Tamburlaine Must Die

By Louise Welsh

A “vivid portrait of the beautiful, passionate, ever-witty Marlowe . . . A phantasmagoric Elizabethan thriller” from the author of The Cutting Room (Los Angeles Times).

1593 and London is a city on edge. Under threat from plague and war, it’s a desperate place where strangers are unwelcome and severed heads grin from spikes on Tower Bridge.

Playwright, poet, spy and man of prodigious appetites, Christopher Marlowe is working on his latest literary effort and enjoying the English countryside at his patron’s estate when this idyll is cut short. A messenger from the Queen and the nefarious Privy Council summons his immediate return to London. And in the following three days Marlowe confronts dangerous government factions, double agents, necromancy, betrayal and revenge in his search for the murderous Tamburlaine, a killer who has escaped from between the pages of Marlowe’s most violent play and is scandalizing London. The author must confront his creation—or die.

Tamburlaine Must Die is the suspenseful adventure story of a man who dares to defy both God and his Queen—and discovers that there are worse fates than damnation.

“As quick and dark as a child’s nightmare . . . Fictionalizes Marlowe’s last days with novelistic wit and interpretive imagination.”—The Nation

“If Raymond Chandler had written an Elizabethan thriller, it might have looked like this.”—Providence Journal

“The Bard would have loved this period romp.”—The San Diego Union-Tribune

“Tightly written, well plotted and, best of all, fun.”—Detroit Free Press

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9780802197696

Louise Welsh

Louise Welsh is the author of six novels, including The Cutting Room, The Girl on the Stairs and A Lovely Way to Burn. She has been awarded a CWA Dagger and the Glenfiddich/Scotland on Sunday award.

Book preview

LONDON

29TH MAY 1593

I have four candles and one evening in which to write this account. Tomorrow I will lodge these papers with my last true friend. If I survive the day, they will light our pipes. But should I not return, he has instructions to secrete this chronicle where it will lie undiscovered for a long span, in the hope that when these pages are found, the age will be different and my words may be judged by honest eyes.

Reader, I cannot imagine what future you inhabit. Perhaps the world is a changed place, where men are honest and war, want and jealousies all vanquished. If so, you will wonder at the actions of the players in this poor play of passion. But if you are men like us you may understand, and if you are men like us you will learn nothing, though I gift you the only lesson worth learning, that there is no better prize than life. Whatever the future be, if you are reading this, you read the words of a man who knew how to live and who died an unnatural and unjust death. And what follows is the true record of the circumstances leading to my assassination.

My name is Christopher Marlowe, also known as Marle, Morley, Marly, known as Kit, known as Xtopher, son of a Canterbury cobbler. They say shoemakers’ sons go barefoot. It wasn’t so bad for us, but my father had a fondness for style that stretched beyond his means and damaged family fortunes. I inherited his tastes, but desired none of his debt, so I have always been in need of money and have risked much where other men might have scrupled.

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

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

Eventually I moved to London as I always knew I would, and set the world of theatre afire. Men left Massacre of Paris with their sword-hands twitching. And when my Faustus was performed, some said Lucifer himself attended, curious to see how he was rendered. Yes, it is no vanity to say my plays were a triumph, and Christopher Marlowe so famous they had heard of me in Hell. And so I made shift betwixt two night-time realms and thought my life charmed.

I am of an adventurous nature. I have often invited danger and have even goaded men to violence for the sake of excitement. I like best what lies beyond my reach, and admit to using friendship, State and Church to my own ends. I acknowledge breaking God’s laws and man’s with few regrets. But if I die tomorrow, I will go to my grave a wronged man. Were this fate of my own doing, I would greet it not gladly, but with a nod to virtue’s victory. As it is, if I meet death tomorrow I promise to face him cursing man and God.

*

My story begins on the 19th of May, 1593. All of that month I had been installed at Scadbury, the country house of my patron, Thomas Walsingham. For reasons I will soon explain, it was after noon before I 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 with sunlight. I stood by the window enjoying the lack of London’s stink as much as the freshness of the countryside, then repaired to my desk where I worked like the finest of scholars, until the sun edged half the sky and a shadow crept across my words. I let the ink of my last poetry sink into the page and when all danger of smudging was past, locked the manuscript safe in my trunk, slipping one of my own hairs into the clasp, an old precaution, done more from habit than necessity.

It had become my custom to walk in the forest in the early evening. As I write, I search my remembrance, wondering if the weeks cloistered in the country, avoiding the Plague which once more threatened the City, had made me restless. I was used after all to the bustle of theatrical life, London’s stews, the half-world of ambidextors and agents. But it seems when I look back on this walk at the end of a perfect day, that it was the most untroubled hour of my life. I didn’t know that every step I took was echoed by the beat of a messenger’s horse speeding along the London road towards Scadbury. My fate galloping to meet me.

I had much to muse on that late afternoon. The events of the previous night should have been prime in my mind. But I thought of nothing as I walked through the forest. That is, I thought of nothing in particular. Pleasant images threaded through my daydreams: the verses I was engaged on; what might be served for supper; the thighs of a woman I had lain with last winter; the dedication I would compose for Walsingham; how perfect clusters of purple violets looked snug against the forest floor; whether a doublet of the same shade might suit me well. All mingled with contentment at the good fortune of my state. The assurance of my patron’s affection, the vigour of my blood, the good reception I felt sure would greet my poetry when I returned at last to London. I see now there was a complacence in my satisfaction and, were I prone to superstition, might suspect I invoked misfortune by displeasing God with my conceit. But such thoughts are nonsense. When making mischief, man needs no help from God or the Devil.

The sun slipped lower beyond the canopy of leaves. The forest’s green light deepened, tree shadows lengthened, intersecting my path like criss-crossing staves. I registered dusk’s approach and walked through bars of light and dark wondering if I might employ them as a metaphor.

Nature hath no distinction twixt sun and shadow, good and evil.

I saw no one, but the forest was secretly as busy as any London street. Night and daytime creatures crossed, invisible in the gloaming. Birds whistled territorial tunes and small beasts, newly awakened for the night kill, rustled beneath fallen leaves, fleeing my approach. Crickets scratched out their wash-board song and the wind whipped the treetops into a roar. But any crowd has its silent watchers and once I glimpsed the feminine form of a deer, trembling at the edge of my vision.

‘That’s right,’ I said out loud, ‘never let your guard down.’ Then laughed, because I had let my own guard down, walking unaccompanied through these woods on the verge of night. I remember I paused to light my pipe, trusting the smoke to repel the swarms of midges that hovered around my head, then strode on confident I could reach the house before dark.

So passed my last untroubled moments. I didn’t see

Reviews for Tamburlaine Must Die

[christinelstanley · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This novella is excellent, full of intrigue, betrayal and full-on entertainment. The writing is concise and descriptive at the same time. As earlier reviews, I would have been happy to read a full novel with more characterisation.

[cassandra2020 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Not much is really known about the circumstances that surround the death of Christopher Marlowe. We know how he died and who he was with at the time, but was it a drunken brawl that ended tragically, was it murder, plotted and planned? Nothing in the history books is conclusive.

Louise Welsh's novella (it's not really long enough to be a fully fledged novel) is based on the last few days of his life and tries to put a voice to him and give background to what happened. It 'kind of works'. You do get a feel for the times and the lives being led, but whether it really fleshes out why he had to die.... I think a more in depth working would be needed for that and I gather there are better novels, and certainly better history books, available that cover the subject.

From what I've read, this is probably the least accomplished of the author's works (& that's why I read it first - I was given signed copies of 3 of her books for my birthday last year and prefer to work 'up' rather than 'down'). I did enjoy it, but am looking forward to reading the other 2 books I have on Mount TBR more.

[isabelx_21 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

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.I enjoyed "Tamburlaine Must Die" while I was reading it as it was well written and felt like an accurate representation of late Elizabethan London, but when I reached the end I felt rather let down. I think it would have worked much better if Louise Welsh had expanded it into a novel, as it didn't have enough excitement or twists and turns. The revelation about who had actually created the Tamburlaine posters left me disappointed. The whole premise of the story didn’t make much sense either. Torturing Thomas Kyd to obtain false evidence against Marlow so that they could blackmail him into betraying someone else seems a rather long-winded way for the Privy Council to go about things.As for the cover description that "Tamburlaine Must Die is the swashbuckling adventure story of a man who dares to defy both God and State - and discovers that there are worse fates than damnation", I don't think that describes the story well at all. Marlow was an atheist and didn’t believe in God or damnation, so it was the state's laws on blasphemy and homosexuality that he was defying rather than God, and his eventual decision was not made because he was scared of hell, but rather because he was sick of being manipulated by the Privy Council.And some things never change: He granted me a scholarship to Cambridge University where I was recruited into a strange shadow world, where I was assured I could help my country while helping myself.

[simonw11 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Well that's another book read. An odd sort of mix, I have read I think better attempts at elizabethan english. Why? I found myself wondering, use the archaic spelling skry, but say that Walshingham slept with Marlow rather than lay with him.There are always inconsistancies in these things though, and the flouridity of the style seemed most suitable.I have never read any Marlow. Though occasional paraphrases would bring quotes to mind "And this is Hell nor am I out of it" for example, before reading this all I really remembered of him apart from a few titles was a quote that his plays consisted of, "puppets spouting golden verse" Which seemed to sum up more or less my attitude to the cast of this piece. The gaoler for example I thought much to well spoken for his role.this is Marlow inflating the language I suspect we are mean't to presume. Blaize's seemed the most puppet like. His motivation seemed bizzare, How Marlow guessed the identity of this Tamburlaine is beyond me it seemed nothing but the plots demand for some closure.While the scenes from the seamy side of life provided plenty of colour. I found them unlikely if I had the shadow of the gallows hanging over me I doubt very much that I would seek out such distractions let alone that they would succeed. That they did suceed is evident by Marlows foolish blasphemies."There are worse fates than damnation." is a quote from the closing paragraphs. And presumably is meant to suggest that Marlow would prefer his works immortality to his souls" It follows then that a refusal to implicate Raleigh would not be for any ethical reason but for intellectual pride, historical immortality, Something that seems unlikely to me in anyone.

[greatrakes · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Opening--------- LONDON 29TH MAY 1593 I have four candles and one evening in which to write this account. Tomorrow I will lodge these papers with my last true friend. If I survive the day, they will light our pipes. But should I not return, he has instructions to secrete this chronicle where it will lie undiscovered for a long span, in the hope that when these pages are found, the age will be different and my words may be judged by honest eyesThe book takes the form of an account written by Marlowe of events leading up to what he believes may be the last day of his life.Style----------I thought it was flamboyant without being over-the-top, the descriptions of events and places were vivid without being wordy, the sex scenes were 'period graphic' and the descriptions of place were excellent.Plot----------Tamburlaine was Marlowe's first solo effort (so far as we know) and the play which made his name. Tamburlaine is amoral and ego driven and Welsh 's Marlowe is the real life equivalent of his fictional hero.Tamburlaine has materialised in London, or at least a series of anti-immigrant blasts have been pinned up around London bearing the signature Tamburlaine. The Privy Council accuse Marlowe of the deed, but it is clear that the Privy Council is riven over this and the accusation is politically motivated. The divisions within the Privy Council make it necessary for the Raleigh faction to find a scapegoat to keep Raleigh's head on his shoulders, and Marlowe fits the bill. Marlowe's payoff for not buying himself some small amount of time by bringing Raleigh down, is the promise of immortality for his work, promised to him by various shady characters, including Dr Dee.Sub-plot-----------Contrived and didn't really work for me, a famous actor, best friend of Marlowe, and failed and much mocked playwright, Thomas Blaize, is acting the part of Tamburlaine, and sending Marlowe clues, Marlowe realises and murders him.The Tragical History of Doctor -----------------------------------------------In this play by Marlowe, Faust chooses earthly over spiritual gains. Welsh cleverly reverses this (I think). For all that her Marlowe is a libertine and a thoroughly amoral character, he chooses an atheists equivalent of spiritual gains - literary immortality - over the chance to cling to earthly existence. The Bookshops in St Paul's----------------------------------Welsh gives a compelling description of the bookshops and bookstalls that clustered around St Paul's Cross Churchyard, I have it on my list of Elizabethan places to see, in the unlikely event that Doctor Who chooses me as his next assistant. It's number two on the list, right after the heads on spikes at Traitors' Gate.Close----------Last night I received a summons to a house in Deptford. There I will be held to accounts, which cannot be squared. Life is frail and I may die today. But Tamburlaine knows no fear. My candles are done, the sky glows red and it looks as if the day is drenched in blood. I finish this account and prepare for battle in the sureness that life is the only prize worth having and the knowledge that there are worse fates than damnation. If these are the last words I write, let them be, A Curse on Man and God. Christopher Marlowe 30th May 1593

[bhowell_35 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An entertaining read which recreates Elizabethan England and weaves a fanciful but all too plausible tale of the mysterious Christopher Marlowe. Walsingham, Raleigh and Lord Cecil all make appearances in this racy short thriller.

[alexbolding · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Crafty, short novella, set in 1593 London during the reign of Elizabeth. The protagonist Christopher Marlowe is a play writer who has been fathering two successful plays (Faust, and Tamburlaine, a tough cookie hero). But Marlowe is in trouble, he has fallen out of grace – after sucking off his protector and master at the Court, Walsingham, Marlowe is summoned to London to face a court ruling. He is accused of various forms of blasphemy in his work. Well there is plenty of that in his works but that can hardly be a reason to indict him now. Something is going on. Soon he happens to crash into one of his close friends who played the main character in Tamburlaine. Slowly the suspicion grows on Marlowe that it is Tamburlaine who aims to kill him. After surviving two attempts on his life, he knives his friend and prepares to meet the commissioners of his assassination in some obscure house (where the historical Marlowe actually got killed with a knife in his eyeball). The sex is sordid, the drinking scenes lively, the pest haunted London streets eerie, the debauched court antics and intrigues realistic. Makes one wanna read more of Welsh.