Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (33 page)
How like him she was. As if he was made twice,
but one time female, softer than the brush
of a flightless wing. A he with breasts, with skin
as velvet as mole’s pelt, but as light as light.
She filled his absence with a gentle hum
of kindness, and forgiveness. Left a scent
behind her that I dreamt of, when she’d gone.
Four days, and I had drawn her to my tongue.
but one time female, softer than the brush
of a flightless wing. A he with breasts, with skin
as velvet as mole’s pelt, but as light as light.
She filled his absence with a gentle hum
of kindness, and forgiveness. Left a scent
behind her that I dreamt of, when she’d gone.
Four days, and I had drawn her to my tongue.
I loved her bruisingly, the way that ground
loves a fallen apple. She had all his eyes
and an inches softer bosom: all the love
that a carer for foundling kittens satisfies
herself to give another came to me.
Beyond lust, I admired her as I had
the Virgin Queen, when I was twenty-one
and first her servant. Will was not surprised.
He read the air between us in a blink.
loves a fallen apple. She had all his eyes
and an inches softer bosom: all the love
that a carer for foundling kittens satisfies
herself to give another came to me.
Beyond lust, I admired her as I had
the Virgin Queen, when I was twenty-one
and first her servant. Will was not surprised.
He read the air between us in a blink.
We argued, certainly. I challenged him:
and will you not get married? Yes, he would.
He wanted children. So, I said, do I.
And won’t your sister keep us close enough?
Convenient cover for an illegal love,
he swallowed it.
and will you not get married? Yes, he would.
He wanted children. So, I said, do I.
And won’t your sister keep us close enough?
Convenient cover for an illegal love,
he swallowed it.
The week the old Queen died
Will Peter’s sister, Liz, became my wife.
Oh, foolish heart, to store your beating hope
in the whim of an unmade king. The wind blows in
from the north, as icy, suddenly, as glass
stuck in the throat.
in the whim of an unmade king. The wind blows in
from the north, as icy, suddenly, as glass
stuck in the throat.
A friend will ask a friend
to ask a friend to ride and put to him
the case for my resurrection.
the case for my resurrection.
How my heart
thumps strangely in my ears, keeps me awake
beside my wife through hours that only those
haunted or haunting come to know so well.
It knocks like a stranger not at any door.
beside my wife through hours that only those
haunted or haunting come to know so well.
It knocks like a stranger not at any door.
And every day, no message, though the King
is riding southwards, closer.
is riding southwards, closer.
In the square,
where Exeter’s merchants come to chop and chat,
I hear Southampton has been freed. This is
the king to set injustice straight. But still
no end of endless sentence comes to me.
I hear Southampton has been freed. This is
the king to set injustice straight. But still
no end of endless sentence comes to me.
‘A letter!’
Will Peter’s panting from the ride.
He drops it in my lap, a baby bird
he prays I might revive, and stares at me –
all fear, all hope, all sharp expectancy.
The seal is still intact.
he prays I might revive, and stares at me –
all fear, all hope, all sharp expectancy.
The seal is still intact.
‘So you don’t know
what’s written here?’
Will Peter shakes his head.
‘For God’s sake, open it.’
‘You couldn’t tell
from his face?’
‘His servant brought it. Open it!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then
I
will!’ Lunging for it.
‘No!’
I snatch it flat to my bosom. ‘No. Call Liz.’
‘I’m here,’ she says, appearing from behind
the doorframe.
the doorframe.
Hands that shiver (as she slides
a paring knife beneath the waxen seal)
like new-sprung beech leaves rattled by the wind.
like new-sprung beech leaves rattled by the wind.
The night before we said our marriage vows
I told her who she married; that she might
one day be Mrs Marlowe. You would laugh
to know how she shuddered at the very thought:
‘Then I’ll be married to a heretic!’
‘No,’ I promised, ‘I’ll not take the name
until it’s cleared of every blot and stain
the world has heaped upon it.’
I told her who she married; that she might
one day be Mrs Marlowe. You would laugh
to know how she shuddered at the very thought:
‘Then I’ll be married to a heretic!’
‘No,’ I promised, ‘I’ll not take the name
until it’s cleared of every blot and stain
the world has heaped upon it.’
‘So a royal
pardon is necessary?’
‘As the blood
that keeps these sweet lips red.’ I kissed her then,
but sensed her fear my past would swamp us both,
King’s blessing or no. Thus it was her I chose
to open the letter, knowing what would thrust
a knife in my ribs might be my wife’s relief,
so that her joy could temper breaking grief.
but sensed her fear my past would swamp us both,
King’s blessing or no. Thus it was her I chose
to open the letter, knowing what would thrust
a knife in my ribs might be my wife’s relief,
so that her joy could temper breaking grief.
And should that letter free me up to live,
to witness her love for me throw over fear.
to witness her love for me throw over fear.
Her lips are trembling and her eyes have filled.
Just for a moment, grief and joy are one,
impossible to tell apart as twins.
‘He –’ she says ‘– you—’ and cannot tell me what.
Will Peter is impatient. ‘Give it here!’
He snaps it from his sister’s floured hands
and, as he reads, grows angry.
Just for a moment, grief and joy are one,
impossible to tell apart as twins.
‘He –’ she says ‘– you—’ and cannot tell me what.
Will Peter is impatient. ‘Give it here!’
He snaps it from his sister’s floured hands
and, as he reads, grows angry.
Now I know,
and a cold seeps from the ground into my feet,
my legs, my waist, my chest, as liquid soaks
up a wick prepared to take it.
my legs, my waist, my chest, as liquid soaks
up a wick prepared to take it.
‘He cannot,
apparently, risk restoring you. He feels
such action is impossible, would be
dangerous – for you and also him –
damn him, the coward! “That I must unite
these countries bleeding from religious wounds
is difficult enough without the taint
of a decade-long deceit.”’
such action is impossible, would be
dangerous – for you and also him –
damn him, the coward! “That I must unite
these countries bleeding from religious wounds
is difficult enough without the taint
of a decade-long deceit.”’
My dearest boy
punches the door shut. Grunts, then slaps his head
as if it were the King’s. ‘Not least, he says,
that no one will believe your innocence.
Your name is too deeply blackened. Curse the man!’
as if it were the King’s. ‘Not least, he says,
that no one will believe your innocence.
Your name is too deeply blackened. Curse the man!’
Liz on her knees before me, takes my palm,
anoints it with tears and kisses.
anoints it with tears and kisses.
‘This is wrong!’
Will Peter storms. A wasp caught in a jar.
‘You’ve been nothing but loyal to England. Saints alive,
all this has come from one man’s double-cross;
a personal vendetta. If the King
were any kind of man at all …’
‘You’ve been nothing but loyal to England. Saints alive,
all this has come from one man’s double-cross;
a personal vendetta. If the King
were any kind of man at all …’
‘William—’
His sister chides him, all her eyes and mind
on me, in case his words unstitch me.
on me, in case his words unstitch me.
‘No!
I’ll not be stifled. There has been enough
silencing here to stuff ten monasteries
till kingdom come. Only a damned man hangs
the truth and lets the lie perpetuate
for convenience!’
silencing here to stuff ten monasteries
till kingdom come. Only a damned man hangs
the truth and lets the lie perpetuate
for convenience!’
‘And yet he’s right,’ I say,
so quietly Will Peter almost rides
across my words, all driven by his ire –
until the sense breaks through and trips him. ‘What?’
across my words, all driven by his ire –
until the sense breaks through and trips him. ‘What?’
‘I fear he’s right about the name,’ I say,
afraid of my own calmness; for the calm
is a dressing over such a gaping wound
I dare not look at it.
afraid of my own calmness; for the calm
is a dressing over such a gaping wound
I dare not look at it.
‘What can you mean?’
‘You know yourself what Marlowe meant to you.
The name is this age’s bogeyman. “Beware!”
say mothers, hearing children fudge their prayers,
“or God will smite you, swearing, in the head
as he did that Marlowe.”’
The name is this age’s bogeyman. “Beware!”
say mothers, hearing children fudge their prayers,
“or God will smite you, swearing, in the head
as he did that Marlowe.”’
‘You exaggerate.’
‘You think so. Tell me, do those pamphlets sell
that have Marlowe on them? No, they’re tucked away
in back rooms for the connoisseurs of shame.
For being Marlowe’s, dozens are tossed on fires.’
that have Marlowe on them? No, they’re tucked away
in back rooms for the connoisseurs of shame.
For being Marlowe’s, dozens are tossed on fires.’
How we shield ourselves from what we fear to see.
A part of me has known this all along;
steps forward only now, when the part of me
that hoped against hope is struck entirely dumb.
A part of me has known this all along;
steps forward only now, when the part of me
that hoped against hope is struck entirely dumb.
‘And all the plays that I’ve adopted out
beneath a name untainted by my sins –
those plays that are lauded, loved and lifted high –
should we shout, “This is the father! This cur, here,
who is thought in league with Satan”? Every line
reads differently through judgment. “To the fire
with the atheist’s plays!”’
beneath a name untainted by my sins –
those plays that are lauded, loved and lifted high –
should we shout, “This is the father! This cur, here,
who is thought in league with Satan”? Every line
reads differently through judgment. “To the fire
with the atheist’s plays!”’
‘Or with the atheist,’
Liz whispers to my hand. I lift her face.
‘Fear nothing, my sweet Liz. A king is wise
who knows his power’s limits; that his scope
remains outside the made-up minds of men.
And I will bend with him.’
‘Fear nothing, my sweet Liz. A king is wise
who knows his power’s limits; that his scope
remains outside the made-up minds of men.
And I will bend with him.’
Her kiss, my skin.
I’m playing courage. Playing some strange part
I wrote not for myself but for a man
better than me. A man I dreamt to be.
I wrote not for myself but for a man
better than me. A man I dreamt to be.
Will Peter stares at me as at a prayer
whose text he can’t decipher.
whose text he can’t decipher.
Soft, to him:
‘Can a king’s pardon shift a nation’s curse?
Unpick a belief grown hoary with old age?
No. Marlowe is fully dead. No more pretence.
We have to live with this.’
Unpick a belief grown hoary with old age?
No. Marlowe is fully dead. No more pretence.
We have to live with this.’
I stand, and he
crumples into the chair that I have left,
Liz watching me as if I’m darkened sky,
holding her breath for where the lightning falls.
I ground myself.
Liz watching me as if I’m darkened sky,
holding her breath for where the lightning falls.
I ground myself.
‘Hand me the letter, Will.’
I read it as a man stands in the rain
whose love has betrayed him, soaking to the bone
until, into his sorrow, he’s dissolved.
whose love has betrayed him, soaking to the bone
until, into his sorrow, he’s dissolved.
I let the words run through me like a sword
on the battlefield – I watch my body, slain,
fall separate from me; my spirit still
where all of me was a blink ago, and now
so without substance that my killer walks
across and through me, and I’m undisturbed.
on the battlefield – I watch my body, slain,
fall separate from me; my spirit still
where all of me was a blink ago, and now
so without substance that my killer walks
across and through me, and I’m undisturbed.
And when those words are wholly understood
I let our fire burn them, and the warmth
brings a desire for liquor, which we drink,
all three of us, talking of trivial things.
I let our fire burn them, and the warmth
brings a desire for liquor, which we drink,
all three of us, talking of trivial things.
And only later, when I’m skin to skin
with the woman who shows such tenderness to me,
and only when I have set desire free
in that mock of death, that sudden, pure release
where hope and love and sorrow close their gap,
do I sob, and sob, and sob, into her lap.
with the woman who shows such tenderness to me,
and only when I have set desire free
in that mock of death, that sudden, pure release
where hope and love and sorrow close their gap,
do I sob, and sob, and sob, into her lap.
‘There is a plan hatched at the Mermaid Club.’
‘Whose plan?’
‘Whose plan?’
‘Ben Jonson’s.’
Six months since I wrote,
and in that half a year I’ve understood
how clever writers are. How good at code;
at understanding what’s beneath the line.
How able, some of them, in tracking style
back to its source like water. And how loyal
on discovering one of their number wrongly bound.
how clever writers are. How good at code;
at understanding what’s beneath the line.
How able, some of them, in tracking style
back to its source like water. And how loyal
on discovering one of their number wrongly bound.
The knowledge grew like fungus; underground
but quietly sprouting in the still of night.
I saw hints in the prefaces of books.
Where Shake-speare fell in two, as though it led
these soldier authors to a private fight,
I knew who knew, how far the knowledge spread.
but quietly sprouting in the still of night.
I saw hints in the prefaces of books.
Where Shake-speare fell in two, as though it led
these soldier authors to a private fight,
I knew who knew, how far the knowledge spread.
How it spread safely I can only guess.
A voiced suspicion to a friend, a
shush
,
and each initiate sworn in with an oath
and a prick of blood. It seems I have more friends
than the tree outside has pears. The Mermaid Club
is the name they’ve chosen. William Peter grinned
to tell me of its existence, share the name.
A voiced suspicion to a friend, a
shush
,
and each initiate sworn in with an oath
and a prick of blood. It seems I have more friends
than the tree outside has pears. The Mermaid Club
is the name they’ve chosen. William Peter grinned
to tell me of its existence, share the name.
‘You are the mermaid. Mythical, never seen.’
‘Half girl half fish?’
‘Leander, as you wrote him.
But Leander Club sounds too much linked to you.’
‘And what is their purpose?’
‘Build so great a myth
around the silent author of these works
that the Turnip rattles in the heart of it,
falls out like a weevil with the smallest shake.
To ensure his claim is stumped at every turn.
To keep you safe, and lift your plays so high
no flames can touch them.’
that the Turnip rattles in the heart of it,
falls out like a weevil with the smallest shake.
To ensure his claim is stumped at every turn.
To keep you safe, and lift your plays so high
no flames can touch them.’
He sat on the bed
where I’ve lain weeks now like a sunken ship
unmoved by tide, unable to expel
the heaviness inside me. ‘Honest aims,’
I said. ‘What motivates them, do you think?’
unmoved by tide, unable to expel
the heaviness inside me. ‘Honest aims,’
I said. ‘What motivates them, do you think?’
‘An admiration for your work.’ His glance
alighting on all the crossings out upon
the papers at my bedside; on this play
I have so little heart for.
alighting on all the crossings out upon
the papers at my bedside; on this play
I have so little heart for.
As I stacked
their smudgings together, ‘How do they propose
to prevent him being William Shakespeare? Given
he is?’
to prevent him being William Shakespeare? Given
he is?’
‘But not the author.’
‘Known to us
and the Mermaid Club. But he has passed for years.
And well enough for Heminges and Condell
to believe his inkless fingers are the source
of their meat and gravy.’ Will reached for the hand
withdrawing from him.
And well enough for Heminges and Condell
to believe his inkless fingers are the source
of their meat and gravy.’ Will reached for the hand
withdrawing from him.
‘Liz!’ I called. ‘Dear wife!’
She came, as she does. ‘We have wine in the house?’
‘It’s midday. Will you eat?’
She asked so timid
I knew she expected ‘No.’
‘Perhaps some bread.
But mostly wine,’ I said, and watched her wince.
The bread came quickly. ‘Don’t forget the wine!’
I called, breaking a little off. ‘My boy,
whatever the Mermaid Club cooks up, he has
the name. We rented him like lodgings, left
my precious belongings there. And when he sees
I can’t be back to claim them, sure as cats
kill mice, they’re his by default. Ah, the wine!’
I called, breaking a little off. ‘My boy,
whatever the Mermaid Club cooks up, he has
the name. We rented him like lodgings, left
my precious belongings there. And when he sees
I can’t be back to claim them, sure as cats
kill mice, they’re his by default. Ah, the wine!’
‘Stop sending him plays, then.’
‘God!’ I ruffled his hair
with violence. ‘Beautiful boy. Would that I could.
But he is my only means to reach the stage.
You think I should write, but keep my creations close?
Though pus beneath the skin builds to a boil?
I write for all the world, and he’s the tap
through whom the writing pours. You know this, Will.’
But he is my only means to reach the stage.
You think I should write, but keep my creations close?
Though pus beneath the skin builds to a boil?
I write for all the world, and he’s the tap
through whom the writing pours. You know this, Will.’
We drank. Will only to keep me company.
He fudged and flailed, said it was all in hand,
that every mind was devising measures.
He fudged and flailed, said it was all in hand,
that every mind was devising measures.
Today,
he imparts the plan. Master Ben Jonson’s plan.
‘A lawyer friend of Marston’s, Thomas Greene,
will keep him in check.’
will keep him in check.’
‘How so?’
‘He’ll lodge with him
in Stratford-on-Avon.’
‘What if he objects?
Or his wife does?’
‘Then the fake will be revealed
for what he is without revealing you.
In Stratford they know nothing of the claim
he is a playmaker, nor that his wealth
comes so much from the theatre, with all
the immorality the stage implies:
actors who make dishonesty an art,
pet boys, loose trulls, et cetera. He would
be ruined.’
In Stratford they know nothing of the claim
he is a playmaker, nor that his wealth
comes so much from the theatre, with all
the immorality the stage implies:
actors who make dishonesty an art,
pet boys, loose trulls, et cetera. He would
be ruined.’
‘And you are quite a ruin yourself,’
I observe, of his dusty face and clothes. He feels
self-conscious then, and crosses to the bowl
of water by the window; washes skin
free of the dirt kicked up on London Road.
‘Marston and Greene have drawn up documents
and he has signed them.’
self-conscious then, and crosses to the bowl
of water by the window; washes skin
free of the dirt kicked up on London Road.
‘Marston and Greene have drawn up documents
and he has signed them.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘To protect his honour and his income. Greene
will simply ensure that nothing due to you
is passed to the Great Pretender.’ Dries his hands
and pats his cheeks. ‘Tell me you’re pleased with this.’
will simply ensure that nothing due to you
is passed to the Great Pretender.’ Dries his hands
and pats his cheeks. ‘Tell me you’re pleased with this.’
‘So Greene is his legal shadow?’
‘Close as fug
to a beggar’s armpit.’
I rise from the chair
where I’ve sat all morning, wrestling with a scene
that won’t reveal its story.
that won’t reveal its story.
‘And yet still
he will be credited,’ I say. ‘His shares
in the players’ company and in the Globe
will see to that. He need not say a word
when blind assumption follows him around.’
in the players’ company and in the Globe
will see to that. He need not say a word
when blind assumption follows him around.’
The window shows me England, undisturbed
by my lack of recognition. June unfurls,
full of its own perfection, ripe and green.
by my lack of recognition. June unfurls,
full of its own perfection, ripe and green.
‘Assumption has kept you safe these last ten years,’
Will Peter replies. ‘And we rely on it.’
Will Peter replies. ‘And we rely on it.’
He touches the small of my back as though he means
to push me, fatherly, gently, in to swim.
In a pool of my own reality, perhaps.
to push me, fatherly, gently, in to swim.
In a pool of my own reality, perhaps.
I turn to him. ‘You must think me stone-headed,
repeating the story I have told to you.’
‘And do you not need reminding?’
repeating the story I have told to you.’
‘And do you not need reminding?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You must believe, you
are
Will Shakespeare now.
People,’ he takes my hand, ‘they love your plays.
Your new work speaks to humanity with a depth
that must come from your circumstance; the pain,
perhaps, or the perspective granted by
this exile you are forced to. Your new work—’
are
Will Shakespeare now.
People,’ he takes my hand, ‘they love your plays.
Your new work speaks to humanity with a depth
that must come from your circumstance; the pain,
perhaps, or the perspective granted by
this exile you are forced to. Your new work—’
‘Not
this
new work—’ But he is undeterred.
this
new work—’ But he is undeterred.
‘The plays you have finished in these last four years
surpass for greatness all the plays yet written.
If you’ve lost heart, gain heart. Believe it’s true.
surpass for greatness all the plays yet written.
If you’ve lost heart, gain heart. Believe it’s true.
The future will right this wrong,’ he says. ‘It will.
So long as your work survives, and Marlowe’s too,
posterity will see how Shakespeare blooms
out of the bud of Kit.’
So long as your work survives, and Marlowe’s too,
posterity will see how Shakespeare blooms
out of the bud of Kit.’
‘Posterity?
Some promised future that will never come?’
I turn from him again, and when he speaks,
his voice has softened passion into care.
I turn from him again, and when he speaks,
his voice has softened passion into care.
‘You may not live to see it, Kit, it’s true.
But come it will. We’ll leave too many clues.
Not least the silent Stratford man whose hands
are legally bound. He will not claim the plays,
and no one will ever testify he wrote.
When all who were involved are safely dead –’
‘Including me?’
But come it will. We’ll leave too many clues.
Not least the silent Stratford man whose hands
are legally bound. He will not claim the plays,
and no one will ever testify he wrote.
When all who were involved are safely dead –’
‘Including me?’
A pause.
‘Including you –
your safety is all our care.’
And I have stopped
his speech, it seems. I turn, and see a tear.
‘Go on,’ I say, more gently. ‘When we’re dead?’
‘It will not be a hundred years, I swear,
before intelligence will sift the truth
and you will be restored your every work;
all credit to your name, and every play
and poem yours again.’
before intelligence will sift the truth
and you will be restored your every work;
all credit to your name, and every play
and poem yours again.’
‘I’ll wait that long
if we’re eternal.’ I reach for the wine
that’s never far away.
that’s never far away.
‘Then believe we are,
and decades just a blink when we are souls.’
He is so beautiful. ‘That is the plan?
This plan’s as long as the sort that built cathedrals.’
This plan’s as long as the sort that built cathedrals.’
‘And they were built,’ he says. ‘And are admired.’
‘And you believe I’ll be admired too?’
‘Your friends will see to it.’
I touch his face.
A frisson. A shiver. He looks to the door
as if his sister might walk in and see
our tenderness. I say, ‘It’s market day.’
A kiss as juicy as the purple cherries
my wife is haggling for.
as if his sister might walk in and see
our tenderness. I say, ‘It’s market day.’
A kiss as juicy as the purple cherries
my wife is haggling for.
‘Oh, Kit,’ he breathes.
‘I’d forgotten who you were.’
‘Yes. So had I.’
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