Tamburlaine Must Die (6 page)

And
I wish I had a secretary to mind my business.'

I
flicked at his ankle with my scabbard. He dodged the blow and bumped
a fellow standing behind him, splashing the man's drink onto the
floor. He was an old scurvy peasant and we outstared his annoyance
until he grumbled into a corner with the dregs of his drink and we
forgot the message in the next round of ale.

I
cast my gaze around the bar wondering who best to fall into
conversation with. I was hoping for a group of men whose confidences
could be bought with drink and wit. But my eyes were drawn to a lone
stranger. A small man in black hose and doublet, with a cape of the
same shade lined in red. His face was indistinct, hidden in the
tavern shadows and the broad brim of his hat, but I could make out
deep watchful eyes and a grey goatee beard. I thought he might pass
for the Devil and smiled to myself, for had Old Nick requested my
soul in exchange for earthly peace I would have obliged and thought
him the worse for the bargain.

I
nudged Blaize and said, `That cove seems over interested in us.'

Blaize
looked behind him.

`He's
about to fall into his cups and stares at us for some focus.' He
laughed. `The serving girls ignore him. You and I are the North Star
that will guide him to the bar and another drink.'

My
friend was usually shot through with suspicion and I wondered at his
new-found tolerance. I shook my head.

`It's
more than that.'

I
glanced back at the man, but he'd scented he was at the centre of our
discussion and began to rise unsteadily from his seat, his sword
tangling him lewdly like a third leg. Blaize laughed at the man's
awkwardness. But pretending you're unfit to handle a sword is a trick
as old as Adam. The stranger's clumsiness put me on edge and I felt
my hand drifting towards my weapon.

Blaize
noticed and whispered, `Think before you start trouble.'

`If
trouble comes looking, it will find me.' Aye,' he hissed, `and you'll
be as pleased as a dog in, a doublet, until you find yourself in
clink.'

Any
player will tell you it is hard to fake drunkenness. The man
staggered a little as he stepped towards us and I thought his acting
overdone. He noted my hostile stance and tut-tutted, raising his arms
in mock surrender. Some men at a nearby table spotted him for a soak
and laughed, drunk themselves, but sharp enough to relish another's
humiliation. The man paid them no mind and continued corkscrewing
towards us. As he stepped from the shadows I could see the ravages
drink had wrought, the broken nose skewed half across his face, the
scarred mouth sliced in drunken descent against the rim of a tavern
table, the deep lines that long restless nights had etched around his
eyes. I remembered talk from France, that he had been subjected to
the strappado and wondered less that I hadn't recognised him. If
Richard Baynes was the Devil, he was as tormented as any of his
subjects. He offered us a black-toothed smile.

`Is
this how you greet admirers?

I
felt Blaize's pride twitch. A peacock's tail that might unfurl full
fan if coaxed. Baynes bent into a bow that almost toppled him. Blaize
nodded, graciously accepting the salute. But it was not Blaize that
Baynes' dark tunnelled eyes looked on. It was me.

`Master
Marlowe, your plays do well.' His voice was thick with drink. `I
think of late you have given me as much pleasure as my wife and with
none of the aggravation.' He dissolved into merriment at his own wit.
`I'd be honoured if you'd join me in a drink.' He caught the
barmaid's eye and signalled deftly for three refills. A toast to
theatre.'

Blaize
drained his draft in one long gulp, hiding his expression behind his
cup. He set the empty vessel back on the bar, then wiped his mouth on
the back of his hand. When he spoke, his voice was laced with perfect
patience.

`So,
you know each other well?? 'Tolerably.'

'I
thought back to the little Dutch town of Flushing where we had shared
a room until Baynes, unnerved by the business in hand or hoping for
preferment, I was never sure which, accused me of coining and
blasphemy. I'd counter charged and we'd been dragged back, under
guard, to London, both of us guilty and unwilling to hang. Though it
should have, made me cautious, the memory was reassuring. I'd faced
disaster before and lived to meet it over again. I might yet survive
to hang another day and this faithless spy, who'd played the priest
for both sides, who slid and slipped through the darksome edges of
several cities, might be the key to unlock Tamburlaine.

Baynes
gave me a wink designed to exile differences to the past and raised
his cup toasting our friendship, unsure of Blaize and ready to slip
with espionage ease into any role assigned. I lifted my own drink,
returning the salute. The rims of our cups touched and our eyes met.
I smiled that I could think him Lucifer; he was at worst a minor
Devil, inclined to wickedness but without the wit to execute it
unaided.

`Master
Baynes is an habitue of the theatre.' `I visit as often as I can.'
The little man beamed at Blaize.

`He
likes its twists and turns, though sometimes it can frighten.'

Aye,
I have been frightened near to death on more than one occasion.'

Blaize
knew we spoke in riddles but could not fathom our purpose.

`Sometimes
I wonder that we call them plays,' he ventured.

Baynes
spluttered on his drink.

`True
enough, it often seems no game.' I gave Richard Baynes a warning
look, not wanting Blaize tangled in the kind of affairs with which
this imp concerned himself. He caught my meaning and changed tack,
asking Blaize, `And you, Sir, are you also a writer??

'I'm
better known for treading the boards.' `It's a wonder I have never
seen you. But no mind, we have met now and that calls for further
libation.'

I
stepped in to retrieve my friend's reputation. `This man is one of
the finest players in London.' .

Blaize
scowled at my speech. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped back more
ale. Baynes appeared immune to his distress. He laughed and clapped
the finest player in London on the back better to stir the pot of his
hubris.

`Then
I have most definitely seen you. It's just that I don't remember!'

Blaize's
darkening looks, bitter as an abandoned bride's, should have warned
me, but when Baynes dismissed Blaize and returned to me demanding,
`Now what about your poor damned Faustus?, I found myself laughing at
his attentions and the actor's distress.

Baynes
slammed the surface of the table. Our drinks trembled in their cups,
miniature oceans on the edge of a storm.

`Could
he not be saved? Zounds! Surely God would be merciful to such a
learned man?

In
these times when men turn the talk to religion, it is safer to draw
it to something else, like their mother's whoring, their father's
cupidity, children's stupidity. Better to compare his sister's
breasts and holiest parts with his wife's, than discuss Christ or the
apostles. I knew to be beware of Baynes and his like. He and I had
fished for traitors in our younger days using blasphemies for bait.
We were the same kind of men. And that should have been warning
enough. Yet, who understands you like your twin? The room swam and I
was at one with the tavern dwellers, the prostitutes and sinners. I
was with my own kind and this low place suited me better than all of
Walsingham's luxury and Ralegh's philosophising.

Baynes
swore on Christ's wounds and I answered, `God abandoned his own son.
Why should he be more merciful to Faustus? They weren't even close
kin.'

`No,'
the little man wagged a finger at me, and though his words were pious
his tone was all dissent. "Twas the Jews killed Christ. The same
dark race as pollute our land now.'

It
was nothing I hadn't heard before and my retort was well rehearsed.

`The
Jews were his own folk and knew him best. They had the choice between
Christ and Barrabas and chose Christ, though Barrabas was a thief and
a murderer. I can only suppose Christ deserved all he got, though
being the bastard son of a whore, it's no surprise he turned out
bad.'

I
placed my pipe between my teeth and started to light it. Baynes shook
his head, his clever grin caught in the light of my flame. His eyes
gleamed red, like a devilish cleric coaxing an inverted catechism
from a new wrested soul.

`You
can't think it so.'

I
took a draw and puffed smoke into his face. `Oh I do.' I was enjoying
myself now. `The angel Gabriel was but a bawd to the Holy Ghost. Did
he not solicit Mary and was not Christ the result?

Baynes
feigned shock.

`But
Christ gifted us the sacraments. He made us safe in God's love.'

An
evil love that requires his own child's blood as sacrifice.' I forgot
my mission to discover Tamburlaine. The drink had lifted my senses
until I delighted in the kind of blasphemies that set sober men
reciting prayers or singing hymns, because it is unsafe even to think
these truths. I stared Baynes in the eye and whispered, `If Christ
had any sense he would have made more ceremony of the sacrament. The
papists have the best idea. They know the theatre of religion. They
make a spectacle of the thing. I'd rather watch a show by some papist
priest with a shaven crown than a hypocritical Protestant ass.'
Blaize laughed, goading me to further outrage. `Christ knew nothing
of theatre. Better he should ...' I took another pull of my pipe
searching for inspiration. `. . . Better he should praise God with
tobacco than wafers.'

I
raised my cup to the room and felt all-powerful, cursing Christ and
his vengeful father to a man dressed in the Devil's colours.

Baynes
hissed, `But surely as a man of letters you must love the Bible. Is
it not the finest book ever written?

If
I had been sober, I would have marked he slurred less now than
before. But the thrill of drink and danger was on me. I laughed and
told him it was filthy done and were it up to me I would much improve
its style. My tomfoolery cheered Blaize, though he had heard it all
before. He laughed and coaxed me on.

`Tell
him what you think about the apostles.' And so it went, I spinning
blasphemies, Blaize encouraging my outrages and the small man
remonstrating irony as he fed us ale, until he emptied his purse, the
night drew dark and we sallied into the street.

P
Blaize reeled down the alley and stood against the wall, muttering to
himself as he fiddled with his codpiece. His mumbles ceased and I
heard the splash of his stream hiss against the wall. He sang softly
as he pissed. A child's lullaby. For some reason the song lowered my
spirits. I rallied all my optimism and slung an arm around Baynes,
declaring him my new brother and all past differences forgot. The
small man returned my hug and I thought him full of filial love. Then
the mood changed. His body stiffened and I realised his small frame
was more vigorous than I'd supposed. Suddenly he was pressing his
poniard into my waist, letting me feel its point, pushing hard enough
to pierce my doublet, but no further. He held my arm in a lock I
would not have believed him capable of. Then he put his face close to
mine and I thought I smelled a whiff of sulphur. I gasped against the
shock of his attack, gathering my breath to call for Blaize. But
Baynes pressed the knife deeper, piercing my flesh, slicing a cut
along my side, stopping, but promising more should I make a noise.
For a full second the street was silent save for our ragged breaths
and the sound of Blaize's stream. Then Baynes spoke. His voice
rasped, full of hatred and disgust, so different from the smooth
tones that had eased blasphemies from me.

`You're
a wicked man. Make your peace before you die. Your time is coming
soon.'

He
spat on my face and pushed me away. His footsteps rang slow and
insolent into the dark streets beyond. The drink heaved within me and
I bent over on the roadside, retching into the gutter. When I turned,
sword in hand, ready to stick him through, Baynes was nowhere to be
seen.

Blaize
weaved from the alley just as Baynes's steps died into silence. He
tucked himself safe within his breeches, laughing at my distress,
then flung his arm under mine. His touch came too fast on Baynes's
betrayal and I struggled against him. But he held me upright, half
crutch half rudder, steering me I knew not where. He staggered and
fell, pitching me forward. I heaved again and felt my head grow
clearer, though my heart felt sick with stupidity and fear. Blaize
struggled to his feet and misreading my dread for melancholy said, `I
have a room nearby and on the way we will collect a cure for your
malaise.' I watched as Blaize undressed the girl, unfastening her
bodice, being gentle with her for she was rightly nervous at being
alone with two men. I started to strip myself. We had visited this
vice before. I knew how it went and could think of no better way to
lose myself than this further degradation.