Tamburlaine Must Die Read Free Page B

revelation and I wondered if Walsingham was
as surprised by my sudden recall as he had seemed.

    The
old man at the centre of the table smiled his slow smile. His voice
took on the monotone of one reciting by rote.

    `The
Council will be conducting its own investigations. We recognise three
charges against you. First that you did request Thomas Kyd copy an
heretical tract on your behalf. Second that you are an avowed atheist
who has caused others to convert to your beliefs. Third that you did
write and paste this libel to the door of the Dutch church,
threatening those to whom Her Majesty has offered protection.'

    I
bowed my head awaiting the instruction to take me to gaol.

    `Meanwhile,
you are free to go but will report to the Privy Council before noon
every day until such time as you are given notice to quit or other
measures are put in force.' Here he favoured me with the fond glance
of a farmer surveying crops on the eve of harvest. `You are not under
arrest, but failure to report to the Council will result in your
arrest. Is that clear?

    I
nodded, not trusting my voice.

    The
official smiled his slow smile again. His lips were unnaturally red,
pumped full of blood behind the white beard. His eyes met mine for an
instant. Then he nodded my dismissal and returned to the papers in
front of him.

    Kyd
and Kit. The goat and the cat, someone had once called us. But the
names didn't stick. They were so plainly the wrong way round. If
anyone were the goat then it was I, with my Machiavellian cast and
goatee beard. Kyd, on the other hand, had a feline quality. It
suddenly struck me that all grace would be racked from him now. The
realisation brought tears to my eyes. The world swam and for a while
I forgot I was a haunted man. Poor Kyd was a good companion and a
fine playwright whose friendship I'd just disowned. I knew he'd
understand my denial as I forgave his betrayal, but the weight of bad
faith rested heavy in my belly. I wanted to know what had happened to
Kyd, needed to know what he had said about me. One place would hold
the answers, the destination I most dreaded. Death makes the world a
brighter place. I've seen the shape danger gives to things, an edge
so sharp that if you like your head atop your shoulders and your
entrails tucked safe in your belly it's best not to stop and admire
the view. Yet the prospect of death renders everything lovely.
Colours shine stronger. Strangers' faces fascinate and your sex calls
you to business you must not attend.

    We've
all seen men swing. Some go pious, strangely eager to meet the Maker
who has treated them equal to his bastard son. Others disgrace
themselves, shivering, shitting, pleading for a mercy they should
know is long fled. Their shame forces me to turn towards the faces of
the crowd. Wild-eyed masks, red-faced and spittle spattering, some
with appetites so awakened they stuff themselves with pies, meat
juices glossing their chins, pastry cramming their mouths, even as
they call for the coward to be cut down and quartered. Sometimes
though, the condemned have an extra grace. The hangman slips the rope
around their necks like a father bestowing pearls on a daughter of
whose virginity he is certain. I have watched the wonder on such
men's faces and known them to be entranced by the world from which
they are about to drop.

    From
his gallows eyrie, the soon-to-be-dead sees everything. The cheats
and pickpockets, the ghouls hoping for a scrap of his clothing, or
better still`a lock of his hair or a slice of the rope. The condemned
hear the clamouring for death. They feel the anticipation of the
crowd, as eager as any first-night audience. And who's to say they
never want to please the mob? Because, viewed from the gallows,
everything is beautiful. The veins on the noses of piss heads glow a
blood red shade never witnessed before. And whores whose early
corruption has decided the hardened cast of their faces, melt into
blameless girls.

    Such
cursed men surpass Christ. They