NaNoWriMo 2012
The stuff I wrote for Nano, completely unedited and thrown together so some of it doesn't make sense timeline wise.
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo’s Laurel bough.
That sometime grew within this learned man.
Scene XIV, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe.
Death happened all too quickly for Christopher (usually known as Kit) Marlowe. The knife that killed him sliced through his skin, flesh and bone as though it were butter on a hot day. His death scream made his attackers recoil and although he couldn’t see anything past the blood in his eyes, he felt their fear, greater and more palpable than his own. It gave him strength and as his knees folded beneath him and crunched against the wooden floor, he swore violently. He cursed his luck and his life and… well not his entire life, but most of it. Mistakes that he had made flashed in front of his eyes (though he knew he would never see anything physical again,) people he had hurt and the select few he had loved. He wanted to weep for them and for himself, but there was only blood and the sound of his growled obscenities piercing the air, so instead he remembered.
It all started at university, despite the scholarship and the subsequent expectations that he would go on the join the priesthood, for Kit Marlowe life began at university.
He was accustomed to how hard life could be, and how cruel. He had lost four siblings by the time he was nineteen, a brood of nine cut almost in half and not even all of them by illness. His sister, Jane had found herself pregnant at thirteen and died during childbirth. Kit had hated God then, his questioning of religion and the existence of some all-powerful entity suddenly thrown into a state of overdrive by the death of his baby sister.
Two brothers had been born, one named Thomas and one that had not lived long enough to even be named. Neither of them was alive for more than a week and a large part of Kit struggled to reconcile the idea that something as wise and generous as to create the world for something so deeply flawed as humanity, could see fit to take the lives of two babes barely a week old. Children were the most innocent of all things and although Kit was unlikely to ever have little ones of his own, he had always been fond of his younger siblings. To see them die before they had taken their first steps into the world this God had created for them was troubling.
The other childhood death came in the form of his older sister Mary. He was four and she was six when she had passed away, leaving him bewildered and frightened and angry in that way that only four years olds can be. When something confusing happens that nobody can explain in a way that a four year old mind can understand. All he knew was that his best friend and playmate was gone and they would never play hide and seek in their Father, John’s workshop again. They would never steal berries from the kitchen when their Mother, Katherine was trying to make pies, nor would they run in their fine shoes (John was a cobbler and saw his family well) down their street imagining they were Roman heroes from the stories Katherine would tell them before bed. No, Mary was just gone and the lingering hurt never left Kit’s heart.
Playing with Mary, he thought and he would have smiled if he could. His favourite memory of his dearly departed older sister was toddling into the kitchen of their family’s cottage in Canterbury and finding her sat cross-legged on the floor, counting out berries for the two of them. She was five then.
“One for me.” She said, picking up a blackberry and dropping it on the expanse of her skirts stretched between her knees as she sat cross-legged. “And one for Christopher.” And she dropped another berry into a bowl in front of her. At three years old, Christopher just said hello and sat cross legged opposite her, grinning with delight every time she dropped a berry into his little bowl. Once or twice she popped a berry into her mouth and smiled cheekily at his shocked expression. Mary was kind though, and whenever she ate a fruit she always held one against his lips until he understood and ate the sweet flesh.
Juice dripped down his chin and onto his freshly washed shirt, Mary giggled and pointed.
“Mama’s going to shout at you, Christopher. Wash day was only yesterday.”
His bottom lip trembled as he remembered the last time his Mama had shouted at him, tears welled in his eyes and he looked to his sister for guidance. Mary smiled at him with a kindness beyond her five years and shuffled around so she was sat next to him, her arms went around him and she cuddled him tightly.
“Mama won’t really shout, Christopher.” Mary tried to comfort him as he sniffed and wailed. “She might be a bit angry, but she won’t shout, I promise.”
Mama had shouted, she’d spent most of her wash day getting berry juice out of clothes that were meant to last them years. Christopher had cried and Mary had been there afterwards, with the rest of the blackberries and some cream that she had got from Papa by fluttering her eyelashes. Privilege of the first-born child, a privilege Christopher only realised once he became the oldest child. A privilege he would have eagerly revoked if it meant Mary could come back so they could steal berries and exasperate their Mama just one more time. He was sad for all his dead siblings, but Mary had always somehow hurt the most and thinking about her now just made the pain that bit worse. He decided to move on.
(Jane -7, Margaret - 10, Anne-5, Dorothy-3)
When Christopher was eleven, Katherine became pregnant with her ninth child, tensions in their little cottage were high and as the oldest child, Christopher was expected to help with the younger ones.
“Is Mama going to have another baby?” Anne asked one day when Katherine was feeling particularly unwell, she was five years old at the time.
“Of course she is.” Margaret answered, a confident ten year old and the oldest surviving daughter. She idolised Christopher but he found it difficult to connect with her because she wasn’t Mary, and although he knew that wasn’t her fault, he still found himself resenting her sometimes.
“Mama says to keep you out of trouble.” He cut in, folding his arms authoritatively like his Father would when they had done something bad. “So we’re going to go down to the pond until tea time.”
Dorothy, the youngest of the Marlowe children came toddling in with her straw doll trailing on the floor from where she was clutching it in one hand. Christopher sighed, he was only eleven himself, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of taking four of his sisters out of the house for an entire afternoon. But his Mama was tired and he loved her enough to want her to have some rest. He sent Margaret to find the last sister, Jane who was no doubt hovering incessantly about Katherine, whilst he found shoes and scarves for the little ones.
“Right, let’s go before Papa shouts at us for bothering Mama again.” Christopher announced when all were ready. He led his four sisters out of the back door and down the village road towards the pond at the end. It wasn’t really a pond, just a dip in the earth that had filled with water when the rain was last heavy. But it hadn’t all drained away yet and ducks liked to make their homes on the banks of it. Christopher had swiped a chunk of stale bread from the kitchen and broke into pieces to share amongst his sisters. Margaret and Jane threw theirs first, enticing the somewhat straggly looking ducks towards the edge of the pond. Dorothy and Anne were a little more wary.
“What if they bite us?” Anne asked, looking at her reflection in the water and eyeing the approaching ducks every so often.
“Bite?” Dorothy repeated fearfully, looking to her brother for reassurance. Half of him wanted to weave a story about ducks with sharp teeth that breathed fire and turned water to smoke before making off with little children to feed their young. But he didn’t think Papa would approve if Dorothy and Anne were suddenly terrified of wildfowl. So he just shook his head and sat on the bank.
“Ducks don’t bite, it’s geese you want to watch for.” He looked at their little wide-eyed faces and grinned. “They’ll take your noses right off!” And he reached out both his hands and poked their noses, making them giggle and forget their fear. Anne summoned her courage and turned to face water, she took a piece of bread that Christopher had already torn off for her and dropped it delicately into the pond. One small duck with some missing feathers and a crooked wing paddled over, looking curious and hungry.
“Now be quiet and still, let’s not scare the poor thing.” Christopher whispered, edging closer to the pond with Dorothy clutching his sleeve. Sleeves that were once again becoming too short for Christopher grew quickly and was prone to fighting with other boys. His clothes seemingly always needed mending or altering, it had got to the point where his Mama simply sewed patches over the holes instead of pulling the tears together because it was easier to repair the next time he ripped a hole in the elbows of his shirts. Dorothy’s tightly curled fingers snapped a couple of stitches and Christopher dreaded showing it to his Mama, so he carefully pulled her hand off his arm and enclosed it in his own.
“Look, see.” He whispered, pointing to the pond. “See how the duck takes the bread. Here, I’ll bet it will take a piece from my hand.”
Christopher let go of Dorothy’s hand, instructing Anne to do so instead, picked up a small piece of the stale bread from the pile he had left for the girls and laid down on his belly. He held his hand out flat, palm up with the bread sat on the tips of his fingers. The duck looked at him, its little black eyes analysing the possible threat. Christopher stayed still, conscious of his own breathing as he willed the duck to take the bread. After a few moments, the duck waddled forwards and pecked the bread right from his fingers. He felt the tip of its bill nip his skin but it didn’t hurt, he was too busy grinning that the duck had taken the bread. Dorothy and Anne gasped in comical unison whilst Margaret and Jane looked on in awe, Margaret still believing her brother could do anything and Jane beginning to come round to that idea.
Another duck took interest in the scene and cautiously took two steps forwards, Christopher quietly picked up another piece of bread and held it out to the duck. He was dismayed when the second duck flapped its wings and waddled away again as though he had frightened it. It was only a little thing and he wanted to make sure it got something to eat before all the bigger ducks chased it off, so he shuffled further forwards and stretched his arm out. Unfortunately, in his efforts he stretched too far and felt himself begin to overbalance. He tried to scramble in the mud to keep himself from sliding but it was too wet and slippery and he tumbled down the back and into the water.
“Christopher!” Anne shrieked as he completely disappeared beneath the surface, it was a lot deeper than he had supposed it was and he felt nothing but water as he kicked his legs desperately. The surface seemed so far away, so distant and there was no sound save that of water rushing into his ears. He kicked furiously and pulled his arms through the water, a distance of only a couple of feet seeming like it was taking the longest possible to cover.
His chest hurt as he gulped in air when he emerged, his clothes weighed him down and made the swim to the edge of the pond all the more tiring. He hauled himself out and lay flat on his back as his sisters fussed around him. Dorothy had apparently been so scared she had started crying, Anne was on the verge of tears, Jane was clinging to Margaret who was silent but shaking. Hers was possibly the reaction that affected him the most.
“I’m alright.” He breathed, his voice scratchy and sore. “Don’t cry, Dotty.” He reached out a hand to find hers to reassure her that he was actually alright. Instead of that however, she and the other three launched themselves onto him, hugging him with relief evident on their faces.
“Ack, I’m alright, I promise.” He told them, trying hard not to laugh at the situation, his sisters were now all almost as soaked as he was and he had to admit, it was all kind of silly. “I don’t think I make a very good duck, do you?” He asked with a cheeky grin. Dorothy giggled despite her tears, Anne shook her head, as did Jane. Margaret on the other hand, smacked him on the thigh, quite hard.
“Ow! What was that for?” He protested.
“Scaring us!” Margaret said sternly, looking terrifying like their Mama. “Don’t do that again Christopher.”
“Alright, Mama, I promise.” Christopher replied, affecting an innocent expression. A grin began to form on Margaret’s face as he did so and he leapt up, quacking loudly and flapping his arms like wings.
“I am the demon duck, come from the bottom of the pond to snap up little girls!” Christopher yelled, making snapping gestures and making the girls laugh out loud. “Run before I catch you!” He told them and they screamed and ran in all different directions. For the rest of the afternoon, he chased them around the village, the five of them having much fun in each other’s company and when it was dark and time to return home, they did so with their hand clasped. They were very glad to have each other, when they were used to so much childhood death.
Kit would have smirked and shook his head if he could, he had become acclimatised to death at far too early an age. Some people used to say that was why it featured so heavily in all of his plays, and why he was destined to die young. He had thought those people were stupid and blind to his genius, but now, now he wasn’t so sure.
He almost didn’t make it to school, he was fourteen when he was accepted into the famous King’s School. Had he turned fifteen before his parents had found someone to sponsor him and pay his school fees, he would have had been turned away despite his obvious talents for language and literature. As well as the barrier of money, there were only ten places for the sons of poor men and Christopher had had to wait until one such vacancy became available. It was happy coincidence (or God’s blessing if you were that way inclined) that everything should fall into Christopher’s lap as it did, and school did wonders for him. He had learned his Father’s trade when it became apparent that he might not actually be able to attend school, and although he turned out to be skilled as a cobbler, it was not how he wanted to spend his life. Even as a twelve year old, Christopher dreamed of bigger things, places further afield than Canterbury and of making a name for himself. They were the dreams of any young boy, fame, wealth and of endless beauties to grace his bed.
The trouble was, Christopher realised at a young age, when his voice deepened and he grew hair where there had not been hair before, that the girls of Canterbury did not attract his gaze. He hadn’t dared mention it to his Mother, although they were close because he’d heard what would happen to sodomites if they continued with their unnatural practises. Church had drummed the fear of the devil into him, school made him question that, and university made him fascinated with the vices of the world.
But school, school was the first time the young Christopher learned about the world outside of Canterbury, admittedly the lessons were of Latin and religion but it was not the art of making shoes and for that, Christopher was grateful. He made friends that weren’t his siblings and formed close bonds with boys he’d come to know for most of his life. Though his penchant for getting into trouble started at school too.
~
Ah, William. Kit’s remembrances drifted towards the clumsy, absent minded, accident prone writer. His fingers forever stained with ink, his endless black shirts hiding numerous spillages of ink and mud from trips and falls. Kit didn’t love Will to begin with, that came after. When Kit met William Shakespeare, Kit was still enamoured with Tom Walsingham, a love that would never flower into anything more than infrequent rolls in rented beds. Will himself was married when they met, to a woman named Anne who was ten years his senior. A woman whom he’d hastily married after getting her pregnant when he was nineteen, a woman whom he was deeply fond of as the mother of his children, but a woman whom he was never in love with. Kit always thought it slightly sad but never said anything, it was easier to love Will knowing that Anne was more a friend than a lover. It worked out to Kit’s advantage but it didn’t mean he didn’t feel guilt. Religion was good at that, he thought bitterly as his murderers made the signs of the cross at his blaspheming; it taught you how to hate yourself, how to feel guilt, and how to fear for your very life. He didn’t love Will at first, but he certainly noticed him.
“Mr. Kyd! If you do not watch yourself I shall have to turf you out of here!” The mistress of the public house snapped as Thomas Kyd swaggered away from yet another fight.
“Come now, Bess.” Kit laughed, wiping ale foam from his moustache and flashing her his best smile. “We brighten up the place.”
“That’s as may be, Mr Marlowe, but if you keep scaring off my best customers I shall have to take steps.” Bess waved an empty mug at him threateningly but Kit knew she had forgiven them. He ordered two more drinks and gave her an extra bit of silver just to keep her sweet anyway, handed one to Thomas and clinked the mugs together companionably.
“Watch out,” Thomas said after a moment, eyeing the door over the rim of his drink. “There’s a new boy.”
Kit raised an eyebrow and span round on his barstool, not even trying for subtle (some would suggest he barely knew the meaning of the word.) He whistled low and lewd when he saw the man who had just entered, tall, slender and very obviously not from around the area. He was actually contemplating saying something when the newcomer was hit by a flying tankard and staggered backwards into a wall. Kyd cackled into his ale.
“Looks as though he’s just your type, Marley.” He mused with an unsympathetic grin. “How much do you think he would charge?”
“Shut your mouth, Kyd.” Kit snapped, truth be told the man who had just entered the tavern was very much his type by virtue of being phenomenally attractive and male, but that was information Kit wasn’t about to pass around. He slid from his stool and crossed the inn to offer a hand to the man leaning heavily on the wall.
“Come on, best not to hang around by the door lest you want old men asking you your charge.” He kept his voice low and tried for friendly.
To his vague relief the other man took his hand and righted himself, then awkwardly shook hands in greeting before letting his arm drop to his side. Kit couldn’t help but laugh, in this light it was obvious the man was in his early-twenties much like he was, which made it likely that he was a fortune hunter come to London seeking better things.
“Kit Marlowe.” He offered when the silence became slightly awkward. The other man stared at him for a moment.
“The Kit Marlowe? I have read your work, it’s good.”
“Well thank you, friend.” Kit grinned. “Might I know your name, tis only polite after I’ve told you mine.”
“Oh, Will, Will Shakespeare.” The other man held his hand out again and only too late realised his mistake. The flush on his cheeks was quite something to behold, even in the dank atmosphere of the inn.
“A pleasure to meet you, Will Shakespeare.” Kit laughed melodiously and shook his hand again anyway. “Come to the bar, let me get you a drink and perhaps a cloth for that cut there.” He indicated the split in Will’s left eyebrow where the flying tankard had caught him and Will touched the tips of his fingers there as though he had completely forgotten being struck.
Kit smiled a little more kindly than he might have done previously and helped Will over to the bar, keeping a hand on his elbow just in case of disoriented swaying. Will seemed fine but he was not about to take the chance. He had heard of this Shakespeare fellow, what little of his work had shown up on the theatre circuit was astoundingly good and he already had Kit’s interest in more ways than one.
Will took his seat but Kit didn’t mind, he just turfed a drunk off theirs and shuffled it along so he was sat between Kyd and Will, he didn’t trust Kyd at the best of times and certainly not around this country boy (judging by the accent.)
“So Marley, who is this stray you’ve picked up?” Kyd smirked, leering at the both of them. Kit rolled his eyes and waved for another pint, Bess brought it over in double time no doubt having clocked Will given that she also handed Kit a relatively clean washcloth at the same time.
Kit span Will around gently and put the mug of ale in his hands. “This,” he began as he dabbed the cloth against the trickle of blood on Will’s temple. “This, Mr Kyd, is Will Shakespeare.”
To his great delight, Kyd actually seemed impressed at this and clapped Will on the back making the young man cough as he took a sip of ale. It spilled over the edge of his mug and splashed onto his breeches giving both he and Kit cause to sigh irritably.
“Leave off, Kyd.” Kit snapped, moving the cloth to Will’s thigh to dab at the patch of ale. He meant nothing by it, just an innocent gesture to save Will the expense of getting them washed when no doubt he was short on funds. But he felt muscle tighten beneath his fingers and when he flicked his gaze up to Will’s face he saw his already impossibly dark eyes turn even darker. Well now that was an interesting development and he turned his filthiest smile onto Will and enjoyed seeing the man squirm. Thankfully Kyd seemed not to have noticed as he was too busy ordering another round and waving away any protestations from Will about not being able to afford it, declaring that the man that wrote like Will did deserved to be able to get well and truly drunk.
As it happened, Will grew a little more in confidence with a couple of pints of strong ale in him and he had Kit sniggering childishly more often than not, proving that he had a filthy sense of humour. Kit definitely approved of this gangly country boy and made it quite clear to anyone who dared look their way that Will was most definitely with him. Partly because he didn’t fancy letting any of the vultures get their claws into the boy just yet, and partly because he genuinely didn’t want to stop talking to him. It turned out he was the son of a glove maker from Stratford and had come to London to try and make something of his admittedly rather good writing, Kit promised that he would introduce him to all the necessary people just as soon as he had sorted himself out.
“Oh I have somewhere to stay.” Will ventured with a lazy smile. “A room just across the river.”
Kit grinned at him. “A good choice, better there than in the slums with Thomas and I.” He turned to look for Kyd but found him squaring up to yet another patron and sighed. “Come, let’s get out of here before we’re caught up in his wake.” Kit downed the rest of his drink and motioned for Will to do the same just as the sound of fist hitting cheekbone made him wince. He didn’t bother to look if it was Kyd or the unfortunate man who had offended him, just left a couple of coins on the bar for the trouble and dragged Will out of the tavern before it became too heated.
Outside the cool air hit him a little harder than expected and he swayed slightly, catching Will’s sleeve to stop himself stumbling. Will wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and held him steady until the dizziness subsided and he was able to offer a lop-sided grin.
“Sorry about that, must have had more than I thought.”
Will chuckled and let him go. “Do not trouble yourself, I believe myself also to be slightly on this side of inebriated.” He emphasised his point with exaggerated hand gestures making Kit giggle.
“You certainly have a way with words, Mr Shakespeare.”
Will beamed as though he had been paid some deep and sincere compliment. “Thank you, Kit.” He actually bowed which set Kit off in a fit of giggles again, he was forced to cling to a post to stop himself from falling over. It was not often he enjoyed himself like this, his nights out with Kyd usually ended in drunken fights and them having to flee their opponents or worse the police. Will made him laugh like he hadn’t in months and it was a good feeling.
“Will you walk me home, Mr Marlowe?” Will asked then with a little flutter of his eyelashes. Kit felt his stomach flutter a little in response but he caught himself, stood up straight and gallantly offered an arm. Will laughed and took it, holding a little tighter than Kit was expecting but he didn’t say anything, he rather enjoyed it actually and together they crossed the bridge and entered the district Will called home.
After a slightly embarrassing moment where Will forgot what street he actually lived on, they arrived at the door of the building containing his rented room and disentangled themselves from each other. Kit made a note of the address and gave Will his, just in case Will found himself in the area. The other man studied the scrap of paper for a moment, then returned his gaze to Kit who felt oddly like he was being measured up. Before he could say anything however he found himself with an armful of Will and a hot mouth pressed eagerly against his own.
“Will, what…” He began as he pulled away to breathe but Will shushed him and laced his fingers into the hair at the back of Kit’s head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss.
“Come to bed with me.” Will growled softly when he moved to bite teasingly at the skin of Kit’s throat, and Kit could do nothing but nod, feeling rather like he had been conned into this position but regretting absolutely none of it. They pulled apart for propriety’s sake and made their way to Will’s room as nonchalantly as they could so as not to attract suspicion from anyone who might see them. Kit was fairly sure nobody would but he didn’t want to cause Will any trouble since he was a new tenant after all.
When they were stood in Will’s room however and with the door safely closed, Kit was determined he would not be caught surprised again. He pulled Will close to him and kissed him deeply, tasting ale and ink and something sweet that he hoped was Will himself. Will’s fingers curled into the front of Kit’s doublet for the briefest of moments before going to work on the buttons, it fell from Kit’s shoulders in a matter of seconds and he was forced to let Will go in order to shrug it off. Will used this to his advantage and bore Kit over onto the bed, dropping himself on top and effectively pinning Kit in place. He just managed to free his arms so he could work his hands under the material of Will’s clothing to find warm skin, whilst Will’s teeth grazed the hollow of his throat and made him shudder.
Kit bucked his hips impatiently and a low rumble of a laugh spilled from Will’s throat, the other man sat up where he was and freed himself of his own doublet and shirt, Kit was stunned. He was beautiful, there was no other word for it; Kit ached to worship every inch of his skin and so used all his strength to surge up and reverse their positions. He pulled his own shirt over his head and threw it across the room before descending upon Will’s pale skin and writing masterpieces with his tongue.
The rest of their clothes were lost very quickly and under Kit’s ministrations, Will melted into a writhing mess, whining and desperately begging for more. Kit pulled back and looked down at him.
“Something to ease the way?” He asked quietly.
Will looked confused for a moment then comprehension dawned. “The desk, bottom drawer on the right.” He gasped and kept his gaze on Kit as he scrambled off the bed and across the room, Kit could feel those eyes on him and he actually shivered as he returned to the other man.
“I won’t hurt you.” He soothed when he saw the tiniest flash of fear in Will’s eyes as he was lifting one of Will’s legs over his shoulder. “Relax.” And although that was easier said than done, Will did his best and Kit found himself biting fiercely into Will’s shoulder to stop himself from screaming.
~
Love. At one time the word seemed so very alien to Kit. He neglected to put it into his plays, preferring instead drama and action. The closest he had come was the bond he developed between Mephistophilis and Faustus in Dr Faustus. He rather suspected history would come to change that bond, dilute it, pretend it doesn’t exist, but that is the way he wrote it. Distressingly, he also suspected that history would not remember his great love. Oh they would remember William, the name of Shakespeare would be one of the most famous that was ever spoken. His plays and his sonnets were already timeless and even in his dying moments Kit recalled broken lines from poetry that had been written onto his bare skin on more than one occasion.
He and Will were two sides of the same coin, the same and yet different. Kit was graceful when he danced, co-ordinated and debonair. Will was awkward and spent too much time tripping over his own shoes to actually get anywhere. Kit never sang when sober and even when he was out of his mind drunk he knew he sounded like a dying cat. Will on the other hand could actually carry a tune fairly well and could often be found singing his own praises much to everyone else’s annoyance.
Kit drank like a fish when he got going. Will barely touched it, especially if Kit was in one of his moods. He was determined somebody actually keep an eye on the flamboyant idiot and he didn’t care who knew that he was it.
Will took commissions; Kit had ‘principles.’
Will bought dinner; Kit kept his eyes on the table as he reluctantly ate what Will stubbornly put in front of him.
Will ignored the comments and accusations thrown their way, Kit on the other hand leapt across a table and stupidly (but impressive all the same) broke the nose of a man twice his size.
Will followed swiftly and dragged him out of the way with a seasoned actor’s timing. Kit, for the first time in his life managed to keep quiet until they were outside and out of sight where he shook and wept against Will.
Kit’s blood and tears stained Will’s shirt and he apologised in between sobs. Will shushed him with a kiss and used his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from a vicious cut on his arm. It had slashed the material of his doublet and that of the shirt sleeve beneath it, leaving an angry red wound on Kit’s upper arm. The blood poured even as they staggered through the door of Will’s house where Kit had been staying for a few nights. (That was over a month ago and he still showed no signs of leaving or even of attempting to look for his own lodgings.)
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo’s Laurel bough.
That sometime grew within this learned man.
Scene XIV, The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe.
Death happened all too quickly for Christopher (usually known as Kit) Marlowe. The knife that killed him sliced through his skin, flesh and bone as though it were butter on a hot day. His death scream made his attackers recoil and although he couldn’t see anything past the blood in his eyes, he felt their fear, greater and more palpable than his own. It gave him strength and as his knees folded beneath him and crunched against the wooden floor, he swore violently. He cursed his luck and his life and… well not his entire life, but most of it. Mistakes that he had made flashed in front of his eyes (though he knew he would never see anything physical again,) people he had hurt and the select few he had loved. He wanted to weep for them and for himself, but there was only blood and the sound of his growled obscenities piercing the air, so instead he remembered.
It all started at university, despite the scholarship and the subsequent expectations that he would go on the join the priesthood, for Kit Marlowe life began at university.
He was accustomed to how hard life could be, and how cruel. He had lost four siblings by the time he was nineteen, a brood of nine cut almost in half and not even all of them by illness. His sister, Jane had found herself pregnant at thirteen and died during childbirth. Kit had hated God then, his questioning of religion and the existence of some all-powerful entity suddenly thrown into a state of overdrive by the death of his baby sister.
Two brothers had been born, one named Thomas and one that had not lived long enough to even be named. Neither of them was alive for more than a week and a large part of Kit struggled to reconcile the idea that something as wise and generous as to create the world for something so deeply flawed as humanity, could see fit to take the lives of two babes barely a week old. Children were the most innocent of all things and although Kit was unlikely to ever have little ones of his own, he had always been fond of his younger siblings. To see them die before they had taken their first steps into the world this God had created for them was troubling.
The other childhood death came in the form of his older sister Mary. He was four and she was six when she had passed away, leaving him bewildered and frightened and angry in that way that only four years olds can be. When something confusing happens that nobody can explain in a way that a four year old mind can understand. All he knew was that his best friend and playmate was gone and they would never play hide and seek in their Father, John’s workshop again. They would never steal berries from the kitchen when their Mother, Katherine was trying to make pies, nor would they run in their fine shoes (John was a cobbler and saw his family well) down their street imagining they were Roman heroes from the stories Katherine would tell them before bed. No, Mary was just gone and the lingering hurt never left Kit’s heart.
Playing with Mary, he thought and he would have smiled if he could. His favourite memory of his dearly departed older sister was toddling into the kitchen of their family’s cottage in Canterbury and finding her sat cross-legged on the floor, counting out berries for the two of them. She was five then.
“One for me.” She said, picking up a blackberry and dropping it on the expanse of her skirts stretched between her knees as she sat cross-legged. “And one for Christopher.” And she dropped another berry into a bowl in front of her. At three years old, Christopher just said hello and sat cross legged opposite her, grinning with delight every time she dropped a berry into his little bowl. Once or twice she popped a berry into her mouth and smiled cheekily at his shocked expression. Mary was kind though, and whenever she ate a fruit she always held one against his lips until he understood and ate the sweet flesh.
Juice dripped down his chin and onto his freshly washed shirt, Mary giggled and pointed.
“Mama’s going to shout at you, Christopher. Wash day was only yesterday.”
His bottom lip trembled as he remembered the last time his Mama had shouted at him, tears welled in his eyes and he looked to his sister for guidance. Mary smiled at him with a kindness beyond her five years and shuffled around so she was sat next to him, her arms went around him and she cuddled him tightly.
“Mama won’t really shout, Christopher.” Mary tried to comfort him as he sniffed and wailed. “She might be a bit angry, but she won’t shout, I promise.”
Mama had shouted, she’d spent most of her wash day getting berry juice out of clothes that were meant to last them years. Christopher had cried and Mary had been there afterwards, with the rest of the blackberries and some cream that she had got from Papa by fluttering her eyelashes. Privilege of the first-born child, a privilege Christopher only realised once he became the oldest child. A privilege he would have eagerly revoked if it meant Mary could come back so they could steal berries and exasperate their Mama just one more time. He was sad for all his dead siblings, but Mary had always somehow hurt the most and thinking about her now just made the pain that bit worse. He decided to move on.
(Jane -7, Margaret - 10, Anne-5, Dorothy-3)
When Christopher was eleven, Katherine became pregnant with her ninth child, tensions in their little cottage were high and as the oldest child, Christopher was expected to help with the younger ones.
“Is Mama going to have another baby?” Anne asked one day when Katherine was feeling particularly unwell, she was five years old at the time.
“Of course she is.” Margaret answered, a confident ten year old and the oldest surviving daughter. She idolised Christopher but he found it difficult to connect with her because she wasn’t Mary, and although he knew that wasn’t her fault, he still found himself resenting her sometimes.
“Mama says to keep you out of trouble.” He cut in, folding his arms authoritatively like his Father would when they had done something bad. “So we’re going to go down to the pond until tea time.”
Dorothy, the youngest of the Marlowe children came toddling in with her straw doll trailing on the floor from where she was clutching it in one hand. Christopher sighed, he was only eleven himself, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of taking four of his sisters out of the house for an entire afternoon. But his Mama was tired and he loved her enough to want her to have some rest. He sent Margaret to find the last sister, Jane who was no doubt hovering incessantly about Katherine, whilst he found shoes and scarves for the little ones.
“Right, let’s go before Papa shouts at us for bothering Mama again.” Christopher announced when all were ready. He led his four sisters out of the back door and down the village road towards the pond at the end. It wasn’t really a pond, just a dip in the earth that had filled with water when the rain was last heavy. But it hadn’t all drained away yet and ducks liked to make their homes on the banks of it. Christopher had swiped a chunk of stale bread from the kitchen and broke into pieces to share amongst his sisters. Margaret and Jane threw theirs first, enticing the somewhat straggly looking ducks towards the edge of the pond. Dorothy and Anne were a little more wary.
“What if they bite us?” Anne asked, looking at her reflection in the water and eyeing the approaching ducks every so often.
“Bite?” Dorothy repeated fearfully, looking to her brother for reassurance. Half of him wanted to weave a story about ducks with sharp teeth that breathed fire and turned water to smoke before making off with little children to feed their young. But he didn’t think Papa would approve if Dorothy and Anne were suddenly terrified of wildfowl. So he just shook his head and sat on the bank.
“Ducks don’t bite, it’s geese you want to watch for.” He looked at their little wide-eyed faces and grinned. “They’ll take your noses right off!” And he reached out both his hands and poked their noses, making them giggle and forget their fear. Anne summoned her courage and turned to face water, she took a piece of bread that Christopher had already torn off for her and dropped it delicately into the pond. One small duck with some missing feathers and a crooked wing paddled over, looking curious and hungry.
“Now be quiet and still, let’s not scare the poor thing.” Christopher whispered, edging closer to the pond with Dorothy clutching his sleeve. Sleeves that were once again becoming too short for Christopher grew quickly and was prone to fighting with other boys. His clothes seemingly always needed mending or altering, it had got to the point where his Mama simply sewed patches over the holes instead of pulling the tears together because it was easier to repair the next time he ripped a hole in the elbows of his shirts. Dorothy’s tightly curled fingers snapped a couple of stitches and Christopher dreaded showing it to his Mama, so he carefully pulled her hand off his arm and enclosed it in his own.
“Look, see.” He whispered, pointing to the pond. “See how the duck takes the bread. Here, I’ll bet it will take a piece from my hand.”
Christopher let go of Dorothy’s hand, instructing Anne to do so instead, picked up a small piece of the stale bread from the pile he had left for the girls and laid down on his belly. He held his hand out flat, palm up with the bread sat on the tips of his fingers. The duck looked at him, its little black eyes analysing the possible threat. Christopher stayed still, conscious of his own breathing as he willed the duck to take the bread. After a few moments, the duck waddled forwards and pecked the bread right from his fingers. He felt the tip of its bill nip his skin but it didn’t hurt, he was too busy grinning that the duck had taken the bread. Dorothy and Anne gasped in comical unison whilst Margaret and Jane looked on in awe, Margaret still believing her brother could do anything and Jane beginning to come round to that idea.
Another duck took interest in the scene and cautiously took two steps forwards, Christopher quietly picked up another piece of bread and held it out to the duck. He was dismayed when the second duck flapped its wings and waddled away again as though he had frightened it. It was only a little thing and he wanted to make sure it got something to eat before all the bigger ducks chased it off, so he shuffled further forwards and stretched his arm out. Unfortunately, in his efforts he stretched too far and felt himself begin to overbalance. He tried to scramble in the mud to keep himself from sliding but it was too wet and slippery and he tumbled down the back and into the water.
“Christopher!” Anne shrieked as he completely disappeared beneath the surface, it was a lot deeper than he had supposed it was and he felt nothing but water as he kicked his legs desperately. The surface seemed so far away, so distant and there was no sound save that of water rushing into his ears. He kicked furiously and pulled his arms through the water, a distance of only a couple of feet seeming like it was taking the longest possible to cover.
His chest hurt as he gulped in air when he emerged, his clothes weighed him down and made the swim to the edge of the pond all the more tiring. He hauled himself out and lay flat on his back as his sisters fussed around him. Dorothy had apparently been so scared she had started crying, Anne was on the verge of tears, Jane was clinging to Margaret who was silent but shaking. Hers was possibly the reaction that affected him the most.
“I’m alright.” He breathed, his voice scratchy and sore. “Don’t cry, Dotty.” He reached out a hand to find hers to reassure her that he was actually alright. Instead of that however, she and the other three launched themselves onto him, hugging him with relief evident on their faces.
“Ack, I’m alright, I promise.” He told them, trying hard not to laugh at the situation, his sisters were now all almost as soaked as he was and he had to admit, it was all kind of silly. “I don’t think I make a very good duck, do you?” He asked with a cheeky grin. Dorothy giggled despite her tears, Anne shook her head, as did Jane. Margaret on the other hand, smacked him on the thigh, quite hard.
“Ow! What was that for?” He protested.
“Scaring us!” Margaret said sternly, looking terrifying like their Mama. “Don’t do that again Christopher.”
“Alright, Mama, I promise.” Christopher replied, affecting an innocent expression. A grin began to form on Margaret’s face as he did so and he leapt up, quacking loudly and flapping his arms like wings.
“I am the demon duck, come from the bottom of the pond to snap up little girls!” Christopher yelled, making snapping gestures and making the girls laugh out loud. “Run before I catch you!” He told them and they screamed and ran in all different directions. For the rest of the afternoon, he chased them around the village, the five of them having much fun in each other’s company and when it was dark and time to return home, they did so with their hand clasped. They were very glad to have each other, when they were used to so much childhood death.
Kit would have smirked and shook his head if he could, he had become acclimatised to death at far too early an age. Some people used to say that was why it featured so heavily in all of his plays, and why he was destined to die young. He had thought those people were stupid and blind to his genius, but now, now he wasn’t so sure.
He almost didn’t make it to school, he was fourteen when he was accepted into the famous King’s School. Had he turned fifteen before his parents had found someone to sponsor him and pay his school fees, he would have had been turned away despite his obvious talents for language and literature. As well as the barrier of money, there were only ten places for the sons of poor men and Christopher had had to wait until one such vacancy became available. It was happy coincidence (or God’s blessing if you were that way inclined) that everything should fall into Christopher’s lap as it did, and school did wonders for him. He had learned his Father’s trade when it became apparent that he might not actually be able to attend school, and although he turned out to be skilled as a cobbler, it was not how he wanted to spend his life. Even as a twelve year old, Christopher dreamed of bigger things, places further afield than Canterbury and of making a name for himself. They were the dreams of any young boy, fame, wealth and of endless beauties to grace his bed.
The trouble was, Christopher realised at a young age, when his voice deepened and he grew hair where there had not been hair before, that the girls of Canterbury did not attract his gaze. He hadn’t dared mention it to his Mother, although they were close because he’d heard what would happen to sodomites if they continued with their unnatural practises. Church had drummed the fear of the devil into him, school made him question that, and university made him fascinated with the vices of the world.
But school, school was the first time the young Christopher learned about the world outside of Canterbury, admittedly the lessons were of Latin and religion but it was not the art of making shoes and for that, Christopher was grateful. He made friends that weren’t his siblings and formed close bonds with boys he’d come to know for most of his life. Though his penchant for getting into trouble started at school too.
~
Ah, William. Kit’s remembrances drifted towards the clumsy, absent minded, accident prone writer. His fingers forever stained with ink, his endless black shirts hiding numerous spillages of ink and mud from trips and falls. Kit didn’t love Will to begin with, that came after. When Kit met William Shakespeare, Kit was still enamoured with Tom Walsingham, a love that would never flower into anything more than infrequent rolls in rented beds. Will himself was married when they met, to a woman named Anne who was ten years his senior. A woman whom he’d hastily married after getting her pregnant when he was nineteen, a woman whom he was deeply fond of as the mother of his children, but a woman whom he was never in love with. Kit always thought it slightly sad but never said anything, it was easier to love Will knowing that Anne was more a friend than a lover. It worked out to Kit’s advantage but it didn’t mean he didn’t feel guilt. Religion was good at that, he thought bitterly as his murderers made the signs of the cross at his blaspheming; it taught you how to hate yourself, how to feel guilt, and how to fear for your very life. He didn’t love Will at first, but he certainly noticed him.
“Mr. Kyd! If you do not watch yourself I shall have to turf you out of here!” The mistress of the public house snapped as Thomas Kyd swaggered away from yet another fight.
“Come now, Bess.” Kit laughed, wiping ale foam from his moustache and flashing her his best smile. “We brighten up the place.”
“That’s as may be, Mr Marlowe, but if you keep scaring off my best customers I shall have to take steps.” Bess waved an empty mug at him threateningly but Kit knew she had forgiven them. He ordered two more drinks and gave her an extra bit of silver just to keep her sweet anyway, handed one to Thomas and clinked the mugs together companionably.
“Watch out,” Thomas said after a moment, eyeing the door over the rim of his drink. “There’s a new boy.”
Kit raised an eyebrow and span round on his barstool, not even trying for subtle (some would suggest he barely knew the meaning of the word.) He whistled low and lewd when he saw the man who had just entered, tall, slender and very obviously not from around the area. He was actually contemplating saying something when the newcomer was hit by a flying tankard and staggered backwards into a wall. Kyd cackled into his ale.
“Looks as though he’s just your type, Marley.” He mused with an unsympathetic grin. “How much do you think he would charge?”
“Shut your mouth, Kyd.” Kit snapped, truth be told the man who had just entered the tavern was very much his type by virtue of being phenomenally attractive and male, but that was information Kit wasn’t about to pass around. He slid from his stool and crossed the inn to offer a hand to the man leaning heavily on the wall.
“Come on, best not to hang around by the door lest you want old men asking you your charge.” He kept his voice low and tried for friendly.
To his vague relief the other man took his hand and righted himself, then awkwardly shook hands in greeting before letting his arm drop to his side. Kit couldn’t help but laugh, in this light it was obvious the man was in his early-twenties much like he was, which made it likely that he was a fortune hunter come to London seeking better things.
“Kit Marlowe.” He offered when the silence became slightly awkward. The other man stared at him for a moment.
“The Kit Marlowe? I have read your work, it’s good.”
“Well thank you, friend.” Kit grinned. “Might I know your name, tis only polite after I’ve told you mine.”
“Oh, Will, Will Shakespeare.” The other man held his hand out again and only too late realised his mistake. The flush on his cheeks was quite something to behold, even in the dank atmosphere of the inn.
“A pleasure to meet you, Will Shakespeare.” Kit laughed melodiously and shook his hand again anyway. “Come to the bar, let me get you a drink and perhaps a cloth for that cut there.” He indicated the split in Will’s left eyebrow where the flying tankard had caught him and Will touched the tips of his fingers there as though he had completely forgotten being struck.
Kit smiled a little more kindly than he might have done previously and helped Will over to the bar, keeping a hand on his elbow just in case of disoriented swaying. Will seemed fine but he was not about to take the chance. He had heard of this Shakespeare fellow, what little of his work had shown up on the theatre circuit was astoundingly good and he already had Kit’s interest in more ways than one.
Will took his seat but Kit didn’t mind, he just turfed a drunk off theirs and shuffled it along so he was sat between Kyd and Will, he didn’t trust Kyd at the best of times and certainly not around this country boy (judging by the accent.)
“So Marley, who is this stray you’ve picked up?” Kyd smirked, leering at the both of them. Kit rolled his eyes and waved for another pint, Bess brought it over in double time no doubt having clocked Will given that she also handed Kit a relatively clean washcloth at the same time.
Kit span Will around gently and put the mug of ale in his hands. “This,” he began as he dabbed the cloth against the trickle of blood on Will’s temple. “This, Mr Kyd, is Will Shakespeare.”
To his great delight, Kyd actually seemed impressed at this and clapped Will on the back making the young man cough as he took a sip of ale. It spilled over the edge of his mug and splashed onto his breeches giving both he and Kit cause to sigh irritably.
“Leave off, Kyd.” Kit snapped, moving the cloth to Will’s thigh to dab at the patch of ale. He meant nothing by it, just an innocent gesture to save Will the expense of getting them washed when no doubt he was short on funds. But he felt muscle tighten beneath his fingers and when he flicked his gaze up to Will’s face he saw his already impossibly dark eyes turn even darker. Well now that was an interesting development and he turned his filthiest smile onto Will and enjoyed seeing the man squirm. Thankfully Kyd seemed not to have noticed as he was too busy ordering another round and waving away any protestations from Will about not being able to afford it, declaring that the man that wrote like Will did deserved to be able to get well and truly drunk.
As it happened, Will grew a little more in confidence with a couple of pints of strong ale in him and he had Kit sniggering childishly more often than not, proving that he had a filthy sense of humour. Kit definitely approved of this gangly country boy and made it quite clear to anyone who dared look their way that Will was most definitely with him. Partly because he didn’t fancy letting any of the vultures get their claws into the boy just yet, and partly because he genuinely didn’t want to stop talking to him. It turned out he was the son of a glove maker from Stratford and had come to London to try and make something of his admittedly rather good writing, Kit promised that he would introduce him to all the necessary people just as soon as he had sorted himself out.
“Oh I have somewhere to stay.” Will ventured with a lazy smile. “A room just across the river.”
Kit grinned at him. “A good choice, better there than in the slums with Thomas and I.” He turned to look for Kyd but found him squaring up to yet another patron and sighed. “Come, let’s get out of here before we’re caught up in his wake.” Kit downed the rest of his drink and motioned for Will to do the same just as the sound of fist hitting cheekbone made him wince. He didn’t bother to look if it was Kyd or the unfortunate man who had offended him, just left a couple of coins on the bar for the trouble and dragged Will out of the tavern before it became too heated.
Outside the cool air hit him a little harder than expected and he swayed slightly, catching Will’s sleeve to stop himself stumbling. Will wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and held him steady until the dizziness subsided and he was able to offer a lop-sided grin.
“Sorry about that, must have had more than I thought.”
Will chuckled and let him go. “Do not trouble yourself, I believe myself also to be slightly on this side of inebriated.” He emphasised his point with exaggerated hand gestures making Kit giggle.
“You certainly have a way with words, Mr Shakespeare.”
Will beamed as though he had been paid some deep and sincere compliment. “Thank you, Kit.” He actually bowed which set Kit off in a fit of giggles again, he was forced to cling to a post to stop himself from falling over. It was not often he enjoyed himself like this, his nights out with Kyd usually ended in drunken fights and them having to flee their opponents or worse the police. Will made him laugh like he hadn’t in months and it was a good feeling.
“Will you walk me home, Mr Marlowe?” Will asked then with a little flutter of his eyelashes. Kit felt his stomach flutter a little in response but he caught himself, stood up straight and gallantly offered an arm. Will laughed and took it, holding a little tighter than Kit was expecting but he didn’t say anything, he rather enjoyed it actually and together they crossed the bridge and entered the district Will called home.
After a slightly embarrassing moment where Will forgot what street he actually lived on, they arrived at the door of the building containing his rented room and disentangled themselves from each other. Kit made a note of the address and gave Will his, just in case Will found himself in the area. The other man studied the scrap of paper for a moment, then returned his gaze to Kit who felt oddly like he was being measured up. Before he could say anything however he found himself with an armful of Will and a hot mouth pressed eagerly against his own.
“Will, what…” He began as he pulled away to breathe but Will shushed him and laced his fingers into the hair at the back of Kit’s head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss.
“Come to bed with me.” Will growled softly when he moved to bite teasingly at the skin of Kit’s throat, and Kit could do nothing but nod, feeling rather like he had been conned into this position but regretting absolutely none of it. They pulled apart for propriety’s sake and made their way to Will’s room as nonchalantly as they could so as not to attract suspicion from anyone who might see them. Kit was fairly sure nobody would but he didn’t want to cause Will any trouble since he was a new tenant after all.
When they were stood in Will’s room however and with the door safely closed, Kit was determined he would not be caught surprised again. He pulled Will close to him and kissed him deeply, tasting ale and ink and something sweet that he hoped was Will himself. Will’s fingers curled into the front of Kit’s doublet for the briefest of moments before going to work on the buttons, it fell from Kit’s shoulders in a matter of seconds and he was forced to let Will go in order to shrug it off. Will used this to his advantage and bore Kit over onto the bed, dropping himself on top and effectively pinning Kit in place. He just managed to free his arms so he could work his hands under the material of Will’s clothing to find warm skin, whilst Will’s teeth grazed the hollow of his throat and made him shudder.
Kit bucked his hips impatiently and a low rumble of a laugh spilled from Will’s throat, the other man sat up where he was and freed himself of his own doublet and shirt, Kit was stunned. He was beautiful, there was no other word for it; Kit ached to worship every inch of his skin and so used all his strength to surge up and reverse their positions. He pulled his own shirt over his head and threw it across the room before descending upon Will’s pale skin and writing masterpieces with his tongue.
The rest of their clothes were lost very quickly and under Kit’s ministrations, Will melted into a writhing mess, whining and desperately begging for more. Kit pulled back and looked down at him.
“Something to ease the way?” He asked quietly.
Will looked confused for a moment then comprehension dawned. “The desk, bottom drawer on the right.” He gasped and kept his gaze on Kit as he scrambled off the bed and across the room, Kit could feel those eyes on him and he actually shivered as he returned to the other man.
“I won’t hurt you.” He soothed when he saw the tiniest flash of fear in Will’s eyes as he was lifting one of Will’s legs over his shoulder. “Relax.” And although that was easier said than done, Will did his best and Kit found himself biting fiercely into Will’s shoulder to stop himself from screaming.
~
Love. At one time the word seemed so very alien to Kit. He neglected to put it into his plays, preferring instead drama and action. The closest he had come was the bond he developed between Mephistophilis and Faustus in Dr Faustus. He rather suspected history would come to change that bond, dilute it, pretend it doesn’t exist, but that is the way he wrote it. Distressingly, he also suspected that history would not remember his great love. Oh they would remember William, the name of Shakespeare would be one of the most famous that was ever spoken. His plays and his sonnets were already timeless and even in his dying moments Kit recalled broken lines from poetry that had been written onto his bare skin on more than one occasion.
He and Will were two sides of the same coin, the same and yet different. Kit was graceful when he danced, co-ordinated and debonair. Will was awkward and spent too much time tripping over his own shoes to actually get anywhere. Kit never sang when sober and even when he was out of his mind drunk he knew he sounded like a dying cat. Will on the other hand could actually carry a tune fairly well and could often be found singing his own praises much to everyone else’s annoyance.
Kit drank like a fish when he got going. Will barely touched it, especially if Kit was in one of his moods. He was determined somebody actually keep an eye on the flamboyant idiot and he didn’t care who knew that he was it.
Will took commissions; Kit had ‘principles.’
Will bought dinner; Kit kept his eyes on the table as he reluctantly ate what Will stubbornly put in front of him.
Will ignored the comments and accusations thrown their way, Kit on the other hand leapt across a table and stupidly (but impressive all the same) broke the nose of a man twice his size.
Will followed swiftly and dragged him out of the way with a seasoned actor’s timing. Kit, for the first time in his life managed to keep quiet until they were outside and out of sight where he shook and wept against Will.
Kit’s blood and tears stained Will’s shirt and he apologised in between sobs. Will shushed him with a kiss and used his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood from a vicious cut on his arm. It had slashed the material of his doublet and that of the shirt sleeve beneath it, leaving an angry red wound on Kit’s upper arm. The blood poured even as they staggered through the door of Will’s house where Kit had been staying for a few nights. (That was over a month ago and he still showed no signs of leaving or even of attempting to look for his own lodgings.)