The Playmakers (23 page)

“Yes, where are you off to?” Kyd said,
suddenly turning after him, and realising his drinking partner was
leaving him.

Marlowe came back, leaned down close to Kyd’s
face, and said firmly, “To write, Thomas, to write …”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The words flowed quickly, in the freewheeling
verse style that came naturally to him.

Staying away from Rasa and avoiding the
taverns, Marlowe rapidly put the dialogue, scenes and characters
down on the cheap paper, driven by Kyd’s taunts and anxious to
prove to everyone that he was more than a re-writer of ancient
history. Inspired by the events that had shook the world, there
appeared before him on the pages a play about the defeat of the
Spanish Armada by the English, titled
Edward the
Third.

When Shakespeare and Budsby sensationally
promoted it - by converting the sedan chair into a galleon and
having the entire troupe dress up as Spanish and English sailors
and portray a mock sea-battle in the streets, complete with Rasa as
a near-naked nautical nymph - he knew he was on the road to
success.

And when the Lord Admiral’s Men, including
the new developing actor, William Shakespeare himself, did such a
sterling job on stage with it, drawing magnificent applause, he
felt he was on the verge of greatness.

As a follow-up, he extended
Edward the Third
into
Arden of
Faversham
- again, more contemporary history - and the sound
of hearty clapping thundered throughout the city after every
performance.

It inspired him to begin work on a new piece,
Henry VI
, a visionary work about French
and English relationships, and which he felt would work in three
parts.

“Any questions, Thomas?” Marlowe said one
night in Kyd’s poky little south London garret, stacked untidily to
the ceiling with papers, drafts, files and books.

“None that I can think of,” replied Kyd,
sitting gloomily at the tiny, scratched oak desk.

“Any comments, then?” said Marlowe, idly
pulling a sheet of paper from the pile nearest him and glancing
through it.

“About what?” said Kyd, snatching the paper
from him. “And I would appreciate it if you would not to read my
material, thank you very much!”

“About my work. Any comments about my
work?”

“Nothing, except that you have stolen my
Spanish idea!”

“Stolen!”

“I have been quietly working on a Spanish
piece - The Spanish Tragedy - for months, and now you have stolen
my thunder, if my not my words, with this Armada stuff.”

Marlowe looked puzzled. “Stolen? Thomas, I
knew nothing about your work. Besides, it was you that inspired me
to write something contemporary. You should be pleased.”

“Pleased? Huh! Now I have to re-think my
whole play.”

“It doesn’t matter, Thomas. By the time your
epic comes out, mine will be totally forgotten. That’s the thing
about plays. We write them, the people have a look at them, we
raise either the ire or the support of a few nobles, and then they
are forgotten until we can persuade some money-seeking printer to
publish them.”

Kyd turned to him. “I agree with you,
Christopher.”

“You agree with me? On which aspect?”

“That your Armada play will be soon
forgotten!”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

“However, mine will be such a masterpiece and
such a bloodthirsty saga, that all that has gone before it will be
erased from people’s memories, and it will live on forever. You
know, Christopher,” Kyd went on, leaning forward with eyes
sparkling, “I’m thinking that no one will be left standing alive on
stage. Just imagine, all my characters will be killed off!”

Marlowe smiled. At least when Thomas was
talking about his own writing, the jealousy and surliness went out
of his voice, replaced by an almost child-like enthusiasm.

“I’m sure it will be great, Thomas. It will
be brilliant. But if they are all killed, there’s no chance of The
Spanish Tragedy, Part Two, hey?” He clapped Kyd on the shoulder,
and the friends burst into laughter, a laugh so loud that the
vibrations caused a pile of papers in the corner to topple over,
making them giggle even more.

“My God,” said Marlowe, tears of mirth
streaming down his cheeks as the papers spilled at his feet, “you
must clean this place up, Thomas. How can you ever find anything?
It looks like a third-rate Turkish brothel.”

“And you would know!” said Kyd. And they
laughed the laugh of friends again, so loudly that, at first, the
knock on the door went unheard.

But, the second time, when it was repeated
loud enough to cut through their cackling, Kyd raised one hand and
said “Ssshhh”.

The third time, when the pounding on the door
could well have been heard north of the river, Kyd got up, took the
small candle with him, and walked the four paces across the tiny
room to the door. “Who on earth could that be?”

He swung the door open, and to his surprise,
found no one there.

He turned back into the room, shut the door,
and shrugged.

And Marlowe would reflect later that, from
that seemingly innocuous point on, he and Thomas Kyd never really
laughed heartily together again.

The mysterious beating on the door at Kyd’s
tiny garret was just the beginning.

The same thing happened at Marlowe’s own
little London rooms that Sir Thomas had rented for him - there
would be a knock, but no one there when he opened the door.

Before long, the pressure began to build.

Marlowe began to get the feeling he was being
observed closely.
Was that someone behind me? Is
that a shadow? Has someone been in my room?
These questions
plagued him more and more over the next few weeks as the feeling he
was under intense scrutiny built to almost unbearable levels.

He pitched himself into the writing of two
heavy-going plays,
The Jew of Malta
and
Doctor Faustus
, both disturbing pieces
about single-minded achievement of power at all costs. But not even
their remarkable portrayal by the Admiral’s Men over the next
months could totally alleviate the thought he was a marked man.

There was only one solution. Face the enemy.
But who was the enemy?

What did the enemy want?

Was there someone around who would know who
the enemy was?

He thought about this for a long time. Of
course there was! He should call a meeting of the people who were
in the best position to know.

A few days later, all of the troupe had
gathered in the inn - Marlowe, Kyd, Shakespeare, Budsby, Soho, Mr
Mullins, Rasa, Emily, Sarah, even Uncle Percy, sitting quietly in
his nightshirt at the end of the table and staring into the middle
distance.

But Samuel Davidson was the man Marlowe and
Kyd wanted to talk to.

“The person following the pair of you is … ”
said Davidson slowly. “Is … are you sure you want to know ..?”

“Of course, we want to know,” hissed
Marlowe.

“Yes, yes!” said Kyd. “That is why we have
come to you, Samuel. You know what is happening on the
streets.”

The strongman nodded. As well as getting
around town with the troupe and overhearing street-side comments,
he was able to glean extra, more secretive information from his
late-night journeys through the opposition taverns and inns to keep
Shakespeare abreast of what was going on.

“You have attracted the attention of Mr
Baines,” said Davidson evenly.

“Baines!” said Marlowe. “That awful man. The
personification of snivelling evil.”

“I’m lost,” said Kyd, looking from one to the
other. “Who is Baines?”

“You’ve never heard of Richard Baines?” said
Davidson.

“He’s the chief observer, spy if you wish,
for the Court of the Star Chamber,” added Marlowe, shaking his
head.

“The Star Chamber!” said Kyd. “Torture.
Hearings. Burnings! God save us.”

“I wish he could,” said Marlowe dryly.

There was silence.

“So, why is he after us?” Marlowe eventually
asked.

“Not sure, Mr Marlowe,” said Davidson. But he
winked imperceptibly. He knew.

And deep down in his heart, Marlowe had a
fair idea, too.

Being a Free Thinker. Taking mysterious
trips. Writing plays exposing weaknesses in society.

Carousing with friends in pubs, especially
the troubled and troublesome Kyd …

Above all, publicly expressing love for a
black woman.

All these things had their own individual
risks. But added together, they had a fascinating allure about them
for a man such as Baines, who made a living spying on people,
wrecking their careers, and often sending them to their doom.

“So I would be very careful if I was you,”
added Davidson. “Lay low. Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere.”

“But,” blurted Marlowe, “we are going to
Norwich in the next day or two.”

“Norwich!” boomed Budsby. “That awful place!
That’s where we lost the late lamented Hercules!”

“Norwich? That’s where we were lucky to make
a handful of pennies,” said Shakespeare.

“Norwich!” said Uncle Percy suddenly. “She
left me. That’s where she up and left me for!”

“Hmmm,” said Marlowe, “I take it Norwich is
not a good place to visit, then?”

The group laughed as one, but the feeling of
joy soon trailed off.

“Christopher,” said Budsby, rubbing the
silver cap of his stick, “the only good thing that came out of
Norwich for us was that we brought on board the wonderful Samuel
Davidson here, who saved our lives from murderous vagabonds in the
process.”

“So, Christopher,” said Shakespeare, “why
must you go there?”

“There is a friend of ours up there.”

“Francis Kett,” said Kyd.

“Did I hear it right?” asked Budsby. “Same
name as yours, Thomas?”

“No. It’s Kett, Mr Budsby, Kett. Not Kyd. No
relation, just a friend.”

“And why are you visiting this friend?” Sarah
asked.

“With supreme irony, considering we are now
the subject of the attention of Mr Baines. Francis Kett is also
before the Court of Star Chamber right now, as we speak.”

“Oh, my God,” said Budsby.

“That’s right,” said Kyd.

“And we would like to lend him support.”

“He’s a Free Thinker like Christopher.”

“But they are calling him an atheist.”

“An atheist?” said Shakespeare.

“Atheist,” said Percy suddenly. “The bastard
who took my wife was an atheist.”

“Well,” boomed Budsby, clapping his old
friend on the shoulder, “whatever comes of this, we seemed to have
sparked some sort of revival within the previously shattered mind
of my dear friend Percy, here!”

The group laughed again.

“We think we should at least attend the
court,” said Marlowe.

“Be in the crowd,” added Kyd.

“Show him that we believe in him,” concluded
Marlowe.

“Isn’t that dangerous in itself?” said
Shakespeare, looking worried.

“Probably. But no doubt it would be a comfort
for him if he could see some familiar faces in the crowd.”

“I’m not sure about this,” said
Shakespeare.

“Nor am I,” Budsby agreed. “Nor am I, young
Will.”

“Perhaps you are right,” added Kyd. “Chris,
do you think we should forget it?”

Marlowe gave his friend a look to show he
only needed one more push, and he would probably abandon the trip.
And why not?
he thought.
Here it is, 1589, he is aged 25, and the world is at his
feet.

“Christopher,” said Rasa suddenly, speaking
up for the first time, “you must do what you think is right. And if
you think your friend needs your support then you must go.”

There was a moment’s silence, as the pair
wavered on their decision.

Suddenly, Percy rose to his feet and banged
the table. “Norwich! Go to Norwich, young lads, and give that
scoundrel that took my wife a good hiding for me!”

As the laughter rang through the empty
tavern, Percy Fletcher sat down again and resumed staring into the
middle distance.

“Well, there’s the solution - we have at
least one mission to complete there, haven’t we?” said Marlowe.

There was burst of laughter, but it soon
trailed off.

The next morning, brimful of confidence, the
pair of young writers sat on the coach heading north-east.

A week later they returned to the tavern,
wondering why they had bothered to make the journey, so little was
the contribution they had made.

They failed to come across Mrs Fletcher and
her lover in Norwich, and had spent most of the time sitting
helplessly in the Court of the Star Chamber, watching their friend
be sent to his pre-ordained fate.

“The lies presented against Francis Kett were
overwhelming, the decision transparently pre-prepared, and any
defence cynically rejected,” Marlowe gloomily told the assembled
group when they returned. “And the burning at the stake itself!
These two bumbling fools assigned the task could not even get the
fire going properly.”