Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (2 page)
I’ll write in code. Though my name melts away,
I’ll write in urine, onion juice and milk,
in words that can be summoned by a flame,
in ink as light and tough as spider silk.
I’ll send a ream of tamed rebellious thought
to seed a revolution in its sleep;
each letter glass-invisible to light,
each sheet as blank as signposts are to sheep.
I’ll write in urine, onion juice and milk,
in words that can be summoned by a flame,
in ink as light and tough as spider silk.
I’ll send a ream of tamed rebellious thought
to seed a revolution in its sleep;
each letter glass-invisible to light,
each sheet as blank as signposts are to sheep.
The spy’s conventions, slipping edge to edge
among the shadows, under dirty night,
mislead the search. To fool intelligence,
we hide our greatest treasures in plain sight.
This poetry you have before your eyes:
the greatest code that man has yet devised.
among the shadows, under dirty night,
mislead the search. To fool intelligence,
we hide our greatest treasures in plain sight.
This poetry you have before your eyes:
the greatest code that man has yet devised.
We dock in darkness. The skipper’s boy dispatched
to find our lodgings. Not a town for ghosts,
and with no wish to be remembered here
I’m wrapped in scholar’s garb, the bright man’s drab.
A quarter-moon is rationing its light
to smuggle us ashore without a fuss;
the fishermen are far away from port,
their wives inside and unaware of us.
to find our lodgings. Not a town for ghosts,
and with no wish to be remembered here
I’m wrapped in scholar’s garb, the bright man’s drab.
A quarter-moon is rationing its light
to smuggle us ashore without a fuss;
the fishermen are far away from port,
their wives inside and unaware of us.
You know I’ve come this way before; not here,
but in this manner, come as contraband
under the loose concealing cloak of night,
disguised as something of no interest,
as simple traveller. A man of books:
which words will make him interesting as dust
to folk who cannot read and do not care
they sign their papers only with a cross.
My name means more, and yet I shrug it off
like reptile skin, adopt some alias
that huffs forgettable, to snuff the flame
that now would be the death of me. Anon,
now Christopher is too much cross to bear.
but in this manner, come as contraband
under the loose concealing cloak of night,
disguised as something of no interest,
as simple traveller. A man of books:
which words will make him interesting as dust
to folk who cannot read and do not care
they sign their papers only with a cross.
My name means more, and yet I shrug it off
like reptile skin, adopt some alias
that huffs forgettable, to snuff the flame
that now would be the death of me. Anon,
now Christopher is too much cross to bear.
The skipper calls me only with a cough.
Lugs, with his lanky son, my trunk of books.
No prop. For books will be my nourishment
in the sightless days without you. And if I
feel strange, or wordless, they will anchor thought,
ensure my brain is drowned in histories
that help me to remember who I am.
Lugs, with his lanky son, my trunk of books.
No prop. For books will be my nourishment
in the sightless days without you. And if I
feel strange, or wordless, they will anchor thought,
ensure my brain is drowned in histories
that help me to remember who I am.
The skipper leads as shadows bolt from us
and streets fall back. And in his torch’s flame
a flicker of the tongue that can’t be bought,
which pirates sliced to secrecy. The rest,
that part he’d curl to make his consonants,
is long since fish-food on the Spanish main.
The boy speaks for him when we reach the door.
We’re hurried in, ‘
Entrez
,’ as though a storm
is savaging the calm still tail of May
and has the oak trees shaken by their roots.
and streets fall back. And in his torch’s flame
a flicker of the tongue that can’t be bought,
which pirates sliced to secrecy. The rest,
that part he’d curl to make his consonants,
is long since fish-food on the Spanish main.
The boy speaks for him when we reach the door.
We’re hurried in, ‘
Entrez
,’ as though a storm
is savaging the calm still tail of May
and has the oak trees shaken by their roots.
The woman might be forty-five, or twelve.
A calculated innocence, a face
so open blank, it seems revealing as
it hides itself. This woman’s learnt to blanch
as bones will bleach when left to drink the sun,
as death will creep a pallor into skin
at just its mention. Clothed in widow’s weeds,
soft fingers straighten for gold. ‘
Un angelot
.’
Two months of food for sticking out her neck
for an Englishman. The payment’s hidden where
she’s still half warm. ‘So you will sleep above,’
she states as if she questions us, ‘the room
that slopes for Captain Silence and his boy.’
They heft my trunk upstairs between them, just.
A calculated innocence, a face
so open blank, it seems revealing as
it hides itself. This woman’s learnt to blanch
as bones will bleach when left to drink the sun,
as death will creep a pallor into skin
at just its mention. Clothed in widow’s weeds,
soft fingers straighten for gold. ‘
Un angelot
.’
Two months of food for sticking out her neck
for an Englishman. The payment’s hidden where
she’s still half warm. ‘So you will sleep above,’
she states as if she questions us, ‘the room
that slopes for Captain Silence and his boy.’
They heft my trunk upstairs between them, just.
‘The less we say, the better,’ she begins.
‘You want some ale? You’re thirsty? Or there’s sack
if you need something stronger.’ Then she pales,
as if she is reflecting me. Some look
betrays my loss to her, and in a blink
her loneliness has fastened on to mine.
‘You learnt the tongue from Huguenots?’ She nods
and answers her own question. ‘That is right.
And you. You are a religious man? But, no,
forget I ask you anything.’ In truth,
I am a scholar of divinity
and study the divine with open eyes.
Beyond all question, I would give her truth;
and yet, I cannot save her if I speak.
‘You want some ale? You’re thirsty? Or there’s sack
if you need something stronger.’ Then she pales,
as if she is reflecting me. Some look
betrays my loss to her, and in a blink
her loneliness has fastened on to mine.
‘You learnt the tongue from Huguenots?’ She nods
and answers her own question. ‘That is right.
And you. You are a religious man? But, no,
forget I ask you anything.’ In truth,
I am a scholar of divinity
and study the divine with open eyes.
Beyond all question, I would give her truth;
and yet, I cannot save her if I speak.
‘My husband was an Englishman, like you.
Or not like you. He had no love of books.
Ballads he liked. He used to sing this one—’
Her brain defends itself by giving way.
‘I don’t remember it.’ But here, her eyes
brim with the silence, break their trembling banks
as though she heard his funeral song. Then he,
her husband, a growl, is whispering in her ear
the rudest ballad he knows, clutching her waist
to spin her for a kiss. And then he’s gone,
and we are momentarily with ghosts.
‘Forgive me,’ she says. ‘The silence is poisonous.’
Or not like you. He had no love of books.
Ballads he liked. He used to sing this one—’
Her brain defends itself by giving way.
‘I don’t remember it.’ But here, her eyes
brim with the silence, break their trembling banks
as though she heard his funeral song. Then he,
her husband, a growl, is whispering in her ear
the rudest ballad he knows, clutching her waist
to spin her for a kiss. And then he’s gone,
and we are momentarily with ghosts.
‘Forgive me,’ she says. ‘The silence is poisonous.’
Upstairs, I’m with her still. She’s through the wall,
the spectre of a woman I might touch
on any other night but this. I don’t
undress so much as loosen up a notch,
for comfort now would later be exposed,
a gift to spot and clear as light to slay;
and bad enough, I’m running for my life
without my skin a beacon for the moon,
a human sheath that swallows blades. I sit
laced in my boots, my stomach tight, my ears
so strongly tuned they model sight from sound.
the spectre of a woman I might touch
on any other night but this. I don’t
undress so much as loosen up a notch,
for comfort now would later be exposed,
a gift to spot and clear as light to slay;
and bad enough, I’m running for my life
without my skin a beacon for the moon,
a human sheath that swallows blades. I sit
laced in my boots, my stomach tight, my ears
so strongly tuned they model sight from sound.
Next door, the widow braves into her gown
and lies awake. She listens to the house
and reads the whispers that pronounce her safe
though I would have her sacrificed for love.
I know her stares are pulling at the wall
I’m on the other side of, and her bed
feels colder for the want of me. And yet,
as time goes on, she’s bidding me
adieu
.
and lies awake. She listens to the house
and reads the whispers that pronounce her safe
though I would have her sacrificed for love.
I know her stares are pulling at the wall
I’m on the other side of, and her bed
feels colder for the want of me. And yet,
as time goes on, she’s bidding me
adieu
.
A woman’s skin might send a man to sleep,
but I must twitch and listen to the night
say
Nothing’s here
. The moon is out of sight
and something gnaws now, in the walls. I write,
the extra tallow that I paid her for
illuminating every sorry word.
but I must twitch and listen to the night
say
Nothing’s here
. The moon is out of sight
and something gnaws now, in the walls. I write,
the extra tallow that I paid her for
illuminating every sorry word.
How we are trapped in silence; how this night
has brought a silent shipwreck to her shore,
how silence unites us as it chokes us off,
how thick the silence hangs around the door
that dogs might almost sniff it, and the causes:
cutlass, lies or longing. Gathered here,
awake, or sleeping aware, are three full-grown
examples of the muted. And the boy
fathered by silence, slight and safely bred
to keep his trap shut. How the silence grows,
how it wraps around the house like sealing snow
though we are in the final day of spring.
has brought a silent shipwreck to her shore,
how silence unites us as it chokes us off,
how thick the silence hangs around the door
that dogs might almost sniff it, and the causes:
cutlass, lies or longing. Gathered here,
awake, or sleeping aware, are three full-grown
examples of the muted. And the boy
fathered by silence, slight and safely bred
to keep his trap shut. How the silence grows,
how it wraps around the house like sealing snow
though we are in the final day of spring.
Silence surrounds the men of deepest faith
and, listened to, may call a man to prayer.
and, listened to, may call a man to prayer.
I pray that no one follows us tonight;
that in England, rural keepers of the peace
are kept bewitched by corpse and candlelight;
I pray those men are instantly believed
who, having played my dark and murderous friends,
have stayed to stay the executioner’s hand;
I pray my soul’s absolved in all the lies
that tumble slick as herring from their tongues.
I pray, my friend, you’re warm and safe at home,
that doors remain unkicked and truths untold
and we have silence when the daylight comes.
that in England, rural keepers of the peace
are kept bewitched by corpse and candlelight;
I pray those men are instantly believed
who, having played my dark and murderous friends,
have stayed to stay the executioner’s hand;
I pray my soul’s absolved in all the lies
that tumble slick as herring from their tongues.
I pray, my friend, you’re warm and safe at home,
that doors remain unkicked and truths untold
and we have silence when the daylight comes.
I have to write to someone. Not the page,
this featureless companion of the road,
this marker of my friendlessness, but flesh
my lips have kissed, a face my mind can shape.
And I choose you, my smart and cautious friend,
my almost love. With you, I’ll share all thought,
open my heart’s slammed door, so you may roam
among its chambers, sore with what you know,
when I am gone. Some unimagined date,
when I have found a grave I cannot flee,
this trunk will limp its way to the address
pasted inside the lid, and every word
I almost wrote to you will spill from me.
this featureless companion of the road,
this marker of my friendlessness, but flesh
my lips have kissed, a face my mind can shape.
And I choose you, my smart and cautious friend,
my almost love. With you, I’ll share all thought,
open my heart’s slammed door, so you may roam
among its chambers, sore with what you know,
when I am gone. Some unimagined date,
when I have found a grave I cannot flee,
this trunk will limp its way to the address
pasted inside the lid, and every word
I almost wrote to you will spill from me.
And you will know me, then. And know my wrongs.
That you may not reply: forgive me, Tom.
That you may not reply: forgive me, Tom.
I dream of Kent. I’m still at school, at King’s,
in Canterbury, where my starveling brain
unloaded intrigue from a feast of tongues
that massacre and war made refugees.
Canterbury, where I gorged myself
on knowledge, sharpened up my fledgling wit,
feeding on scholarship an inner flame:
some hot conviction that the world was mine.
Canterbury, from whose huddled roofs
bursts the substantial faith of a cathedral
whose spire aspires to heaven, but whose stones
have been a butcher’s block where holy men
were finished off for their beliefs. Vespers.
in Canterbury, where my starveling brain
unloaded intrigue from a feast of tongues
that massacre and war made refugees.
Canterbury, where I gorged myself
on knowledge, sharpened up my fledgling wit,
feeding on scholarship an inner flame:
some hot conviction that the world was mine.
Canterbury, from whose huddled roofs
bursts the substantial faith of a cathedral
whose spire aspires to heaven, but whose stones
have been a butcher’s block where holy men
were finished off for their beliefs. Vespers.
A whisper:
You’re wanted
. Shrinking low, I duck
official eyes and follow the message boy.
He guides me to a room whose door shuts fast.
And clear as sherry there is Robert Greene,
stroking his beard until it points to Hell.
He’s master now; the Duke of Chaos reigns.
Envy has whipped the light that shows it bare,
and jealousy has fashioned wisdom’s chains.
You’re wanted
. Shrinking low, I duck
official eyes and follow the message boy.
He guides me to a room whose door shuts fast.
And clear as sherry there is Robert Greene,
stroking his beard until it points to Hell.
He’s master now; the Duke of Chaos reigns.
Envy has whipped the light that shows it bare,
and jealousy has fashioned wisdom’s chains.
‘Pretending to be dead?’ A crow, he caws.
‘You’ll find death is uncomfortable at best.
You shouldn’t mock us with your parlour trick.’
He points me to the iron branks. ‘It’s yours.
Unless you’ll try a smoother punishment.’
I say I will. My legs are rendered stone
and cannot port me out of there. I’m led,
like calf to slaughterhouse, to inner rooms
where boys are gagged with bandages, and on
until we reach the library. ‘See this?’
He opens up a box whose gilded clasp
features initials not my own. ‘Your tongue
goes here,’ he says, and strokes the tongue-shaped mould
designed for it. The velvet’s bright as blood.
He turns to the shadows, shouting, ‘Cut it off!’
and in the glint of threatened knives, I wake,
a grey light creeping through a widow’s drapes.
Only my breathing saturates the dawn.
‘You’ll find death is uncomfortable at best.
You shouldn’t mock us with your parlour trick.’
He points me to the iron branks. ‘It’s yours.
Unless you’ll try a smoother punishment.’
I say I will. My legs are rendered stone
and cannot port me out of there. I’m led,
like calf to slaughterhouse, to inner rooms
where boys are gagged with bandages, and on
until we reach the library. ‘See this?’
He opens up a box whose gilded clasp
features initials not my own. ‘Your tongue
goes here,’ he says, and strokes the tongue-shaped mould
designed for it. The velvet’s bright as blood.
He turns to the shadows, shouting, ‘Cut it off!’
and in the glint of threatened knives, I wake,
a grey light creeping through a widow’s drapes.
Only my breathing saturates the dawn.
A hand on my shoulder startles me. ‘Excuse.
It’s best you leave before the dawn. This place.
Its people love the smell of something fishy.
They get up early too.’ She’s loosely dressed.
I’m at the desk, as though I never slept.
The blown-out candle’s stink is barely cold
and she is nursing a flame to light its wick.
‘I don’t need trouble. Whoever you are. It’s time.
You must depart.’ She shakes my arm. ‘Go!
Vite
!’
She’s woken the captain and his boy. In vests
they’re readying to shift my trunk downstairs.
It’s best you leave before the dawn. This place.
Its people love the smell of something fishy.
They get up early too.’ She’s loosely dressed.
I’m at the desk, as though I never slept.
The blown-out candle’s stink is barely cold
and she is nursing a flame to light its wick.
‘I don’t need trouble. Whoever you are. It’s time.
You must depart.’ She shakes my arm. ‘Go!
Vite
!’
She’s woken the captain and his boy. In vests
they’re readying to shift my trunk downstairs.
Her parlour seems colder now, the fire out.
The candlelight insists it’s night outside,
only her rush suggesting otherwise.
‘Yesterday’s bread. Some cheese.’ She packs my bag
as if we are related. ‘Best I can do.
Go up the road six miles. My cousin’s house
is at the crossroads. He’s the farrier.
He’ll find a horse for you. Tell him Monique
will cook him a pie if he brings meat across.
Exactly those words, you understand?’
The candlelight insists it’s night outside,
only her rush suggesting otherwise.
‘Yesterday’s bread. Some cheese.’ She packs my bag
as if we are related. ‘Best I can do.
Go up the road six miles. My cousin’s house
is at the crossroads. He’s the farrier.
He’ll find a horse for you. Tell him Monique
will cook him a pie if he brings meat across.
Exactly those words, you understand?’
I’m stuck.
Her brittleness unnerves me, like the shock
of a morning wash. She shivers anxiously
as if the changed wind slipping beneath the door
hints at the distant stench of consequence.
Her eyes evasive, fearing mine might lock
hers to some dangerous bond of loyalty.
of a morning wash. She shivers anxiously
as if the changed wind slipping beneath the door
hints at the distant stench of consequence.
Her eyes evasive, fearing mine might lock
hers to some dangerous bond of loyalty.
‘The trunk?’ I ask. The boy is sitting on it.
The captain yawns. And there I glimpse again
the stub that recommends him to the State.
‘I’ll send it on,’ she says, ‘as you instruct.’
The captain yawns. And there I glimpse again
the stub that recommends him to the State.
‘I’ll send it on,’ she says, ‘as you instruct.’
Two footsteps on, I’ll be reduced to robes,
to paper, quill and ink, a change of clothes.
‘The trunk,’ I tell her, ‘anyone can look.
‘It’s just some books, some poems. If someone
– authorities – should need to open it,
they will find nothing. It is literature.
Send it to Mr Le Doux. At the sign of the bear
in Middelburg. There’ll be an
angelot
if the inventory’s present still.’ She nods.
‘May God be with you.’
to paper, quill and ink, a change of clothes.
‘The trunk,’ I tell her, ‘anyone can look.
‘It’s just some books, some poems. If someone
– authorities – should need to open it,
they will find nothing. It is literature.
Send it to Mr Le Doux. At the sign of the bear
in Middelburg. There’ll be an
angelot
if the inventory’s present still.’ She nods.
‘May God be with you.’
Now I’m alone outside,
feeling a pinch no dawn will warm away.
The captain and boy will shuffle off and slip
mooring ahead of mackerel coming in.
I set off inland, towards the brightening sky,
conscious of night behind. All England’s dark
that threatens to engulf me is a beast
crouched at my back. And then I remember you.
The captain and boy will shuffle off and slip
mooring ahead of mackerel coming in.
I set off inland, towards the brightening sky,
conscious of night behind. All England’s dark
that threatens to engulf me is a beast
crouched at my back. And then I remember you.
The farrier is shoeing with a force
you’d only use on hoofs. He hammers in
a quarter-dose of good luck for the road,
then puts the fetlock down. ‘You wanting me?’
His mouth is battened straight, as if the lips
are still turned in to hold a row of nails.
My mind sets cold; it’s hard enough to trust,
and Monique’s ‘cousin’ might mean anything;
they hardly seem related. He’s a ‘friend’,
but not a friend of mine. He runs his eyes
across my scholar’s cloak, my library skin.
you’d only use on hoofs. He hammers in
a quarter-dose of good luck for the road,
then puts the fetlock down. ‘You wanting me?’
His mouth is battened straight, as if the lips
are still turned in to hold a row of nails.
My mind sets cold; it’s hard enough to trust,
and Monique’s ‘cousin’ might mean anything;
they hardly seem related. He’s a ‘friend’,
but not a friend of mine. He runs his eyes
across my scholar’s cloak, my library skin.
‘I’ve a message from Monique,’ I say. ‘She asked
if you would take some meat across for her,
and she’ll bake you a pie.’
if you would take some meat across for her,
and she’ll bake you a pie.’
‘That’s what she said?
Monique is full of promises. Last time
I did her a favour, she reneged her word.’
He snorts, and turns to wash his spade-like hands
in a nearby bucket. ‘So you need a horse.
I hope you’re good for payment. Monique’s pies
are legendary. Like the phoenix, son.
They don’t exist.’ His apron is his towel.
I did her a favour, she reneged her word.’
He snorts, and turns to wash his spade-like hands
in a nearby bucket. ‘So you need a horse.
I hope you’re good for payment. Monique’s pies
are legendary. Like the phoenix, son.
They don’t exist.’ His apron is his towel.
Thinking me green, he guides me to the barn
and tries to palm me off with something slow.
‘A sturdy beast. You have some miles ahead?’
‘A few,’ I say. ‘But I don’t have a whip.’
‘Just so.’ He laughs. ‘For sturdy beasts and mules
have much in common. Some reluctance, no?’
and tries to palm me off with something slow.
‘A sturdy beast. You have some miles ahead?’
‘A few,’ I say. ‘But I don’t have a whip.’
‘Just so.’ He laughs. ‘For sturdy beasts and mules
have much in common. Some reluctance, no?’
My French needs greasing, but is adequate
to make him laugh. ‘Perhaps you’re after speed?
In case you’re set upon,’ he says, and shrugs.
‘It happens. The road attracts its travellers
and some are desperate.’ His eyes on me.
‘Some signs of life would do,’ I say. ‘This mare?’
‘Ten sovereigns.’
to make him laugh. ‘Perhaps you’re after speed?
In case you’re set upon,’ he says, and shrugs.
‘It happens. The road attracts its travellers
and some are desperate.’ His eyes on me.
‘Some signs of life would do,’ I say. ‘This mare?’
‘Ten sovereigns.’
‘That’s too much!’
‘That’s what she costs.’
His arms across his chest, a barrier.
‘The price is made of many parts. She’s fast
as the man who sells her’s quiet. You understand.’
I understand that Monique’s words have cost
the doubled price of silence. So it goes;
life will be cheaper once I’ve disappeared.
I bargain for her tack to be thrown in.
The smell of leather as I saddle up
returns me briefly to my father’s shop:
the chatter of my sisters up the stairs
and hammered sunlight leant across the door.
‘The price is made of many parts. She’s fast
as the man who sells her’s quiet. You understand.’
I understand that Monique’s words have cost
the doubled price of silence. So it goes;
life will be cheaper once I’ve disappeared.
I bargain for her tack to be thrown in.
The smell of leather as I saddle up
returns me briefly to my father’s shop:
the chatter of my sisters up the stairs
and hammered sunlight leant across the door.
‘You know the road to take? Towards Douai?
You have a scholar’s pallor,’ he explains.
‘The English scholars tend to go that way.
But you were never here,’ he adds. ‘Of course.’
You have a scholar’s pallor,’ he explains.
‘The English scholars tend to go that way.
But you were never here,’ he adds. ‘Of course.’
She has no name. I call her Esperance,
blessing myself with hope.
blessing myself with hope.
Just after noon
we leave the Douai road and plod a stream
that cuts us easterly through woods; a route
less clock-predictable, should I be tracked.
Dear Nowhere-to-go, press on.
that cuts us easterly through woods; a route
less clock-predictable, should I be tracked.
Dear Nowhere-to-go, press on.
For at my back,
beyond La Manche, one destiny is crouched
still ready to spring: the cell, the lash, the rack,
the gibbet and noose. The vicious slice from throat
to belly; my intestines gentled out
by a dutiful executioner, my prick
hacked off and crammed into my mouth. Good miles
that keep me in my skin, my breath, my mind.
But every mile another mile from you.
still ready to spring: the cell, the lash, the rack,
the gibbet and noose. The vicious slice from throat
to belly; my intestines gentled out
by a dutiful executioner, my prick
hacked off and crammed into my mouth. Good miles
that keep me in my skin, my breath, my mind.
But every mile another mile from you.
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