Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (32 page)
Forgive that the boy is in my bed. The cold
in Denmark is persistent. As I write,
he breathes as softly as a passive sea
laps to announce a ship has passed through it.
in Denmark is persistent. As I write,
he breathes as softly as a passive sea
laps to announce a ship has passed through it.
Upon all hours, they set off ordnance:
a savage shout to the surrounding hills
that power is here, and not to challenge it.
And still I startle, not quite used to it.
a savage shout to the surrounding hills
that power is here, and not to challenge it.
And still I startle, not quite used to it.
My own commission to disarm the Danes
rests on my wit. For I am sent to woo
the brother-in-law of our most wanted James
with the benefits of patience. Should he force
rests on my wit. For I am sent to woo
the brother-in-law of our most wanted James
with the benefits of patience. Should he force
his kin’s succession, bolstering the case
with men, and horse, and blunderbuss, the Queen
will melt her promise, fling the crown elsewhere.
Patience, all patience, for the Scottish king.
with men, and horse, and blunderbuss, the Queen
will melt her promise, fling the crown elsewhere.
Patience, all patience, for the Scottish king.
For my fate hangs as perfectly with his
as if we shared a skin. As if our cloaks
might side by side be hooked, the doors pushed wide
and both together launch our lives, begin.
as if we shared a skin. As if our cloaks
might side by side be hooked, the doors pushed wide
and both together launch our lives, begin.
‘What would your children think of this?’ Will asks,
his sweet cheek on my arm.
his sweet cheek on my arm.
‘Of this?’
‘Of us.
Are any of them as old as me?’
I breathe
and calculate how I might lie to him
whilst being truthful. ‘
Dido
’s as old as you.’
whilst being truthful. ‘
Dido
’s as old as you.’
‘Dido!’ he says. ‘After the Carthage queen!
You know the play? My Oxford tutor said
it was abominably poor. The speech
on Priam’s slaughter dragging on and on—’
You know the play? My Oxford tutor said
it was abominably poor. The speech
on Priam’s slaughter dragging on and on—’
‘Excuse me,’ I interrupt. ‘The play I know
requires skill to act. I hear it has
been sawn apart by actors, but the text
is delicate. The humour of it missed,
as often as the tragedy is clanged.’
requires skill to act. I hear it has
been sawn apart by actors, but the text
is delicate. The humour of it missed,
as often as the tragedy is clanged.’
‘I don’t mean to offend you.’ He’s concerned
that I’ve sat up in bed, and strokes my back.
‘I’m not offended.’
that I’ve sat up in bed, and strokes my back.
‘I’m not offended.’
‘You seem very sore.’
‘
Dido
’s so much derided.’
Dido
’s so much derided.’
‘Will, the play
reflects not on your daughter.’ Strokes, and strokes.
I lie back with my eyes upon the beams.
I lie back with my eyes upon the beams.
‘You write yourself,’ he says, without the curl of a question mark.
‘Letters and ciphers, yes.’
Twice, these past weeks, he’s entered while my desk
is thick with papers, watched me shuffle them,
fast as a trickster’s cards, into my trunk.
My need for privacy’s unclear to him,
and must remain so, if he’s to be safe.
is thick with papers, watched me shuffle them,
fast as a trickster’s cards, into my trunk.
My need for privacy’s unclear to him,
and must remain so, if he’s to be safe.
He’s silent awhile. Then slides himself beneath
our blankets.
our blankets.
Five nights on, a fearful wail
curls up the staircase. ‘Jesus’ nails, what’s that?’
the boy says, shocked to a students’ curse.
the boy says, shocked to a students’ curse.
‘It is –
I fear it is the Queen.’ Anne Catherine
is lying-in with Denmark’s future king,
just one week old. The wail grows like a wave
carving sheer cliffs of grief, which topple now
to capsize the castle’s peace. From Danish shouts
first piercing, and then tangling the air,
I tug this thread: ‘The baby boy is dead.’
is lying-in with Denmark’s future king,
just one week old. The wail grows like a wave
carving sheer cliffs of grief, which topple now
to capsize the castle’s peace. From Danish shouts
first piercing, and then tangling the air,
I tug this thread: ‘The baby boy is dead.’
With I a sort of father, he in my arms,
we drift as the cries, the wailing, dissipate;
perhaps he is more bothered for my sake,
for I must be asleep and he awake
when he murmurs, ‘Unimaginable pain
to lose a child.’ And, like an open gate
one’s cherished horse escapes through, I reply,
‘Then let us both stay childless.’
we drift as the cries, the wailing, dissipate;
perhaps he is more bothered for my sake,
for I must be asleep and he awake
when he murmurs, ‘Unimaginable pain
to lose a child.’ And, like an open gate
one’s cherished horse escapes through, I reply,
‘Then let us both stay childless.’
His response,
speechless and motionless, breaks through my sleep as though that flow had met a heavy stone.
‘You like to lie with me?’ he says at last.
I let time pool. ‘You like to lie with me?’
He takes my hand and rests it where the lie
in question is defined.
I let time pool. ‘You like to lie with me?’
He takes my hand and rests it where the lie
in question is defined.
‘I do.’
‘Then truth –
and only truth – should be your currency.’
He sits up, lights the taper. In the glow
he shines, a bronze Adonis, freshly cast.
‘You only confirm what I have reasoned out.
When will you trust me? When I bare my chest
and ask you to thrust the sword in? I am yours
in every sense you wish, and I am sworn
to protect you for Her Majesty the Queen.
What does a lie suggest you think of me?’
he shines, a bronze Adonis, freshly cast.
‘You only confirm what I have reasoned out.
When will you trust me? When I bare my chest
and ask you to thrust the sword in? I am yours
in every sense you wish, and I am sworn
to protect you for Her Majesty the Queen.
What does a lie suggest you think of me?’
I sit up, grip his shoulders. ‘Not a lie.
Not
one
lie, William Peter, but a cloak
of lies so vast it’s hard to breathe beneath.
Why would I want to smother you with that?
Why would I throw this shroud on both our heads?
I’d need to cleave to you till death.’
Not
one
lie, William Peter, but a cloak
of lies so vast it’s hard to breathe beneath.
Why would I want to smother you with that?
Why would I throw this shroud on both our heads?
I’d need to cleave to you till death.’
‘Then
cleave
,’
he says, intensely locking eyes with me.
‘I sense you are extraordinary. That,
whoever you are, a greater spirit beats
inside
this
heart’ (his palm upon my chest)
‘than I’d be blessed to meet in
any
life.
‘I sense you are extraordinary. That,
whoever you are, a greater spirit beats
inside
this
heart’ (his palm upon my chest)
‘than I’d be blessed to meet in
any
life.
Cleave to me. Let me be your certainty.
And shed your burden. These most hateful lies.’
And shed your burden. These most hateful lies.’
May Fate have mercy. Had you seen his eyes
you would have tipped up baskets of your truths
to soak in their redemption. If that youth,
regaled with an understanding of my sins,
had opened the door and called the torturers in
I’d help them break my spine in disbelief.
Let love be dead if he’s no love of mine.
Let me: for as you once said, I was honest;
too honest to live submerged within deceit.
And borne alone, the heaviness of lies
had worn me so extremely that I cared
no longer, truly, if I lived or died.
you would have tipped up baskets of your truths
to soak in their redemption. If that youth,
regaled with an understanding of my sins,
had opened the door and called the torturers in
I’d help them break my spine in disbelief.
Let love be dead if he’s no love of mine.
Let me: for as you once said, I was honest;
too honest to live submerged within deceit.
And borne alone, the heaviness of lies
had worn me so extremely that I cared
no longer, truly, if I lived or died.
He’s pacing then, across the naked floor.
‘Your children are books.’
‘Your children are books.’
‘Are plays.’
‘Are plays,’ he mouths
and slowly comprehends. ‘
Dido
is yours!
Forgive me—’
Dido
is yours!
Forgive me—’
‘How could you know?’
His eyes ride up,
racking some mental library of facts,
‘Your name,’ he murmurs.
‘Your name,’ he murmurs.
‘Don’t be concerned with that.’
‘You’re Marlowe!’ he cries, and sits hard on the bed.
I wait for the weight to sink in him. ‘Not dead,’
he murmurs. Then, ‘Where’s your injury? Your eye
was stabbed.’ Inspecting my face.
he murmurs. Then, ‘Where’s your injury? Your eye
was stabbed.’ Inspecting my face.
‘No, no, not I.
A substitute.’
‘Don’t tell me any more.
No, tell me everything.’ His switch as fast
as a dog sent mad by fleas. ‘No, lie no more!
Marlowe was a blasphemer, heretic.
You’re no more Marlowe than the rising sun
is a chamber pot.’
as a dog sent mad by fleas. ‘No, lie no more!
Marlowe was a blasphemer, heretic.
You’re no more Marlowe than the rising sun
is a chamber pot.’
He pales and smacks his mouth
on invisible cake; the first sign that he’s gone,
snuffed out by his brain’s crossed purpose.
snuffed out by his brain’s crossed purpose.
When he wakes
from this second fit in twice as many days,
I offer this: ‘There’s not a man alive
whose death won’t change him. And what tales are told
posthumously may not reflect the man
in any case. It’s true I freely spoke,
shared inklings that, at Cambridge, passed as jokes,
but in London taverns stank of blasphemy;
and through my speaking, lost my liberty.
But I’m not the devil they have painted.’
I offer this: ‘There’s not a man alive
whose death won’t change him. And what tales are told
posthumously may not reflect the man
in any case. It’s true I freely spoke,
shared inklings that, at Cambridge, passed as jokes,
but in London taverns stank of blasphemy;
and through my speaking, lost my liberty.
But I’m not the devil they have painted.’
He
breathes calmly now, and takes me in, like air
from an opened window.
from an opened window.
‘I am glad of that,’
he says. ‘Too poor that I should suffer this
and
fall in love with a devil.’
and
fall in love with a devil.’
There, a smile,
the parting of clouds. And I will have my love.
Tonight, I remove the label from the trunk.
The fading ink of some address in Kent
where someone I loved dearly holds his life
close to his bosom: wife and child, estate,
the breeding pigs, the stables by the gate,
the plip of lively fishponds. Friend, you were
all things to me. I let you go with love.
This trunk, these papers, were the things I braced
against the fear that I would leave no trace
and disappear into the muddy roads
of Europe, insubstantial as a cough.
But time has passed. And you have shrugged me off.
What I addressed to you, you cannot want
to know. I suspect they were only for my eyes
in any case. And for posterity,
should such a thing alight upon them. So,
I scratch off the label. Though not easily.
Like scar tissue, it’s bonded to the lid.
But I pick, and scratch, and in an hour you’re gone.
My ‘you’ now is larger, wider. Is the world
I wish to know me. And would dream upon.
The fading ink of some address in Kent
where someone I loved dearly holds his life
close to his bosom: wife and child, estate,
the breeding pigs, the stables by the gate,
the plip of lively fishponds. Friend, you were
all things to me. I let you go with love.
This trunk, these papers, were the things I braced
against the fear that I would leave no trace
and disappear into the muddy roads
of Europe, insubstantial as a cough.
But time has passed. And you have shrugged me off.
What I addressed to you, you cannot want
to know. I suspect they were only for my eyes
in any case. And for posterity,
should such a thing alight upon them. So,
I scratch off the label. Though not easily.
Like scar tissue, it’s bonded to the lid.
But I pick, and scratch, and in an hour you’re gone.
My ‘you’ now is larger, wider. Is the world
I wish to know me. And would dream upon.
1602. September. Exeter.
I came to live close to him. Close as a coin
in the pocket, or a scar upon the skin:
drunk on the boy’s devotion, and the joy
of unloading every feeling into him.
in the pocket, or a scar upon the skin:
drunk on the boy’s devotion, and the joy
of unloading every feeling into him.
Rewrote, revised, and focused on the thought
of the Queen’s impending death. But all the while,
like the scabrous itch that crawls beneath the skin,
the knowledge I was just a ride away
from the man whose name, attached to every play,
was shaking London’s hands, retiring quiet
to his manor to count the coins I earned for him.
of the Queen’s impending death. But all the while,
like the scabrous itch that crawls beneath the skin,
the knowledge I was just a ride away
from the man whose name, attached to every play,
was shaking London’s hands, retiring quiet
to his manor to count the coins I earned for him.
Anthony Bacon died with us abroad.
The old route for the scripts, once copied clean
by his brother’s hired boys, closed up like sand
that a stick is drawn through. And my loyal love
stepped in to scribe, and to deliver them.
The old route for the scripts, once copied clean
by his brother’s hired boys, closed up like sand
that a stick is drawn through. And my loyal love
stepped in to scribe, and to deliver them.
‘Give my regards to the Turnip.’
Will is shocked,
and breaks from lacing a riding boot to say,
‘He shields your life!’
‘He shields your life!’
‘He is a parasite,
born to suck glory from the quills of men
too wise for the age to stomach them. His name
and his silence are his finest attributes.’
too wise for the age to stomach them. His name
and his silence are his finest attributes.’
‘When the Queen dies—’
‘When? That woman has the art
of hanging on, finer than any tick.
Pull off her body, still the jaws would clamp
on crown and kingdom.’
Pull off her body, still the jaws would clamp
on crown and kingdom.’
Uncomfortable with me,
he finishes dressing silently, and slides
the play into a satchel.
the play into a satchel.
‘You should write
this poison out,’ he says. ‘Before you find
you’re muttering treason in the street. Or worse.’
you’re muttering treason in the street. Or worse.’
He packs a travelling bag, resignedly,
and starts to go. ‘I’ll be six days.’
and starts to go. ‘I’ll be six days.’
‘You’re right.’
I catch his arm. ‘You’re right. I apologise.’
Sighing, he sits beside me. ‘That you want
to claim these plays as yours, I understand.
Your soul sings through the lines as though through bars.’
A flash of Southampton, locked still in the tower;
the axe through the neck of Essex, juddering.
I shudder.
to claim these plays as yours, I understand.
Your soul sings through the lines as though through bars.’
A flash of Southampton, locked still in the tower;
the axe through the neck of Essex, juddering.
I shudder.
‘What thought?’
‘The head that spoke to me
of restoration, falling in a bowl.’
‘Which is the fate we must protect you from.
Write, and say nothing. I will plant this seed
with the Turnip, as you call him, and in time
you’ll harvest it. Be cheery while I’m gone.’
‘Which is the fate we must protect you from.
Write, and say nothing. I will plant this seed
with the Turnip, as you call him, and in time
you’ll harvest it. Be cheery while I’m gone.’
‘Cheery?’
‘Not melancholy. I will send
my sister to see you. Liz. She’ll cook and clean
and listen to you politely.’
and listen to you politely.’
‘Does she know?’
‘She knows we’re the closest friends. The best of friends.’
He kisses me. ‘I’ll leave you to your pen.’
He kisses me. ‘I’ll leave you to your pen.’
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