blows
which wake me, not as senseless as I wish
I was. Each leaden limb thuds with the poison:
self-administered. As I lift my cheek
from its crumpled resting place, and shift my head,
the world shifts with it, wobbles, settles down.
‘And Christ is risen.’ Thomas Thorpe is sitting
four feet away, his hands placed on his knees
like handkerchiefs. ‘You’re lucky I’m a friend.
I could have had eggs and bacon off your back,
you’d not have noticed.’
‘How did you get in?’
I squint my eyes at the daylight’s acid burn.
‘Old-fashioned charm,’ he says, smoothing his hair.
‘A drop of rose-oil too. The ladies like it.’
My brain is coming back from somewhere cold,
finding its way by following the steps
it stamped out yesterday. ‘You have the letter?’
‘The letter, yes. All in good time, my dear.
There’s something else more pressing. A request.
We need a play.’
‘The theatres are closed.
Unless you’re saying they’re open?’
‘No such luck.
The plague’s still rampant. Gathering for sport
is quite forbidden. All the same a play
has been requested. You’ll be paid for it.
A comedy.’
‘A comedy!’
‘Indeed.’
He keeps his mouth straight, though it longs to smile.
‘The Queen, apparently, likes something light
at Christmas time.’
I launch towards my desk,
pick up the papers I was writing there
and wave them like a fist. ‘I have a play.
A tragedy of violence and revenge.
Titus Andronicus . The crowd will love it.
Henslowe will make a mint. Though he’ll complain
about the cost of bull’s blood, and the slopping
and mopping for each performance. Here. It’s done.
Or close to done. I’ve had my fill of it.’
A wave of nausea forces me to sit,
my heart capsized.
‘And then the comedy?’
‘What? Are you mad? Pray, find me comedy
in the nonsense that my life’s become. Go home.’
I press my aching head between my fists
as if I could squeeze him out of it. ‘Go home.
Go back to – where you came from.’ Thinking Hell
might be the place. ‘But give me the letter first.’
‘Touchy,’ he says, and offers it from afar
like meat on a stick that’s pushed towards a bear.
The seal, and the hand, Southampton’s, and not yours.
I break it open. Not a word of you.
‘There’s nothing else?’
‘There’s gold if you’ll write the play.
I assume you’re running low by now.’
He’s right,
and knows he is, but quiet in victory,
stares out the window at a distant cloud
feeding his hat brim through his hands, to mime
that velvet wheel of Fate, necessity.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, my hand out for a purse,
aware of my own petulance. ‘Perhaps
the joke will come to me in Italy.’
‘Commedia dell’Arte! I saw it once
in Padua. What larks!’ He stops the flow
immediately, though a boy had bubbled up
beneath the beard. ‘You’ve travelled much?’ he asks,
dropping the gold into my open palm.
‘A little,’ I say, with unmasked bitterness.
‘In service of the Queen. What I’ve not seen
I’m sure to make up for in the coming months.’
‘Do you know Padua?’ ‘Just by report.’
‘A scholar ought to go there at least once.
You’re travelling as a scholar, I believe.
You might want to visit the
which wake me, not as senseless as I wish
I was. Each leaden limb thuds with the poison:
self-administered. As I lift my cheek
from its crumpled resting place, and shift my head,
the world shifts with it, wobbles, settles down.
‘And Christ is risen.’ Thomas Thorpe is sitting
four feet away, his hands placed on his knees
like handkerchiefs. ‘You’re lucky I’m a friend.
I could have had eggs and bacon off your back,
you’d not have noticed.’
‘How did you get in?’
I squint my eyes at the daylight’s acid burn.
‘Old-fashioned charm,’ he says, smoothing his hair.
‘A drop of rose-oil too. The ladies like it.’
My brain is coming back from somewhere cold,
finding its way by following the steps
it stamped out yesterday. ‘You have the letter?’
‘The letter, yes. All in good time, my dear.
There’s something else more pressing. A request.
We need a play.’
‘The theatres are closed.
Unless you’re saying they’re open?’
‘No such luck.
The plague’s still rampant. Gathering for sport
is quite forbidden. All the same a play
has been requested. You’ll be paid for it.
A comedy.’
‘A comedy!’
‘Indeed.’
He keeps his mouth straight, though it longs to smile.
‘The Queen, apparently, likes something light
at Christmas time.’
I launch towards my desk,
pick up the papers I was writing there
and wave them like a fist. ‘I have a play.
A tragedy of violence and revenge.
Titus Andronicus . The crowd will love it.
Henslowe will make a mint. Though he’ll complain
about the cost of bull’s blood, and the slopping
and mopping for each performance. Here. It’s done.
Or close to done. I’ve had my fill of it.’
A wave of nausea forces me to sit,
my heart capsized.
‘And then the comedy?’
‘What? Are you mad? Pray, find me comedy
in the nonsense that my life’s become. Go home.’
I press my aching head between my fists
as if I could squeeze him out of it. ‘Go home.
Go back to – where you came from.’ Thinking Hell
might be the place. ‘But give me the letter first.’
‘Touchy,’ he says, and offers it from afar
like meat on a stick that’s pushed towards a bear.
The seal, and the hand, Southampton’s, and not yours.
I break it open. Not a word of you.
‘There’s nothing else?’
‘There’s gold if you’ll write the play.
I assume you’re running low by now.’
He’s right,
and knows he is, but quiet in victory,
stares out the window at a distant cloud
feeding his hat brim through his hands, to mime
that velvet wheel of Fate, necessity.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, my hand out for a purse,
aware of my own petulance. ‘Perhaps
the joke will come to me in Italy.’
‘Commedia dell’Arte! I saw it once
in Padua. What larks!’ He stops the flow
immediately, though a boy had bubbled up
beneath the beard. ‘You’ve travelled much?’ he asks,
dropping the gold into my open palm.
‘A little,’ I say, with unmasked bitterness.
‘In service of the Queen. What I’ve not seen
I’m sure to make up for in the coming months.’
‘Do you know Padua?’ ‘Just by report.’
‘A scholar ought to go there at least once.
You’re travelling as a scholar, I believe.
You might want to visit the
Similar Books
