously:
as if some bitter motive lies beneath
his love, as if his constancy’s a plot
to inherit the crown and all its fractured woes.
afraid for their legacies; more fearful still
of their snuffing. Jealously extracting oaths
as insubstantial as a smudge of soot
from those who do not love them, while the pure
untainted soul is viewed suspiciously:
as if some bitter motive lies beneath
his love, as if his constancy’s a plot
to inherit the crown and all its fractured woes.
It’s said that Essex rose against his queen.
The word that fills the streets is ‘uprising’,
a word so bloodied by its history
it can’t contain its entrails. Thus his love,
his desperation to be seen and heard,
is treachery; and all who followed him
to swear his honour are made traitors too.
Including Hal. The boy is in the tower.
The word that fills the streets is ‘uprising’,
a word so bloodied by its history
it can’t contain its entrails. Thus his love,
his desperation to be seen and heard,
is treachery; and all who followed him
to swear his honour are made traitors too.
Including Hal. The boy is in the tower.
Today I passed the pikes on London Bridge.
There was the head of Essex, scabbed and black,
a March wind ruffling that reddish beard
like the fingers of a mistress. Upturned eyes
rolled back and white as if to know the brain
that read, so grievously wrong, his circumstance.
Three dozen years of bold entitlement
severed and sacrificed to bitter gods.
And knots of people stood awhile and stared
into that face for remnants of the faith
they had in him.
There was the head of Essex, scabbed and black,
a March wind ruffling that reddish beard
like the fingers of a mistress. Upturned eyes
rolled back and white as if to know the brain
that read, so grievously wrong, his circumstance.
Three dozen years of bold entitlement
severed and sacrificed to bitter gods.
And knots of people stood awhile and stared
into that face for remnants of the faith
they had in him.
Unwound.
Went on their way.
Thorpe’s home, in Southwark, rattles in the rain.
Leaks through the beams upstairs, like crying saints.
Makes noise as if at sea, a creaking ship
sailing us down the street towards the Thames.
Leaks through the beams upstairs, like crying saints.
Makes noise as if at sea, a creaking ship
sailing us down the street towards the Thames.
Thorpe ushers in the youth who lately knocked
so softly we had thought it was the wind
tapping a branch on something.
so softly we had thought it was the wind
tapping a branch on something.
‘He’s for you,’
Thorpe says, with a servant’s smile, as though the lad
is my dessert. He is eighteen, no more,
wet as a man who’s swum in all his clothes,
and nervous, making note of Thorpe’s retreat
before he speaks.
is my dessert. He is eighteen, no more,
wet as a man who’s swum in all his clothes,
and nervous, making note of Thorpe’s retreat
before he speaks.
‘Will Hall?’
That makes his task
a governmental one. And I detect
a delicate air.
a delicate air.
‘I might go by that name.
Who asks?’
‘I’m William Peter,’ he declares,
as love’s declared, full-hearted, passionate.
‘I’m sent to remove you to a safer place.’
‘What place?’
‘I’m sent to remove you to a safer place.’
‘What place?’
‘Abroad.’ Vibrating on his heels.
‘There is some urgency? Must we go now?’
‘No,’ he replies, attempting to be still,
though his eyes are darting to the door.
‘No,’ he replies, attempting to be still,
though his eyes are darting to the door.
‘A drink?’
I cross the room to where a bottle of sack
sits half exhausted by two pewter mugs.
sits half exhausted by two pewter mugs.
He nurses his, unsure. I gulp from mine.
‘First, I will know about this place, Abroad.
Is it very far? Is its population fair
or dark-skinned? Can you name its capital?’
Is it very far? Is its population fair
or dark-skinned? Can you name its capital?’
An earnest reply: ‘Abroad is not a place—’
‘It is a place, I promise you. I was
in residence there myself some seven years.’
in residence there myself some seven years.’
He offers back a doe-eyed blink, confused.
‘Abroad. You know, Abroad, that wave-arm place
where awkward squirts are sent. Within its bounds
no man may settle, since there is no house,
no job or friend that will not slip from him
as sand shifts underfoot. Its very streets
become the hairs one brushes from one’s pillow
and the cities scabs one must apologise
to lovers for.’
where awkward squirts are sent. Within its bounds
no man may settle, since there is no house,
no job or friend that will not slip from him
as sand shifts underfoot. Its very streets
become the hairs one brushes from one’s pillow
and the cities scabs one must apologise
to lovers for.’
He’s barely understood
a word of my invective. I regret
impaling him so.
impaling him so.
‘Go on. Drink up, return
to your master. Tell him William Hall’s retired.’
‘My master?’
His eyes are very wide and pale.
His clothes are leaking rain on to the floor
in rivulets.
in rivulets.
‘You work for Robert Cecil?
It was his father christened me Will Hall. I’ll not work for the son.’
He doesn’t leave.
‘Go on. Be gone, I say!’
And still the boy,
his lips as full and pink as ripened figs,
stands motionless. Then, quite as though the broom
of his spine is stripped from his puppet’s back, he falls,
translated to laundry.
stands motionless. Then, quite as though the broom
of his spine is stripped from his puppet’s back, he falls,
translated to laundry.
Gathered in my arms,
and heavy as conscience rests on murderers.
He seems all gone, and yet there is a breath
on my cheek when I bend close enough, as soft
as sudden sleep.
He seems all gone, and yet there is a breath
on my cheek when I bend close enough, as soft
as sudden sleep.
Heeding my cry, Thorpe comes
and stares as though he witnessed an assault.
‘Bring water,’ I say.
‘Bring water,’ I say.
‘The wound?’
‘There is no wound.
Bring water! The boy has fainted.’
And his eyes
come open slowly, beautiful and pale
as two moons rising on a lake.
as two moons rising on a lake.
‘You fell,’
I say, to explain his body in my arms –
though neither he nor I yet move away.
I feel a pulse that might be mine or his
where he rests against my shoulder.
though neither he nor I yet move away.
I feel a pulse that might be mine or his
where he rests against my shoulder.
‘Now you know.
I have the falling sickness,’ he replies.
Thorpe comes with water, and I mop his face,
gesture for sack, and let him sip at it.
‘You think me defective.’
gesture for sack, and let him sip at it.
‘You think me defective.’
I wring out the cloth.
‘I think you most dramatic. What a ruse
to claim a man’s attention.’
to claim a man’s attention.’
‘It’s no ruse,’
he says, with boyish petulance. ‘It is
a curse. A curse by which you gain the power
to have me dismissed.’
a curse. A curse by which you gain the power
to have me dismissed.’
‘I will do no such thing.’
‘You’ll keep a secret?’
‘Certainly. Can you?’
I tip the cup towards him, motherly.
‘You are in danger, and must come away,’
he says, refusing more.
he says, refusing more.
‘With you?’ I ask.
I see the danger clear. His cheek, his neck,
the tempting lips that he is speaking with.
the tempting lips that he is speaking with.
‘I’ll serve you and protect you,’ he replies.
‘If my protection rests on sickly boys
I’m doomed indeed.’ I help him to a chair
I’m doomed indeed.’ I help him to a chair
and he recounts the mission: Elsinore.
Two gentlemen I met in Padua
acquainted me with that court, and with their tongue.
Now my smattering of Danish marks me out
to visit the very castle where my ghost
ranges the battlements nightly in my play,
urging my murder be avenged: the boy
can hardly know, and yet he seems to know,
that Denmark will hook my curiosity
more firmly through the lip, and fling me out
of my native waters.
Two gentlemen I met in Padua
acquainted me with that court, and with their tongue.
Now my smattering of Danish marks me out
to visit the very castle where my ghost
ranges the battlements nightly in my play,
urging my murder be avenged: the boy
can hardly know, and yet he seems to know,
that Denmark will hook my curiosity
more firmly through the lip, and fling me out
of my native waters.
‘You seem better now.’
‘It passes,’ he says. ‘So will you come with me?’
‘What if I don’t?’
He blanches, very pale.
Paler than when he fell, and for a breath
I wonder if he’ll pass out in the chair,
or fake a fit to make me leave with him.
I wonder if he’ll pass out in the chair,
or fake a fit to make me leave with him.
‘Tell me the danger.’
‘Please,’ he says. ‘Just come.’
‘The danger.’
The boy sighs heavily. His breath
defeated.
‘If you’ll not co-operate
I’m told to give this message, word for word.
Your name will be exposed. And every child
you’ve sired in secret will be put to death.
If you care not for your life, then care for them.’
He cannot know what he’s delivering;
only I know the children are my plays.
For, from his face, he must believe them flesh,
and dandled in some mother’s lap somewhere.
Your name will be exposed. And every child
you’ve sired in secret will be put to death.
If you care not for your life, then care for them.’
He cannot know what he’s delivering;
only I know the children are my plays.
For, from his face, he must believe them flesh,
and dandled in some mother’s lap somewhere.
‘You threaten me?’
‘Not I, not I, sir, no.
I am a messenger.’
A pretty one
to carry such poison in his beak. I go
to the window. Rain is muddying the street
and across the way a candle flickers on
to quell the early dark. A neighbourhood
I’ve kept myself apart from, like a cyst.
to the window. Rain is muddying the street
and across the way a candle flickers on
to quell the early dark. A neighbourhood
I’ve kept myself apart from, like a cyst.
I gather my things, as many times before,
to leave my country. Go to Elsinore.
to leave my country. Go to Elsinore.
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