Tamburlaine Must Die (4 page)

`Free
counsel?

The
old man lifted his head and stared up at me, examining my features as
if storing them for future meetings. His face creased into a girn of
a grin, crimped lips gummed at the corners with yellowed saliva.

`You
seem tall enough to me, but there's always room on the rack if you
desire.' I couldn't wrest my gaze from the wrinkled smile. The
spitglued mouth. I placed another coin in the warder's hand. He felt
the weight of it, smiling as he accepted it as worthy of his due.
`It's good to gift the turnkey and the hangman, but better still
never to meet them.'

`True
words. Tell me, what brought them to Kyd's rooms??

'Don't
you know?

I
shook my head. When he spoke the old man's voice held echoes of the
torture chamber. `They thought he might be this new Tamburlame who
pasted the libel to the door of the Dutch church. Some say it should
have been you they sent for, but something drew them to Kyd. Maybe
some informer, eager for the hundred crowns offered for intelligence
of Tamburlaine, maybe something else.' He turned to go. `Be careful
my friend, all roads begin to lead to you.'

We
parted, each without a backward glance, leaving by opposite ends of
the lane. I felt infected by the stink of the alley, the weight of
Kyd's torture and the taint of the gaoler's friendship. The spiked
heads of criminals outside the gaol seemed to hold a smile for me
alone. Their steady stare put me in mind of a youth I had once
glimpsed across a crowded tavern. Neither of us spoke, neither made a
move towards the other, but we recognised that there would be
congress between us that night. True enough the boy trailed me from
the inn and what followed was sweet.

I
strode on, leaving the slack grins of the severed heads behind me,
but the image of my tongue roving their rotten mouths persisted. The
gaoler was right. There were many men I could betray. But probably
only one whose life would secure mine, at least for a while. I
wondered if he knew of my troubles, if he predicted my thoughts and
if he was even now considering whether to stick me before I did for
him.

The
shadows of St Paul's Cathedral cloak books to suit all humours.
Poetry, plays, songs and sonnets nestle beside prayer books and
improving tales. Fashionable romances, tied with ribbons the shades
of ladies' gowns, tumble against masculine manuals and dry theology.
Ballads, cheap at half a penny, and clumsy woodcuts, perfect to
brighten the bunks of homesick apprentices. Diseases of horse, man,
dog and nation. How to raise children or raise the Devil.
Descriptions of monstrous things and crimes that stretch credulity.
Italian illustrations only gentlemen can view without corruption.
It's all there if you know where to look.

The
bookshops that edge the churchyard are as different as the goods they
sell. Simple booths and shanty stalls hung with pamphlets bracket
three-storey tenements stuffed with volumes; warrens of learning to
rival Alexandria. Stationers and print shops are haunted by authors;
the humble hopefuls who try to wheedle a copy of their verse between
the rollers of the press, the arrogant who lament the ignorance of a
trade which rejects, or shifts too few copies to warrant the effort.

Mysterious
names painted in pictures swing above each doorway: The Half Moon and
The Hand; The Holy Ghost and Holy Lamb, The Bull's Head, Bishop's
Head, Tiger's Head and Maidenhead. St Paul's churchyard is one of the
safest places to lose yourself in London. Where grandees and
vagabonds, the sober and the foppish, young ladies and old men tread
the same paths and no one looks out of place.

The
bookstalls which cluster in the centre of the courtyard had been open
since seven that morning and now, in mid-afternoon, the strain of the
hours was showing on the booksellers' faces. Despite the crowds
business seemed slow. The stallholders were all sighs and raised
eyes, pursed mouths and pointed looks. They gossiped in low voices
amongst themselves, suddenly quitting conversations to hover amongst
the browsers. Casting unspoken curses on those who perused without
purchase.

It
was Thomas Blaize that I was searching for. My oldest and closest
friend and a player who wishes himself a poet. Blaize has published
verses that would set dogs howling, could they read. Never satisfied
with being amongst the finest of actors, he haunts the literary world
hoping to soak talent into his bones and foist his poetry onto
readers. Where better to search for my frustrated wordsmith than
amongst books? I spied him at last, deep in conversation with a grave
and greying scholar and drew close enough to hear the old man
bluster.

`I
am not obliged to buy a book simply because I put my hand upon it.'

Blaize
is long-faced, with large teeth and a high forehead topped by a
question mark of a fringe. His dark eyes and high cheekbones have
earned him the nickname of the Viper, but it was a satire on his soft
nature as much as his dark looks. Now he bared his teeth in a smile
and leaned towards the customer.

`I've
no quarrel with that.' The smile grew wider as Blaize raised his
voice in loud conversation as only an actor can. His words travelled
across the churchyard and booksellers and browsers turned towards the
commotion. `There are many fine books in the world.' He turned stage
sinister and held up the volume in question, a slim green-bound book
of verse I recognised as my friend's sole publication. `I just wish
to know what it was about this particular one that made you discard
it?

The
old man took a step back.

`I
have already said, it was nothing in particular.' He huffed a little,
looking for a reason that might free him of this pest. `Perhaps it
was the colour of the boards.'

Blaize
examined the book, raising it to the light, neatly side-stepping a
lunge from the ruffled bookseller whose property it was. A few
titters echoed around the bookstalls. Other days I would have joined
in the merriment, but now I wondered that he could jest with Kyd
racked and his closest friend contemplating Newgate. My heart
hardened as I watched him appeal to the audience.

`What
is wrong with these boards?

The
elderly man took another step backwards, but a small crowd had formed
and he found himself hemmed in.

`They're
rather dark. I fancy I like a brighter sort of cover.'

He
turned to go but the audience were enjoying the show and no one made
way for him. Blaize raised his large hands behind the man's back as
if, consumed by rage, he was about to grab the ignoramus and hurl him
across the churchyard. He lowered his arms with slow theatricality,
mugging desperate expressions, emphasising the strength required to
restrain himself. The crowd laughed. The elderly man turned towards
his tormentor as if scalded, but Blaize was once more composed and
complaining.

`I
saw you open the volume before replacing it. You perused a page,
raised your eyes to the ceiling, then slammed it shut quite abruptly.
There was a look on your face, a look of ...' he hesitated, `a look I
can't describe.'

The
man regarded him with exasperation.

`Then
perhaps it was the print, it is after all rather small and I am a man
of middle years. Or, perhaps it was that the author seemed unable to
describe all that he wished.'

The
crowd greeted this sally with laughter. Blaize acknowledged his
rival's hit, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.

`Sir,'
he said when the merriment had subsided. `I am going to make you a
present of this book.'

The
customer backed away.

`I
can't accept a gift from a stranger.' `There is no obligation in
accepting a book from its author, except to read it.'

The
man looked like this might be the kind of obligation he feared.
Someone shouted, `You've had enough sport from the old fellow. Don't
torture him with your poetry.'

There
was more laughter and a flash of genuine irritation crossed my
friend's face. He recovered quickly and held up a hand against more
interruptions.

`Now,'
Blaize went on, `I take it you are a regular visitor to St Paul's?
The man nodded, tentatively. `I am also here most days perusing the
stalls. When we next meet you can tell me what you think on this book
and whether you were wise to so lightly pass it by ...'

Perhaps
he saw me from the corner of his eye or maybe he felt the weight of
my stare upon him because Blaize ceased his patter mid-sentence. He
turned as if he heard someone call him, then suddenly we were eye to
eye.

Kit.
His mouth soundlessly formed my name. I thought I had never seen him
so pale and wondered if he was sickening. Forgetting his sport,
Blaize pushed through the crowd, coming towards me like a man woken
from a dream.

Behind
him the stallholder petitioned the elderly man for the price of the
poems. The man began to insist the book had been gifted directly to
him, by the author himself. The crowd started to disperse as a
second, more pedantic argument broke out between the two elderly men.

Blaize
kept his eyes on me, unaware of the show behind him.

`I
thought you lost.' `Near enough.'

He
put his hand on my shoulder. It was the first friendly touch I'd felt
since Walsingham's. I reached towards it putting my hand briefly on
his. He glanced at me and I felt his understanding and his fear and
regretted doubting his affection. I remembered I might be placing him
in danger and said,

`Perhaps
we shouldn't be seen together.' Blaize withdrew his hand.

`Perhaps,
but I'm glad you came to me. Come on, there are plenty of places
round here where we may be private.'

Blaize
led me along a damp and leafy lane towards the charnel chapel. I knew
where we were headed, Blind Grizzle's. A small, dimly lit concern,
run by Grizzle, an ancient bookseller who could no longer see yet
plied his wares with an expertise born of memory.

One
day, consensus had it, Grizzle would be lamped by some ruffian who
would make off with his takings, maybe even the gold he was rumoured
to have hidden in some secret place. But, though logic supposed the
shop should be beset by thieves, the old man rarely lost a book. He
had strung the ceiling of the tiny premises with tinkling bells which
trembled as you trod the uneven boards and the floor was scattered
with piles of books Grizzle had mapped in his mind, but which often
wrong-footed customers. He had a companion, Hector, a clever dog, who
marked visitors' comings and goings with a low growl, half welcome,
half warning of what would befall anyone foolish enough to trouble
his master.

The
old man and his dog were the booksellers' mascot. Held up as an
example of canine devotion and triumph over infirmity. And those of
his trade rallied to help, though Blaize maintained they were in
league with the hound and cheated Grizzle of his best stock right
under his sightless eyes. We'd visited the shop together often and
knew the old man well, but I wasn't sure of choosing it as a place to
exchange confidences. I leaned towards Blaize and whispered, `Blind
men have sharp ears.'

And
tight tongues.' Grizzle turned his unseeing gaze on us. `Go into my
quarters and talk private there if there is something you'd rather I
didn't hear.'

`We
mean no slight.' Blaize put his hand on the man's arm and I noticed
that Hector remained silent. `Some things are better not heard.'

The
old man sighed.

`And
yet you bring them to my shop.'

The
back room was dark and musty, heaped high with volumes. I tripped
over something in the gloom and my sword glanced against a column of
books. I swore and put my hand towards the teetering pile. It
trembled upright for a second, then Blaize laughed and the books
tumbled spine over page into a splayed and jagged mound. The dog
barked and Grizzle shouted, `Be careful what you are about. These
books are all arranged.'

Blaize
returned his call.

`No
harm done. We'll sort them before we go.' There was a grumbling from
the main shop, then the dog and the old man settled and we were left
in silence.

We
sat side by side on the bed. Blaize patted my hand once, but
otherwise we didn't touch, barely looked at each other as we
recounted our bad news.

I
spoke first, telling of my sudden summons from Walsingham's house, my
interrogation by the Council, my unexpected release and the news of
Kyd that the turnkey had given me. I left out the night-time
encounter with my patron, even best friends should not be trusted
with news that might hang you. Blaize shook his head in disbelief at
the outrages in my tale. But when I reached the end and the gaoler's
advice to flee to Scotland, his mood lifted and he laughed saying,