Tamburlaine Must Die (9 page)

The
old man nodded to his assistant, who rose in wordless understanding
and retrieved the document he had been signing when I entered. He
laid it before me with the assurance of a man revealing a trump card.

There
in front of me were all my blasphemies of the night before, black on
white, crawling across the page. The clerk who transcribed it had a
fine hand. But his twirling capitals and curving curlicues were
nothing to my flourishes. The pace of the evening was in my talk. It
was a shame it had not been illuminated by the monks of old. They
could have punctuated the text with gilded cups of ale. Here one
drink sponsoring mild dissension, a second embellishing the theme, a
third, fourth, fifth promoting profanities which might hang me. My
own words ripped at my body, a stone in my stomach, claw at my
throat. The sensation seemed like an augur of the gallows and the
quarterman and for the first time in this strange adventure I
panicked. I snarled, `What lies are these?

And
moved to grab the page, but the younger man was quicker. He whisked
the paper swift from beneath my reaching fingers. As my palm hit the
table the old man moved, faster than I could have guessed, stabbing
his knife into the back of my hand, with no more hesitation than if
it had been a lump of wood or slice of fruit. He marked his aim,
slick-sliding into the difficult channel betwixt the bones, straight
through it seemed. I roared and the knife withdrew as fast as it had
pierced. The servant who'd first brought me dived into the room. He
took in the scene, relaxing as he noted it was my blood and not his
master's that pooled the table.

`Marlowe
has had an accident, perhaps you could oblige him with a bandage?

I
held my hand against my chest, aware of the blood ruining my doublet,
but too seared by pain to let go. The steward returned with hot water
and a dressing, which he applied with battlefield expertise. The old
man smiled.

`Perhaps
I should have mentioned, this is not the only copy of the document.
They are signed and witnessed and coupled with the charges already
against you ...'

He
trailed off as if too polite to mention the consequences should my
blasphemies be revealed. The old man's tone betrayed nothing of the
drama between us, but I fancied there was a better colour in his
cheeks. `There is a need for blood. It will either be yours or
Raleigh's. Raleigh's would suit me best, but yours will do should
circumstance insist.'

I
spoke through gritted teeth. `What is your proposition??

'if
you sign an affidavit against Raleigh we will destroy this document
and aid you in your current difficulties.'

`And
if not??

'No
one can help a man who will not help himself'

They
gave me two days. I clutched my bandaged hand and stared at the
scores on the table wondering if they had all been gouged by the old
man's knife. His tone was mildness and business now, weighing the
cost of my life as a merchant weighs his stock.

`You
would be well advised to sign immediately. We would remove Raleigh
and with him any threat he may pose to you.'

`I'll
take the two days' grace.'

At
the end of that we will send someone to meet with you. You can sign
and watch the evidence against you burn, or take the consequences.
The choice is yours.'

`Are
you Tamburlaine? I asked, half dazed. And he laughed.

`Put
that impostor from your mind. Whoever he might be, his threats are
nothing compared to ours.'

`Death
is the same whoever brings it.'

He
gave me a last look and asked, `Do you really think so?' That night
I. followed the Thames out of the city. A full moon lit my progress,
hanging low in the sky as if the weight of its silver was dragging it
from the firmament. The moon man's face gaped, eyes shocked wide,
mouth frozen in a warning scream. Around him stars glowed brilliant
as any theatre backcloth. I looked up at the heavens and felt alone.
Below me the river pressed on, dark and relentless, swirling with
secret currents. I wondered how many deaths it held. Pregnancies and
broken hearts, murders slid beneath its tide, drunkards, debtors,
kittens and cuckolds all lost. I wondered if the day would ever come
when the dead would rise from its embrace and face their persecutors.
I repeated to myself the final line of Baynes's note to the Council,
`I think all men in Christianity ought to endeavour that the mouth of
so dangerous a member may be stopped.' And vowed that if I were
murdered to drag my dead body from whatever grave it were thrown in
and hound my foes beyond mercy.

Priest
Parsons said Raleigh ran a school for atheists, where men learned to
spell God backwards. But I doubt Raleigh would entertain any
incapable of that poor trick. All of one summer I was a frequent
visitor to Sherborne, the palace the Queen had plucked from a
bishop's living when she was Raleigh's Cynthia. There was no
conjuring done there. But Raleigh was host to amazing men. When he
swapped one Bess for another and so lost influence, things that had
only been whispered against him began to be said out loud.

Men
like me were poison to Raleigh's reputation. But he thought us worth
the risk. It was at his house that I met Thomas Harriot, who had
ventured to the new world. Harriot told us that these new lands were
awash with antiquities, which preceded Moses's time and that the
natives there had histories of their own which recorded no great
flood. Under Raleigh's roof we questioned the composition of souls,
smoked tobacco and got drunk on dangerous talk.

Though
it would grieve me, I was willing to betray Raleigh to save myself.
But Raleigh's star had risen and fallen so many times, I wasn't sure
that to be the agent of his demise would secure my life. Yet rumours
that I was out to dispose of him would certainly be a death penalty.
Men do not live as long and as close to the sun as Raleigh has
without being ruthless enough to dispatch rivals, however much he
might like their verse. After all, poetry can be pressed between the
pages of other works while the poet's head grins on a spike or lolls
in a ditch.

I
wasn't reckless in my preparations. I'd disguised myself as best I
could, tying my hair back and dressing in working men's clothes. It
was not the first time I had worn this guise and I liked myself well
enough in the simple cloth breeches and waistcoat. But it seemed, as
I'd watched my reflection shave by candlelight, that I was no longer
the handsome dramatist who had beguiled Walsingham a few short days
ago. There were lines where there had been none before. And it struck
me that if this adventure saw my death, I would not die a young man.

Mortlake,
there's a dread about that name. The village has no pond, but I fancy
there must have been one once. Some stagnant tarn so wreathed in mist
and bloated with bodies that the villagers filled it in, though they
could not banish its name. I'd muffled my horse's shoes with sacking,
but the dull thud of his hooves sounded loud against the deathly
quiet of the hamlet. No lights shone from windows, no dogs barked at
my approach. All were abed, tucked safe and warm between the sheets,
and it was eerie to be the only man moving in that deserted place. I
guided my horse along the main street, turned towards the church and
saw, frozen on the opposite side of the road, a dark-robed figure
standing tall and slender in the moonlight.

Despite
the losses he had suffered since we'd last met, his sixty years sat
easy on Dr Dee. The old magus opened his garden gate, making no
comment on my disguise, and invited me through with an abstracted air
I knew belied the sharpness of his wit. The geography of Dee's home
is hard to fathom. Under the doctor's hand his mother's simple
dwelling has sprouted long winding corridors which wrap around and
through themselves, budding new rooms, branching into halls,
encrusting the old house in a labyrinth where somewhere hides his
library, laboratories and secret oratories. The house was wreathed in
smells as complex as its map. I thought I could detect sulphur and
dung in the mix and decided to analyse no more. Dee's sure step led
on and I followed, wishing I had a trail of pebbles or ball of string
to aid my return. He spoke a little as we walked, glancing back over
his shoulder to cast reassuring smiles laced with pity. His Celtic
lilt gave a freshness to his speech. But they were inconsequential
words, designed to put me at my ease and I replied in dull fashion.
Soon he fell silent and the only sound was the fall of our footsteps
and the soft sweeping of Dee's robe. Eventually, when we were
somewhere near the centre of the house, he led me into a small
octagonal room lined with books and bade me sit. He busied himself at
a stove and I wondered what kind of necromancy he was engaged on.
When he joined me at the table he passed me an herbal `Then we are at
odds. If I don't hand Raleigh over, I die.'

Dee
smiled sadly.

`If
you try, even if you succeed, you'll die. Raleigh will make certain
of it.'

`So
I die either way??

'All
I can say is Raleigh will not countenance any attack from you. Sign
papers against him, and you sign your own death warrant. Undertake to
leave him alone and should you die, he'll grant you immortality.'

I
looked around the room taking in Dee's jars and books, the potions
and strange instruments that aid him in his famous art. I laughed.

`Old
man, I do not wish to be immortal as a speck of dust or wisp of
smoke, nor do I wish to become one of your angels.' I smiled. `I
doubt the gown would fit.'

Dee
shook his head impatiently.

`Your
ignorance shines like phosphor. How could I make you immortal? I said
he offers you immortality - Raleigh. He wants an alliance. If you
promise not to sign this affidavit, he pledges not to dispatch you.
He can't banish your enemies, but he reveres your talent. Raleigh
promises not to pursue you if you make a pact. He also undertakes
that should you die, he'll ensure your writings live beyond your
death, beyond these troubled times and into the future.'

`Raleigh
makes a promise he can't deliver. My work will die with me.'

`No.
For a while it may seem lost, but there are always men who recognise
worth. We will keep your flame alive with them and when the time is`
right sow the seeds of your renaissance. I guarantee that if you
spare Raleigh, even if it be your death, men will know of the genius
of Christopher Marlowe. Four hundred years hence and beyond they will
perform your plays and write your story. Surely,' Dee smiled kindly,
`that is the only immortality you would acknowledge?'

Night
was fading by the time I left Dee, but the river looked no better by
dawn's light. I wondered

what
kind of a death drowning would be, thought of Raleigh and remembered
his talk of voyages to the New World.

One
evening when pipe smoke had mellowed our talk from science into
reminiscence, he'd told me how the green bloated body of a stranger
had once rushed from the deep, fallen from some other vessel he
supposed, though he had thought his ship the only one to reach these
uncharted waters. The body had bobbed on the surf, riding the tide as
round and as buoyant as an inflated bladder. The captain had ordered
the crew to drown the cursed man again. But sailors are
superstitious, they'd claimed it an augur of the future and defied
him to the point of mutiny. The captain had retreated and the drowned
man trailed them half a day, caught in the ship's swell, banging
against the hull with the even thud of an undertaker's hammer until
they lost him somewhere in the terror-stricken night.

I'd
asked Dee if he had any knowledge of Tamburlaine. He'd stared into
the distance.

`If
Kelly were here, he could skry for us. I've no doubt he might find
the identity of your foe in the crystals.'

I'd
shaken my head.

`I
trust your wisdom more than his. I've told you all I know, what does
it make you think?? 'This person tries to write in your fashion?

The
style of the note was yours you say?? 'Inferior to mine, but with the
same rhythm, he talked of my plays.'

Dee
had smiled.

`You're
vain even in extremis.'

Then
he'd laid his hands on the table and raised his face upwards. Dee's
mouth took on a serious set and his eyes lost their focus. The
candles flickered. Shadows hung in the hollows of his face, and I
felt I could see the skull beneath the skin as white as any death
mask. We sat for a moment in silence, then he began to speak in his
soft voice, his Welsh accent more pronounced than before, hesitating
now and then as he grasped for words.

`The
person who wrote this libel admires you even as he sets in motion
wheels that may kill you ... He cloaks himself in the identity of
your creation, as near to being you as he can get ... He would rather
make himself Marlowe, but while Marlowe lives he will settle on the
most ruthless of your heroes. Or perhaps the one he thinks most like
you ... There is jealousy and love in this mix. Your enemy
Tamburlaine is a man who wishes to be you and yet wishes to kill you
... and so invites his own death.'