(If produced as a screenplay, the interiors of the pub at Deptford and the cottage at Stratford would be filmed as described, and those scenes would flow in or out of the described exterior scenes of, for instance, Shakespeare’s wolf dream scene. If it is produced as a play, those scenes would be shown in film or video on a back wall with as called-for effects. It could be the back wall of the pub at Deptford, or the back wall of the cottage at Stratford. For example, as a play we open with video of Marlowe getting off a boat and climbing a hill in the rain along with other details as per descriptions below. This could be shown happening, for instance, on a back wall. When he enters the pub the video of the exterior fades out and we will see Kit Marlowe and others in the pub “in the flesh.”)
(But first a Minstrel enters downstage. He plays and sings:)
(MINSTREL: “Prologue Song”)
Listen to tales of men of quill At Deptford by the Thames Kit Marlowe climbs the river’s hill The pub’s light dimly gleams “Stand firm, my heart, and courage take, I must not fear my plight.” With cloak and fear he will not break, He found his friends that night. De Vere, with gaze as cold as night, Ben Jonson’s wit ablaze, Will’s stories on a parchment bright, Thomas Kyd, his tragic days. “None on the river?” Ben doth ask. “No spies,” is the reply. At Deptford by the Thames they met, So listen, to my tales.
(Minstrel goes off. Sound of water washing onto a shore. Gray day, approaching evening twilight. Boats manned by single rowers on a river, late 16th Century. A boat is rowed up to a small dock. A man in cloak gets out of the boat, hands the rower money. Looks up at the threatening sky then starts up a hill. We see with his eyes, the exterior of a small pub. He approaches tentatively. He pushes the door open. The Barman gestures with his head to a large corner table where three men sit, two bent over their drinks, the third studying a blank piece of parchment. A loaf of bread on a plate on a table, a knife to cut the bread, which they do now and then. Kit Marlowe approaches quietly.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Looking up, not warmly): Kit.
BEN JONSON (The youngest of them, but an old, wise head, looking up, pause): Any on the river, Kit?
KIT MARLOWE: Any ...?
BEN JONSON: You know.
KIT MARLOWE: None unless ...
EDWARD DE VERE: Unless ...?
KIT MARLOWE: Disguised as ...citizens ...
BEN JONSON: They usually are.
EDWARD DE VERE (Accusingly): Sometimes one’s followed.
KIT MARLOWE (Turning to leave, quick to anger): If you want ...
EDWARD DE VERE (Calming him): Now, Kit ...I just meant ...
KIT MARLOWE: Because ...
BEN JONSON: Kit...(Pause.) Kyd not with you? Thought you and Thomas ...
KIT MARLOWE: Not my responsibility.
BEN JONSON: Not on the river?
KIT MARLOWE: I told you, not my—
BEN JONSON: Sorry—some had been asking after him.
EDWARD DE VERE (ironically): Some?
(Ben Jonson shrugs, pushes a chair toward Kit Marlowe as a gesture of peace. They are quiet, the fourth man, Will Shakespeare, is staring at the blank paper in front of him. Kit Marlowe sits, glances at Will Shakespeare, then Ben Jonson.)
KIT MARLOWE: Any progress?
BEN JONSON: None.
KIT MARLOWE: So, I’ve been thinking about our ...(After a few moments, slowly): What about ...what about this guy gives everything to...?
EDWARD DE VERE (Interjecting as he sits): Forgive me, already sounds mildly familiar.
KIT MARLOWE (Holding up hand): Wait ...gains power and ...
BEN JONSON: Come, Kit—how many times you gonna’ write “Faustus”? We need a fresh story and soon.
KIT MARLOWE: No, different! (Pouting): OK, just an idea.
EDWARD DE VERE: Not a good one.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (More to himself, staring at the blank paper, with deep sadness): We’re all drying it seems.
(They look at him dubiously—they don’t believe it in his case—a moment. Then look away.)
BEN JONSON (To Kit Marlowe, after taking a deep breath): Besides ...and I don't want you to take offense at this, Kit ...but ...
(They all look at him, even Will Shakespeare, having dreaded this.)
KIT MARLOWE: Yes, Ben? Say it.
BEN JONSON: We had a little talk before you arrived ...Edward, Will, myself ...
KIT MARLOWE: Impressive, all that brain power.
BEN JONSON (Lets it slide): ...and I’m afraid your name can’t be on it.
KIT MARLOWE: Oh?
BEN JONSON: Mind you, we want—desire—your help on this show ...this ...entertainment ...out of friendship ...your many gifts ...As well you know, none like you, Kit ...
KIT MARLOWE: Was you, Ben, said that I am ...
BEN JONSON: “He of the mighty line.’’ And true, true—but don’t use it against me ...uttered with love and respect ...but sorry, Kit, in this you can’t be credited as a writer.
(Barman, carrying pitcher, brings Kit Marlowe an ale, looks down on Marlowe with mild sympathy and understanding as he drinks.)
KIT MARLOWE: (Swallows, sets cup down, pauses, resignedly): So ...politics then, is it?
(Barman watches Kit Marlowe as he refills cup, then turns, returns to bar.)
EDWARD DE VERE (With a glance at the Barman): More, Kit—you’ve lost favor with the Queen.
KIT MARLOWE: Really? If you’ll recall she just—
BEN JONSON (Interjecting): Praised you? Sorry—I was there—(A nod toward Will Shakespeare)—so was Will, remember?—more like playing with you. Cat n’ mouse. Didn’t pick up?
KIT MARLOWE (Unsure): You think ...?
(Ben Jonson and Edward de Vere nod, Will Shakespeare looks away.)
KIT MARLOWE (Settled): My sexuality then.
BEN JONSON: That’s ...manageable.
EDWARD DE VERE: Your blasphemy, Kit.
BEN JONSON: You’ve angered her.
EDWARD DE VERE: If you weren’t so ...so demonstrative about it—there are those think like you, but keep it...keep it in.
KIT MARLOWE: Bending to public opinion, are we?
EDWARD DE VERE: The public doesn’t give a dam what we do, Kit—never has—can’t say the same for the privy council.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Dipping quill into ink, almost to himself): True or not, to many you're a heretic, Kit. As Edward says, you’ve no longer support of the Queen, without which, well ...
KIT MARLOWE (Not liking him): Put a sock in it, Will.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (As strong, pen poised, with a wry smile): Would if I had one, Kit.
EDWARD DE VERE: Not the “I’m so poor” again, please, Will.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Edward, thou art witty!
BEN JONSON (Trying to divert): Please, times difficult enough. I worry for thee, Kit. It may be—
(His words are drowned out by sudden heavy rain. They all look up at the ceiling, including the Barman, who has returned and pours more ale into Marlowe’s cup as they listen, nervously. Barman goes from one to another, pouring. Pan away from interior to exterior of the pub pelted by rain, to water, swans, then a village cottage, evening twilight, pelted by the same rain, then an interior. The cottage’s great room. Sound of rain. Anne, in her mid to late thirties, delicately pretty, weary, sits at a large table, pile of books at her elbow, reading. Now and then she sees something of interest and writes it down. She looks up at ceiling, taking in the sound of the rain, then back to her work. Lit candles on the table. Twins Hamnet and Judith, age six, bounce on a large, lumpy bed across the room, roll off the bed, bump their heads, mock cry, get back on, bounce again, fight, etc. Susanna, ten or eleven, sits across from her mother, writing in an accounts book, sets down pen, pulls her cap over her ears to shut out the sound of the rambunctious twins as well as the rain.)
ANNE (Looking at Susanna): I know, I know, my dear Susanna—will be nice when these rains stop, and we can ship Hamnet and Judith outdoors where they belong.
SUSANNA (Sounding older than her age, leaning forward): What did you say, Mother?
ANNE: I said, will be good when the twins can get some exercise—outside! Let them torment ducks and swans ...rather than us.
SUSANNA: I second that. (Indicating accounts book, hesitatingly) Mother, mother, I need tell you ...we're in arrears.
HAMNET AND JUDITH (Who have been listening, with a look at each other): Ducks and swans! Ducks and swans! We love chasing ducks and swans!
HAMNET (Taking a swing at Judith, intending to miss): Duck!
JUDITH (Pretending to swoon): Swan!
(They roll off the bed in a faint making sighing, gurgling, sounds.)
ANNE (Harried, with grudging admiration): They’ve their father's gifts ...for disturbing the peace.
SUSANNA (Frustrated): Mother! Did you hear what I just said?
ANNE: I'm sorry, dear. You were asking what's for lunch ...?
SUSANNA: You weren't listening yet again. We’ve had our lunch!
ANNE: Poor as it was.
JUDITH: I’m still hungry!
SUSANNA (Ignoring Judith): Your head’s elsewhere. I was saying, mother—we're in arrears.
ANNE: Not serious, is it?
SUSANNA: Never good to owe money, mother...to be in arrears.
ANNE: Such a big word—arrears! (Making fun.) ‘‘The King says/‘ My army fears/ Another attack/ From arrears!’''
(Susanna fixes her with a look. Well, you're right, of course—can't be good to be in arrears. Do excuse me.)
JUDITH: Mother did another poem!
HAMNET: About rears!
ANNE (Beaming): Not bad for off the cuff, eh, my dears?
HAMNET: Let us try!
HAMNET AND JUDITH (Whisper to each other, Judith nods vigorously, Hamnet nods vigorously, they climb back onto the bed, bottoms up): Arrears! Arrears!/ Mother's got one,/ Susanna's got one!/ Everyone's got an arrears!
ANNE (Applauding lightly): Very nice, my sweets. (To ANNE) I shouldn’t worry, father will provide, always does ...eventually.
SUSANNA (Not convinced): Maybe, but a few quid would go nicely now.
ANNE (To the twins): Lower your bottoms, dears! They’re not so cute as your charming poem. (Sudden thought, jotting a note, excited.) But good name for a character—don’t you think?—Bottoms! Your father likes silly names—maybe he’d like ‘Bottoms.’
(Writing, sounding it.)
“Bot-toms, Bot-toms,
rein thyself in,
thou art topsy-turvy!” ...
(Throws her arms up in the air.)
Inspired, my loves, by you! What d’you think?
(Susanne stares at her. The twins laugh, fall flat, sigh. Then loud dripping—a leak in the ceiling. The twins, looking up, spot it immediately.)
HAMNET AND JUDITH: Mother! Sister! Look—a leak! A leak! A leak!
SUSANNA (Jumping up): A bucket! (Looking at twins, having fun, mimicking them): A bucket, a bucket, a bucket!
ANNE: Oh dear—told your father the roof needed mending...some has fallen into the alley!
HAMNET AND JUDITH: A bucket, a bucket—Susana says we need a bucket!
(They repeat, becoming distant as we fade to the pub, along the way people sheltering from the rain or walking or riding in it, heads down. In the pub, the same four we left in conversation.)
KIT MARLOWE (Continuing a thought, worried about the Barman, looking furtively his way, sotto voce): ...yes...in case I have to leave quickly ...
BEN JONSON: The country you mean?
KIT MARLOWE (Drily): Yea. Leave England—sad, sad—my own country.
BEN JONSON: To France you think?
KIT MARLOWE: Perhaps ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Genuinely concerned): They might be looking for you there, Kit—the French, I mean. The spying and all.
KIT MARLOWE (Subtly moved by his tone): Likely ...perhaps Italy then. Maybe inspire a play on Caesar and friends—long been an urge. Can’t think anywhere else livable for the likes of me. Or who’d have me. (Pause, then looking at them, brightly) Of course I’d need assistance.
BEN JONSON: Money?
KIT MARLOWE: Surprised?
BEN JONSON: Never surprised by need for money. (Turning to Edward De Vere): Edward?
EDWARD DE VERE (Pretending ignorance): Hmmm ...
BEN JONSON: Don’t be coy—you heard me.
EDWARD DE VERE: Always me!
BEN JONSON: You’ve money. Talk about it all the time.
EDWARD DE VERE: Didn’t mention it tonight!
BEN JONSON: Had a feeling, did you?
EDWARD DE VERE: Why not our Will come up with some cash one of these times? Had a hit or two.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Staring at blank paper, pen poised, flatly, shaking his head, a slight smile): Many hits, yea—so, so many hits!—alas, my dear Edward, also many bad investments—no business head. Nothing works for me. Stratford home to need a new roof a year or two—the price of wooden roofs these days! Tempted to return to good old thatch. Buy more pasture for my sheep, my sheep die.
KIT MARLOWE: Serves you right—exploiting poor sheep.
(Will Shakespeare smiles thinly.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Beat you to it, did I, Kit?
(Kit Marlowe angrily begins to stand, but shaky he thinks better of it and sits heavily.)
EDWARD DE VERE: I say...
BEN JONSON (Eager to change the subject): What, Edward? What do you say?
EDWARD DE VERE: I say...can't we get along? We're here to write a show for the Queen’s birthday, a simple, light entertainment, at her request—at the Queen’s request—Kit’s infamous name on it or not—yet for all I see, we're just getting inebriated.
KIT MARLOWE (Offhand): Nothing wrong with that, Edward—part of the process.
(Falls off his chair, others except for Ben Jonson pretend they hadn’t seen it. They are used to this. Will Shakespeare hums as he peers over top of paper at Marlowe, perhaps jots a note. Ben Jonson helps Kit Marlowe stand. Kit Marlowe dusts himself off, primly pushes his hair back, sits.)
BEN JONSON: Already had a few then?
KIT MARLOWE (Nodding): London. No harm done. On the river, I mean—wasn’t the one rowing.
BEN JONSON: Drunkin’ rowers a menace.
KIT MARLOWE: Test myself—long as I can quote Christopher Kit Marlowe, all’s well ...
BEN JONSON (A beat): Can you then?
KIT MARLOWE (Thinks, tries): ‘Come live ...come live’ ...‘Be my ...be my’...(Mournfully) Given time ...
BEN JONSON: Edward, turn some pounds over to Kit—and prithee, not just a few.
EDWARD DE VERE: Really? So he can flee the country?
BEN JONSON: Come to it, that’s the idea—yea, so he can flee the country.
EDWARD DE VERE: And he’ll repay me from...from where? Italy? France?
BEN JONSON: Come, some generosity, some nobility of the soul, less ...(Glancing at Shakespeare) ...less like Will’s ...(Backtracking his instinctive intent a little) ...pardon me, Will ...less like Will’s good old Shylock and his pound of flesh. We want to protect Kit’s—his flesh, I mean.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Whimsically, looking up): Thank you, Ben—my Shylock’s never been called ‘good old’ I remember ...he’d thank you for it.
EDWARD DE VERE (To Ben Jonson): If ‘nobility of soul’s’ what you call it.
BEN JONSON (Quickly): Then call it wise, if you wish.
EDWARD DE VERE (Struck): Wise? How so?
BEN JONSON: Kit knows things—about you, me, Will, Thomas Kyd—us all. Maybe most be innocent—those things—but if they put a twist on them, as they can ...and do ...well, worries the Queen, even, all that Kit knows. (Waits, then) Now, Edward—now you wish him to stay?
EDWARD DE VERE (Looking at KIT MARLOWE, then BEN JONSON, concerned): He wouldn’t ...you wouldn’t, would you, Kit? Tattle on us? Run to the Queen? The...the others?
(Kit Marlowe smirks, looks away, drinks.)
BEN JONSON: Kit? Not willingly ...never ...I’d wager my soul ...but they’ve ways. We all know that.
(Marlowe glances at him, fear showing in his eyes, drinks again, deeply, looks down.)
BEN JONSON (Regretting his comment, unconvincingly): Not, Kit, that they’d ...(Trails off)
(A dark silence pervades the room. Linger on it, then with lighting change, cut to— —Thomas Kyd in a dungeon. Agents.)
THOMAS KYD: Please, I beg of you!
(Two hold him while a third slaps him about the face. He’s suddenly stoic.)
AGENT: Ye don’t cry out? Come, come, give us some names—make them juicy ones.
THOMAS KYD: No!
AGENT: Tell us ‘bout these other fellow scribblers—there’s one, I heard—what doth he tell ye in the dark, ye sick fellows—or do ye wish to be your very own ‘Spanish Tragedy’?
THOMAS KYD (Surprised): You know of it? “The Spanish Tragedy”? Do you? (Almost insanely, a writer’s pride): You know of my play? You saw ‘The Spanish Tragedy’? Where, prithee, where did you see it? When?
AGENT (Enraged): God’s blood—ye think I’ve time for ye sick words?—me a hard-working racker—such trying work—how I suffer racking traitors, yet ye do mock me? Do ye? Do ye mock me?!
(The Agent strikes him in anger, Kyd cowering. Lighting change. The pub. Scratching sound.)
KIT MARLOWE: (Part mockingly, wanting to change the subject.) What's that I hear? Sounds like snoring ...yet somehow provocative.
(Scratching sound intensifies.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Also mockingly): It's...it’s Will! Not snoring, but, but—writing!
(They stare as we move to Shakespeare, who is noisily writing with his quill pen, dipping and writing. He’s clearly inspired, working swiftly.)
KIT MARLOWE (A little jealously): Makes sense—soundin’ strange, I mean—none of us doin’ much of it lately.
EDWARD DE VERE (Defensively): Me, temporary lull, that’s all—the times ...dealing with estate matters—get in the way, you know. Clear them up, then will resume.
KIT MARLOWE (Laughingly): Resume, Edward? Resume what?
BEN JONSON (Reprimanding them): Tush—man writing! (Studying Shakespeare writing feverishly, interested, cocking his head): Not dried, Will?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Trying to ignore them, soft tone): I wish.
BEN JONSON: Do you?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Trying to concentrate on what he is writing, puts up his free hand, mutters): Surprised, Ben? I do! ...sometimes ...you know ...can be a burden. Sometimes ...I just want to ...stop (Looks up) ...if ...if she’d let me.
KIT MARLOWE: She? Your Anne?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Someone ...up there—a she I’m sure—brown eyed. Blue maybe.
KIT MARLOWE (Interested, aggressive): And if this she did, if you could—you’d do what?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Stops writing, struck by the question. thinks a moment): Maybe, Kit, tend those exploited sheep you mentioned—the ones still living, find them richer pastures.
BEN JONSON: And your children?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: They’d help. Tend the sheep with me. (Dreamily.) Together—me with my children—Susanna, Judith, Hamnet ...at noon a lunch of plums, bread baked lovingly wrapped by my Anne. (Sighs deeply) Just imagine ...sunlit days ...peaceful afternoons ...not unlike one of your lovely shepherd sonnets, Kit ...
KIT MARLOWE (Not wanting to like him, but flattered so conflicted): Yes, well ...I did indeed have my pastoral period. Enamored I was too.
EDWARD DE VERE: By shepherds?
KIT MARLOWE: Yes, dear Edward, by shepherds; by sheep, too, if ye wish—you know of these things?
EDWARD DE VERE: Not me!
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Scoldingly): Edward! (Dreamily, lowering his eyes) Yes, Kit—shepherds and sheep...why not?
(Fade, then this seen as he closes his eyes and leans back and sighs—a field running up to a forest’s edge, sheep, the children following Will Shakespeare, happy, laughing, with a shepherd’s staff and accompanied by a herding dog. Flute music.)
BEN JONSON’S VOICE (Their voices sounding at a great distance): Gone again ...
EDWARD DE VERE’S VOICE: Bye, bye, Will.
BEN JONSON’S VOICE: Composes in his sleep.
(All wonderful. Sunlight, followed by a cloud blocking the sun. Then the sound of thunder, the sheep scatter, the children run after the sheep screaming. Will Shakespeare follows, but becomes short of breath, panting, leans heavily on his staff. A wolf charges onto the pasture toward the sheep and children. Will Shakespeare screams the children’s names, in a panic running toward them. The wolf closes, Will Shakespeare hurling himself between the children and the wolf. The wolf leaps, last thing seen its jaws and fangs, something oozing from its mouth. Scene dissipates. Abstract, almost cosmic, shattering as a piece of glass as he is dreaming it—his iris opening then shattering. Transition to Will Shakespeare in pub, spasms, opens his eyes, staring, then through his eyes the surrounding figures, all watching him, floating. Ben Jonson’s voice heard as if again coming from a distance.)
BEN JONSON: Will ...Will...come back to us, Will.
(They watch him, used to this.)
BEN JONSON: (With more concern, snaps his fingers): Will!
EDWARD DE VERE (Darkly): Drifting.
BEN JONSON: When he goes off like that ...
EDWARD DE VERE: Usually a masterpiece.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Opening his eyes, shaking himself, trying to say Ben): Beh ...Beh ...? Ben...?
KIT MARLOWE (A touch of disdain): You screamed out.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Shaky): Frightened ...frightened for my children ...Why dreams be darker than real? (Still righting himself, taking time to clear, drinks): Ben—you know these things better than us—tell me, tell us, still be wolves in the land?
BEN JONSON: If so, not many—hunted to near extinction. The Conqueror’s decree if I recall.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: There’s one left—saw him I did ...
BEN JONSON: You always do—(Leaning forward, comfortingly)—tell us about the fellow.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Gray, white muzzle, getting on, champing, something yellow oozing from the mouth ...A pitiful thing. Perhaps last of its race ...alone ...an old king without subjects ...gaunt, wanting a chop from my poor flock. (Pause.) Ben, I’ll turn him human someday.
BEN JONSON: I’ll wager. And Anne, Will? She part of this sudden dream of yours?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Pause, then warming up to the idea again): Why, Ben, end of day, setting sun, poor old last of his kind gimpy king wolf tottering off, we’d go home to my Anne, the children and me. Warmth ...food ...together—a family true!
(He closes his eyes again. As the scene begins to fade—)
KIT MARLOWE (Heard from a distance): Says this but can’t resist coming to London to catch the plague ...
BEN JONSON (Also from a distance): Tis natural.
EDWARD DE VERE (Also): I too.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Sleepily): We are our own masters.
KIT MARLOWE: If you believe that ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE: I do, Kit ...I must.
(But closes his eyes. Kit Marlowe laughs, others joining in.)
KIT MARLOWE: Gone again.
(Transition to dream sequence as it goes dark on the pub: interior of the cottage, fire in the fireplace, family gathered about, Anne at table researching, looking at books, writing, twins playing. Will Shakespeare enters from another room, sits, pats his knees, twins run up, sit on his lap and knees, Susanna brings him slippers. He’s content.)
SUSANNA: A shawl, father?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Why thank you, Susanna.
JUDITH: Father ...
HAMNET (Stroking his face): Father, father ...
ANNE (Looking up from her work, smiling): See how they miss you ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Comfortably): Soon to be home more, Anne.
ANNE (Smiling gently): Would be wonderful ...I so wish—promise me?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Reflects, softly): To try, Anne ...to try ...
ANNE: Well, yes, do try ...
(Anne looks away, disappointed. Exterior: Rain falling over the river. A family or bevy of swans circling. Then back to reality, the sound of rain continues, ceiling leaking, no Will Shakespeare; Anne, Susanna, and Hamnet and Judith where we left them earlier, Susanna setting bucket under leak.)
SUSANNA: When you write father, pray let him know Hamnet and Judith need stockings. They’ll want gloves, too—without holes this time, tell him.
ANNE: Needn’t remind him that, Susanna—his father a glover, remember.
SUSANNA (Politely correcting): Mother, that’s why we do need remind him—(Going back to table)—his father a glover yet we’ve none at all!
HAMNET AND JUDITH (Exchange a look, then, bouncing): We need stockings! We need stockings! Susanna—says—we need stockings! We need gloves! We need gloves! Susanna—says—we need gloves!
ANNE (Fingers to temples): Children, children ...
(Rain wear, that's what you need...boots, that’s what! ...Get you out of this house ...save that poor bed!)
HAMNET: Boots, boots—we need boots!
JUDITH: Ducks and swans! Ducks and swans—
SUSANNA: Hamnet! Judith! If I have to come over there ...mother’s tired! (The twin freeze.) You alright, Mother?
ANNE: Yes, thank you, Susanna. Just so much to—(Self mockingly.) ...and now we're in arrears ...(To Twins.) Thanks, chicks. God love you being so good—I’ll tell your father how good you’ve been.
(She lowers her eyes sadly as we transition to pub, others watching with some envy as Will Shakespeare writes feverishly, the sound of his pen making a kind of music with the sound of the rain.)
EDWARD DE VERE (After a moment): Will, what be you writing now?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Not looking up): Amending my will, Edward.
BEN JONSON (Again alertly): Will writing his will?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Amending, I said. I’m serious about this, Ben—pray let me finish.
KIT MARLOWE (Sardonically): Leaving anything to us, Will?
EDWARD DE VERE: More likely writing us out, eh, Will? ‘Nothing to my good friend Edward, he’s already so much ...’ I know that’s what you all think.
KIT MARLOWE: You need more?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Free hand up as he continues to write, a warning): Edward! Kit! Please—I need get it down! If you don’t understand, who would?
BEN JONSON (Fatherly): Let him be, Kit. Edward, be good.
(They are silent for a few moments.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Softly in deference to Will Shakespeare writing, looking around): Wasn’t Thomas to join us?
BEN JONSON (The same): Understood he would. Kit, do you know?—you’ve had closest contact.
KIT MARLOWE (Defensively): Me? How should I know? No closer than anyone else to Thomas, thank you. (Looks away.)
(Edward De Vere and Ben Jonson exchange expressions of doubt.)
KIT MARLOWE (As an afterthought, gloomily): If I be close to anyone, or any to me.
BEN JONSON: We love you sure, Kit.
KIT MARLOWE: And me with all my faults...but thank you, Ben.
(Coming into focus slowly Thomas Kyd in the dungeon, one of several Agents holding him, another presses his right arm down on a table as a third pulls back one of Kyd’s fingers, breaking it. Kyd screams, his arm freed he holds up his hand.)
AGENT (Mockingly, laughingly): Aye, lad, try to hold a pen and write ye another tragedy now!
ANOTHER AGENT (Laughing): He’s one himself, poor boy—look at him—quite the tragedy!
FIRST AGENT (Indicating his other hand): Perhaps ye can use ye devil left hand to write ye devil words?
(Thomas Kyd lowers his head and sobs. Fade, then the pub. Edward de Vere whistles softly to himself, Ben Jonson looks at the ceiling, Kit Marlowe watches Will Shakespeare furtively. Will Shakespeare finishes, puts his pen down.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Done—for now. Was a sudden thought. You know how ‘tis: the thought vivid so you foolishly think yours forever ...so you don’t note it ...then you lose it ...flutters away ...vanishes ...and you curse yourself not having put it to paper.
EDWARD DE VERE (Nodding wisely): That’s so.
(Kit Marlowe rolls his eyes.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: And the cleverer it be, the more likely you’ll forget it!
BEN JONSON: Care to talk about it, Will? Your will, I mean.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Thinks about it, surprising himself): You know, Ben, really don’t mind! Odd that too. (Peers at what he has just written) I’m leaving my second-best bed to ...(Pauses dramatically) ...to ...(Coaching, grins) ...ye with me? ...(Almost affectionately) Ben ...Edward ...Kit ...? Hello...?
Fade.
(The cottage interior. Rain heavier, leak more profuse. The twins have pulled the bed covers up to their chins, loudly pretend to be snoring.)
ANNE: Children!
(They soften, which is good enough for Anne who moves her hands conducting their softer snoring.)
ANNE: Oh, yes. Better, better, much better. Lovely ...lovely ...a flute to accompany ...the soft, soft sound of innocence.
SUSANNA (Taking this in stride, looking up from her work): Yes, well, you might generously call it that ...Wonder if it’s raining on father in London ...
ANNE (Stops ‘conducting’): Theaters would be closed if at all like here ...
(Anne gets up, replaces buckets. Kneels on floor to wipe up moisture with a cloth. The twins hurl themselves from under the covers and look over edge of bed at what she is doing.)
JUDITH: Mother, mother, tell us please, why do we get the second-best bed? Is it because we’re little?
ANNE: I’ve told you, Judith, ‘second-best’s just a loving way ...between your father and me...we couldn’t afford a new bed—were poor...It’s the bed where you and Hamnet and Susanna before you were born ...so, very special to your father and myself.
HAMNET: And you don't like the first-best bed in the other room near so much? Tis so, mother?
ANNE (Rubbing her eyes as she stands with a bucket): That’s so, Hamnet—not so soft.
HAMNET: Filled with horse hair! (Makes exaggerated choking sounds.) Horse hair—not swan feathers, like ours, isn’t that so?
ANNE (Nodding): Yes, Hamnet—sticky horse hair.
JUDITH (Delicately, moving her hands to fit the line): We float like swans on ours.
HAMNET: Yours just newer, that’s all, isn’t it?
ANNE: That's all ...
HAMNET: Newer sticky horse hair.
ANNE: ...and ...(Softly) and ...colder ...
HAMNET (To Judith): See? I told you, Judith. (Bouncing.) Ours has downy feathers! (Starting in again.) Ducks and swans!
HAMNET AND JUDITH: Ducks and swans! Ducks and swans—
SUSANNA: Hamnet! Judith! If I have to get up ...
(The twins freeze, looking at each other in mock terror.)
Fade.
(The pub. As the Barman fills cups then returns to bar—)
BEN JONSON: Yes ...? To...? The second-best bed to ...?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: To ...to Anne.
KIT MARLOWE (Droll): That’s clever?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Also): No, simple.
EDWARD DE VERE: Come to you suddenly, did it?
BEN JONSON: Might not this be penurious of you, Will—the second-best bed to your dear wife Anne?
KIT MARLOWE: You know, this could be an idea for our show—something about beds.
EDWARD DE VERE (Pouncing): A second-best bed?! Poor Kit—fallen so ...from ‘Tamburlaine’ and ‘Dr. Faustus’ to used beds. Soon he’ll open a shop!
KIT MARLOWE (Cuttingly): If only you could fall so far—from?—from what?—think about it, my dear Edward. You’ve naught to fall from other than your fat purse—which you did not earn. Not even a splat mark you’ll leave.
BEN JONSON (To divert them): Not bad, Kit—the great William Shakespeare leaving the second-best bed to his wife. Then who's he leaving his best bed to?! That’s the question! What's Will really saying in this new revised will of his? Is his best bed going to a woman or a man or ...?
KIT MARLOWE: With Will, for heaven's sake, it could be to a Unicorn!
(Even Will Shakespeare laughs.)
KIT MARLOWE (Standing, pacing): It's fraught with...with fraught! With fraught?—brilliant—(To Ben Jonson) Jot that down! (Ben Jonson rolls his eyes, but Edward De Vere jots it down.) Wait...(Inspired now) ...wait ...‘Come live with me ...and be my love/And we will...we will all the...‘
BEN JONSON (Shaking his head): Kit quoting himself—if only a little! Will, a miracle you’ve done!
EDWARD DE VERE (Wisely): Earlier he couldn’t if you recall.
BEN JONSON (Searching for the positive): Progress—yeh.
KIT MARLOWE (His hand up, asking for patience): ...Wait—let me finish! ...‘We will all the pleasures prove’ ...Where? ...‘On our best bed!’
BEN JONSON (Pause as they think about it): The court does have bawdy taste—any suggestion of people being prone sends them into spasms of delight ...
EDWARD DE VERE: That kind of story—? No, no!—don't put my name on it—family, you know. Can't take the scandal. Bad enough hanging out with you fellows in this place.
BEN JONSON: Edward, I’m joking.
EDWARD DE VERE: Joking?
BEN JONSON: Pulling your leg—a second-best bed for a theme, really.
(Edward De Vere looks around, others are smiling.)
KIT MARLOWE (After a moment, smile going away, rethinking it): Well, I don’t know ...when you think about it ...
BEN JONSON: No, Kit, never—dangerous times. We might laugh, but would they? Or...?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Cambridge didn’t prepare you for jokes, did it, Edward?
EDWARD DE VERE (Stiffly): Humor not in the curriculum.
BEN JONSON (A running joke they have): Odd anyway, Edward, you—Earl of Oxford—studying at Cambridge.
KIT MARLOWE: Oxford turn you down?
EDWARD DE VERE (Weary): Prithee, my good fellows, let’s not do this again.
(They laugh. Edward De Vere joins in, smiles gratefully and relaxes. Will Shakespeare suddenly leans forward, writes again. They watch him intensely. He finishes, sets pen aside. They look at each other. Silence.)
BEN JONSON (Finally, tentatively): Well, Will ...?
KIT MARLOWE: More on your will, Will?
EDWARD DE VERE: Come on, Will, let us into that quagmire brain of yours.
(Will Shakespeare nods. They wait.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Now I’ve got it down—the best bed goes to...(Pause) ...not to Anne—nor, Kit, to a unicorn—but to ...but to Susanna and the twins!
BEN JONSON (Applauds): There’s a good father for you! And the second-best bed—still to Anne?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: To Anne, still—where we made Susanna and the twins. I knew something was brewing in the old subconscious. My Anne will approve for romantic sentimental reasons. And Hamnet’s not well ...(Looks at others, tries to smile, can’t) May truly need a good bed, come to it, sweet boy.
BEN JONSON: Sorry to hear this, Will.
KIT MARLOWE: Aye.
BEN JONSON: Can all fit on the best bed?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Aye. They all fit on the second-best bed, why not the best?
EDWARD DE VERE: This is fine and heart-warming, but we need a show soon for the Queen—and needs be dramatic.
(They all puzzle, then fade and to Stratford, the water, ducks and swans in the rain, playfully chasing each other, echoing the children, then inside the cottage— Anne takes out paper and quill, looks at open book, copies something from book, using when needed hand held spectacles.)
SUSANNA (Waits): Mother—the Holinshed book?
ANNE: Yes, dear.
SUSANNA: For father? (A little weary) Yet another play? Mother, don’t you do enough, keeping the house and family?
ANNE (Smiling wanly): Just a bit of research ...he wrote and asked ...and so sweetly, Susanna ...can be so sweet ...help when I can—enjoy it, I do.
SUSANNA: If only he helped us ...
ANNE (Softly): Susanna!
HAMNET (In his sleep): Father, father, where—is—father—(Judith wakes, kicks him lightly in the leg. They look at each other a moment.) Father, father ...
(She kicks him again, gently. He looks at her and becomes quiet. Goes back to sleep. Anne and Susanna look at the twins for a few moments.)
ANNE (Anticipating her, as she continues making notations): I don't know when he's coming home, Susanna, please don't ask again. Terrible sickness in the city’s the word. I wish him home and safe, but it’s not to be.
SUSANNA: I can't imagine much going on in the theatres with sickness about. Is that why we don't visit him, mother?
ANNE (Nodding): Or he us. (Suddenly distressed.) He wouldn’t want ...and Hamnet's not been well, Susanna, not been ...strong. You’ve seen that, haven’t you? I wouldn't want Hamnet in London at such a time. You've seen how—
(Catches herself, looks at Hamnet, who has opened his eyes and heard her. He looks straight at her then falls back onto the bed, stares at the ceiling, twirls a lock of his hair moodily. Silence.)
SUSANNA (Sotto voice): Mother?
ANNE (Sotto voice): Shouldn't have said anything ...wasn’t thinking ...but you know ...I’ve never ...never told you—his the more difficult birth...Judith came second ...worry for him so, especially when there's sickness about...(Pause, normal voice) Hamnet? Hamnet, dear?
JUDITH: Hamnet, mother’s talking to you ...Judith looks at Hamnet then follows suit, falling back, twirling a lock of her hair. They breathe heavily in unison. Anne and Susanna watch them.
(A silence.)
ANNE: I'm sorry, Hamnet sweet ...Anyway, I wrote a few lines your father might like for his new play. Do you want to hear them? Hamnet, do you?
(Hamnet remains silent.)
JUDITH (Not having moved, staring at ceiling): Father, father ...
(Hamnet kicks her gently, still on his back; she kicks him in return, they stay on their backs.)
ANNE (Pause, then briskly to Susanna): ...Something I remembered gave me the idea ...the girl in his new play ...‘O’ something he calls her ...anyway, when your father courted me and I first said no ...I did, you know, several times, though none believe it so.
(Can’t resist, lovingly “I first said no/ I did, you know/ Though none then/ Believed it so.”/ Smiles wanly, continues His prospects seemed ...to me ...well, unsure...(Laughs) And losing his hair too, so young—made him consider acting over writing at first, you ask me—could wear those terrible women’s wigs—men are so vain—came to the door once in one—yellow!—quite fetching he was! Never laughed so hard. Anyway, I wasn’t so easy as some put about. We had our rows ...but the love made up for it. I wrote about it, one which he told me he may use some time—if I can find it ...(Looks through papers, frustrated) I’m so scattered ...(Finds a piece of paper, browned with age, nervously) Here! (Pantomiming much of the following, passionately.) Just a few lines—do you mind? “He took my right wrist firmly/ His other hand brushing my blouse of lace/ And beneath his high and noble brow/ His eyes fell to gaze .../ upon my laughing face ...'' / Waits, a touch anxiously. What do you think, daughter? Follows the rules, I think—well, some of them. Of course, he can always improve on it.)
SUSANNA (Pause, dazed): Mother, father took you by the wrist? Is this so?
ANNE: Surprised? We were quite...quite intense, you know.
SUSANNA: And held you firmly? Did it hurt you, mother?
ANNE: Susanna, your father’d not hurt a soul!
SUSANNA: And gazed into your eyes, as you wrote? Mother, did he really?
ANNE (Blushes): We were young! ...Well, he much younger than me, as all Stratford and London knew then and gossips about now. If I sound bitter...
SUSANNA: You're a beautiful lady—I don't care what Stratford or London say!
ANNE: Thank you. Couldn’t live on without you and the twins. (Looks across to twins) I hope you all know that...how important you are to me.
(Lighting change.)
(ANNE: “Lullaby of Anne Shakespeare”; she stands and approaches the twins on the bed.)
Oh sleep, my darlings Father is far, but will come He writes the plays and the tales, But here with you, his love will grow, So close your eyes and sleep ‘til dawn. Rain falls so softly, Swans are gliding in the peaceful morning. His words, they fly to sky, Yet his heart stays where you are, In your dreams, my darlings dream. Oh my, Susanna, There’s a story that I would like to tell you. When your father courted me, He wasn’t yet the man you see, But his love made our world so bright. He took my hand once, And spoke of stars that I could never see. He promised worlds beyond this place, But I found home in his embrace, And I found love in all of you. Oh sleep, my dear ones, Father writes of kings and ghosts But you are safely in my arms, You are more than stories, songs, or charms
(Lighting change. She returns, smiles shyly at Susanna, sits, resumes her research. Susanna reaches across, puts her hand on Anne’s.)
SUSANNA: For what play is this?
ANNE: He's calling it, I think, “Hamlet.”
HAMNET (Sits up, excited): Hamnet?! Mother, father’s doing a play called Hamnet? Of me?
SUSANNA: No, silly, didn’t you listen to Mother?
(It's called Hamlet! Ham-let, with an “L.”)
HAMNET: (Falls back, stares at ceiling, twirls lock of hair): Oh ...with an ‘L’...I don't like ‘L’s’ ...I loathe ‘L’s’.
JUDITH (Sitting up): He wouldn’t do a play about you anyway—you’re too little.
SUSANNA (Sotto voice): Judith!
JUDITH: He is—you just said so.
ANNE: Judith, I did not. (Pause, to Susanna but meant for Hamnet.) Still, Hamlet is much like Hamnet, don't you think, Susanna ...really close.
SUSANNA (Also): Very like, mother. It’s very like your name, Hamnet ...Almost the same, so maybe, maybe father was ...
HAMNET: But not the same.
SUSANNA: One can hardly tell the difference—Hamnet, Hamlet. Hamlet, Hamnet. One almost like the other.
ANNE: Very near, Susanna ...One shouldn't be surprised if father was thinking of Hamnet when he made his title.
HAMNET (Now angry): Not the same!
(Hamnet rolls onto his side, facing away from them.)
HAMNET (Softly now): Not the same ...
SUSANNA: We’ll ask him.
ANNE: You’ll see.
SUSANNA: He’s thinking of you, Hamnet.
(JUDITH (Looking down at Hamnet); Anyway, father'd sooner do a play called ‘Judith’!)
HAMNET: Oh, go to sleep, you. (He pauses, rolls onto his back again.) Father wouldn't do you or me in a play...he’s too busy writing about others.
ANNE (A touch of despair): Hamnet ...my dear...
(Judith looks down at him again, then falls back, twirls her hair, stares at ceiling. They are side by side, breathing heavily, as children sometimes do when they are concentrating and thinking. Hamnet coughs, can’t stop. Susanna and Judith look at each other.)
SUSANNA: Hamnet, did you hear mother?
(Anne shakes her head. Anne and Susanna gaze at the twins. Hamnet senses it and turns his head away from them, coughing softly. The rain suddenly begins to fall harder. They are all silent before its force. Hamnet tries to sit up.)
HAMNET (To himself, a little to Judith): Sister, it’s very odd, I’m hot, really hot, my brow is hot.
(Judith feels his forehead.)
JUDITH: Mother! Susanna!
(Fade then— The river (seen on the pub wall). Another boat pulls up to the shore. The figure that gets off the boat stumbles, pitches forward into the mud. The boat man comes to his assistance, helps him up. He staggers up the hill, holding his right hand with his left. The full pub interior. Rain pouring. They hear the pub door open and slam shut. They turn and look. Thomas Kyd appears, disheveled, his clothes muddied, his right hand wrapped in bloody cloth. The Barman stares at him. Thomas Kyd stands in the doorway.)
KIT MARLOWE (Shaky, stands): Thomas...my dear Thomas!
THOMAS KYD (Holding his right hand up, sobbing): Broke the fingers...of my...of my writing hand! (In disbelief, staring at it) Did you hear—they broke the fingers of my writing hand!
BEN JONSON (Who has stood, alarmed): For what reason to do so?!
THOMAS KYD: Sport!
BEN JONSON (Worried but patient): Come, Thomas, they must have given reasons!
THOMAS KYD: Heretic, traitor, poet, poacher—couldn’t keep track! Kit, you’re next.
KIT MARLOWE: Me? What have I ...?
THOMAS KYD: What haven’t you?! (Approaching, voice trembling, accusingly): This ...the things you say and do ...this comes from knowing you I believe!
KIT MARLOWE (Jumping up): How dare you!
BEN JONSON (Also, stepping between them): Peace! Peace, both of you!
KIT MARLOWE: Did they say so?
THOMAS KYD: T’was understood ...
(All have stood except Will Shakespeare, who secretly scribbles a note—they stare at Thomas Kyd, then Kit Marlowe.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Who has backed away): Dramatic—I say, this could be—
BEN JONSON (Turning on him, almost violently): Christ’s blood, Edward—he’s been tortured!
(Steps in front of Edward De Vere. Will Shakespeare sets his parchment and pen down, stands, pulls out a chair.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Helping Thomas Kyd sit, taking him by the shoulders): My dear sweet Thomas, please ...Barman, ale here! And a towel—a clean towel!
THOMAS KYD (Sitting): I fell—twice! Fell? Knocked to the stones. Kicked. Spat on.
(Barman delivers towel, cup, pours. Kit Marlowe holds out his cup to be filled, drinks. They gather round Thomas Kyd save Kit Marlowe, who goes to bar for more ale, drinks, fills, returns, fidgets nervously. Will Shakespeare sits by Thomas Kyd, tenderly dabs at his face then carefully wraps his hand. Thomas Kyd winces in pain.)
THOMAS KYD: Thank you, Will, you are kind.
BEN JONSON (Holding cup to Thomas Kyd’s mouth): Drink ...will help ...‘Heretic’ they called you?
(THOMAS KYD (Laughing bitterly) Worse, worse than heretic—I just remembered—how could I forget?—called me ...called me ...plagiarist! Others try to laugh but dry.)
THOMAS KYD: Yes! Yes! You heard me—Plagiarist!
EDWARD DE VERE (After a reflective silence): Nothing worse than that.
THOMAS KYD: Me—Thomas Kyd! Praised by all London. That Thomas Kyd a ...a plagiarist? Who did I copy? Who?! Tell me who I copied—any of you?
BEN JONSON: Think not—drink!
THOMAS KYD (Shakily, calmer): Do they say that of me? Others, I mean, that I am a thief of words? (Begins to sob) Do they? Tell me, tell me!
WILL SHAKESPEARE: No! None would!
THOMAS KYD: Have I taken from you?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Never.
THOMAS KYD (To Ben Jonson): Or you?
BEN JONSON: Thomas, Thomas.
(Thomas Kyd drinks, Ben Jonson still assisting him.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Queen’s men?
THOMAS KYD: Be there others? I don’t know. Ask Kit, maybe he’ll tell you.
KIT MARLOWE (Shaky): Leave me out of it, Thomas!
THOMAS KYD: I will, aye, but will they?
(Kit Marlowe turns away, staggers, drops his cup, falls face down, moans, rolls onto his back, remains still. Silence. They look at him. More silence.)
BEN JONSON (Shaking his head): What’s to do—second time this day.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Nodding to him): Thomas frightened him.
EDWARD DE VERE: Frightened me! All of us!
(Barman approaches Kit Marlowe with towel, picks up cup, cleans up, etc. while indicating disproval of the others through body language. Looks at them, they look away. Used to this kind of thing, he shrugs, wipes Kit Marlowe’s face with rag, almost tenderly. Folds and places towel under Kit Marlowe’s head. Looks at them again, shrugs again, goes back to bar, thinks a moment, unnoticed by others who are looking at Kit Marlowe, waits until they start conversing again, and several minutes later grabs a wrap and slips out the door unnoticed. Kit Marlowe is still. They all sit, remain quiet for a time.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Give him time.
EDWARD DE VERE (Nodding): He’ll come ‘round.
BEN JONSON (Darkly): Maybe not.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Looking at Marlowe): Maybe so.
BEN JONSON (Pause): You’ve stopped working on your will?
(Will Shakespeare gestures helplessly at the scene around them.)
BEN JONSON (Laughs at himself): What am I saying?—comes a time when writing’s not in order! (After a moment, looking at Kit Marlowe) If a will be in order now, it be this man’s ...gifted ...of us all, maybe he the most.
THOMAS KYD (Lackluster): Just so, just so.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: He of “The mighty line.”
BEN JONSON (A little slow): What did you just say, Will?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: ‘‘He of—
BEN JONSON: That's mine, you know, I wrote that—“He of the mighty line.”
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Ben, who said you didn't?
BEN JONSON: Well ...sorry, Will, a bit on edge ...thinking of my mortality...(Indicating Marlowe.) ...what with Kit and Kyd and all.
THOMAS KYD (Softly dry): Thank thee for including me.
BEN JONSON: Gifted, too, you are, Thomas ...
THOMAS KYD: Thank thee.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Savoring it): Kit and Kyd ...(Raising a brow): What with ‘Kit and Kyd and all?’ The ‘all’ us?
BEN JONSON: Aye. Comes to it, we’re one. What happens to one could happen to all.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Nodding): Looks more like ...
BEN JONSON: Kit drinks too much. What’s to be done? (Will Shakespeare looks at him.) Yes, right, to be frank, dangerous times. I mean, why are we hanging out in Deptford with a body even if one of us? Dangerous, Thomas says so—doesn't seem...intelligent ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Ben, he’s not dead.
BEN JONSON: Seems to want to be.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Can’t make up his mind, that’s all.
BEN JONSON: A fault.
EDWARD DE VERE: Just drunk.
BEN JONSON: And then there is ...
(He looks at Thomas Kyd.)
THOMAS KYD (Through a haze): I hear thee, Ben. Go, go. I'm ...I'm ...
BEN JONSON: We are one...Was a fall you said you took? (Looks at Will Shakespeare, then back at Thomas Kyd) Broke your fingers in a fall, you said? ...anyway, Thomas, should be your story if asked ...safer...took a fall. Remember to say that if others ask, will you?—“Took a fall, broke my fingers ‘’...Or something like ...
THOMAS KYD: Aye, I’ll tell them—a fall, an alley beating, thrown from a horse, eaten by louse, trampled by oxen, what you will.
BEN JONSON: (Nods, then after exchanging another look with Will Shakespeare; quieter): And then, Will, another matter, the line about Kit, all I ask—don't write it down. You write it down, those come after will find it, and because it’s you I've lost credit for it.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Right, Ben. I mean, not write. I will not write it down.
(A silence. They are in a quiet—save the sound of rain—dark world which they are used to but not to this extreme. Edward De Vere looks around, sits straight, quietly alarmed .)
EDWARD DE VERE: Do you fellows notice something unusual—other than Kit on the floor?
THOMAS KYD: Not so unusual that.
EDWARD DE VERE: Yea, but what is unusual—most, most odd—the barman’s gone! Think—a bar without a barman?
(Others look toward bar.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Standing): Aye, gone, but gone where?
(Edward De Vere looks at them, puts his shawl over his head, opens door to heavier sound of rain, looks back at them meaningfully, smiles broadly, then without a word leaves quietly, closing door firmly behind him. Seen, Edward De Vere hurrying down the hill, footing precarious, slips, falls, drags himself up, shakes himself, laughs, continues vigorously but gingerly toward the river. A silence as they look toward the door. They will seem for several passages in a frozen world. When they speak it is softy.)
BEN JONSON (Finally): He’ll fetch a boat.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Ye think?
THOMAS KYD: That’s his intent?
BEN JONSON: I know him.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Looking at Kit Marlowe): Good idea though.
BEN JONSON: He can have them, Edward can—good ideas, I mean to say.
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Aye. We underrate at times, don’t we? ...Well, I do, a fault of mine I know.
(They all look at the door, a sense of uncertainty. A silence but for the rain. Thomas Kyd painfully lifts cup to drink.)
THOMAS KYD (Finally, with effort, softly): Will, how's your wife Anne?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Also, whispered): Well, I say thee, well, Thomas.
THOMAS KYD (Attempting great sincerity): No, really, Will, how's she doing?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Pause, looks at him): Very well indeed.
BEN JONSON (Pause): Stalwart woman—Anne. A looker, too. Don't know why you keep her hidden away in Stratford.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Gesturing): Bring her here, Ben? The children? What with Hamnet’s ...for what result ...? The Plague...? Stale onion and potato pasties ...? Intrigues and killings...? (Gestures to Kit Marlowe’s body) ...bodies on floors...? No, Stratford's better, leaky roof and all.
(A silence.)
THOMAS KYD (Softly): Since you mention them. Susanna and the twins Judith and Hamnet—how be they?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Fairly well, Thomas. I thank you for asking. (Suddenly realizing, excited) Thomas, you know their names?!
(Thomas Kyd nods.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: To think you know their names! The twins even! Dear of you. I didn’t know! (Inspired by his interest) Susanna works hard, yea, a giving and loving child, and Hamnet and Judith be mischief indeed. Triple the trouble says their mother. To think you know their names!
BEN JONSON (Suspiciously): Will, are you (Mimicking his tone) yea, (Normal tone) writing something new and not telling us about it?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Cautiously): Why say you that, Ben?
BEN JONSON: Because you seem to fall into a peculiar way of speaking none of us can make out when working on something new. I need tell you, when you write that way you lose some audience, to judge by all the head scratching out there. Of course, I know you plan it that way—keep them guessing—clever of you. (A beat.) Will, my question, if you please, be you writing a—
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Grudgingly, a furtive, unsure glance at Thomas Kyd): Well, if you must know, Ben, yes, working on a new play...bills to be paid ...must, you see, nothing new there.
BEN JONSON: And it’s called?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Shooting Ben Jonson a look, indicating Thomas Kyd, sotto voce): Called, Ben ...?
BEN JONSON (Missing the allusion): Aye, called, Will!
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Nodding his head not so subtly toward Thomas Kyd): You allude to the play's title?
BEN JONSON: Aye, the title! Don't be thick.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Glancing at Thomas Kyd, sotto voce): You be the thick one, Ben!—or in your cups! It’s called ...(Continued sotto voce, glancing furtively again at Thomas Kyd, mumbles something not distinguishable) ...
BEN JONSON (Leaning forward): What’s that?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Frustrated, whispered): ‘Hamlet’!
BEN JONSON (Normal voice): ‘Hamlet’?
(THOMAS KYD (His antenna suddenly up) ‘Hamlet?’ (Will Shakespeare sighs, rolls his eyes.) ‘Hamlet’ you say?)
BEN JONSON (After a glance at Thomas Kyd): So, a play called after your son?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Impatiently, wearily): Nay. My son's name’s Hamnet, Ben, as Thomas just pointed out.
BEN JONSON: Pardon.
THOMAS KYD (Sorrowfully): After my tragedy ‘Hamlet’ then?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Having anticipated this): Yea, Thomas, and yours was after another ‘Hamlet’, if you recall. And that was after another and another before that.
THOMAS KYD: But the same prince nevertheless?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: There have been many ‘Hamlets’, Thomas. You do not own the story. Anyway, years away—first try, that’s all. Distilling up here—(Indicates his head)—may never finish. Likely not.
THOMAS KYD (In despair): You will—finish—and mean to eclipse them all, of course, including mine—the only truly extant! No revivals of Thomas Kyd's ‘Hamlet’, to be sure, if his majesty Shakespeare's written one!
BEN JONSON (With a gesture): Leave it, Thomas—(Indicating the bread loaf on table)—it be stale bread. (Unconvincingly) ...He may never finish anyway, as he says...(To Will Shakespeare.) Why not, Will, to avoid confusion and a fellow writer’s hurt, honor your son and call this new play, if you finish, ‘Hamnet’?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Tell you true, Ben, thought once to name it after my sweet Hamnet, kind of gentle play on the tragic prince's name, but thought again it could spoil the boy—a great play named after him.
THOMAS KYD (Greatly injured): ‘A great play’—still to be seen, don't you think, Will?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Laughs at himself): Aye, to be decided, I am rightly rebuked, thank you, Thomas, but will be seen, yea, by many! But my Hamlet, like yours, will come to a bad end. (Turning to Ben Jonson) Want not my son to carry such a curse. Ben, would you name a boy Oedipus? Or had you a boy called Oedipus would you write such a play in his name ...? Would you do such to your own young son, Ben?
BEN JONSON: No, love my son too much to saddle him thus. You're right, of course. (A bell chimes in the distance. They listen till it stops after five, all intent except Thomas Kyd, Ben Jonson silently mouthing the numbers as they are struck.) Five ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Worried): You truly think Edward will return?
BEN JONSON: He will.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (An argument against): He’s mocked, Ben—Edward is.
BEN JONSON (Irritably): I promised you, didn’t I? (Looks at Kit Marlowe, then to Thomas Kyd.) It grows late—should we fetch a physician? Or a coroner? We need go when Edward returns or miss the tide.
THOMAS KYD: Coroner? May need a physician, not a coroner any more than us; soon, maybe, but not yet Kit or me. But I understand—myself thought him well gone before. Seen him this way for hours and more. See, his chest rises a touch. He's coming ‘round ...
BEN JONSON (Leans forward studying Kit Marlowe more closely): Aye, he breathes.
THOMAS KYD (Nodding, drinking): Tenacious. Love him but just trouble, Kit is. Mocking the saints...accusing highly placed of beastly acts ...mocking the privy council ...those in high places ...the clergy ...even the Queen's latest frock!
BEN JONSON: That’s the dangerous one.
THOMAS KYD: He listens to no one! Cannot be dissuaded, wants to die and take me with him. Be better he expired on this floor, God save me!—which I would not say—be my witness I called on God, if it comes to a trial, which it may—which I would not say, were I a heretic. You’ll remember if I am tortured again—that I swore this?
BEN JONSON (Comfortingly): We will remember, Thomas.
THOMAS KYD: Will, you also?
WILL SHAKESPEARE: Aye, Thomas. My word—you swore it. We heard you. (Pause.) Always known dangerous to know Kit. Comes with the poetry. (A glance at Ben Jonson.) You’ve a lethal friend, Thomas.
THOMAS KYD: Your friend too!
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Nods, sadly): Aye—once.
(BEN JONSON (Looks at Thomas Kyd's hand, then softly.) Thomas, threatened with the rack too?)
THOMAS KYD: Coming. The fellow can’t wait. Took great joy crippling my writing hand—(Trying to drink, his hands shaking) Do ye see, can barely hold a cup, so a pen?
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Who also half stood, looking at Ben Jonson): Dangerous to know you—and Kit. Sorry for your pain, Thomas, but—
THOMAS KYD: If I frighten you, Will ...as I know I did when I wrote “The Spanish Tragedy” and people flocked to it and none then took note of Will Shakespeare, the talk being of “Famous Kyd” ...and what ...what he might do next ...(Falters) ...what he might still write ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Pause): Fine play, Thomas, ‘The Spanish Tragedy’. Very fine, saw it many times myself.
THOMAS KYD (Surprised and moved): Did you? Thank you! Did you really, Will? ...see my play many times? The truth? (Will Shakespeare nods. Thomas Kyd is near tears) Thank you ...Thank you so much.
BEN JONSON (Some pity): But dry since then, Thomas.
THOMAS KYD (Thinks of arguing but ...): True, true. Not my best ...
(They fall silent. Lighting dimming slightly as Edward De Vere seen coming up the hill quickly, slips a few times, rights himself, then bursts through the door, dirty, disheveled, breathing heavily.)
EDWARD DE VERE (Authoritatively): Hailed a boat—to cross to London!
BEN JONSON: Edward!
EDWARD DE VERE: Didn’t want to, the boat fellow didn’t I mean, exhausted, then held out coins to him—thrice the fare—did the trick—so waiting for us but not long! Think can be trusted—if anyone can be trusted these times. Come! Need to hurry!
BEN JONSON: Aye!
(Ben Jonson and Will Shakespeare, indicating fear they have been suppressing, stand quickly, pushing their chairs back, Will Shakespeare gathering and covering to protect his writing materials.)
BEN JONSON (Of Edward De Vere’s appearance): Edward, are you hurt?
EDWARD DE VERE (Exuberantly, wiping mud from his face): Oh, this? Fell. Nothing broken. Soft mud—good old mud! Popped right back up! Made me feel young again!
BEN JONSON (With a look at Kit Marlowe): Can we take—
EDWARD DE VERE: Kit? A body? Or simply drunk? I love him—(To Kit Marlowe) Kit, I love you, my boy—despite the abuse you enjoy heaping upon me—do you hear me, Kit?—love you!—(To others)—but are you mad? Do we want to attract attention to ourselves? They’ll think we’re trafficking a corpse!
BEN JONSON: He's not ...
EDWARD DE VERE: You’re sure?
BEN JONSON: We think not ...
EDWARD DE VERE (Looks at Kit Marlowe, then grins, wiping dirt from his face with his sleeve): Of course!—it's that Kit, is it...? The French couldn't kill him, so ...Well, that's a relief. But take with us? Think not, no room in the boat, spread out that way. And getting him down the hill...slippery ...so, well ...well, think it best that...
(A silence, they look at each other guiltily, then glance somewhat furtively at Thomas Kyd.)
THOMAS KYD (Quickly, to hold off the question): Needn't look at me that way—wouldn't leave him; I stay with Kit ...only fitting ...
BEN JONSON: If you call a physician, we all contribute.
THOMAS KYD: And if he dies?
(They look at him, wary, worried.)
THOMAS KYD (Defeated, reading their minds): I wouldn’t say anything. Needn’t worry. No names. Thomas Kyd’s asked, you were never here.
EDWARD DE VERE (Relieved): Suggest we quick to it! The barman, remember! He’s reported us I’ll wager!
BEN JONSON: We can send the boatman back for you both...You could still return in the cover of dark, Thomas ...
THOMAS KYD: Think not, Ben—if found out not want the boatman on my conscience as well. Go—you don’t want to be seen with me and Kit, not after tonight.
(They move to door, Will Shakespeare tucking the manuscript he was working on under his cape.)
WILL SHAKESPEARE: So sorry, Thomas, I’m sure you see now that we...
THOMAS KYD: We’re dangerous to know ...both of us ...Kit and me. Thank you for liking my play, Will ...“The Spanish Tragedy.” Thank you for that...
(Will Shakespeare nods, embarrassed.)
BEN JONSON (Taking his arm): Come, Will.
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Unsure, guiltily): I’ve family to consider, Thomas ...if something happens to me ...well, then poor Hamnet and my family ...while with you and Kit ...
THOMAS KYD (Approaching Marlowe's body, limping): Understood, Will. Leave London, go home to your sweet family in Stratford—it’s need of you, especially Hamnet sure ...go to them ...we'll bother you no more ...trouble’s my own making.
BEN JONSON: Oh, not so bad as that ...nothing you can't survive ...if you convince Kit to mind his mouth for once...perhaps the Queen be of a forgiving mind—she can, you know...forgive that is ...has before ...then perhaps they’ll leave you be. No more ...no more of this...
(They move closer to door, guiltily.)
EDWARD DE VERE: Aye, Thomas, take care of our poor, dear Kit ...
WILL SHAKESPEARE (Pause): ‘He of—(In deference, looks at Ben Jonson)
BEN JONSON (Nodding, with a bow to Marlowe’s body): —the mighty line.’
(A silence. They look from one to another, hesitate, then leave, guiltily, closing the door quietly behind them. They are seen descending the hill, quickly but carefully on wet ground, heads down, capes wrapped round them. Edward De Vere slips, nearly falls, seen laughing, then runs to catch up. Thomas Kyd waits a moment, listening, then stands over Kit Marlowe. He thinks, then with his right, injured hand, reaches back and takes bread knife from its board. This is painful for him. He switches to his left hand, tries to get a feel of the knife, making a few short, clumsy stabbing motions, perversely smiles to himself, then stands over Marlowe, looking down, trembling. Then falls to his knees, bending over Marlowe’s body, traces the blade gently over Kit Marlowe’s heart. Fade slowly and transition to the Stratford cottage, light coming up slowly on Anne, Susana and Judith gathered around the bed, Hamnet sitting up, Susanna holding a damp cloth to his forehead, touches his forehead with her free hand.)
SUSANNA: He’s cooler, mother ...
JUDITH: Dear brother...dear, dear brother ...
SUSANNA: ...much cooler.
ANNE (A sigh of relief): You’re better, Hamnet. Susanna’s potion helped, didn’t it? Such a clever big sister you have!
HAMNET: Is father ...coming home?
ANNE: Yes, Hamnet—your father’s coming home.
SUSANNA (Rebukingly, sotto voce): Mother!
ANNE: He is, Susanna! I know he is...can feel it. And when I feel it ...why then ...always in the past ...it happens ...so it will again...
HAMNET: So, I’ll see him then ...? Mother—you say I’ll see my father?
ANNE: You will, Hamnet ...very soon. (Gives Susanna a warning look) ...I promise you, my son—you’ll see him! (She embraces Hamnet, to others, softly, desperately) He will, he will—Hamnet will see his father again. He must.
(Fade on the family moving closer to and embracing Hamnet, sound of rain continuing. Dark, raining sky transitioning back to the pub. Thomas Kyd still kneeling over Marlowe. He bends down, kisses him on the forehead, then raises knife. Rain suddenly beats harder, to a crescendo. He looks up, wondering. He leans back, stands slowly and awkwardly, looks down, then turns and softly drops knife on table near the loaf of bread. He stares into the distance, then sits, half falling, and gazes reflectively at Kit Marlowe.)
THOMAS KYD:
“Stand firm, my heart, and courage take,
I must not fear my plight.
With cloak and fear I will not break...
I found my friends this night... “
(Pause, looking down at Marlowe.)
“I found my friend this night...
I found my friend this night...”
(Rain softens. The river; the boat, with the men aboard, being pushed off from the dock. Their voices echoing softly, tones of relief. Sound of oars. Stratford. The cottage. Ducks and swans on the shadowy water. The twins singing from far off “Ducks and Swans, Ducks and Swans.”)
Fade.
END.