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"Hot Reading"

by Street Howitzer

"Coads," Thomas groaned. He laid his quill aside the parchment on his desk. He rocked back on the legs of his chair, till his knees met with the underside of his writing-desk, giving it a satisfying thump. The parchment jumped and shifted. He wished it into the fire, wished it done--wished it anything but sitting half-filled upon his desk.

Clarking wasn't hard labour, and he was truly grateful to Lord Strange for giving him what he could afford--yet still, Thomas often cursed that his father had ever taught him the scrivener's trade. Scribbling idle verse was one thing. Anyone could manage that, but it took care and skill to apply a secretary's hand to lettering, a skill that noblemen like Strange need not learn. Why teach yourself a trade, when you can simply pay another to do it for you? God knew Strange had the time and the gold for such things. And it was lucky he did; if his Lord had no need for a scrivener, he would have no need of Kyd.

Once, he'd been hired as part of Lord Strange's men--one of the most well-paid, and the most well-known, playwrights in all of London. But that was two years hence, and though Hieronimo was still played in Germany, London had moved on. London always moved on; she was a fast-running brach that no one could heel. He supposed that, one day, the time would come when even Ned Alleyn and Kit Marlowe were names no longer commonly bandied about. But, for that moment, all of England was sick with love for Kit, and had quite forgotten that Thomas Kyd wrote anything, other than letters for Lord Strange, and meticulous translations.

Still and all, he felt as he would rather hold a dag to his forehead, and blow out his brains, than endure the torture of writing another line of words that didn't even belong to him. Instead, he looked about his room--which was as good as he could want it. Yes, his desk was lit by naught but a few stumps of rushlight, but he had room for a desk, and a bed, both of which were owned by him, and that was more than that stupid pillicock from Stratford could vouch for. He had a set of fine duds for when Strange's men held their performances (he considered it a boon that, as part of his employ, his Lord permitted him to visit the play-house without fear of being ticketed). He had a nice trickle of gold coins from his Lord, that kept his belly full and his feet dry--so long as he kept his penner full of wet ink and sharp quills.

And there was also this Marlowe, the fellow who lived in the room across the hall. Marlowe and he had lodged at Goodwife Keller's house together for nigh on three months, with the pair of them taking both her spare rooms for rent. It was to their liking. Kit did not care for anyone staying in his chambers for longer than a night, and when he wrote, he required either the full noise of a pub, or the silence of a church. Thomas was far too busy translating, or rewriting Strange's scrawling notes into true letters, to make much noise. He also happened to be a heavy sleeper, and could be mercifully spared the din that sometimes reached his room from Kit's.

It was meet that the goodwife was as deaf as a corpse, or else Marlowe would have been in peril long ago. The woman was a steadfast Christian, of a kind that Thomas--who so often ran with blasphemous actors, bitter-mouthed whores, and skeptical nobility--had believed to have died out long ago. She'd have dragged him to church to be cleansed of his copious sins, or reported him to her priest. Yet deaf she was, and to the good of all concerned. Kit might be of hot blood, but he was a good enough friend, and Thomas would weep hard if he were jailed, or executed.

Thomas looked back down to the parchment. Still incomplete, half its rough surface blank as cream. "Damn," he muttered. Sighing at his misfortune, he leaned his chair forward till it rested on all four legs once more. He cracked his neck, looked heavenward for luck, picked up his quill, and re-dipped it. Now, was that last word Strange had written vnjvst or /on jvst/? He could hardly tell, as his Lord was terrible at keeping proper spaces between his--

"Thomas Kyd, blasphemers burn in Hell!"

"'Zooks!" Thomas bellowed, fairly jumping from his chair from shock. His hand jerked in surprise, and his quill stabbed down. At once, he broke its tip and spattered ink over all the careful lettering he'd already rendered. He leaped to his feet, half expecting to see some angry angel who had heard his quiet blasphemy, and came face to face with a laughing Kit Marlowe.

"You--you--" he sputtered.

"No writing of Strange's could be so fascinating as to keep thy attention so well, good Thomas," Kit said with a smile. The wicked expression sparked in his eyes, lighting up those dark orbs with an evil glint. "'less it happens that thou'st finally given up on scrivening, and taken up thy true calling once again."

That was the madness of Marlowe: to stay angry with him was a Herculean task. Feeling slightly more soothed, he grumbled, "Nay, and thou shouldn't speak so. 'Tis taunting. I'm no playwright, and I'll not be a playwright again. As it stands, I'll satisfy myself with scribing thy works."

"A noble occupation indeed," Kit said. He walked directly past Thomas, looking down at the letter he'd been copying. Thomas had to catch him by the collar and drag him away from the desk; he'd be a poor secretary if he couldn't keep his Lord's secrets. "Still, not one I'd have envisioned for the author of my dear /Hieronimo/. It were not for the Spanish tragedy, there would be no Jew of Malta."

"It were not for Ned Alleyn, you mean," Thomas said, rolling his eyes. The particular passion Kit held for Edward was notorious among their circles, all the more so because Alleyn was among the few (to include Thomas) to never succumb to Kit's wiles. Thomas often thought that Ned only permitted Kit to dote on him so because of the marvelous roles that Marlowe wrote for him. Witness Faustus, Tamburlaine, and Barabas.

"Ah, yes, sweet Ned." A wistful smile touched his face. "On my life, if he foined me half as skillfully as he's said to foin his wife, I'd join the clergy--there'd be no need for any other tryst."

"Sodomites burn in Hell with blasphemers, good Kit," he said, but his words had no teeth. He was laughing too hard to truly threaten.

"Do they? I hadn't heard. I thank thee for informing me of that. Now, I fear I cannot do as I intended, and give thee the outline of the script I shall write next--I must to church, and confess of more sins than I can, perhaps, remember. 'Tis a shame, as I thought I'd found the only playwright in England whose quill might compare with mine. It seems I've found naught but a finger-shaking priest."

And with that, he turned on his heels, and began to walk purposefully out of the room. Only then did Thomas even notice that Kit was holding a small bundle of parchments in his hand. He waggled them back and forth, tauntingly, as he stepped over the threshold.

"Oh, hold!" Thomas cried, stepping up close behind Kit, and snatching the parchments from their bearer. Marlowe knew well that there were few joys to be found in Thomas Kyd's life, and that among what was left was the exquisite pleasure of being the first to read Marlowe's work. Especially as Kit had the habit of discussing ideas with him, ideas that often turned up in his final drafts, much to Thomas's pride. If the only way he could create was through another's talent, then he'd accept that lot. "Th'art a cruel bawd."

"Th'art a stern clark," Kit said, laughing as always. He all but skipped over to Thomas's bed, leaving the chair and the desk to the man who owned them--and besides, Kit was possibly most comfortable laid out on some man's sheets. At the least, he had the decency to kick off his boots before putting his feet on the bed. "But never mind that--I am a forgiving soul, and I can find it in my heart to pardon thy thievery."

"I cannot steal what thou should have freely given." Thomas strode back to his desk, and settled back into his chair. He leaned it back once more on its hind legs, as he undid the twine binding the parchments into a roll. Strange's letter was quite forgotten, for the moment. He did so love to savor Kit's poetry.

"True enough. I am well renowned as a giving sort."

"An open commodity thou art, available to all who please thee," Thomas said, eliciting a laugh from his house-mate.

As Marlowe said, it was not a fully-fleshed play, but a summary of one--a follow-up to The Jew of Malta/, no doubt. Ned needed another strong, dark role to play, and if /The Jew were at least as popular as /Tamburlaine/, then it, too, would warrant a sequel. Thomas's dark-brown eyes skimmed over the first few lines of the summary, easily deciphering Kit's smooth, if ill-formed writ. Then, to make certain that his eyes were not deceivers, he read them again. Without continuing further, he set the rolling parchments onto his desk, and turned his attention to the grinning, preening Kit on his bed.

"'Twill never be played."

"Oh, but it will, Thomas, it will. Whosoever could turn it down--"

"/I'd/ turn it down, and not lose a moment's sleep. I'd not care if I lost a thousand angels o'er that script. God's flesh, Kit, th'art begging for a blade in your back!"

"I beg for no blades in my back, sir; anything that is thrust into my backside should be far duller than a cuttle."

Thomas waved that comment away. "Don't be an ass. That act will not fool me. Kit, thou may'st not recognize the divine right of our awful Majesty, or Her predecessors--but even a king so abased as Edward II cannot be accused of what you suggest! 'Od rabbit it, thou canst call him effete!"

"Effete? I say no such thing, sweet Thomas. The summary makes it clear that Gaveston is the effete--"

"Oh! Well, then, Abraham, that makes it all the better." Kyd stared down at the parchments. At once, he was tempted to, and afraid of, picking them back up. "If thou insists on--"

"Thou doth prattle like an old washer-woman, Thomas," Marlowe said. Though he was not laughing, there was mirth in his charming, dark eyes. "Worry not for me. The mid of the play has Gaveston betrayed, and executed by the rebelling noblemen. The end has poor old Edward smothered unto death for his crimes. I daresay that will satisfy the clergy. They may believe that it is quietus for their sinfulness, an' it please them. I care not."

"Ned might. I can't imagine a world in which Edward Alleyn would play such a part."

"'Tis not for Ned." His voice turned oddly adamant, in a fashion not common to the light-voiced Marlowe. "'Tis being writ for me, and no one else. Ned can hang himself on his lingam, if he doesn't like it."

"Watching thee struggle to rescue his phallus from such a cruel fate would be a comedy."

Kit laughed merrily, the steel in his voice disappearing. He pointed to the parchments, that wicked smile of his even brighter. His eyes were dark stars. "Oh, read it, for God's love! I'll faint of anticipation if I don't know what thou thinks of every word."

"I should return to my labours," Thomas said, but that was a flag of surrender, and not an opening salvo to battle. He was already reaching for the parchments again, knowing what all those in London had known for five years hence: Kit Marlowe was simply unsurpassed, in story and in poetry. He had tried, and had not done poorly, at mastering blank verse--it was flattering to know that men such as Marlowe and Shakespeare were not inventing a new form, but struggled to copy what he had accomplished. Yet here he was, stuck with ink-stained hands and an empty room (and, all too often, an empty bed). He should have ta'en a wife, or a wench who would stay longer than the night; this room seemed barren to his eyes, and his earlier thoughts of pride over owning each inch of it now seemed naught but childishness.

No, there was little left for Tom, aside from his work, and from good Kit's creative pursuits. Let him have those, at least.

He settled back, tilting his chair on its hind legs once more. He sorted through the summary in its entirety, detailing, as it did, the conspiracies and betrayals that swam like vicious fish about Edward II to the end of his life. Kyd had never much cared for royal intrigue, insofar as they were true; he was of a mind that the best stories were the ones that at least rang of legend, and so often, the truth of what went on behind the castle walls was so much doldrums. He recalled being taught of Edward's reign at Merchant Taylor's, and that much of what they had to say on the long-dead monarch was bad--that he neglected his crown, and spurned the nobility, in favor of his low-born friends. He had not formed any thoughts beyond this basic tale, but this... this was something else.

"Pardy," he muttered, on reading of Kit's planned ending.

"Aye?" Kit said. His fellow playwright was sitting bolt-aright on the bed, hands in loose fists on his knees. There was a spark to his eye, but it was a nervous one, of a kind Thomas had never seen before.

"It's a fine piece." He placed the parchments back down on his desk, carefully, as though they might crumble if not treated lightly. "Thou'lt never find a gang of players for it, or a patron to fund it, not after a century of seeking. God save us, Kit, thou shan't kill a king on the bloody stage!"

"Oh, why not?" Kit's full lips pulled into an excellent pout. "It's part of the drama."

"Because--" And for half a moment, Thomas could not think of a reason to contradict him. "Because--it's--oh, Kit, th'art a child! Thou know'st well as I that God gives us kings, and shallbeit His will, He shall take them away--but not men."

"Not the point. How dost thou like Gaveston?"

Thomas snorted. "He's a flattering whoreson."

"/Flattering?/ Hardly so! Gaveston's a tragic figure, same as Edward."

"I should say not. It is a difficult thing to pity a king who will not rule his people, Kit, or the man who drives him to such distraction. At the best, thou mayst have the audience baying for his blood by the time he is pressed to death. I shouldn't wonder that I would leap onstage myself and sit upon the table, to ensure the job is done."

Kit's eyes widened. His jaw dropped askance, and for the first time in the three months they'd known each other, Kit Marlowe appeared to be shocked by something Thomas said (so often, it was the other way 'round). "Tommy, don't speak so. Thou shalt break my heart."

"Please don't misunderstand," he said. "I only speak the truth: no one will wish to act it, and--"

"Of course someone will. You will, certainly."

"I--what?"

"You shall." Kit seemed to gather himself together, relaxing, the surprise smoothing out of his countenance. He stood up, and paced over to Thomas's desk. He rapped his fingertips (he had fine hands, the only callouses being those bestowed by working with a quill, or from stroking over the bodies of so many 'actresses') against the parchments. "There's more in there, after the summary. Do look it over."

Sighing, Thomas did as he was told; it was simpler than trying to oppose the headstrong playwright's will. "'My lord, I hear it whispered everywhere, that I am banish'd, and must fly the land,'" he read aloud, unconsciously, then blinked. "Coads--th'are writing the thing already, art thou not?"

"Of course," Kit said, a pleased cat-smile on his face. "Now, do be a good friend, Tom, and read for Edward. I'd make a better Gaveston." To Thomas's horror, his friend reached into a purse on his belt, and withdrew another bundle of parchment. "Here's my copy, so we shan't have to read of the same pages and cramp one another."

"No, that shan't be a trouble, as I've no intention of doing any such thing."

"Oh, Thomas, /please!/"

"Thou shalt have to do better than that," he said, "believe you me." He crossed his arms over his chest, and gave Kit the sternest look he could manage. This was not hard. Thomas was taller than he, and of a heavier build; he might have been fair of face and of hair, but he was nowhere near as fine a creature as Kit, who was, once and again, as lovely to look at as the prettiest of trulls. Thomas was a far more chopping figure.

This time, alas, his glare availed him not. Kit laughed at him, his hand resting on his chest, as if he must hold in his heart. "Why not humour me this once, dear Thomas? If it's to be that I shall never see my lovely Edward and Gaveston on the stage, is it too much to ask to see them, once, between us?"

And Tom knew he would relent--but not for Kit's argument. No, he would give in, but only for the smile that played across Kit's pale face, and the devilish charm of his eyes. He was bedeviled by his house-mate, indeed, and fire would not burn that knowledge out of him. Sighing as though he were old Atlas, with the world riding on his shoulders, Thomas flipped to the appropriate pages.

It was not, he thought as they read their lines, a terrible scene. Of course, that it was between a king and his male consort was as mad as a hare in March--but that it was regarding their parting, and of how hard they both grieved, was admittedly tragic. Perhaps (but only perhaps) if Kit could somehow draw emotions out like this, he might have a play that he might not get arrested for writing. In truth and faith, when he recited Edward's line, "'Kind words and mutual talk makes our grief greater; therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part...'", he felt queerly touched by the whole affair.

That is, until Kit smiled up at him, tilting his pale face up to meet Thomas's. "Buss me, darling."

Thomas neither moved, nor breathed, nor thought. He stared down at Kit dumbly, his eyebrows arching ever higher. After a moment, when he realized at last that his friend was not speaking in jest, he began to sputter. "Bing a /waste/, Kit!"

"I will do no such thing. The script calls for a silent embrace, my dearest Tommy. What'd thee think it to mean? That they would shake hands?"

"Bugger me, Kit, I'll not kiss thee, anymore than I should kiss Thomas Nashe!"

"Tom Nashe is a hog, and as lying with animals is a sin against God, I'll grant thee that. But I'm no animal, although if thou insists on buggery--"

For the first time since he was a lad in a skirt and farthingales, Thomas blushed. "Christopher--"

"Peace, be quiet. Thou talks as though thou weren't of a mind to buss me afore, an' as if thou doth not know that there are certain prices to be paid for my good company." Kit tilted his head to one side, smiling as he always did when he knew he was right. "There is a toll on my friendship, Tom, and I've not let anyone stay in my life as long as thee without paying it. That little sirrah, Will Shakespeare, even he hath paid me recently--and in full view of thee, I might add, along with the rest of the ale-house. If thou wishes, thou may tell thyself that 'tis a toll, and nothing more. Or tell thyself that 'tis a part thou shalt play, if only for a few moments, and nothing more. I care not, so long as thou canst make me believe that I am Gaveston."

And once more, that was the madness of Marlowe, wearing another mask: for it was impossible to deny him, once one knew he spoke the truth. Thomas could have cursed him a liar, or threatened to break his teeth, or any other number of vain denials, but all fell to pieces in the face of the simple truth--were it not for Ned, there would be no man among London's players and wrights who did not dodder for Kit. Hard it was not to note the charming spark in his dark eyes, or the lovely sheen to his pitch-black hair, or even his delicate countenance--the full redness of his lips, and the pale sweetness of his skin, both uncommon enough in men. All manner of whimsy had drifted through Thomas's head, on the rare occasions when he waked to hear Kit a-bed with some new conquest. The playwright, as befit an actor, had a sweet voice.

"That thou art Gaveston," Kyd repeated. He trusted his legs to take him a step forward, putting him face to face with his house-mate.

Kit shut his eyes. His lashes were long, and had the colour of coal. "Aye, Edward."

Sighing, Thomas recited his last line. "'Therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part,'" he said, then put his hands to Kit's waist, and his lips to Kit's. An' it were fortunate that he did not have the wife he'd wished for ten minutes hence, for if Thomas were to confess in honesty, he would confess a trembling at the sparest touch of a buss.

He drew back almost instantly, and saw that Kit's eyes were still closed. He shook his head. "I felt nothing but breath," he murmured. "Come, Thomas, th'art more of a man than Will, art thou not? Do kiss me like a king."

That he should be bested by little Shakespeare was unacceptable, as Kit knew it would be. Thomas leaned in again, his hand touching Kit's cheek--pale and soft as satin, that was--and properly sealed his mouth against his house-mate's. Marlowe tasted of brandy, and sauced tobacco, and his lips were just as soft as they appeared. Thomas felt Kit's lips shift against his, as the playwright smiled into the kiss. A fine victory.

It was long, and long, before Thomas pulled back for breath. His face was flushed, but of a different kind of crimson than afore. Kit, by contrast, was as pale as he ever was, though he was short of breath. "That was--" Christopher began, but Thomas silenced him, by resting his fingertips against his full lips. Kit looked down to his fingers, a thoroughly wicked smile curving up beneath them.

"Speak not, sweet Gaveston. Your king wishes greater joy of you than words."

"La!" Kit laughed, weaving his arms 'round Thomas's waist. "I should be cursed, if I defy my king!"

That week-end, Thomas Kyd and Christopher Marlowe both learned two important truths: Goodwife Keller was far deafer than even Kit's previous experiments had led them to hope, and that, truly, it would be far easier for the pair of them to have a writing-room and a bed-room to share, instead of forcing one room to serve two purposes.

-end-

Notes: Poor Thomas Kyd. He never got a fair shake. According to the generally-accepted versions of history, Thomas Kyd's play, "The Spanish Tragedy", was a number of firsts: the first revenge-play, the first play to write in blank verse without sounding stilted, and the first secular Elizabethan play to gain huge popularity with the masses. Kyd's plays were considered to be a direct inspiration for Kit Marlowe and Will Shakespeare; Shakespeare's "Hamlet", for example, is considered to be directly based off of Kyd's "Hamlet", which was popular in London at least a decade before Shakespeare so much as wrote his version. Kyd also wrote an early version of "King Lear", and a number of other tragedies. Upon his death, most of his plays were lost, and today, "The Spanish Tragedy" is the only work of his that remains in any capacity. Kyd was not even known to have existed until the late 1700s, when a historian discovered his being mentioned as the author of "The Spanish Tragedy" in a book.

As the story states, Thomas Kyd and Kit Marlowe were close friends who shared lodgings between 1591 and 1593. During that time, Kit was at work at one of his most infamous plays, "Edward II". The rest of my story, of course, is my own conjecturing.

A few notes, on some of the Elizabethan-era terms used in the story:

*"Coads" - God's
*"clarking" - Clerking, or secretarial duties
*"brach" - bitch
*"dag" - pistol
*"rushlight" - A cheap candle made by sticking rushes into vats of tallow
*"pillicock" - Dick
*"penner" - A leather belt used by scriveners that held bottles of ink, quills and sharpening instruments
*"hot blood" - Thomas attempts to pun; 'blood' is a slang-term for a fop
*"foin" - Fuck, literally "to thrust into with a spear"
*"commodity" - A prostitute
*"angel" - A gold coin, roughly 10 shillings
*"cuttle" - A knife
*"'Od rabbit it" - Roughly equivalent to saying "God fuck it"
*"Abraham" - A madman
*"Pardy" - "Pardon", or a generic oath of surprise
*"a chopping figure" - A well-cut, strapping man
*"Bing a waste" - Get out of here; Fuck off
*"sirrah" - A man of lower social rank than oneself
*"dodder" - tremble
*"sauced tobacco" - Tobacco that is spiced with other herbs

As I'm not British, I still might have flubbed the spellings of certain words; if so, feel free to let me know in a comment.

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