Tamburlaine Must Die (3 page)

The
Privy Council stared at me unblinking, like an audience absorbed in
the final act of a thrilling play.

`Sirs,
anyone who thinks this my handiwork insults me not simply because of
its abhorrent sentiments but because of the ill-formed nature of the
verse. If I were to write a libel I would not make it so illiterate.
I can only think that this has been contrived with my slander in
mind, or by someone who, liking my poetry, has made some misguided
attempt to imitate it. It does not reflect my views or my ability.
Ask any poet you care to, even one who hates me, and he will tell you
the same.'

`We
asked Thomas Kyd. He seemed to think it the kind of libel you would
relish.'

Even
though the knowledge had been with me from the first mention of his
name, confirmation of Kyd's betrayal made me flinch. I gathered
myself and cast my eyes around the assembly, hoping to impress my
innocence on them.

`It
is not, but even if it were, I have been away from London this last
month.'

`Not
so far you couldn't return.' `Aye sir, but I didn't.'

It
occurred to me I could cite Walsingham as witness to my unbroken stay
at Scadbury, but I kept silent. Friends do not thank you for Council
summons and I realised I was unsure my patron would provide an alibi.
My uncertainty came as a revelation and I wondered if Walsingham was
as surprised by my sudden recall as he had seemed.

The
old man at the centre of the table smiled his slow smile. His voice
took on the monotone of one reciting by rote.

`The
Council will be conducting its own investigations. We recognise three
charges against you. First that you did request Thomas Kyd copy an
heretical tract on your behalf. Second that you are an avowed atheist
who has caused others to convert to your beliefs. Third that you did
write and paste this libel to the door of the Dutch church,
threatening those to whom Her Majesty has offered protection.'

I
bowed my head awaiting the instruction to take me to gaol.

`Meanwhile,
you are free to go but will report to the Privy Council before noon
every day until such time as you are given notice to quit or other
measures are put in force.' Here he favoured me with the fond glance
of a farmer surveying crops on the eve of harvest. `You are not under
arrest, but failure to report to the Council will result in your
arrest. Is that clear?

I
nodded, not trusting my voice.

The
official smiled his slow smile again. His lips were unnaturally red,
pumped full of blood behind the white beard. His eyes met mine for an
instant. Then he nodded my dismissal and returned to the papers in
front of him.

Kyd
and Kit. The goat and the cat, someone had once called us. But the
names didn't stick. They were so plainly the wrong way round. If
anyone were the goat then it was I, with my Machiavellian cast and
goatee beard. Kyd, on the other hand, had a feline quality. It
suddenly struck me that all grace would be racked from him now. The
realisation brought tears to my eyes. The world swam and for a while
I forgot I was a haunted man. Poor Kyd was a good companion and a
fine playwright whose friendship I'd just disowned. I knew he'd
understand my denial as I forgave his betrayal, but the weight of bad
faith rested heavy in my belly. I wanted to know what had happened to
Kyd, needed to know what he had said about me. One place would hold
the answers, the destination I most dreaded. Death makes the world a
brighter place. I've seen the shape danger gives to things, an edge
so sharp that if you like your head atop your shoulders and your
entrails tucked safe in your belly it's best not to stop and admire
the view. Yet the prospect of death renders everything lovely.
Colours shine stronger. Strangers' faces fascinate and your sex calls
you to business you must not attend.

We've
all seen men swing. Some go pious, strangely eager to meet the Maker
who has treated them equal to his bastard son. Others disgrace
themselves, shivering, shitting, pleading for a mercy they should
know is long fled. Their shame forces me to turn towards the faces of
the crowd. Wild-eyed masks, red-faced and spittle spattering, some
with appetites so awakened they stuff themselves with pies, meat
juices glossing their chins, pastry cramming their mouths, even as
they call for the coward to be cut down and quartered. Sometimes
though, the condemned have an extra grace. The hangman slips the rope
around their necks like a father bestowing pearls on a daughter of
whose virginity he is certain. I have watched the wonder on such
men's faces and known them to be entranced by the world from which
they are about to drop.

From
his gallows eyrie, the soon-to-be-dead sees everything. The cheats
and pickpockets, the ghouls hoping for a scrap of his clothing, or
better still`a lock of his hair or a slice of the rope. The condemned
hear the clamouring for death. They feel the anticipation of the
crowd, as eager as any first-night audience. And who's to say they
never want to please the mob? Because, viewed from the gallows,
everything is beautiful. The veins on the noses of piss heads glow a
blood red shade never witnessed before. And whores whose early
corruption has decided the hardened cast of their faces, melt into
blameless girls.

Such
cursed men surpass Christ. They take a last look at this world and
step, still mesmerised by its beauty, into the nothing beyond. They
might scream through the ritual of their disembowelling, who
wouldn't? But more often these are the men who expire before the
knife touches their belly, as if by recognising danger's charms they
have found the secret of how to die.

It
is death that gives a shape to life. Children are conceived in the
shade of the gallows tree, new life springing round the roots of
assassination. And I too have found myself leaving executions with my
prick as hard as a hanging man's. Danger is an intoxicant to trounce
tobacco and wine. I should know. I have side-stepped death's scythe
more than once. The question is can I do it again?

As
always at such times I felt myself to be two men. There was Kit
walking through Shoreditch market, young Kit, tall and strong,
creator of Tamburlaine and Faustus. Kit the atheistic brawler who'd
defied a murder charge, who put constables in fear of their life. Kit
for whom the crowds part recognising my authority, if not my person.
Then there is silent Christopher, watching my progress, calculating
how best to hold onto life. Even as I admired myself, a tall young
man, chestnut hair swept back from a high brow, pale skin made paler
by my fine flame-slashed black doublet, I cursed my misfortune. After
the sobriety of the Privy Council it was a relief to plunge into the
anonymity of the crowd. But I kept my eyes alert and my sword-hand
free. A dagger can find its way into a belly or a back before the
victim spies it. I thought I felt the prickle of surveillance on my
shoulders. And though I knew it was most likely the effect of my own
blood running faster in my veins, I made my way from the crush of
people, trying to keep note of who was around me, checking if any
faces lingered in the thinning crowd. The turnkey and I were old
allies from my time in gaol. I waited by Newgate and got lucky,
spying him within the hour. He'd winked to show he'd seen me, then
walked on, sure I would follow, leading me silent down a brackish
alley. We hunched together in a piss perfumed doorway under the
cynical stare of a child who knew the worth of her witness. I moved
my hand to my sword as I tipped her a coin, hastening her departure.

The
gaoler was old, broad-shouldered and tiny. His stoop concealed his
face. When he looked at me he had to move his whole head sideways. He
didn't look at me often, offering instead the skelfy view of his bald
pate. Pain and profit were the only colour in the old man's life. He
dressed in dungeon dweller's rags and lived within the walls of the
gaol. Lack of sunlight had drained his skin of warmth, leaving his
flesh with the transparent gleam of a white slug. I had entrusted
many commissions to his care when I was in clink. It was an easy
matter now to purchase news of Kyd's ordeal. The old man's hand
trembled with the weight of my angels, he favoured me with an
ecstatic glance and began his tale.

`They
brought your friend at the usual time. In the dark hours between
night and morning when a man is at his lowest ebb and resistance
weakest. He held firm until they reached the door of the torture
chamber, then spilled all he knew and perhaps a little more.' The
gaoler's voice held a relish at Kyd's humiliation. `They made him
sing until he hit the high notes, then they chorused your name and he
picked up the refrain.'

I
felt sick. Instead of my senses growing accustomed to it, the stench
of the alley seemed to grow worse, weaving down into my bowels.

I
I coughed against the taste of it and asked, `What was his song??

'A
simple tune. Kyd admitted to copying some seditious claptrap on your
behalf. The papers were yours, he said, though they were found in his
rooms. He supposed them shuffled with his as a consequence of your
living so close for two years.' He chuckled softly at my downcast
look. `Don't take it hard. He would have sworn the pages belonged to
the Lord Jesus Christ himself if it would end the agony.'

`Would
that he had.' The irony of the hours Kyd had spent honing his plots
struck me and I laughed. `When I knew him he sometimes had trouble
with his verse. Perhaps I should have threatened him with violence.
He seems able to create dazzling fictions when confronted with the
rack.'

`Men
have no trouble recounting tragedy when it is broken out of them.'

I
concentrated on keeping calm. `How long did it take??

'Most
of the night. He stuck to the story that the papers were yours.'

The
anger was in my voice now.

`You
spent a whole night on him? Surely you have more interesting subjects
in line.' `Superior playwrights like yourself? The

gaoler
laughed. `The interrogator's art benefits from detail as much as any
play. Kyd revealed the plain tale with little encouragement, but any
story needs embellishment. How popular would your Faustus be if you
left out the detail? A magician conjures a devil who then does for
him? Facts are fine, but it's detail that makes the plot. As we got
to know each other better your friend added intricacies that were
worth the wait.'

`What
did he say?

The
old man shook his head.

`I've
not time to tell you all.' He glanced up at me. I understood and
smoothed his hand with another angel. The gaoler nodded convulsively
whispering, `That's good, that's good . . .' like a man close to
climax, his hand fluttered about his face then he regained his
composure and resumed the tale.

`Kyd
talked a lot. Some of it was raving, the usual rubbish men shout on
the rack.' He shook his head. `Some cry for their mothers.'

`Just
give me the substance of his words.' `You were at their centre. An
unbeliever who lies with whores of both sexes and accuses Christ, the
apostles and John the Baptist of sharing your vice.' He gave me a
lascivious nod. `Tales of your debauching were our bedtime stories.'

`If
it were me they wanted, why not come direct?

The
gaoler's voice held contempt for a question he couldn't answer.

`If
there's a reason, you're more like to know it than me.' He shrugged
and resumed the tale. As the night grew darker our friend Kyd seemed
sure you had hidden the papers in his room yourself He said you would
do anything for money and thought it likely you were even now
enjoying the fruits of his arrest. He called you a double-dealer.' `I
loved him like a brother.'

The
old man heard the misery in my voice and looked towards me. The
movement twisted his body and for a moment it seemed like he was
beginning a gleeful dance.

`He
seemed to think you jealous of his writings, a wicked man who would
hand his friends to the authorities for gain.'

I
put my head in my hands and laughed, though it felt like crying. The
old man took me by the arm, his harsh whisper echoed against the
silence of the alley.

`Quiet,
the very stones are spies.' I shook my head.

`As
if I would so lightly cross a man who spends his days writing of
revenge.'

His
clawed hand dug deep into my flesh.

`I
doubt he'll write much now. Kyd said he thought you bound for
Scotland. It might be well for you if he were right.'

`I'll
know when it's time to flee.' The gaoler shook his head.

`You've
been in this life long enough to fathom how it works. You're safe as
long as they can use you. After that . . .' He hung his head limply
to one side, drawing up an imaginary rope, letting his tongue loll
from his mouth like a scaffold dancer. `If you want to stay alive,
think on what you can gift them. A man like you can always think of
something,' he smiled, `or someone. There's a particular friend of
yours who stands close to the rope. Put his head in it and save your
own.'