Marlowe - Soul'd to the Devil

By D. Lawrence-Young

In ‘Marlowe - Soul’d to the Devil’, you will read how this ambitious Divinity student from Canterbury and Cambridge became a poet and playwright as well as Shakespeare’s most serious rival. Moving from Cambridge to London, Marlowe writes smash-hit plays, erotic poetry and also acts as an informer for Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, Walsingham. As such he is also sent to France and Holland to spy on the queen’s potential enemies. However, back home, despite his success with ‘Tamburlaine’ and ‘Doctor Faustus’, he makes some powerful enemies through his unconventional views and alleged sexual preferences. As a result his meteoric career crashes in an unexpected way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839787027

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Marlowe’s first appearance

…the beauties of his native Kent:

Where painted carpets o’er the meads are hurl’d

(Marlowe: The Jew of Malta, ACT IV)

‘Son, you’re wasting your time! Your place is here with us here in Ospringe,’ Master Marlowe the cobbler, shouted.

‘No it’s not! There’s nothing for me to do in this village. I’m bored here and I’ll never make anything of myself here.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with sheep and wool? Son, answer me that.’

John Marlowe had no answer. All he wanted was to get away.

‘Let me tell you, young man. Sheep and wool have put food on many a table around here.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘But what? They’ve also put a roof over many a head,’ the village cobbler continued. ‘And bread in his belly.’

‘But don’t you see, father? I want more out of life than sheep and wool.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want my own cobbler’s shop. I want to see the world. I want to see more pretty girls. There must be more than Jane next door and her sister, Mary.’

‘Ah, that’s it. Pretty girls and seeing the world, eh? So go and be a sailor and join the King’s navy. That way you’ll see the world and have as many wenches as you want!’

‘It’s not like that, father. I just want to leave here and see London and Canterbury and other places.’

These then were the thoughts of the young Marlowe as he walked along the path from Ospringe village to Faversham town, Kent. No, walked is not the right word. He half-ran along the flint-studded clay path, as he shouldered his haversack containing his shoemaking tools: awls, hammers, reels of thread and a few decorated pieces of leather. These were to show and, he hoped, to impress any future employer.

Ospringe was a small village, not much more than a cluster of houses and barns. Its most striking building was Maison Dieu – God’s House, a flintchip-walled almshouse built and endowed some three hundred years earlier by Henry III in 1234. The King, in fact, had stayed there and so too had his son, the future Edward I, a few years later. The village straddled Watling Street, the ancient Roman road that led from Dover to London via Canterbury, and then continued on in a north-westerly direction towards the Anglo-Welsh border.

Even if he had known any of this history, none of it would have interested the young man now determinedly heading north. He was far more interested in his future. The past could stay where it belonged. In the past. Now twenty years old, he was on the look-out for a leather-merchant or shoemaker who would take him on as an apprentice. For John Marlowe, it was obvious that if he were to make his way in life and become a respected tradesman, the way to do so would be to work and live in Faversham, or even in Canterbury. His home village of Ospringe was too small, and besides, the craftsmen who worked in leather there were not likely to step aside in the near future for this ambitious young man.

Now, heading north he remembered the argument he had had with his gap-toothed father that morning. He had not enjoyed the experience, but he had felt that he had to tell him what he had been thinking.

His mother had wept when he had first told her of his intentions ‘to cast his bread upon the waters’ elsewhere. But when he had promised her he would return home every Lent, Easter and Christmas, she had dried her eyes and stopped sniffling. His haversack now contained some cheeses and a few pies she had lovingly baked and packed for him.

‘Have a care, mother. You’ll make all my tools and leatherwork greasy, and how will that look when I speak to a future employer?’

His mother did not seem overly concerned but continued stuffing another pie and a few more apples into the bulging haversack.

‘Fear not, John, you’ll do well. You’re the ambitious one in the family; you were always too big for the village. Sheep and wool were never for you – I’ve known that all along. Am I right, husband?’

Reluctantly, John’s father nodded his head in agreement. ‘Even when we took you to church, the only thing you’d do was to look at the statues of St Crispin and Crispianus, the patron saints for us shoemakers.’

So now, here he was, about to make his mark on the world, the English world of 1556. God was in his Heaven, Queen Mary was on the throne and his life and hope stretched before him. What could be better?

Blurred from a distance, the pointed spire of Faversham parish church became sharper as John approached. Soon his feet were crunching along the flinty path as he made his way towards the centre of the town. It was thirsty work walking quickly, especially in the summer sun and when you weren’t used to walking any great distance and so, making his way to the first inn he saw, he ordered a tankard of ale.

‘And are you off to London, young man?’ asked a tubby, red-faced man sitting near the porch as John sat down to quench his thirst.

‘No, sir. Canterbury.’

‘Don’t you ‘sir’ me. Just call me Ol’ Tom like everyone else does around here. But you’re right, London’s not the place for you. A dirty and unhealthy place it is, especially if you’re not of the Old Faith, a Catholic, if you know what I mean.’

John nodded. He remembered his father’s warning about not being drawn into conversations about religion. Especially with strangers.

Ol’ Tom continued. ‘I’ve heard they’ve burnt quite a few of them Protestants in London, in Smithfield market. And oh yes, they’ve also burnt some in Canterbury, at Wincheap. It’s dangerous times we’re living in, lad. Just you remember that.’

John said he would and made to get up, but the garrulous old man grabbed his sleeve and continued. ‘You’ll see, young man. They’ll burn more before the year is out, dozens more. Our Queen Mary and her Spanish husband don’t even want to hear about Protestants, let alone see one. And when she does, she burns ‘em, just like that,’ he said, snapping his bony fingers to show how quickly the queen’s fires worked.

The old man noted John’s discomfort as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Don’t you worry, young man. I’ll not ask you about religion. That’s not my job. That’s the job of Her Majesty’s Star Chamber or Privy Council, or whatever they call it. But just you be aware of what’s happening in the world today and learn from all around you like I did. Now sit you down and listen to Ol’ Tom.’

Seeing that he had no choice in the matter, John sat down and pulled out a chunk of cheese from his haversack.

‘Aye, when I was a lad, King Henry VII was our king. Some say he was a mean old man and all that he was interested in was having money in the Exchequer. But mean or not, people lived quietly then and in peace, that is, if they didn’t annoy the authorities. No-one worried about religion and fines for not going to church then. Everyone was a Catholic in those days. And I may add, it was only the rich who were worried – worried that the King would lay his skinny fingers on their fortunes.

‘And then his son came along. Prince Henry. You know, our King Henry the Eighth. Oh, he was a lusty young man at the beginning, that is while he was married to that Catherine woman, Catherine of Aragon, I mean. But when he fell for that Boleyn strumpet, it was then that he changed. Yes, young man, everything changed after that.’

The old man paused, and John, despite his desire to continue his journey, was interested to hear more and asked Ol’ Tom to continue.

‘His first wife seemed fair enough to me.’

‘Did you ever see her?’ John asked.

‘I did that,’ Old Tom replied. ‘I saw her when my father took me to London when I was a young lad, younger than yourself. She was sitting in an open carriage and she looked very happy. Couldn’t guess of course what was going to happen to her later, though.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you could,’ John said.

‘And then of course it was one after the other. I know he wanted a son, but his third one, that Jane Seymour, she gave him one in the end, didn’t she?’

John nodded.

‘I mean, did he have to carry on with those other ones and chop off their heads?’

‘Who? Like Catherine Howard?’

‘That’s right. And then after Henry died, then we had his son, young Edward, the one who made us all go Protestant. And now his sister, Queen Mary, says we’re all to go back to the Old Faith again. So you just watch it, young man, where and how you pray. Now ‘scuse me ‘cos I’ve got to go and piss.’ And getting up, he moved off heavily to make his way round to the back of the inn where several large oak trees hid Ol’ Tom carrying out his natural functions from the world.

John took this as a sign that the conversation was over. He picked up his haversack and set off in an easterly direction for Canterbury. Walking along at the same energetic pace as before, it wasn’t long before he passed Davington Priory. Continuing along Watling Street at the same brisk pace, he soon left Preston and Hickman’s Green far behind. As he was walking past Mount Ephraim, a low hill to the north of the main road, a pedlar joined him, and together they covered the few remaining miles to Canterbury.

It was while they were walking through Harbledown and after John had told him of his plans, the pedlar told him about a cobbler he knew in Canterbury.

‘Fine fellow he is – honest as they come. Well, as honest as anyone is who is in trade. He’ll look after you. I’ll even take you to him myself.’

He was as good as his word and soon John found himself persuading the scrawny Richard Cowey to take him on as an assistant.

‘Not much leather in my shop at the moment,’ the old cobbler wheezed as a way of introduction. ‘Just enough to make one pair of boots, and those’d be for a very small pair of feet, I can tell thee. But come, let me show thee around my shop.’

For the next few months John Marlowe worked behind the counter in the cramped shoemaker’s shop near the Guildhall. Sometimes he sewed uppers and soles together, sometimes he cut out leather outlines; at other times he served the customers, usually when his master fell asleep in the dark corner at the rear or when his asthmatic attacks prevented him from working.

However, the end of a six-month period in Cowey’s shop happened one day when John had argued with a fat, smooth-faced tanner, over the price of some pieces of leather. Soon their shouting woke up the sleeping shoemaker and without asking any questions, he threw John out of his shop on the spot. This act of injustice was carried out despite the youngster’s protests that the fat tanner had been selling them poor quality pieces of leather and had been doing so for some time.

‘That’s as maybe,’ Cowey replied, handing John over the few coins he owed him. ‘But if I argue with him, I won’t get any cheaper pieces elsewhere and he’ll go to my rival on Mercery Lane. Now off with you, and make sure you don’t take any of my tools with you.’

John had learnt his lesson. As long as he was an assistant, he would keep his tongue in check and not argue with his employer even if he felt that an injustice had been done.

For the next few months he kept himself busy doing odd jobs, sometimes for shoemakers and sometimes for others, and through his growing circle of connections, he found a new master-shoemaker, Master Gerard Richardson.

‘Do you know the trade well? Can you cut and sew with a steady hand?’ Richardson asked.

‘Yes, sir, I have been working with leather for many months,’ John replied, somewhat stretching the truth.

‘And can you tell the difference between cow and calf leather?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me test you.’ And with his eyes shut, John felt the difference between the two.

‘You’ve passed. Not like the last young man who came looking for work. Couldn’t tell the difference between linen and leather, if you ask me. Now, young master Marlowe, do you have your own tools?’ the ageing shoemaker asked.

John nodded and unwrapped his tool-wrap on the counter. He noted Richardson’s smile of approval as he ran an experienced finger along the sharp blades and felt the points of the awls. John was glad that he had sharpened and cleaned his tools the night before and felt even better when Master Richardson approved of his cutting and stitching.

‘So, young man, I will take you on as my apprentice, and all I need from you now is two shillings and one penny.’

‘What for?’

‘For your legal enrolment.’ And those words, together with a friendly pat on the shoulder, marked John Marlowe’s official entrance into the world of shoemaking.

That night, the new apprentice, accompanied by half a dozen friends, celebrated his new status in the ‘Red Lion’ until around two the morning, when the landlord threw them out onto the chilly street.

From then on John Marlowe’s life entered into a fairly regular pattern. From the early morning until the late evening, he could be found in Richardson’s workshop, usually hunched up over the counter, repairing uppers and soles. Sometimes he would serve the customers, or deal with other merchants and artisans who came into the bustling shop.

One evening, as he was about to pull down the shutters a young woman ran into the shop, holding a somewhat battered pair of brown shoes. Both heels were worn down and one was cracked.

‘Excuse me,’ she said breathlessly, as she had hurried over just before Richardson had asked John to lock up for the night. ‘Can you repair these? I know they’re old, but they are so comfortable and I can’t really afford a new pair.’

‘Of course,’ John replied, looking up at her earnest face. ‘But first you should call me priest.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we shoemakers are like priests,’ he said repeating the old joke. ‘We repair soles.’

She smiled in approval. ‘And what about the heels?’

‘I’ll heal those as well.’

She smiled again as John looked up to study her more closely in the fading light. She had a smooth complexion and lively brown eyes. A few curly wisps of hair had escaped from the bonnet framing her pretty face. She blushed as she caught him looking at her so intently.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’ he asked as he realised she was waiting for him to answer the question she had just asked.

‘When will my shoes be ready?’

‘Tomorrow, before evensong,’ he promised her. She smiled her thanks, and giving a quick bow, she walked off in the direction of the cathedral.

From that moment until she reappeared the following evening, her smiling image was stamped in John’s mind. From the moment she walked away, he thought of her trim waist and the attractive swing of her hips. The picture of her pert face and full bosom occupied his mind all day, and yet when she appeared that evening as expected, she somehow looked different. She was now wearing a cleaner pale blue blouse which made her eyes seem even brighter, and before entering the shop she had smoothed down her bodice so that her breasts looked even more attractive. Her blouse was not laced up to her neck so John was treated to more than a slight glimpse of her curved bosom as she leant over to pick up her shoes. It was all he could do not to stare at her in awe but he made an effort to concentrate on the business in hand.

‘Here you are, Miss…’ he stammered.

‘Katherine Arthur, sir.’

‘Oh, don’t call me,sir. I’m just John Marlowe from Ospringe at your service,’ he said, and doffed his cap and bowed.

‘Now, there’s no need for all that,’ she laughed. ‘But where’s Ospringe? Isn’t it near Rochester?’

‘No, it’s ten miles west of here. I’m not local.’

‘Nor am I. I’m from Dover.’

‘That’s miles away.’

‘I know. It’s about twenty miles south of here. I’m staying with my kinsman, William Arthur. He’s a dealer in animals and he also has business connections here.’

‘Here in Canterbury?’

‘Yes, in the parish of St George.’

‘That’s near where I live. Anyway, I hope to meet you again, Mistress Katherine, and I hope my repairs are to your liking.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ she smiled, and with a swirl of her hips, she walked out into the deepening twilight, leaving John to curse himself for not being able to engage her longer in conversation.

He thought ruefully, ‘Back in Ospringe, I had a name for being forward, for being a ladies’ man. But here, when a really attractive wench shows up, I’m as tongue-tied as a virgin in a brothel.’

But John had no need to be angry with himself for long. The young woman returned to his shop a few days later with another pair of down-at-heel shoes in her hands, again just as he was about to close up for the evening.

‘Master John Marlowe,’ she curtseyed. ‘Do you have time for me and my shoes?’

‘Mistress Katherine Arthur,’ he replied in a similar Kentish accent, bowing like a courtier. ‘I always have time for such as thee.’

‘So can you please repair these? They belong to my kinsman.’ She held up a heavy pair of men’s work shoes.

‘Certainly, miss,’ John bowed again. ‘And may I be allowed to ask thee out?’

‘Of course, kind sir,’ she curtseyed low, allowing John to see the soft tops of her breasts in her open-necked bodice. From then on, John Marlowe and Katherine Arthur began to walk the well-travelled path that would lead to the church and matrimony.

They were married in the church of St George the Martyr in May 1561. It was a square-towered building near the south-eastern gate of the city, and William Sweeting, the parish priest, joined the young couple in holy matrimony. The wedding was a modest affair, attended only by their families which included Katherine’s brother, Thomas, a bailiff in the Archbishop’s secular court. His presence added a touch of gravitas to what was essentially a wedding between the children of two hard-working artisan families.

The celebrations over and the families of the young couple returned to their homes at Ospringe and Dover. The newly-married pair settled down to married life in a small rented house close to St George’s Lane, just near the south-eastern wall of Canterbury.

After the lightness and brightness of their initial meetings, engagement and wedding, a certain grey routine set in. Their surroundings reinforced this as they were surrounded by the stinking, crowded and narrow streets of St George’s parish. Their tiny house, like much of Canterbury, was overshadowed by the gloomy darkness cast by the pinnacled cathedral. This massive structure, its top storey overhanging their house, blocked out the light and the fresh air. The young couple, like all the people living at street level, existed as though they were living in a gloomy cavern below the earth’s surface. The stagnant air often became fetid, especially on market days as the stench of freshly slaughtered animals found its way into the street and the poky houses. The high wall surrounding the city prevented fresh breezes from blowing in from the Kent countryside just as it blocked out any light which might have lightened the gloom.

It was in this permanent semi-darkness that Katherine Marlowe conceived and gave birth to Mary, her first child, in May 1562. According to tradition, the child was baptised as soon as possible, for who wanted an unbaptised baby dying on them, especially with the ever-present chance that the plague would strike?

And strike it did. It was during the outbreak of the plague that Katherine became pregnant again. Throughout the city hundreds fell sick, moaned, shrieked and died. Hundreds more prayed, fled the city and mourned the dead. But throughout these scenes of mass suffering and death, Katherine’s breasts became swollen and her belly grew larger and rounder. The child within her kicked, fought and urged its way out into the unhealthy world of the parish of St George, Canterbury. He finally succeeded towards the end of the winter, in February 1564, helped by a local midwife and a special birthing chair. The baby boy, like his sister before him, was tightly wrapped up like a cocoon and taken to the Reformed Protestant Church of St George the Martyr. There, within the rough and flinty walls, the screaming babe was held over the wooden octagonal font, as the semi-literate parish priest, William Sweeting, baptised him.

Shortly afterwards, this event was recorded in the annals of the church register. Under the heading ANNO DM, 1564, the wording was as follows:

The 26th day of February was christened Christofer the sonne of John Marlow.

As with William Shakespeare, born two months later, the mother’s name did not appear in the church records.

CHAPTER TWO

Petty School and King’s

Two lofty turrets that command the town,

I wondered how it could be conquered thus

(Marlowe: The Jew of Malta)

The front door burst open and a panting John Marlowe rushed into the room.

‘Katherine, where are you? I’ve got something to tell you,’ he shouted.

Hearing her husband’s excited voice she hurried in from the back garden, carrying young Christopher on her hip.

‘What is it? What’s brought you home so early in the day?’

‘It’s Master Richardson. He’s dead. The plague’s got him. He died this morning.’

Katherine’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘Oh, no! What about your job? Your apprenticeship? It’s over, it’s all over. What will you do?’

‘No, lass,’ John said, laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘It may not be as bad as that. I’ve heard that this plague is killing off apprentices as well as other people.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t you see? Because we working people are being hit by the plague…’

Katherine made a sign of the cross, hoping to prevent any illness striking her family.

John continued. ‘Those of us who survive will have more power in the guilds. ‘Tis true, this might mean the end of my apprenticeship, but it may mean that I’ll be able to be my own master, too.’

His prophecy came true. A few weeks later John Marlowe paid four shillings and one penny to the Council of Canterbury and swore to uphold ‘franchises, customs, and usages’. As a freeman, he was allowed to ‘holde craft and opyn windowes’ and ‘was admitted and sworn to the liberties of the city’ and to enjoy the protection of the local guild and the Fellowship Company Craft and Mystery of Shoemakers. His new status allowed him to take on his own apprentices and ‘speak and be heard’ at civic meetings.

‘I know the Scriptures say I shouldn’t rejoice at another’s death,’ the new guildsman said one evening to Katherine as she was rocking young Christopher to sleep, ‘but now this means that young