The Marlowe Papers Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ned.
                                                                 His brows rose up
    like a crowd for an ovation.
                                                       ‘This is news.’
    ‘Valuable news?’
                               ‘I’ll double the summer gates
    with the right plays in place.’ Handing a purse
over to Tom unconsciously, his eyes
still taking the words in.
                                                   ‘On the fire,’ Tom said,
    and Ned obeyed. It curled up, black as nightmares.
     
    ‘We will defeat them,’ Watson said, quite firm.
‘We will defeat them, Ned. You mark my word.’

MIDDELBURG
    At Middelburg, the printer’s twitchy eye,
its odd, incessant winking, puts me off.
My accent deteriorates. ‘Monsieur Le Doux.
You have a trunk for me?’
                                                 The facial tic
    suggests he has it hidden. ‘Not at all.’
‘It didn’t come?’ His wink says nothing more.
‘If I give you this angel?’ ‘There you are.’
He snaps the money up. ‘It’s stored out back.’
I follow him through. An apprentice at the press
brings down black letter on to pristine sheet.
I check the contents. ‘Everything is there,’
he says politely. ‘Books are valuable
but far too heavy to stand in for gold.
I have some English titles you might like.
Things you can’t get a licence for. You know?’
The one time winking might have seemed to fit,
his face is motionless as masonry.
‘Religious tracts of various persuasions.
Wider debate than the English Queen allows.’
‘You publish poetry?’
                                         ‘If it will sell.
    None at the moment. You have written verse.’
He knows. It’s not a question. ‘I have seen
your manuscripts.’ He shrugs apology.
‘When I was checking things against your list.
There might be a market for the saucy ones.’
‘We may do business later,’ I reply,
tucking a ream of paper beneath my arm.
‘For now, I’m at these lodgings. Send the trunk
as soon as you can manage.’ He folds the slip
into his pocket, winks me to the street.
     
    I write all night. The lady of the house,
who provided extra candles for a mark,
is snoring on her purse. The moon is low;
a cat is prowling shadows on the stairs
and when I stop, my losses crowding in,
I think of your lips, one kiss. As though I live.
But I am the ruined queen of ancient Rome
who killed herself, and left her words to sing.
     
    At noon, the trunk arrives between two boys
who frown at my shilling. The tall one kicks the short
to dig out a piece of parchment, firmly sealed:
‘Arrived this morning, sir.’ Another coin
and both skulk off. It is addressed ‘Le Doux’;
the seal’s unknown to me; the hand inside
is unfamiliar. But beside the words
is sketched the outline of a marigold.
‘Meet me at one. The Flanders Mare. T.T.’

TAMBURLAINE THE SECOND
    ‘Oh, that was something. This’ll run for weeks.’
Over my shoulder, ‘Robert, sir, you’re late!
Where were you at this young man’s play?’ Ned barks.
Greene almost flinches. ‘Though there’s nothing I
would rather do than laud another’s art,
I was unwell.’ There is a hint of truth
around his lips; the lightest tint of green
reflected from his cloak, or in his blood
from the rumoured diet of fish and Rhenish wine.
Tonight, exaggerating for effect,
Greene is his name, his nature and attire.
     
    ‘On rewarding myself with a pint or two of wine
for finishing that script I promised you,
I find my head inoperative, too full
to take this young man’s pounding poetry.
But, Marlowe, you’re well, I trust. Another triumph?’
     
    ‘Marley,’ I say.
                               ‘That doesn’t have the ring
    an