Burgess gets his Kit off

 

© Vintage

 

I have to admit that when I first opened Anthony Burgess’s 1993 novel A Dead Man in Deptford, a fictionalised account of the life of Elizabethan playwright Christopher ‘Kit’ Marlowe, I knew next to nothing about its subject.

 

What did I know of Marlowe?  Well, I’d heard of his plays but never read them.  When I studied literature at university, I’d busied myself reading Shakespeare, and a little Ben Jonson, and even The Spanish Tragedy by Thomas Kyd, who plays a supporting role in Dead Man.  But I didn’t get around to reading any of Marlowe’s plays and my only experience of seeing one was Derek Jarman’s post-modern movie version of Edward II, with gratuitously added Annie Lennox, from 1991.

 

What else?  I knew he’d been killed in a pub brawl – stabbed in the eye – in Deptford in London in 1593.  I knew he was the topic of the only joke I can remember from 1998’s Shakespeare in Love, which comes when a Thames boatman remarks to Joseph Fiennes’ Shakespeare, “I had that Christopher Marlowe in my boat once.”  And I knew John Hurt played him as a 400-year-old vampire in Jim Jarmusch’s 2013 horror movie Only Lovers Left Alive.  Being an immortal bloodsucker evidently isn’t the glamorous, forever-youthful escapade it’s made out to be, because the real Marlowe was 29 when he died while in Only Lovers John Hurt looked all of his then 73 years.

 

© Recorded Picture Company / Pandora Film

 

No, the reason I started reading Dead Man wasn’t because of Marlowe, but because I wanted to see Anthony Burgess, an author famous for his rumbustious verbosity and love of language, tackle the minutiae of life in the Elizabethan era.  As you’d expect, Burgess doesn’t just dip a cautious literary toe into the 16th century milieu.  He strips off – gets his Kit off, so to speak – and dives into it headlong and takes to it like a duck to water.  Or to use a cruder simile, like a pig to shit.  Not that I’m comparing Burgess to a pig, of course, but there’s certainly plenty of shit present.

 

Yes, you can almost hear him smacking his lips with relish as his prose records the hurly-burly in all its glory and grottiness.   The bars, booze and burping (“Kit… drank deep and belched on the yeasty froth…”); the brothels (“…roars and screams and the rapture of dying…”); the food, both hearty (“…a baked pigeon with a forcemeat of saffron and dried rosemary…) and hideous (“Pickled herrings and mouldy bread…” and “…wormy cheese…”); the vagabonds (“…rufflers, abram-men, high-pads, buff-knappers, rattling mumpers, tat-mongers, wiping-drawers, kidlays and moon-cursers…”); the oaths (“By the six ballocks of the Trinity and the cheese of the milk of the Magdalen and the hundred prepuces of circumcised Jesus…”); the gore of the public executions (“…the prick and ballocks exposed then sliced away, the first blood healthily flowing, then the cross-cut along the belly so that the bowels gushed out…”); the gore of the stage (“…pig’s blood gushed from bladders hidden…”); the torture (“…a nail or two had been pincered out before the cracking of bone…”); the lack of dental hygiene (teeth that “showed their rotting waists…”); the fingernails (which “harboured the grease he scratched from his lousiness…”); the disease and plague (“…noxious urine spouting from mouth, nose and ears and all holes else…” and “…buboes… clear in his naked armpits…); the carcasses (“…a dead pied dog that lay with swollen belly ripe to burst…”); the snot (“…the hairs in his skewed nose had trapped scraps of dry mucus…”); the puke (“…in green and yellow coposity…”); the piss (“She sat in a pool of wet…”); and the general squalor (“…the dunghill that festered at the corner of Hog Lane…” and a nearby “…raintub on which flowers of filth were afloat…”).

 

In fact, Dead Man isn’t the first Anthony Burgess book I’ve read that’s set in Elizabethan times, for in 1964 he published a novel about Shakespeare called Nothing Like the Sun.  Will Shakespeare inevitably turns up in the later stages of Dead Man, though the Bard seems pragmatic and restrained compared to the incendiary and multi-layered Kit Marlowe (whose complexity is symbolised by the uncertainty and elasticity of his surname – he introduces himself as “Christopher,” but adds, “The other name is unsure.  Marlin, Merlin, Marley, Morley.  Marlowe will do.”)

 

Indeed, the contrast between the playwrights reminded me slightly of Burgess and his great contemporary, the novelist Graham Greene.  Both hung out in south-eastern France towards the ends of their lives but had little to do with each other.  Apparently, the ebullient, publicity-loving and self-mythologizing Burgess grated on the aloof, reserved and ascetic Greene, who disapproved of Burgess appearing on TV to “talk about his books.”

 

Actually, I enjoyed Dead Man much more than Nothing Like the Sun which, with a lengthy opening section in Stratford-upon-Avon before the action finally moved to London, took its time getting going.  In comparison, Dead Man doesn’t hang around.  After a brief preamble in which we meet the book’s narrator – who identifies himself as “a small actor and smaller play-butcher who observed him (Kit) intermittently though indeed knew him in a very palpable sense”, and muses philosophically about the impossibility and absurdity of telling the story of a man’s life without being present during every moment of that life, and even alludes to Schrödinger’s cat (“There was a philosopher who spoke of the cat that mews to be let out and then mews to be let in again.  In the interim, does it exist?”) – Burgess cuts to the chase.  We glimpse Kit as a student at Corpus Christi, Cambridge, before he crosses paths with poet Thomas Watson, who invites him to London and introduces him to Queen Elizabeth I’s spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham.

 

Walsingham immediately signs Kit into Her Majesty’s secret service and despatches him to the English College at Rheims in France on the pretence that he’s disillusioned with Protestantism and wants to explore the possibility of joining the priesthood.  His real purpose, though, is to spy on a cabal of English Catholics there who may be plotting to replace Queen Elizabeth with her Catholic cousin, Mary Queen of Scots.  At the same time that he’s recruited by Sir Francis, he encounters Sir Francis’s young relative Thomas Walsingham and immediately becomes smitten with him.

 

From www.roseplayhouse.org.uk

 

The remainder of Dead Man’s 270 pages is a stew of spying and political intrigue – determined to make the most of Kit’s services, the older Walsingham sends him to the Low Countries and then to Scotland, where the skulduggery involves King James VI, regarded by just about everyone as “a drunkard, a sodomite and a coward” – and Elizabethan men, mostly Kit and Thomas Walsingham, indulging in ‘the love that dare not speak its name’.  Oh, and there’s a fair bit of playwriting and versifying too.

 

Adding further kinks to the plot is Sir Walter Raleigh, who draws Kit into his clique of aristocrats, thinkers and hangers-on.  Sir Walter and his gang are dangerous to know because their opinions and musings run the risk of being considered atheistic and heretical which, with Queen Elizabeth I the head of the English church, translates into treason.  The sneaky Raleigh reels Kit in by getting him addicted to tobacco – of which Raleigh, “the keeper of many keys”, is London’s main supplier.  Burgess cleverly attributes feminine qualities to the plant.  The otherwise completely male-orientated Kit describes it as a “delicious nymph” and his smoking habit as “daily ravishing of the nymph”.  His lover Thomas Walsingham later complains, “Your body does not smell as it did.  There is a rankness…” and adds, both jealously and ominously, “Yes, you are one of Raleigh’s tribe.”

 

With grim inevitability, the story leads towards the fatal events of 1593.  Kit, now in serious trouble with the authorities, heads for Deptford on the south bank of the Thames with the intention of boarding a ship and fleeing England.  First, however, he has a rendezvous in a local tavern with some shady associates of the now-dead Sir Francis Walsingham and the now-married Thomas Walsingham, who’s clearly begun to see his relationship with Kit as an embarrassment and encumbrance.

 

With his arrogance, his predilection for boozing and brawling, and his spying activities that contribute to a number of people dying horrible deaths, Kit is no angel.  But Burgess imbues him too with qualities like loyalty, conscience and self-doubt that make him relatable and likeable.  Also, Burgess – who’d previously featured gay heroes in books like Earthly Powers (1980) and Honey for the Bears (1963) – treats Kit’s homosexuality with sympathy and avoids making it a source of shame or torment for him even though, by the beliefs of the time, it guarantees him eternal damnation.  Kit is unapologetic about it.  He sees his orientation as being nobler than the instinct-driven sexuality of men and women that causes reproduction: “Male and female are grossly conjoined following nature’s words that they breed.  There is an airier or more spiritual mode of conjunction.”  He also rejects heterosexuality on the grounds of his relationship with his sisters and mother: “To bed a woman, which I have never done, has a strong stench of incest.”

 

That said, some might find a lack of subtlety in how Burgess seemingly juxtaposes Kit’s sexuality with the phallic imagery of knives and daggers.  When Dead Man isn’t getting excited about gay love scenes, it’s getting excited about blades.  Taking on a villain called George Orwell (who, Burgess claims in his postscript, was a real-life hoodlum in 16th century London), Kit “slashed Orwell’s daggering wrist, making Orwell howl and seek to drink the blood to stem its flow.”  Tangling with another villain called Cutting Ball, “his sword whistled as it dove to nick Ball’s wrist.”  Elsewhere, “his sword point pierced a fat buttock,” while his friend Thomas Watson gets caught “most bitterly in the brow with dagger”, leaving “a wound like a mouth that spoke blood.”  This imagery reaches its finale in the Deptford tavern when poor Kit receives a lethal eyeful: “The dagger point was too close to his eye for his eye to see it.”  Just to drive the association home, Burgess describes Kit’s first meeting with Thomas Walsingham as being “like the sharp knife of a sort of truth in the disguise of danger.”

 

Any other reservations about the book?  Well, the plot gets somewhat confusing with the number of characters called ‘Thomas’.  In addition to Thomas Kyd, Thomas Watson and Thomas Walsingham, there’s the playwright, poet and pamphleteer Thomas Nasche and the astronomer and mathematician Thomas Harriot.  Though of course the existence of so many Thomases in Marlowe’s life isn’t Burgess’s fault and at one point he has his narrator exclaim, “…“all these Toms, a world of toms like a night roof top…”  And talking of narrators, it feels a bit of a cop-out when on the very last page Burgess abandons his fictional narrator and reveals himself as the true chronicler of events: “Your true author speaks now…  I put off the ill-made disguise and, four hundred years after that death at Deptford, mourn as it all happened yesterday.”

 

But those are only quibbles.  On the whole, I found A Dead Man in Deptford a splendid book, a pleasure to read while Burgess’s exuberant prose captured both the complexities of Christopher Marlowe and the rough and tumble of the world around him, without – as I’ve occasionally found elsewhere with Burgess – becoming hard to follow.  Given that the book was the last thing Burgess had published in his lifetime, before his death the following year at the age of 76, it’s retrospectively cheering to note that the book showed no sign of decline in the great man’s abilities.

 

To use the unavoidable pun – he remained at the peak of his earthly powers.

 

© The International Anthony Burgess Foundation

 

Strange places in the Scottish Borders 2: Hermitage Castle

 

The 20-mile valley of Liddesdale runs south-west through the Scottish Borders, right to the northern edge of England.  Because it offered a passageway into Scotland for English armies, Liddesdale was of huge strategic importance to the two, often-warring countries.  In his book The Steel Bonnets, about the Border Reivers, the brigands who from the 13th to 17th centuries raided homesteads along the English-Scottish frontier, George Macdonald Fraser described it as ‘the bloodiest valley in Britain’.  When the Scots decided to build a fortress in the valley in the 13th century – a move that itself almost sparked a war with England – they erected something that did justice to a territory with such a history of conflict and bloodshed.  Hermitage Castle is about the grimmest and most oppressive castle I’ve come across.

 

 

The Hermitage Castle that stands today is actually the second one on the site.  All that remains of the original, timber structure, which was probably built by Sir Nicholas de Soulis, are the big earthwork defences.  Work on the second castle began in 1340, under its then owner Sir Hugh de Dacre.  However, it wasn’t until the time of his successors, William Douglas, the 1st Earl of Douglas, and his illegitimate son, George Douglas, the 1st Earl of Angus – at the time George was regarded as being the product of incest because his mother was the sister-in-law of William’s wife – that the castle acquired the hulking, H-shaped form that greets visitors to modern Liddesdale.

 

The castle later became the property of Sir Patrick Hepburn, the 1st Earl of Bothwell.  His great-grandson James, the 4th Earl of Bothwell, became Mary Queen of Scots’ third husband after her second husband, the hapless Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, was murdered in an assassination plot that involved both gunpowder and strangulation – he suffered the latter when the former failed to blow him to pieces.  Bothwell was implicated in the murder.  In 1566, the year before Darnley’s death, Mary was said to have had ‘a scandalous tryst’ with Bothwell at Hermitage Castle.  He’d been injured in a skirmish with some Reivers and was laid low at Hermitage and Mary, hearing of his wounds, embarked on a frantic 25-mile ride from the town of Jedburgh to be at his side.  The comfort she ended up giving him was allegedly more physical than medicinal or spiritual.  However, research by one of Mary’s biographers, Lady Antonia Fraser, casts doubt on the veracity of this story and it may have been put about by her enemies as a way of blackening her character.

 

Once the crowns of Scotland and England had been united in 1603 under Mary’s son, James VI of Scotland – James I as he’s known in the English history books – Hermitage Castle lost its territorial importance and by the 18th century it’d become a ruin.  In 1820 the 5th Duke of Buccleugh carried out much-needed repairs to the castle and in 1930 it was handed over to the care of the state.  It is now looked after by Historic Scotland.

 

When I turned up one day at Hermitage Castle, on my trusty bicycle, the weather was reasonably sunny.  Accordingly, on the southern side of the building, the grass was dry, the ground firm and the air fresh – whereas on the northern side, within its considerable shadow, everything felt cold, damp and dank.  The outer castle walls were cliff-like masses of stone, dark-grey in colour and freckled with pale fungi.  I saw few smears of bird-droppings on those stone blocks, as if the local birdlife sensed a negative vibe emanating from the place and didn’t want to nest there.  Windows appeared in those thick walls only sparsely, were different sizes and were arranged in irregular patterns.  The entrance door, meanwhile, seemed ridiculously small and was dwarfed by the surrounding stone.

 

 

Inside the castle, the ground was covered by uneven flagstones in places and by pebbles in others.  Some of the tumbledown interior walls had a fur of moss that was a mixture of lurid colours – yellow, brown, green, orange.  The randomly positioned windows allowed me only the briefest glimpses of the surrounding countryside, while in one corner-tower a gap in the roof made the sky seem remote and unreachable.  There was also a small, deep prison-vault that for its inmates must’ve felt like being in hell itself.  Wherever I went inside, I heard a sinister rustle caused by the current in the nearby burn, the Hermitage Water.

 

 

Scribbling in my notebook at the time, I wrote: “Dark, solid, brutal, oppressive.  Like the sort of place Darth Vader would use as a holiday home when he’s in the Borders.”  The allusion may have been cheesy but it seemed appropriate, because there is a Darth Vader-ish feel to Hermitage Castle.

 

 

Inevitably, that chronicler – not necessarily an accurate chronicler – of all things old, historical and Scottish, Sir Walter Scott, took an interest in Hermitage Castle in the early 19th century and there was a revival of interest in the stories and folklore attached to the place.  It is said, for example, to be haunted by the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots, and a nearby bog is known as Queen’s Mire because it was here that Mary was supposedly thrown off her horse during her ride back from her tryst with Bothwell.

 

However, the most famous legend associated with Hermitage Castle concerns William de Soulis, son of the original castle’s founder, Sir Nicolas de Soulis.  According to this legend, he practised the dark arts and employed a creature called Robin Redcap as his familiar.  While the familiars of wizards and witches are usually depicted as black cats, owls, toads and the like, Soulis’ familiar was a truly hideous being.  In his book about the mythical beasts of Scotland Not of this World, Maurice Fleming describes Robin Redcap as ‘a thick-set old man with fierce red eyes, long tangled hair, protruding teeth and fingers like talons.’

 

Carrying out all manner of terrible and blasphemous deeds, Soulis and Robin Redcap terrorised the surrounding countryside.  However, Soulis’ fate was itself terrible.  In the end his outraged subjects – though some stories say it was a local prophet and mystic, Thomas Learmont of Erceldoun, known more simply as Thomas the Rhymer, using his magical powers – rose against him and boiled him alive in a cauldron of molten lead.  Nothing is known about Robin Redcap’s fate and it’s even claimed he still lurks in Hermitage Castle, unbeknown to those tourists (such as myself) who visit it during its opening season from April to September.

 

The real William de Soulis confessed to being part of a conspiracy against Robert the Bruce in 1320 and died imprisoned in Dumbarton Castle.  This treachery against Bruce, who is of course the greatest hero in Scottish history, may account for how since then his name has been discredited by folkloric association with black magic and monsters.