Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (29 page)
The King has proved a friend. Not through my art –
all cleverness was dashed upon that glance –
but through his willingness not to unmask
an English agent felled with a single Rose.
all cleverness was dashed upon that glance –
but through his willingness not to unmask
an English agent felled with a single Rose.
A Rose with whom I now seek audience
at the embassy, where you and Watson played
tables till dawn, some sixteen years ago.
Since all you described is laughter, this is new:
the marble floor, the yellow curtains snagged
like sour cheeks into smiles. The chairs, too high,
that lift feet from the floor, make one a child.
at the embassy, where you and Watson played
tables till dawn, some sixteen years ago.
Since all you described is laughter, this is new:
the marble floor, the yellow curtains snagged
like sour cheeks into smiles. The chairs, too high,
that lift feet from the floor, make one a child.
He leaves me twitching in the corridor,
hours, it seems, until
hours, it seems, until
‘Monsieur Le Doux?’
Excusing his secretary. Yet alone,
maintaining the pretence. ‘How can I help?’
maintaining the pretence. ‘How can I help?’
By recognising me. By being the same
man who passed me his glass two years ago
at Burley, asking me to call him Hal.
I look at him amazed. Wait for the ice
to thaw. He asks again, with feigned concern
for something on his desk, ‘How can I help?’
man who passed me his glass two years ago
at Burley, asking me to call him Hal.
I look at him amazed. Wait for the ice
to thaw. He asks again, with feigned concern
for something on his desk, ‘How can I help?’
Perhaps some spy is hidden in the room.
I search his face, and ask, ‘Are we observed?’
I search his face, and ask, ‘Are we observed?’
‘I took you at your word,’ he says, surprised.
‘You must no more acknowledge me, you said.’
‘In a poem, yes.’
‘You must no more acknowledge me, you said.’
‘In a poem, yes.’
‘I took you at your word.
“I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailéd guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name.”’
‘In public, Hal. May I still call you Hal?’
His hand, like snow inside my leathered palm,
melts out of it.
Lest my bewailéd guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name.”’
‘In public, Hal. May I still call you Hal?’
His hand, like snow inside my leathered palm,
melts out of it.
‘I do not think it wise,
even in private. Circumstances change.’
‘What circumstances?’
‘What circumstances?’
‘I am older now.’
‘Your marriage—’
‘That does not come into it!
Your dangerous position is the point.
I’ve taken your advice.’
I’ve taken your advice.’
‘I wrote in pain!’
He urges me to hush. ‘If you must shout,
then shout in French. Or with an accent. Sound,
Monsieur Le Doux, stays not within four walls.’
He invites me to sit down, as if my hurt
might be contained by horsehair and brocade.
‘You wrote acknowledging your name’s destroyed.
In England, to love Marlowe is to swear
allegiance to the Devil.’
then shout in French. Or with an accent. Sound,
Monsieur Le Doux, stays not within four walls.’
He invites me to sit down, as if my hurt
might be contained by horsehair and brocade.
‘You wrote acknowledging your name’s destroyed.
In England, to love Marlowe is to swear
allegiance to the Devil.’
He says love!
How stupidly my heart sings at the word,
like a girl sings as she launders her own blood.
like a girl sings as she launders her own blood.
‘What kind of dead man are you? Turning up
all over the place. The plan was disappear.’
all over the place. The plan was disappear.’
‘And to all the world I have!’ I stand again,
my lungs craving more air. ‘Except to you.
Perhaps we are drawn together.’
my lungs craving more air. ‘Except to you.
Perhaps we are drawn together.’
‘By the stars?
By sun and moon? Then I am truly doomed,’
he says, and does seem stricken. ‘Your disgrace
will not be mine.’
he says, and does seem stricken. ‘Your disgrace
will not be mine.’
I whisper, ‘My disgrace?’
‘It’s said you died blaspheming. That the knife
into your brain was punishment from God
for all those statements in the note from Baines.’
into your brain was punishment from God
for all those statements in the note from Baines.’
‘But I didn’t die!’ I grip his arm to prove
how alive I am. ‘And the rest is all made up!’
how alive I am. ‘And the rest is all made up!’
‘The note from Baines was real.’
‘But it was lies!
At least, exaggerations.’
Like a splat
of mud, he shakes me off his arm and stands.
He’s very tall. Willowy, yet more broad.
So young, so splendid. I catch sight of me
in the window’s dusk: a shorter, balding man
whose clothes are slightly crushed, whose older face
is quivering, and shadowed beneath the eyes.
He’s very tall. Willowy, yet more broad.
So young, so splendid. I catch sight of me
in the window’s dusk: a shorter, balding man
whose clothes are slightly crushed, whose older face
is quivering, and shadowed beneath the eyes.
How cruel an instrument, imagination,
to paint me a future where he welcomed me,
offered protection, loved me for my words.
to paint me a future where he welcomed me,
offered protection, loved me for my words.
What fiction had I spun to picture him
a greater friend than you, because you left,
because you could not risk my company –
and how did I sell myself this fantasy
with him a titled earl, and more to lose?
a greater friend than you, because you left,
because you could not risk my company –
and how did I sell myself this fantasy
with him a titled earl, and more to lose?
‘Forgive me,’ I say. ‘May life be good to you.’
I make for the door, my throat as lumped and tight
as if Eden’s apple chokes me.
I make for the door, my throat as lumped and tight
as if Eden’s apple chokes me.
‘Wait,’ he says.
His eyes are also brimming. ‘I would like
to give you something dear to me.’ He pulls
open a drawer, extracting a small book.
‘Your friends are working still, to save your name.
Shore up your reputation. This I thought
quite beautiful.’
to give you something dear to me.’ He pulls
open a drawer, extracting a small book.
‘Your friends are working still, to save your name.
Shore up your reputation. This I thought
quite beautiful.’
He hands the book to me
as a nurse would hand a baby to its mother.
So full was I, of taking last goodbyes,
I didn’t read the words upon the cover,
and twilight on the frosty Paris streets
prevented me from knowing what I held
until, in my room, I lit a candle on
this – what can I address it as, but horror?
I didn’t read the words upon the cover,
and twilight on the frosty Paris streets
prevented me from knowing what I held
until, in my room, I lit a candle on
this – what can I address it as, but horror?
And dedicated by Ned Blount to you,
who gave my script away for this to happen.
‘
H
ERO AND
L
EANDER
,
BEGUN BY
C
HRISTOPHER
M
ARLOWE
’
and no. No, no.
who gave my script away for this to happen.
‘
H
ERO AND
L
EANDER
,
BEGUN BY
C
HRISTOPHER
M
ARLOWE
’
and no. No, no.
‘
AND FINISHED BY
G
EORGE
C
HAPMAN.
’
How dull a dead man is. How short on wit.
How absent at the dinner table, too.
How tedious in friendship, how like air
to every sense that used to hold him true.
Dissolved into a fiction of your making,
how unreal I must seem, these days, to you.
How absent at the dinner table, too.
How tedious in friendship, how like air
to every sense that used to hold him true.
Dissolved into a fiction of your making,
how unreal I must seem, these days, to you.
The proof sits in my hands. The smallest book;
and yet, between its covers, I am slain.
This poem we agreed I would not finish
until some king brought me to life again,
you have allowed another man to end,
who adds more wordage than the story needs,
alters my structure and destroys the tone,
then dedicates it to your recent bride,
flourishing friendship that I thought my own.
and yet, between its covers, I am slain.
This poem we agreed I would not finish
until some king brought me to life again,
you have allowed another man to end,
who adds more wordage than the story needs,
alters my structure and destroys the tone,
then dedicates it to your recent bride,
flourishing friendship that I thought my own.
One poet not enough for you, perhaps.
Or this first one so lamed by Fortune’s spite
that you craved other architects of verse,
and seeking my echo in the school of night,
found ghost-eyed Chapman, swaying from the pipe,
fresh from communing with the spirit world.
And he might pass, for he can turn a line
you might develop fondness for, or worse.
Although your heart is still attached to mine,
the difference is that he can come to Kent.
Or this first one so lamed by Fortune’s spite
that you craved other architects of verse,
and seeking my echo in the school of night,
found ghost-eyed Chapman, swaying from the pipe,
fresh from communing with the spirit world.
And he might pass, for he can turn a line
you might develop fondness for, or worse.
Although your heart is still attached to mine,
the difference is that he can come to Kent.
And did you, pray, invite him to complete
the interrupted story of our love,
relinquishing all hope of my return?
the interrupted story of our love,
relinquishing all hope of my return?
Or did you, so convinced of your own fraud,
in the absence of letters agents fail to pass,
begin to believe that I was truly dead
and ask the man to channel me?
in the absence of letters agents fail to pass,
begin to believe that I was truly dead
and ask the man to channel me?
I rage
through the dutiful plodding of these stolid lines
Chapman has patched where I would write with fire.
But I don’t blame him. He believes the dead
are guiding him.
Chapman has patched where I would write with fire.
But I don’t blame him. He believes the dead
are guiding him.
But what has guided you?
Has five years in perdition ruined me
and you must plunge me now into the dark?
Or has mere absence puffed your love away
like so much Old Man’s Beard? I understand
how unrewarded longing bursts like song
upon the merest kindness, after years
of knocking its head against the lost and gone –
and you must plunge me now into the dark?
Or has mere absence puffed your love away
like so much Old Man’s Beard? I understand
how unrewarded longing bursts like song
upon the merest kindness, after years
of knocking its head against the lost and gone –
but you have given up my words, and let
another write my ending. Brother, friend,
how should I read it? Even in Judas’ kiss,
Christ was never more betrayed than this.
another write my ending. Brother, friend,
how should I read it? Even in Judas’ kiss,
Christ was never more betrayed than this.
All in a day, the birds were stripped from trees.
The flowers lost their petals, and their scent
dissolved like an echo of forgotten song.
Yet nothing changed: for any other man
who walked this lane would swear there’s nothing wrong;
not holding in his heart this heavy stone.
The flowers lost their petals, and their scent
dissolved like an echo of forgotten song.
Yet nothing changed: for any other man
who walked this lane would swear there’s nothing wrong;
not holding in his heart this heavy stone.
The fault lies not in you, not in my Rose,
but in that youth convinced he couldn’t fall:
proud of his swift ascension, scorning Hell,
oblivious to the feathers falling from
the wings he fashioned in his prison cell,
that room above a home-town cobbler’s shop.
but in that youth convinced he couldn’t fall:
proud of his swift ascension, scorning Hell,
oblivious to the feathers falling from
the wings he fashioned in his prison cell,
that room above a home-town cobbler’s shop.
Words: he commanded them. Called them his slaves.
Yet the rope that Fate would put around his neck
he wove himself with words too freely spent;
youth’s certainty, a preening arrogance
born out of turning shepherds into kings.
If I could travel back and shake that boy –
Yet the rope that Fate would put around his neck
he wove himself with words too freely spent;
youth’s certainty, a preening arrogance
born out of turning shepherds into kings.
If I could travel back and shake that boy –
no good would come of it. He had a friend
who warned him ceaselessly, said, ‘Hush,’ to jokes
whose laughter came from outrage. Chide me, then,
as Fortune does, for my stupidity.
No massacre occurred. There is no husk
of glory to mourn. No ruin here, but me.
who warned him ceaselessly, said, ‘Hush,’ to jokes
whose laughter came from outrage. Chide me, then,
as Fortune does, for my stupidity.
No massacre occurred. There is no husk
of glory to mourn. No ruin here, but me.
Of course, you are Brutus. Moral, careful man,
persuaded my death is for the higher good.
Chapman perhaps your Cassius, whispering knives.
So many stab me that the blame is lost.
Your blade the last: and my surprise enough
to kill a man not used to shocks. But I,
old hand, am merely robbed of sleep, my brain
wrestling words to make some sense of pain –
burning the stinking tallow, gulping wine,
and scratching another version of this tale.
persuaded my death is for the higher good.
Chapman perhaps your Cassius, whispering knives.
So many stab me that the blame is lost.
Your blade the last: and my surprise enough
to kill a man not used to shocks. But I,
old hand, am merely robbed of sleep, my brain
wrestling words to make some sense of pain –
burning the stinking tallow, gulping wine,
and scratching another version of this tale.
My cure, the manuscript. The first scene goes
to a rabble-rousing cobbler. You’ll recall
a witty friend once free and sharp as him.
Later a poet’s murdered by mistake,
confused with a conspirator: his name
condemning him to death. Shall I go on?
I’m already Caesar, whose swift rise was feared,
a conqueror of men, too confident.
Mark Antony, who moulds the crowd with words
to any shape he wishes. Portia too,
the swallower of fire, transparent, true.
Most any part is me, but you play Brutus.
Sleepless counsellor, wisdom’s constant friend:
haunted by ghosts, loved to the bitter end.
to a rabble-rousing cobbler. You’ll recall
a witty friend once free and sharp as him.
Later a poet’s murdered by mistake,
confused with a conspirator: his name
condemning him to death. Shall I go on?
I’m already Caesar, whose swift rise was feared,
a conqueror of men, too confident.
Mark Antony, who moulds the crowd with words
to any shape he wishes. Portia too,
the swallower of fire, transparent, true.
Most any part is me, but you play Brutus.
Sleepless counsellor, wisdom’s constant friend:
haunted by ghosts, loved to the bitter end.
Dispatches received by my lord Buzenval, at Antwerp, this year, 1599.
Essex is sent to Ireland. It is said,
in a fierce debate, the Queen had boxed his ears
and his hand, instinctive, touched the hilt of his sword.
Undrawn. But her silence slicing off his head.
in a fierce debate, the Queen had boxed his ears
and his hand, instinctive, touched the hilt of his sword.
Undrawn. But her silence slicing off his head.
Essex sets off with sixteen thousand men.
A four-mile double line of citizens
cheering him and the troops until the sun
gives way to rain and hail. They scatter then.
A four-mile double line of citizens
cheering him and the troops until the sun
gives way to rain and hail. They scatter then.
The largest army ever to set foot
on Irish soil arrives in Dublin close
to St George’s Day. He throws a lavish feast.
The Earl of Southampton’s Captain of the Horse.
on Irish soil arrives in Dublin close
to St George’s Day. He throws a lavish feast.
The Earl of Southampton’s Captain of the Horse.
Can that gentle face bark orders? Do men ride into battle blinded with their love for him?
The rebels, marched upon, melt into woods
and bogs, know where to ford and how to milk
their native land’s advantage. Essex rides
to empty battlefields. His marchers tire.
and bogs, know where to ford and how to milk
their native land’s advantage. Essex rides
to empty battlefields. His marchers tire.
The army’s provisions falter. Rebels strip
horses and food from land beyond the Pale.
The Queen stamps feet to hear Essex bestows
copious knighthoods, dwindling loaves of bread.
horses and food from land beyond the Pale.
The Queen stamps feet to hear Essex bestows
copious knighthoods, dwindling loaves of bread.
She sends the order to attack Tyrone
directly, but his force outweighs the troops,
now dwindled to five thousand. Essex has
some ailment now, perhaps a kidney stone.
directly, but his force outweighs the troops,
now dwindled to five thousand. Essex has
some ailment now, perhaps a kidney stone.
Essex decides to parlay with Tyrone
against the Queen’s instructions. Rides a horse
up to its belly in the River Glyde
for private conversation. Half an hour.
against the Queen’s instructions. Rides a horse
up to its belly in the River Glyde
for private conversation. Half an hour.
And so, cessation. All that cost and not
the promised victory. Peace rests on the oath
of a man who can’t be trusted, in a tongue
that slips interpretation like an eel.
the promised victory. Peace rests on the oath
of a man who can’t be trusted, in a tongue
that slips interpretation like an eel.
In mid-September, sources intercept
an order from the Queen: he must stay put.
On no account must the Earl of Essex leave
Ireland without the Queen’s express command.
an order from the Queen: he must stay put.
On no account must the Earl of Essex leave
Ireland without the Queen’s express command.
I pick up this news in Zeeland. If all hope
for resurrection rests with Essex, this
rage of the Queen adds mortar to my tomb.
He’s falling as fast as I did.
for resurrection rests with Essex, this
rage of the Queen adds mortar to my tomb.
He’s falling as fast as I did.
I get drunk
in a back room with two soldiers, wake up bruised
unsure of why or how. My friend, I fear
I’m falling sick again. It’s in my bones:
a deep appalling ache. Each morning leaves
more hair on my pillow as my body fails
to restore itself to health. And then worse news.
unsure of why or how. My friend, I fear
I’m falling sick again. It’s in my bones:
a deep appalling ache. Each morning leaves
more hair on my pillow as my body fails
to restore itself to health. And then worse news.
September 24th. The earl has sailed
for England.
for England.
An act as close to treason as
that twitch for his sword. And two weeks on, a whirl
of gossip. My friend, confirm if this is true:
that the Earl of Essex burst upon the Queen
ungowned, unwigged in her chamber, so intent
on explaining himself, he glimpsed the royal dugs.
That since that day he’s under house arrest
and Cecil entreats Her Majesty to press
a charge of treason. Friend if this is true—
of gossip. My friend, confirm if this is true:
that the Earl of Essex burst upon the Queen
ungowned, unwigged in her chamber, so intent
on explaining himself, he glimpsed the royal dugs.
That since that day he’s under house arrest
and Cecil entreats Her Majesty to press
a charge of treason. Friend if this is true—
I broke three days, not knowing what that ‘if’
should lead to. Beset with shivering and pain.
Anthony writes: the earl cannot sustain
intelligencers. He is growing debts
as lesser men grow buboes, and the court
whose will he needs to know lies close to home.
should lead to. Beset with shivering and pain.
Anthony writes: the earl cannot sustain
intelligencers. He is growing debts
as lesser men grow buboes, and the court
whose will he needs to know lies close to home.
My misery, no longer so inert
or held in its place by hope, is moving in;
and others see it in my eyes, I know.
The weather, and bad fortune, weakens me.
It rains five days.
or held in its place by hope, is moving in;
and others see it in my eyes, I know.
The weather, and bad fortune, weakens me.
It rains five days.
I dreamt of him, the earl,
magnificent, his beard a ruddy spade,
his armour bloody from the battlefield,
about to offer me all that I crave:
my reputation, my identity,
the right to be called Kit Marlowe and be safe.
But as his mouth opened to say my name
what fell out was a fish, another fish,
gag after silver gag of fin and scale
which servants bagged in nets and took away,
and then the earl himself, all shrunken, pale.
his armour bloody from the battlefield,
about to offer me all that I crave:
my reputation, my identity,
the right to be called Kit Marlowe and be safe.
But as his mouth opened to say my name
what fell out was a fish, another fish,
gag after silver gag of fin and scale
which servants bagged in nets and took away,
and then the earl himself, all shrunken, pale.
No further letter, and no payment comes.
The network of agents I’ve depended on
now falls apart, and I must make my home
wherever I am useful. And away
from incessant rain; the wide, tormenting grey
of the English Channel.
The network of agents I’ve depended on
now falls apart, and I must make my home
wherever I am useful. And away
from incessant rain; the wide, tormenting grey
of the English Channel.
Once or twice this year
I imagined I had seen the Dover cliffs,
and even the dots of samphire pickers there.
But the pickers were gulls, feeding above the sea;
the land a bank of cloud, and not my home.
I long for warmth, and rest; some sanity.
I leave with a mission travelling to Rome.
and even the dots of samphire pickers there.
But the pickers were gulls, feeding above the sea;
the land a bank of cloud, and not my home.
I long for warmth, and rest; some sanity.
I leave with a mission travelling to Rome.
Other books
This Chance Planet by Elizabeth Bear
Copycat Mystery by Gertrude Chandler Warner
Love in Black and White: The Triumph of Love Over Prejudice and Taboo by Mark Mathabane, Gail Mathabane
The Honk and Holler Opening Soon by Billie Letts
Autumn Rising by Marissa Farrar
The Lost World of the Kalahari by Laurens Van Der Post
The Weight of Heaven by Thrity Umrigar
The One She Was Warned About by Shoma Narayanan
(5/20)Over the Gate by Read, Miss
Beyond Hope's Valley: A Big Sky Novel by Tricia Goyer
