A Dead Man in Deptford (23 page)

- Mr Marlin the ace, he is.

- Pardon me?

- Atheist, he means, Bradley said. He has never seen the
word writ down.

- He or you says say that I am atheist? You will recall
some years back what I did to you and that other damned
rogue. And Kit’s right hand was on the sword handle. Have a
care, filth.

- I am no filth. The damned rogue you speak of is in the
Clink. A foolish rogue. And I do not say you are atheist, nor
does he, it is what Ball the Cutter is shouting around.

- Cutting Ball is saying that I am an atheist? You know
what the word means, scum?

- I am no scum. It is you that must have a care. George
here, see, will have his dagger out. It meaneth one that says
God must be spelt arsiversy.

Kit looked around. It was noontime, there were few drinkers. None heard. Let it pass, these two were foolish. Ned Alleyn had
said he would be here with his brother, there was business. Kit
had for Ned a speech revised in his bosom. He went to the inner
room and entered without a knock. The brothers looked up from
bread and a cold roast fowl. There was a bottle and two glasses
half-filled with red. Jack Alleyn raised his to Kit, saying:

- Well, we shall be brothers in the business, you may see
at year’s end if not before. The Unicorn shall go to another,
and Jack Alleyn is to be with his brother Ned in the putting
on of the plays you make. Commodities, playing apparels and
the like. A cool head and no grasping in Henslowe’s manner.
Sit. Drink. Eat if you will. He called Harry loudly.

- I am glad, Kit said. Tavern-keeping is for lesser talents.
But you will have money to put in?

- It will be slow work drubbing creditors. But yes, there
is a little saved. Ah, here is a glass and a plate and a knife.

- Bradley and Orwell are there, Kit said. Bradley to me
spoke the word atheist.

- Ah, Ned Alleyn said. That will be Robin Greene. He
has it in print. Atheist. And for those that cannot read he has
his bully Ball bawling it about. You must act about this. It does
none of us good.

- He has writ a pamphlet about my atheism?

- A story of sorts. I have not seen it. It is on sale in Paul’s
yard. Beware of Ball though if you tax him with it. Cutting is a
right name. He cuts more than purses.

- It is Greene I will see. Having stamped his unwashed
bravo into the mud. I will not have this.

- Have a care with what you are doing, Kit, Ned said. I
mean the play. It will be a fine play but the theme is perilous.

- Is everything perilous these days?

Ned Alleyn mused on that a space, then said:

- Aye, everything is. To act is and to put on plays is.
They say we incite prentice riots, the killing of a woman with
child is a small matter to that. And now you are to have calling
up of the devil and the selling of a man’s soul. It is a fine part
though, do not mistake me. But you do not condemn.

- I have here, Kit said, withdrawing the sheet from his
bosom, a speech that calls on God and is waterlogged with
repentance. The play will be seen as manner of a stern warning
to them that dabble in the forbidden.

- There be some that say, Jack Alleyn said, looking stern
with his one dark eye, that you so dabble. Conspiracies of evil
and the taking of tobacco in a hidden room.

- A small town this, Kit sighed, unlike Paris. Well, there it
is, Ned, tell me later what you think. Now I will take a walk to
Paul’s and see me an atheist in print. Then I shall take Robin
Greene by his steeple beard and topple him.

The yard of St Paul’s was full of stalls with books for sale, all
passed by the suspicious eyes of the State that the Queen’s peace
be not perturbed, nought subversive, heretical, republican, mild
stuff all: Let the Sad Sinner be Called to Breast Beating; Of the
Manner of Life of the Virginian Heathens; Primulus and Hostilia;
A Little Garland of Ditties of Love Unrequited; A Sweet and Most
Easy Guide to the Rebeck; The Panacea that is Flowers of Sulphur
and Much Else Thereto Appertaining; Perimedes the Blacksmith.
This last was by Robert Greene, Master of Arts. Kit paid his
grumbling shilling and took it to the steps of the church to read
in the mild April sun. He read that Greene had had it in derision

for that I could not make my verses jet upon the stage
in tragicall buskins, everie worde fylling the mouth like the
fa-burden of Bowe Belle, daring God out of heaven with that
atheist Tamburlan, or blaspheming with the madde prieste of
the Sunne. But let me rather pocket up the asse at Diogenes
his hande than wantonly set out such impious instances of
intolerable poetrie, such madde and scoffying poets that have
prophetical spirites as bred of Merlin’s race. If there be anie in
England that sette the ende of scholarism in an Englysh blank
verse, I thinke eyther it is the humor of a novice that tickels
them with self-love or so much frequenting the hothouse.

So. He, Kit, was not termed atheist but the fabricator of one,
but there he was as Merlin. Prophetical, how? Scoffing, how?
And what did Greene know of the priest of the sun who was Giordano Bruno? He flushed at that hothouse, which had more
than one meaning but one most clear that saw Kit emerging
smoking from.

He had the mean book open and near-splitting at the spine
when he marched to Greene’s hovel, truly in the ownership of Em
Ball his succuba and that of many nameless beside, not far from
his own dwelling that, now he thought on it, was little more than
a hovel though cleanly cleanly. On the cobbles urchins waded
barefoot through horse dung and sparse mud the sun engilded.
One of these, though which one he knew not and it made little
difference, would be the bastard brat Fortunatus that could also
be Faustus, though Faust it was said was Alemanish for a fist.
With book in fist he with the other fist fisted the door and Em
Ball came to it chewing. Ah? She was slatternly but bright of
eye and in no more than a stained gown. Ah? Kit strode in to
find Greene at table eating and writing, needing a third hand to
replenish with Rhenish a greasy glass. And there was another at
the table, his gross belly forbidding a close encounter with it.
Spice and aliger rode the bad air. Pickled herrings and mouldy
bread. The other man, Kit saw with shock, was Dick Tarleton.
Come low, God, how very low, Tarleton of the Queen’s Men, the
Queen’s own unrebukable clown that had gone too far with his
mock of the Earl of Leicester than whom no man with impunity
might. Well, Dick Tarleton swollen and in decay, his belly a very
ascites or wineskin, swilling deep of ale not of Rhenish. Cutting
Ball was not to be seen, doubtless out at his cutting. Kit said,
waving pages:

- I have read this. More, I have bought it.

- Every penny helps, Greene said, munching. Em Ball
reseated herself with bold eyes on Kit, taking between her
fingers the bony corpse of a herring soused to chew. Her teeth
were whiter than seemed proper for a slattern. Tarleton sighed
deeply after the deep draught and said: Here we have who?

- This is Merlin the Marlin that dared God out of heaven.

- The tambourine man that goes ding ding rattle to God’s
deep sackbuts. And he squinted comically.

- Not tambourine, Kit said. Though I like your quips well enough. I was taken with your Seven Deadly Sins.

- You write for the Admiral? Well, he has lifted himself
above the Queen, which is a foul fault. The Queen’s Men,
Tarleton sang waveringly, not beer and bread and beans men
but fine men wine men music while we dine men. Let it go.

- You have some complaint? Greene asked.

- What do you know of what you term the blasphemy
of Bruno?

- Caught that, did you? Sit, sit, eat if you will. There is not
enough Rhenish to offer. It was discreet, what I wrote. I could
have been less discreet. We all know what proceeds at Durham
House.

- And what precisely proceeds?

- Talk, Godless talk I am told. Sit. Kit sat. He said:

- Charity compels pity. Your Alphonsus was poor stuff,
rejected by all except the company at Stoke Newington, where
it was howled off. Jealousy makes for poor writing. There is a
sob of self-pity on every page. Poor Greene that lacks the gift.
You stole too much from my Tamburlaine, a foul fault. More of
this and I will act.

- How act?

- You know how. The stinking brother of your trull here
will be thrown a corpse in Fleet Ditch first if he does not stop
his foul chant that I hear of, then your beard for a beginning
will be shorn and very roughly.

- You will not talk so, said eating Em Ball, though very
mildly.

Greene leaned back comfortably, cursed his pen-point, then
took a sharp knife to mend it. Mending it, he said to Tarleton:

- You see, Dick, what they are like. Scholarship mocked
and loud words to conceal emptiness. Bow Bell clanging to call
atheists to their devil worship. Look, he said fiercely, leaning
forward, to Kit. What jealousy can there be in me? I wrote
better than the stage deserves. I took your tone to make play
with it, which pudding brains like yours could not see.

- You have much to learn, Kit said. If a play is not liked
the play is bad. There can be no talk of too good for the groundlings. You speak of scholarship and yet look at you.
Living off holy mutton with a bare-arsed bastard. You may
take offence if you will. I have taken it already. He tore the
book and scattered it over the table. Now Tarleton spoke, his
Socratic snub nose twitching:

- I will not have this of tibs and trulls and holy mutton.
To me they have been kind and give hospitality where the better
sort as they are called spit and spew at my presence. It would
be unwise to have Dick Tarleton as your enemy.

- So, Kit said, you will have the Queen’s Men making
quips about Merlin the atheist?

- There is always the Privy Council to look in on you,
Greene said. It is very perilous what you are doing. Ah, Cutting
that hath done his butting and eke his rutting.

There was a shadow on Kit who sat with his back to the
door. He rose with speed and turned. Ball, a black shape in
the light. Kit said:

- You, what do you call me?

- What do I say, master?

- You say that you like not atheists.

- I like not atheists.

- And am I one?

- I know not this man, master.

- You know me well enough to shout scandal through
the streets, Kit said hotly, cool hand on pommel. Say it to me
now.

- I know not this one who threats me, master.

- Let it go, Greene said, tooth-picking with a clean quill.
Let us digest our pickled herring in peace. This one is not
worth the jabbing.

- You say jabbing, master?

Cutting Ball’s fist was about his dagger, so Kit drew and his
sword whistled as it dove to nick Ball’s wrist. Ball saw blood,
howled, and proceeded to drink of the red trickle. Enough. Kit
turned to Greene, saying:

- You are a bad playman and you know it. I show compassion
for your jealousy.

- Be on guard, pup. Blank verse for a blank brain. Five
feet to an empty bombarding line and four bare legs in bed, a
pitiful prick that shies at a woman making up the limping five.
Go to your hothouse and be on guard.

OF the great events of that cold summer we knew nothing
while they proceeded. Later Tom Kyd said he would make a
play of them that would draw in all at the Rose, but others spoke
of the danger of placing true personages on the stage, a danger
Kit later engaged when he made his play of the Duke of Guise
and Paris is worth a massacre. Kyd tried his hand, feeding his
brain with many books and pamphlets, not many accurate as to
the events, and I have some scattered pages of what was never
seen on any stage:

KING OF SPAIN:

The lighte of war, the father of his troopes,
Hero of Lepanto, no seaman braver,
Valiant and unconquer’d, now alas
Hath met death’s conquest. Therefore do we mourne.
Our Marquis, aye, of Santa Cruz is gone,
And he it was that put in preparation
Our strike against the enemie. Therefore you,
Our well-belov’d Duke of Medina Sidonia,
Do we appoint to take our shippes in hande
And name you our High Admiral.

DUKE:

My lorde,

Of sea and warre I nothing know. But wordes
Are garboard strakes and calivers, no more.
An admiral? Nay, a choice not admirable.
I urge your grace to thinke againe and give
The honour of sea lorde to one more fitting
That will not this high honour so dishonour

As I, a lord of lande, am like to do.

KING OF SPAIN:

Pish, you speake greenlie, for the English fleete
Is mann’d by boles and drunken pirates who
Will put to sea unbless’d by our true faith.
Theyre barques are green wood, man, and all uncaulk’d,
And all the saintes in heaven will conspire
To dashe them on the rockes. So you, great duke,
Be of good hearte, vittle your ships, ensure
That to your store liste you do adde enow
Of what will make the beef-fedde Godlesse quake
With apprehension most deserv’d. I meane
Pincers and whips, gridirons, chaines and rackes,
Thumbscrewes and halters for their hanging, aye,
One whole shippe fill you with well-season’d faggots
To make fires for the burning of all them
That wille not bowe downe to our holy priestes
And make obeisance to a Lambe of God
Unsullied by the heathen’s tarrie handes.

And then Kyd, turning the Rose stage into a ship, which
was a fair and ingenious fancy, with sailors ascurry from and
to below, which was the cellarage, and the Admiral looking out
to sea from the tarrass, had thunder and lightning and a storm
howling.

DUKE:

Well, we have now revitteled in Corunna
And may proceed. This weather likes me not.
What dale is this?

CAPTAIN:

My lord, Midsummer Eve,
When they safe witch and warlock do abounde
To do the Divil’s bidding. In the heavens
Foule cloudes do gather and the churning sea
Seemes like to scatter us. There, see you not -
A ship torne from its mooring and a pinnace
That dragges its anchor - ah, Dios, it collides