Louise Welsh - Tamburlaine Must Die

TamburlaineMust Die by Louise Welsh. Book Jacket.

1593and London is a city on edge. Under threat from plague and war, its adesperate place where strangers are unwelcome and severed heads grinfrom spikes on Tower Bridge.

Playwright,poet, and spy, Christopher Marlowe has three days to live. Three daysin which he confronts dangerous government factions, double agents,necromancy, betrayal and revenge in his search for the murderousTamburlaine, a killer who has escaped from between the pages of hismost violent play

TamburlaineMust Die is the swashbuckling adventure story of a man who dares todefy both God and State and discovers that there are worse fates thandamnation.

LouiseWelsh has published a wide range of short stories and articles. Herdebut novel The Cutting Room was a bestseller in the UK and hasalready sold into sixteen languages. She was chosen as one ofBritains Best First Novelists of 2002 by the Guardian and won theSaltire First Book of the Year award and The Crime WritersAssociation Creasey Dagger for the best first crime novel. Forseveral years she worked as a dealer in second-hand, out-of-print andantiquarian books. She lives in Glasgow.

TAMBURLAINEMUST DIE

LouiseWelsh

CANONGATEBOOKS

Firstpublished in Great Britain in 2004 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 HighStreet, Edinburgh EH1 He 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Copyright LouiseWelsh, 2004 The moral right of the author has been asserted BritishLibrary Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for thisbook is available on request from the British- Library The publishergratefully acknowledges subsidy from the Scottish Arts CouncilHardback ISBN 1 84195 532 9 Paperback ISBN 1 84195 600 7 Typeset inVan Dijck 12.5/18 pt by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Polmont,Stirlingshire Page Design by James Hutcheson Printed and bound by GGPMedia, Germany www.canongate.net

ToKaren and Best Boy Zack

Whatis our life? A play of passion; Our mirth, the music of division;

Ourmother's wombs the tiring houses be, When we are dressed for thisshort comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,

Thatsits and marks still who does act amiss; Our graves that hide us fromthe searching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thusmarch we playing to our latest rest Only we die in earnest, that's nojest. On the Life of Man, Sir Walter Raleigh Cut is the branch thatmight have grown full straight. Doctor Faustus, Christopher Marlowe

LONDON29TH MAY 1593 I have four candles and one evening in which to writethis account. Tomorrow I will lodge these papers with my last truefriend. If I survive the day, they will light our pipes. But should Inot return, he has instructions to secrete this chronicle where itwill lie undiscovered for a long span, in the hope that when thesepages are found, the age will be different and my words may be judgedby honest eyes.

Reader,I cannot imagine what future you inhabit. Perhaps the world is achanged place, where men are honest and war, want and jealousies allvanquished. If so, you will wonder at the actions of the players inthis poor play of passion. But if you are men like us you mayunderstand, and if you are men like us you will learn nothing, thoughI gift you the only lesson worth learning, that there is no betterprize than life. Whatever the future be, if you are reading this, youread the words of a man who knew how to live and who died anunnatural and unjust death. And what follows is the true record ofthe circumstances leading to my assassination.

Myname is Christopher Marlowe, also known as Marle, Morley, Marly,known as Kit, known as Xtopher, son of a Canterbury cobbler. They sayshoemakers' sons go barefoot. It wasn't so bad for us, but my fatherhad a fondness for style that stretched beyond his means and damagedfamily fortunes. I inherited his tastes, but desired none of hisdebt, so I have always been in need of money and have risked muchwhere other men might have scrupled.

Iwas a clever child. My keenness was brought to the attention of alocal Knight who sponsored my early education. Years later he wouldjudge me on a murder charge, never meeting my eye though I knew herecognized me well.

WhenI was seventeen I persuaded an old Archbishop that my one desire wasto enter the Church. He granted me a scholarship to CambridgeUniversity where I was recruited into a strange shadow world, where Iwas assured I could help my country while helping myself. So itproved and when it seemed my degree might not be granted, due tovarious absences and rumours which placed me where I shouldn't be,the Queen's own Privy Council gave guarantees I had been on Herbusiness and must not suffer for doing Her good service.

EventuallyI moved to London as I always knew I would, and set the world oftheatre afire. Men left Massacre of Paris with their sword-handstwitching. And when my Faustus was performed, some said Luciferhimself attended, curious to see how he was rendered. Yes, it is novanity to say my plays were a triumph, and Christopher Marlowe sofamous they had heard of me in Hell. And so I made shift betwixt twonight-time realms and thought my life charmed.

Iam of an adventurous nature. I have often invited danger and haveeven goaded men to violence for the sake of excitement. I like bestwhat lies beyond my reach, and admit to using friendship, State andChurch to my own ends. I acknowledge breaking God's laws and man'swith few regrets. But if I die tomorrow, I will go to my grave awronged man. Were this fate of my own doing, I would greet it notgladly, but with a nod to virtue's victory. As it is, if I meet deathtomorrow I promise to face him cursing man and God.

Mystory begins on the 19th of May, 1593. All of that month I had beeninstalled at Scadbury, the country house of my patron, ThomasWalsingham. For reasons I will soon explain, it was after noon beforeI woke, but when I drew back my shutters the day seemed new minted.It was as if I had lighted in another land. A world riven withsunlight. I stood by the window enjoying the lack of London's stinkas much as the freshness of the countryside, then repaired to my deskwhere I worked like the finest of scholars, until the sun edged halfthe sky and a shadow crept across my words. I let the ink of my lastpoetry sink into the page and when all danger of smudging was past,locked the manuscript safe in my trunk, slipping one of my own hairsinto the clasp, an old precaution, done more from habit thannecessity.

Ithad become my custom to walk in the forest in the early evening. As Iwrite, I search my remembrance, wondering if the weeks cloistered inthe country, avoiding the Plague which once more threatened the City,had made me restless. I was used after all to the bustle oftheatrical life, London's stews, the half-world of ambidextors andagents. But it seems when I look back on this walk at the end of aperfect day, that it was the most untroubled hour of my life. Ididn't know that every step I took was echoed by the beat of amessenger's horse speeding along the London road towards Scadbury. Myfate galloping to meet me.

Ihad much to muse on that late afternoon. The events of the previousnight should have been prime in my mind. But I thought of nothing asI walked through the forest. That is, I thought of nothing inparticular. Pleasant images threaded through my daydreams: the versesI was engaged on; what might be served for supper; the thighs of awoman I had lain with last winter; the dedication I would compose forWalsingham; how perfect clusters of purple violets looked snugagainst the forest floor; whether a doublet of the same shade mightsuit me well: All mingled with contentment at the good fortune of mystate. The assurance of my patron's affection, the vigour of myblood, the good reception I felt sure would greet my poetry when Ireturned at last to London. I see now there was a complacence in mysatisfaction and, were I prone to superstition, might suspect Iinvoked misfortune by displeasing God with my conceit. But suchthoughts are nonsense. When making mischief, man needs no help fromGod or the Devil.