Tamburlaine Must Die (10 page)

`Tell
me his name,' I'd commanded.

Dee
had started from his trance, alert and rested.

`How
can I? His tone was sharp. `Only you and he can know who Tamburlaine
is.'

And
all at once I realised I might. Blind Grizzle's was dark, veiled in
shadow and as silent as the charnel chapel. I called his name as I
entered, expecting Hector's growl to echo my greeting, but the only
sound was a soft tinkling from the bells that strung the ceiling. I
wandered through the bookshelves, past the old man's empty chair,
trying not to trip on any of his booby traps, drawing my sword
against the dark and the silence, though it pained my injured hand. I
hesitated at the door to Grizzle's private quarter, then swiftly
pushed it wide.

The
interrogator had been right. Death wasn't the same whoever brought
it. Hector was splayed across the floor. Dispatched by a swift cut to
the throat. His fate had been better than his master's. The old man
lay drowned in his own blood, draped across the bed Blaize and I had
sat on two days before. The killer had played with Grizzle. The
tracks of a sharp blade descended like bloody tears down each of the
old man's cheeks. His mouth had been slit wide into a harlequin smile
and his cheekbones bloodied by a crosshatch of cuts until they
resembled the rouged cheeks of a player. It struck me the mutilation
had been torture designed to find his fabled fortune. The injustice
of the old man's death, killed for a rumour of gold, hit me and I
lashed out with my good hand, pushing a bookcase to the floor.

The
bookseller's cloudy eyes were wide open in death. He'd told me once
he could see the difference between light and dark. Now everything
was black. I dropped down on my haunches, leaning forward to close
his eyes, hoping but doubting he'd died before mutilation began. I've
seen many dead men, but most died knowing the risks. I swore that if
I ever found Grizzle's killer, I'd become the agent of his long and
painful death. Hector's eyes were open too, dark brown shot back into
his skull. I didn't bother to close them but found myself stroking a
finger along the rough hair of his nose. A touch he would never have
tolerated from me when he was alive.

If
I hadn't bent to give those last simple ministrations I would have
missed it, the envelope was so steeped in blood. It lay there tossed
on the corpse of my old acquaintance. Even if it hadn't borne my name
in the same cursive hand as the other messages, I would have known it
was intended for me. I tore the seal, sure of what lay within, a
scrap of linen as black as Grizzle's future. But where my other
missives had been blank this held one word, white chalked across it,
SOON. I hesitated. The horrible suspicion that had sprouted tentative
roots in my mind was coming into full flower. Then all thought was
banished by sounds from the frontshop.

Whether
it was the noise of my rage or Hector's silence that had alerted the
stallholders I didn't know. But three low voices were heading my way.
I realised how I must appear, a desperate bloodstained character,
standing sword drawn over a corpse. The back room was windowless and
tiny, piled high with books. The only furniture was the simple pallet
of a bed, which bore the old man. There was nowhere to hide so I kept
my sword by my side, took a deep breath and secreted myself behind
the door.

I
peered through the slit in the doorjamb. For a full second the horror
of the corpses held the men. They fell silent, looking at the
blood-painted face of their friend. Then, as if a spell had lifted,
everyone moved at once. One ran to raise the alarm, while the other
two dropped to their knees, checking for signs of life, though they
must have known him dead. The men's low whispers mingled prayers and
expletives. They glanced at each other, like hostages in a dream
realm. I knew this daze would pass, shock would turn to anger and my
inevitable discovery would be fatal. The only hope lay in escape.

I
slid beyond the door and landed a hard boot in the centre of each of
their rears, knocking them off balance and onto the bloody bodies of
Grizzle and Hector. I didn't like the further desecration of the old
man's corpse, or that of his dog, but I had no urge to catch their
condition. The muffled shouts of the felled booksellers followed me,
but I didn't look back as I ran, hurdling the boobytrapped piles of
books, ripping the strings of bells that tangled my hair, praying no
one would enter before I had fled. I thanked the Fates Grizzle's shop
was in the loneliest portion of the churchyard and ran towards the
chapel, hiding myself amongst the long grass that edged the graves,
peeling off my bloodied jerkin. Hoping my white shirt had escaped the
stain of blood.

Dee
had been firm in his insistence that only I could know the identity
of Tamburlaine. I'd said, `So I'm to give you my life and you give me
nothing?

'`You
may escape your other enemies and Raleigh offers you a considerable
thing, the survival of your work. How many great works have died with
their author? Of your plays only Tamburlaine is printed in ink.'

`My
patron may do that anyway.' Dee had looked away.

`What?
His answer, when it came, was hesitant. `Your patron is a weak man.
He loves you, but finds Raleigh and the Council more persuasive. He
stands between the two and does nothing.'

`And
so he knows of this?? 'Walsingham knows many things.' Walsingham and
I had been alone and drunk often, with nothing but fellow feeling
between us. Now I wondered if he had bedded me because he knew it was
the last time we would be together. Maybe he felt a rush of affection
for his old protege. Maybe he thought dead men don't tell tales. I
wondered if he felt my flesh grow cold beneath his touch, if he had
smelled decay on the mouth he left unkissed. I wondered if he saw the
glow pleasure cast on my face and imagined these drained lips peeled
back against my teeth, the cheeks and brow he caressed specked green
with rot. I shivered. My patron had surpassed any vice of mine. He
had slept with a dead man.

I
thought of all of this as I lay in the high, damp grass of the
churchyard, listening for the sound of pursuers. Tiny insects plied
their trades, bustling to and fro like costermongers setting up stall
on market day. The smell of earth and meadows reminded me of
childhood and I remembered listening to my brothers' calls as they
searched for me one long hot afternoon. I'd watched them from my
hiding place, refusing to be found, relishing the power concealment
brought. It was a long time since I'd thought of those days and the
remembrance added to my unease, for surely every man remembers his
beginnings when he is about to die.

Eventually,
when it seemed a long time since I had heard the crash of pursuers, I
slipped from my hiding place and made for the embankment. My mind
swam; Dee's voice echoed in my head and I felt the ghosts of Grizzle
and Hector join me, running at my side through the streets. I
welcomed them with a shout and they whispered the name of my enemy
soft in my ear. They seemed happy with their role in this poor play
without encores. Tamburlaine had set the first act and led me through
his shadow show, but the death of the old man and his dog were a new
beginning, an overture to slaughter. I would rewrite history. This
time, Tamburlaine must die.

Blaize
cut a ridiculous figure. My tall and hirsute friend strode across the
stage decked in a woman's gown several sizes too small. It gaped at
the back where the stays refused to meet. The bodice rode high on his
waist, the lace-trimmed neckline stretched across his chest just low
enough to reveal a thicket of hair. He was instructing a group of
apprentice players on how to act like a lady. Though the objective
eye would never cast Blaize in a female role, he made a fine matron.
There was no mincing in his walk, hardly any sway at all in fact,
just the sensation of soft round hips gliding beneath the skirt. The
apprentices watched him spellbound. It should have been a scene to
warm the heart of any playwright, but I was already on fire with
fury. I charged through the

empty
audience pit roaring like a baited bear. Blaize heard me and turned.
His face lit up, then just as quick his smile was extinguished. He
made a bow, whose flourishes were all mockery, and drew himself
upright, salting my savaged heart with Kyd's words.

Awake
Revenge, if love, as love hath had, Have yet the power or prevalence
in hell.

Icarus's
wings could not have hastened my approach. I charged onto the stage,
drawing my sword in my injured hand, fury beating the pain from me.
The apprentices scattered to the sidelines. I must have made a
terrible figure. My hair was tangled with grass and twigs. A day's
growth disfigured my face, the bandages that wrapped my pierced hand
were grass-stained and bloody, and the wound Baynes had inflicted in
my side had leaked onto my shirt. Theatre would demand we parlayed
for a while. Set out our dispute in fine phrases before embarking on
the brawl. Blaize saw me coming and ran. But ladies' gowns are not
designed for flight. I caught the tail of his skirt, upended him and
kicked him on the jaw. Something snapped and he howled, tooth, blood
and spit spraying the stage. The tide of little boys surged
backwards. One began to cry, but most were actor enough to close
observe our fray. Blaize tried to rise. I kicked him on the head and
he fell forward, crawling away from me on all fours, his dress
trailing a red smear of blood. I let him creep across half the stage,
then strode to where he tried to rise and stood hard on his hand,
feeling bones give beneath my foot, then pulled him upright by the
same ruined limb. The apprentices' worried jabber reached me over
Blaize's pleas and groans.

`Watch
boys, and learn,' I shouted. `This is the theatre of blood.'

It
seemed the funniest thing in the world and I started to laugh as I
pitched my old companion downwards with a punch to his broken jaw and
a kick in the ribs.

Two
stage-hands edged from the wings. I drew my sword.

`My
quarrel is with Judas here, but come forward if you want some of
this.' I brandished the blade. `There's enough for him and extra for
you if you want it.'

The
men hesitated, then retreated back from whence they came. But I knew
it wouldn't be long before they returned with help. One of the boys
ran towards his master.

`Keep
away from him,' I growled, grasping him under the arms and hurling
him into a crowd of his fellows. `Unless you want to feel the sharp
end of my sword!'

Blaize
pulled himself half upright. He leaned, dazed and damaged against a
pillar, holding his injured jaw. He looked up at the painted heavens
that -tent the stage, as if searching for some@sign. Then shook his
head softly in wonder and turned to face me. His eyes, deep and
innocent, stared heartbroken into mine. He slurred through spit and
blood.

`What
fury is this? Have you lost your senses?

I
put my sword to his face, scoring two deep

rents
down his cheeks, marking him as he had marked the old man.

`Familiar?
No doubt you meant me take the blame for that death too?

He
shook his head and his voice returned weak and defeated.

`I
love you.'

`Like
the Devil loves holy water.' `No, like a brother.'

`Then
let us decide now who is Cain and who Abel.' I laughed bitterly.
`We'll rewrite history and the ablest of us will live.'

`You
have crippled me.' `And you have killed me.'

I
became aware of a bustle down in the audience pit.

`Our
business isn't finished.'

I
dragged Blaize to his feet and huckled him into the labyrinth of dark
corridors that lead from the stage to the recesses of the theatre and
up towards the gods.

I
pushed Blaize ahead of me. His blood spotted the steps, leaving a
trail for our pursuers.

`Stop
bleeding,' I barked.

And
he made a bitter noise that might have been a laugh. We were in a
dark corridor, dusty with disuse. I shoved him onwards, towards a dim
flight of stairs. No one had been here since the start of the Plague
and cobwebs strung the stairwell. As we climbed I wondered how many
of the playgoers who had busied these passages with anticipation now
lay in Plague pits. I remembered how the noise of the audience
stretched into the tiring house, adding an edge to the actors'
preparations. How we would hold each other's gaze and bet on the size
of the crowd, guessing their mass by the measure of their roar. And
suddenly the memory was so real I had to stop, sure it must be the
noise of a chase behind us. But all was graveyard quiet and we
resumed our climb, Blaize's low groans the only sound. At last we
reached a turning in the lobby, the kind of dark place where women
are assaulted for their honour and their jewellery. I pushed him up
against the damp wall, stuck a knife at his throat and spat one word
into his face. `Why? For a second I thought he was going to deny