OOC: canon, Shakespeare's tale
Jun. 16th, 2007 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no_sin_butWalsingham decided to use actors as spies. Actors were his eyes and ears. Then he made an exciting discovery. He hired a brilliant young man called Christopher Marlowe – everyone called him “Kit” Marlowe. Kit didn’t just act. Kit wrote plays. Kit wrote the most wonderful plays ever performed on the English stage! He wrote in poetry that was like music – he wrote about characters who came alive in front of your eyes – he wrote about stories that made you laugh or cry or shudder with fear…and sometimes all at once.
When I saw his play Tamburlaine I knew that I wanted to write plays like that. I sought our Marlowe to ask for his advice. After all, he’d been to university and learned all those skills – I’d only been to the school in Stratford.
I found Marlowe in one of his favourite places, one of the lowest, filthiest taverns in London. Playwrights aren’t paid much – three or four pounds for a play – and spies are only paid when they produce some useful information. So Marlowe was always short of money. I know that, but I also believe that he went to those cheap taverns because he enjoyed the atmosphere. He loved the crime and filth and the very danger. Marlowe loved danger. Marlowwas danger.
I met him in a London alehouse, where the roof beams brushed your head and the horn windows let in as much light as a dungeon. He was the same age as me, but he seemed much older.
“I want to write plays like you, Master Marlowe,” I said.
“Then do it.”
“What?”
“Do it. Don’t tell me about it. Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. Do it.”
“Where do I start?”
“With a quill, a pot of ink and a sheet of paper,” he said.
Kit Marlowe had a round, wide-eyed face and a fine beard. He looked so young and lively, yet his heart was as old and cold as the River Thames itself. Those wide eyes were tiger-bright. Somehow that hard man wrote plays that would melt stones. I knew him for five years, yet never came close to understanding him.
When I had bought him enough to drink he became more mellow. I picked at his brains till I had enough clues and set off to write my first play, Titus Andronicus. My own company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, bought it and it was a success. It was a crude piece, an excuse to shed blood and show endless murders on the stage, but it was popular. It’s still one of my most popular plays.
The next time I met Marlowe he had changed towards me. He showed me more respect. “Tell me, Shakespeare,” he said, “do you make a living from your writing and acting?”
I sighed. “I am an actor-sharer so I get some of the profits from the theatre. But I have a wife and three children back in Stratford. I can keep myself, but I wish I had more money to send to them.”
He looked at me carefully and shifted on the inn bench so his mouth was close to my ear. “Would you like to make some more money?”
“Of course,” I told him.
“Then you can work for Secretary Walsingham, the way I do.”
“The Queen’s secretary? What could I do for him?”
“A lot, my friend. A lot. If I take you to him, will you swear not to tell anyone of the meeting?”
“Yes,” I said. I was uncertain, but excited at the thought of meeting someone so near to the Queen.
“Then follow me,” he said.
[…]
But, of course, it was all an illusion – a dream, like one of my plays.
I discovered that when I met Kit Marlowe that last time. The last time ever. He came to my rooms at Holywell Street in Shoreditch. He worked much harder at his spying than I had ever done. He slept little and spent most of his time in the meanest taverns in London. It showed in his face. His skin had once been smooth and pale, now it was blotched and coarse.
It was early morning and he looked as if he hadn’t been to bed. His eyes were red and sore and his clothes were dirty and carelessly thrown on.
“Are you well, Kit?” I asked him.
“Not as well as you, William Shakespeare,” he spat.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“While you grow fat and rich, I am barely surviving. Do you know I was arrested for having Catholic books in my possession?”
“I’d heard,” I said.
“It’s not true! They were planted there!”
The world of spying was a world of lying and treachery. I could well believe that Marlowe had upset his masters and was being blamed for things he hadn’t done. They could invent some crime and have him locked away.
“I’m sure you are innocent,” I said.
He turned on me, his eyes wild, “This Cecil is a traitor!” he shouted.
I hurried to the door to make sure that no one had heard that insane cry. Men had been executed for saying less than then. “Hush, Marlowe!” I said.
He lowered his voice, but spoke faster and more angrily. “The Queen is getting old. Cecil will survive her. He wants to choose the next monarch. He will support James VI of Scotland and James will reward Cecil when he takes the Queen’s throne.”
“Probably.”
“But I am not one of Cecil’s men. I was Walsingham’s man. Cecil doesn’t like him – nor does he like Skeres and Frizer,” he said. “If James IV takes the English throne, I will be murdered. Cecil will make sure of that.”
“No, Kit!” I said.
“Yes, William,” he hissed. “This criminal charge is just the start of it. He’ll get me locked away and forgotten. Then, when the time is right, I’ll be quietly done to death. Just like Henry VI in your play.” Suddenly his creased face relaxed. “I saw it last week, William. A great play. You are becoming a better writer than me!”
“If you spent more time in the theatre and less on spying, you could writer better,” I suggested.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I’m in too deep. There’s only one way out of this. I have to leave England now.”
“And go where?”
“The Continent. Anywhere. I’m meeting Skeres and Frizer today. We’ll plan something. Then the London theatres will be all yours, my friend. After tomorrow, Kit Marlowe, the playwright, is dead. I only hope Kit Marlowe, the man, can survive.”
I was shocked at the loss. Marlowe would be greater than me if he would only keep on writing.
I took his hand and grasped it. “I understand why you have to go…but you must come back one day – when the old Queen dies.”
“If James VI is on the throne, and Cecil is his secretary, Kit Marlowe can never come back. Good luck, William Shakespeare,” he said. “The English theatre is all yours, my friend. I leave it in your good hands.
And he left. I was too shaken to do anymore writing that night.
When I arrived at the theatre the next morning for rehearsal, there was only one subject on every man’s lips. The book-keeper took me to one side of the stage, his face like a tombstone. “It’s Kit Marlowe, Master Shakespeare. He was at a tavern in Deptford last night. There was a fight. Marlowe was stabbed in the eye.”
“Was he badly injured?” I asked.
“He was killed, Master Shakespeare. Killed.”
When I saw his play Tamburlaine I knew that I wanted to write plays like that. I sought our Marlowe to ask for his advice. After all, he’d been to university and learned all those skills – I’d only been to the school in Stratford.
I found Marlowe in one of his favourite places, one of the lowest, filthiest taverns in London. Playwrights aren’t paid much – three or four pounds for a play – and spies are only paid when they produce some useful information. So Marlowe was always short of money. I know that, but I also believe that he went to those cheap taverns because he enjoyed the atmosphere. He loved the crime and filth and the very danger. Marlowe loved danger. Marlowwas danger.
I met him in a London alehouse, where the roof beams brushed your head and the horn windows let in as much light as a dungeon. He was the same age as me, but he seemed much older.
“I want to write plays like you, Master Marlowe,” I said.
“Then do it.”
“What?”
“Do it. Don’t tell me about it. Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. Do it.”
“Where do I start?”
“With a quill, a pot of ink and a sheet of paper,” he said.
Kit Marlowe had a round, wide-eyed face and a fine beard. He looked so young and lively, yet his heart was as old and cold as the River Thames itself. Those wide eyes were tiger-bright. Somehow that hard man wrote plays that would melt stones. I knew him for five years, yet never came close to understanding him.
When I had bought him enough to drink he became more mellow. I picked at his brains till I had enough clues and set off to write my first play, Titus Andronicus. My own company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, bought it and it was a success. It was a crude piece, an excuse to shed blood and show endless murders on the stage, but it was popular. It’s still one of my most popular plays.
The next time I met Marlowe he had changed towards me. He showed me more respect. “Tell me, Shakespeare,” he said, “do you make a living from your writing and acting?”
I sighed. “I am an actor-sharer so I get some of the profits from the theatre. But I have a wife and three children back in Stratford. I can keep myself, but I wish I had more money to send to them.”
He looked at me carefully and shifted on the inn bench so his mouth was close to my ear. “Would you like to make some more money?”
“Of course,” I told him.
“Then you can work for Secretary Walsingham, the way I do.”
“The Queen’s secretary? What could I do for him?”
“A lot, my friend. A lot. If I take you to him, will you swear not to tell anyone of the meeting?”
“Yes,” I said. I was uncertain, but excited at the thought of meeting someone so near to the Queen.
“Then follow me,” he said.
[…]
But, of course, it was all an illusion – a dream, like one of my plays.
I discovered that when I met Kit Marlowe that last time. The last time ever. He came to my rooms at Holywell Street in Shoreditch. He worked much harder at his spying than I had ever done. He slept little and spent most of his time in the meanest taverns in London. It showed in his face. His skin had once been smooth and pale, now it was blotched and coarse.
It was early morning and he looked as if he hadn’t been to bed. His eyes were red and sore and his clothes were dirty and carelessly thrown on.
“Are you well, Kit?” I asked him.
“Not as well as you, William Shakespeare,” he spat.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“While you grow fat and rich, I am barely surviving. Do you know I was arrested for having Catholic books in my possession?”
“I’d heard,” I said.
“It’s not true! They were planted there!”
The world of spying was a world of lying and treachery. I could well believe that Marlowe had upset his masters and was being blamed for things he hadn’t done. They could invent some crime and have him locked away.
“I’m sure you are innocent,” I said.
He turned on me, his eyes wild, “This Cecil is a traitor!” he shouted.
I hurried to the door to make sure that no one had heard that insane cry. Men had been executed for saying less than then. “Hush, Marlowe!” I said.
He lowered his voice, but spoke faster and more angrily. “The Queen is getting old. Cecil will survive her. He wants to choose the next monarch. He will support James VI of Scotland and James will reward Cecil when he takes the Queen’s throne.”
“Probably.”
“But I am not one of Cecil’s men. I was Walsingham’s man. Cecil doesn’t like him – nor does he like Skeres and Frizer,” he said. “If James IV takes the English throne, I will be murdered. Cecil will make sure of that.”
“No, Kit!” I said.
“Yes, William,” he hissed. “This criminal charge is just the start of it. He’ll get me locked away and forgotten. Then, when the time is right, I’ll be quietly done to death. Just like Henry VI in your play.” Suddenly his creased face relaxed. “I saw it last week, William. A great play. You are becoming a better writer than me!”
“If you spent more time in the theatre and less on spying, you could writer better,” I suggested.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I’m in too deep. There’s only one way out of this. I have to leave England now.”
“And go where?”
“The Continent. Anywhere. I’m meeting Skeres and Frizer today. We’ll plan something. Then the London theatres will be all yours, my friend. After tomorrow, Kit Marlowe, the playwright, is dead. I only hope Kit Marlowe, the man, can survive.”
I was shocked at the loss. Marlowe would be greater than me if he would only keep on writing.
I took his hand and grasped it. “I understand why you have to go…but you must come back one day – when the old Queen dies.”
“If James VI is on the throne, and Cecil is his secretary, Kit Marlowe can never come back. Good luck, William Shakespeare,” he said. “The English theatre is all yours, my friend. I leave it in your good hands.
And he left. I was too shaken to do anymore writing that night.
When I arrived at the theatre the next morning for rehearsal, there was only one subject on every man’s lips. The book-keeper took me to one side of the stage, his face like a tombstone. “It’s Kit Marlowe, Master Shakespeare. He was at a tavern in Deptford last night. There was a fight. Marlowe was stabbed in the eye.”
“Was he badly injured?” I asked.
“He was killed, Master Shakespeare. Killed.”
