‘Has anyone seen Kit?’
Thomas Sledd sometimes thought that if he had a silver piece for every time he had said that, he wouldn’t be slogging his guts out working for Philip Henslowe. He would be living in luxury somewhere downstream, with his own waterman ready to take him wherever he wanted to go, walking in his extensive grounds, his silk and lace-clad wife walking serenely by his side … He shook himself out of his reverie and looked around him. The usual chaos prevailed; wood shavings coated the floor and, it seemed, every horizontal surface they could find. Canvases hung limply from nails driven randomly into the walls. Within their folds were towns, gardens, palaces and rooms which, from the groundlings’ pit, could fool even the discerning. Up here, close and personal, they looked like the daubs they were, painted by anyone who had a minute and could draw a straightish line. They had had one scenery hack who at least had a little talent. What was his name? Gower, that was it, George Gower – but he had come in one day, all nerves and shyness, to say he had another job. Tom wondered sometimes just what had happened to him …
‘I said,’ he bellowed, ‘has anyone seen Kit Marlowe?’
Tom Sledd’s bellowing was just part of the background noise and few took any notice. The sawing continued unabated and the actors in the corner carried on trying to out-shout each other. It was just another typical night at the Rose, with the new production just one day from opening. Tom chewed anxiously at a thumbnail and scurried off in search of someone who always kept a weather eye on what Marlowe was doing, and all for love.
Up in the attic, tucked under the eaves and even higher than Philip Henslowe’s eyrie, the seamstresses sat in serried rows, stitching for all they were worth. Like the canvas backdrops, their creations wouldn’t pass muster close to, but from a distance they looked like the richest garments a body could be clothed in. So what if the pile on the velvet was painted on? So what if the jewels were glass? In the faint light of the performance, they looked wonderful. As Tom Sledd stuck his nose around the door, ten pale faces turned to him, as though joined together on wires. He was reminded of the puppeteers who entertained the crowds outside the Rose on first nights.
‘Ladies,’ he said, sketching a bow.
A chorus of giggles met his entrance. He knew what they did in their free time, such as it was, to supplement their meagre pay. They knew that he knew. But still, the game continued.
‘Master Sledd,’ they all replied, solemnly.
‘Could I ask, ladies, has anyone seen Kit Marlowe?’
A storm of giggling met this question, as it always did. The seamstresses all loved Kit Marlowe, albeit from afar. Imagining him in place of their temporary inamoratos was what kept most of them going. One of them, the ringleader in most things, spoke up.
‘Last we saw, he was out talking to Mr Sackerson.’
‘Mr Sackerson?’ Having a conversation with him tended to be a little one sided, so Tom Sledd thought he would check.
‘Yes,’ the girl said. ‘He often goes out to have a little chat with him, when the light starts to go. He says Mr Sackerson doesn’t like the dark, needs someone to talk to him while he goes to sleep.’ She looked along the line of girls, who were all still looking up at Tom, smiling encouragingly. He was too thin, they said among themselves. That wife of his wasn’t looking after him properly. Look at his hose, all pulled threads. It was an accepted fact that, if Kit Marlowe was the man who filled their dreams at night, Tom Sledd would pass muster for a daydream. The girls all twittered their agreement. Yes, you could always find him outside, leaning over the wall, having a chat with Mr Sackerson.
‘A pleasant evening, Master Sackerson, for All Hallows’ Eve, wouldn’t you say?’ Kit Marlowe liked to keep to the niceties of conversation, even when an answer to his question was unlikely. On this occasion, he was pleased to hear a grunted assent. And it was a lovely night. It was hard to believe that in a very few hours it would be November. He was wearing a cloak but had thrown it over his shoulder; he might need it later on his way home, but, here in the lee of the theatre and with the musty warmth billowing up from Mr Sackerson’s home, he was comfortably warm without it.
Marlowe had brought some food to share. It wasn’t polite for a guest to arrive empty handed and tonight he had a bag of apples. They were the last of the crop to be picked from the tree in Francis Walsingham’s courtyard and he never left there in the autumn days without having a bag of them pressed into his hand by the cook. They were small but sweet, crisp and juicy. He bit into one now and threw one to his host, who fielded it deftly and ate it in one mouthful, juice flying.
Marlowe nodded. ‘They are good, aren’t they?’ he said. ‘They keep well through the winter, too, but they are never as nice as on All Hallows. Once Old Nick has breathed on them, they always have that musty taste.’
He didn’t believe in much, in neither God nor the Devil, but there were some stories just too good to let go. He had lain awake in his little room in Canterbury for many an All Hallows’ Eve, listening for the brush of a foot on the tiles above his head as the witches zoomed through the sky; for the clip of a cloven hoof on the paving in the garden below. His mother always sent her brood to bed early on that night, ostensibly because the night was cold, in reality because the only safe place for her chicks was tucked up in their beds. Children were particularly vulnerable on the night when the dead walked and witches flew. She herself, she told anyone who would listen, had seen the shade of her grandmother every year on this night. She came with tales of doom and destruction which, so far and with the help of amulets and charms, Mistress Marley had managed to keep at bay.
Marlowe had a dark imagination. It had plagued him as a boy but it was making his reputation now. And on autumn nights – and in particular this autumn night – his own company and that of the moth-eaten, toothless Mr Sackerson, suited his mood perfectly. Looking over the wall, all he could see was blackness. Mr Sackerson was clearly bedding himself down for the night; snufflings and shufflings of straw bedding came up from the gloom, along with the smell peculiar to him. It was frowsty and feral, but there was no harm in it.
Marlowe felt, with a pricking of his thumbs, someone behind him. A soft voice sounded in his ear, but it had no breath with it. There was none of the warmth on his back that a human soul would bring. He didn’t look round. His imagination may be dark, but it was possible to have too much of a bad thing.
‘Tell me a story, Kit,’ the voice said. ‘I’m lonely.’
‘Who are you?’
The voice sounded odd, disembodied and airless. No lung had compressed that sound up through a throat. There was no blood in it, just the tunes of the air.
‘You don’t know me?’ The voice sounded crestfallen.
‘Umm … I believe we’ve met,’ Marlowe felt that politeness might be a wise idea. This voice might not be quite human, but his mother’s stories on this night years ago had left their mark.
The voice sounded brighter. ‘Indeed we have,’ it said. ‘You know me and many of my sisters. They send their love, by the way. They told me not to forget that.’
Sisters. And quite a few, by the sound of it. He racked his brains but couldn’t think of any family he knew with a lot of sisters in it. ‘Ah, yes. Lovely girls. It’s all coming back to me now …’
Down in the darkness, Mr Sackerson snickered. He had several advantages over Marlowe. Firstly, he could see in the dark, more or less. He couldn’t see much in any light these days, but the playwright and his companion were outlined against the darkling sky and that was when he could see the best. She was lovely, he could tell that, even though his tastes ran in other directions. But … and here he wasn’t sure whether he was seeing quite right … surely, he shouldn’t be able to see the building behind her as well. He shook his head, muzzy with sleep. Never mind. All would be well with Kit. All was always well with Kit – not for him the quietus of a dagger in an enemy’s hand.
The voice got snappy. ‘I’m Euterpe,’ she said. ‘Calliope, Clio, Melpomene all send theirs.’
‘Not Erato?’ Marlowe asked, suddenly realising who he was talking to.
‘You do remember!’ Mr Sackerson watched entranced as the Muse rose from behind Marlowe and did a somersault in the air, her gown giving off sparks of joy.
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I call on most of you, most days.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, back again at his shoulder. ‘We hear you. Now, tell me a story.’
He sighed. ‘I’m all storied out, Euterpe,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I just came out here to talk to my friend, Master Sackerson.’
‘Oh,’ the Muse wheedled, drawing the single syllable out into a long and querulous whine. ‘Just one, Kit. Please. For me. It’s not as though my sisters and I haven’t done you proud over the years. Is it? Hmm?’
Marlowe put his head down on his arms and sighed.
‘Please.’
From the pit below, a growl sounded. ‘Please,’ it said.
Marlowe’s head came up with a snap. ‘Master Sackerson?’ His own voice was a squeak. ‘Was that you?’
‘Please.’ The sound was like a rusty door to a forgotten cellar, creaking open for the first time in a millennium.
‘There you are, you see.’ The Muse poked the poet in the back, but he felt nothing. ‘Even your friend wants a story.’ She waited in silence while Marlowe gathered his thoughts.
‘If you insist,’ he said, finally. ‘If you both insist. Once upon a time … are you sitting comfortably?’
‘Mmm.’ The Muse snuggled down against his back, her arms around his waist.
A grunt from the darkness told him Mr Sackerson had crawled under his straw and was ready.
‘Then I’ll begin. Once upon a time, there was a king. He wasn’t bad, he wasn’t good, he was just like most men, a little bit of both. He had a wife and she was about the same. Sometimes she was the perfect hostess, sometimes she was as mad as a tree.’
The Muse yawned extravagantly. ‘They don’t sound very interesting, Kit. Is anything going to happen to them?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Soon?’
‘Whose story is this, I wonder,’ he said, a little testily. Why was everyone a critic?
‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘One night, shall we say a dark and stormy night? I always think that adds a lot to a story, don’t you? One dark and stormy night, this couple decided to give a party. Not the perfect weather to have guests over, tramping mud all through the house … well, castle, really … but that wasn’t their problem. They were rich enough to have people to cope with all that nonsense. And the food, as well, that was all in the hands of the help. So, they decided, the winter was coming on, it was a long and dismal business where they lived …’
‘Which was?’
‘Which was what?’
‘Where they lived,’ the Muse said. ‘Where do they live? I like to be able to picture the scene.’
‘They lived in … have you ever been to Scotland?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think there’s ever been the call.’
‘That’s where their castle is, then. Scotland. Where was I?’
‘A party.’
‘Yes, thank you. Well, they were having this enormous party, with roast everything they could lay their hands on – deer, partridge, grouse, ptarmigan …’
‘I always liked that word,’ Euterpe murmured.
‘Delicious,’ Marlowe said.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said, sadly. ‘We don’t eat.’
‘My apologies, madam,’ Marlowe said. ‘Would you like me to miss out the bits about the food?’ He was, as ever, polite and thinking of his audience.
‘If you would,’ she said.
A growl from the dark showed that Mr Sackerson had been rather enjoying it, but you can't please all the people, all the time.
‘The table was laden with good things,’ he said, compromising. ‘The guests began to arrive. But the king and his queen had not been sensible. Although they knew that they would be eating right royally that night, they had been nibbling all afternoon on new bread and cheese. Oh, I am sorry, madam,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know, perhaps, but that combination sits ill on some stomachs.’
The Muse laughed. ‘Oh, we know about all that,’ she said. ‘We often get called upon when cheese and new bread are the cause, not genius. You can't tell me much I don’t know about that.’
‘In that case, I will continue.’ A snore from the dark told him that Mr Sackerson had decided that his dreams were preferable to this taradiddle, but he carried on regardless. ‘As the meal continued, the king began to feel drowsy. The wine was strong, the fire was hot and soon his vision clouded. There was a loud bang, right by his ear. The fool had exploded a pig’s bladder behind his head and the table was at a roar – they all liked a good exploding pig’s bladder; it made any evening go with a swing. The king looked around in confusion – he had dropped off for a minute there and he hoped no one had noticed. He sat up straight and adjusted his crown, looking around the table, with a smile tacked on his face. Then … then, he got the shock of his life!’
‘What? What was it?’ The Muse was dancing on her tiptoes with excitement. Terpsichore would be as proud as anything.
‘Do you think you could just keep quiet?’ Marlowe said, exasperated. ‘There is such a thing as timing, you know. If only Ned Alleyn would learn the skill, my lines would be mightier yet. But I expect more from you, Euterpe, really I do.’
‘Sorry.’ The Muse’s voice was all but inaudible. ‘Do go on.’
‘Every face around the table was gouted with blood. It ran in clotted rivulets from horrible wounds across each brow. And all the eyes, dull with death, were turned towards the king. And every finger, knotted, bony, was pointed at him. As he watched, transfixed with horror, each mouth dropped open, the gape of the skull, and from each throat, there rose an unearthly cry, which howled up from Hell and wrapped itself like black smoke around the very rafters of the hall.’ He paused, waiting for her excited exclamation, but there was silence. ‘Euterpe? Are you there?’
‘Yes. This story is very frightening, Master Marlowe,’ she said, accusingly.
‘It is All Hallows’ Eve,’ he said.
‘I was expecting something a little more … lyric.’
‘Don’t you get a little tired of that, being the muse of lyric poetry and all?’
‘I don’t understand.’ She couldn’t really see how anyone could ever be tired of lyric poetry.
‘I thought, perhaps, a change might be as good as a rest.’
‘Well said, I suppose. I want to know how this ends, so pray continue, Master Marlowe. What was their cry?’
‘The cry had in it the screams of battle, the wail of every child unborn because its father had died unshriven on the field, the weeping of every widow, the shriek of the ravens as they pick over the flesh of the dead, the howl of the wind across the …’
‘I’m sorry,’ the Muse said. ‘I don’t want to interrupt, but I have just heard a call. It’s an old client of ours, he’s been struggling with an epic poem for years, poor lamb. You may know him.’
Marlowe was annoyed, now. He hadn’t wanted to tell this story in the first place. And now Mr Sackerson was asleep and the Muse was listening to someone else. ‘Possibly,’ he said, tersely. ‘Who is it?’
‘Alonso. Alonso de Ercilla. He’s been writing about the conquest of Chile since you were in hanging sleeves and he’s having trouble with his last few stanzas. Calliope and Clio are on their way, but I must go and help.’
Marlowe felt a soft kiss on his brow. ‘Euterpe?’ But she was gone.
‘Kit?’ A voice from the shadow of the theatre wall made him jump. ‘Are you well? You’re talking to yourself.’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ Marlowe said, peering into the gloom. ‘Who is that?’
Will Shaksper stepped out into the light from a window. ‘It’s me. I came out to tell you Master Sledd is looking for you. He said you’d be out here. Who were you talking to, then?’
‘I was …’ he realised how it would sound. ‘I was talking to the bear.’
Shaksper clapped him on the back. ‘Of course you were,’ he said. ‘Of course you were. It was a frightening tale, though, Kit. Perfect for All Hallows’ Eve.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘A small conceit,’ he said and only he knew he was referring to Shaksper.
‘Umm … planning to use it, are you?’ Shaksper was always a picker-up of other men’s trifles.
‘No, no, Will. You have it if you want it.’
‘Really?’ Shaksper was delighted. He was already seeing how he could fit it very nicely into a play, very nicely indeed. ‘What were the voices calling?’
‘The king’s name, of course. Now, what did Tom want me for?’
‘He’s having trouble with Ned as usual. He wants more lines in that final scene.’
Marlowe threw up his arms in annoyance. ‘Couldn’t you just write them, Will? It’s not hard, you know. But I suppose I had better …’ he turned to the theatre and pushed open the big double doors. ‘Tom,’ Shaksper heard him call, ‘Tom, do you want me?’
The door closed on Sledd’s cry of delight. ‘Kit! Where have you been?’
In the sound of silence, Will Shaksper wandered over to the wall enclosing the bear pit and looked down. In the snuffling dark, the bear dreamed as bears will. Shaksper grinned to himself. Sometimes, he wondered whether Marlowe really knew quite what he was giving away. That scene was a winner, if ever there was one. There was a bag of apples on the wall and he helped himself to one then twirled away on happy toes towards the theatre. At the door, he turned to the witch-filled night and extended an apple-less hand to the sky.
‘And every throat,’ he said, ‘gave out the cry “Macgonagle” … no, “Macavity” … no, “Macbeth!” Oh, yes,’ he hugged himself with excitement, ‘it will be a masterpiece!’