A funny old fellow met up with last night,
Hell’s ugly, though hard to say why
In vital statistics, because I’d obtrude
On the way I remember my mother’s beau laid
(And yet he looked different – for he was there too,
Why, they knew, or were said to know, one another,
Though I felt it was only ad hoc bores’ rapport).
I felt it as some device for succession,
Mummy palely quiet, I took on the brunt
Of the new man’s smooth wooing; quite as if the thing
Was half-settled but waited my writ.
Not that it was smooth, no, but not inurbane,
As he talked of the country, the pictures and me,
And I answered in loud anecdotes of my father,
Addressed to the rest of the past sold up table.
Was he the conception, the ruddy disquisitant,
Of some unmet man, say, a dear heart’s employer,
Snuffling the trails of his own mink brood?
We boarded a train, without that taking centre,
He showed a new side there, as if the pretence
Required other agents; far without his depth, then
He greeted the lately known passing too late.
Some time after, I thought of the unlettered squire,
As I thought him over, or the cidrous uncle
Of that splendid shilling. I rubbed him away.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
For Linda Norgrove
They intended to take you to a distinct place
(from the spring of the well by the boundary mark),
Now it teaches that farness can never come near
Or infinity compass affinity’s hold.
You came back to your father’s plain balladic name
And they followed you there, crofters of sharper hills,
Bringing handfuls of honour’s dried, unclearanced earth.
Difference, not variance, had been on your mind.
But the things that did not change, too, held you in thrall,
Long before anything, or one else; longer after.
(from the spring of the well by the boundary mark),
Now it teaches that farness can never come near
Or infinity compass affinity’s hold.
You came back to your father’s plain balladic name
And they followed you there, crofters of sharper hills,
Bringing handfuls of honour’s dried, unclearanced earth.
Difference, not variance, had been on your mind.
But the things that did not change, too, held you in thrall,
Long before anything, or one else; longer after.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Contact
What stray regret, or accidental mood
Could have been interrupted, with their night?
How is it we can stay sure, doing wrong,
Why and when it will happen; for how long
Were they left then that charily cold light?
Moved to resist the electronic gong
I turned it over and again, my song,
Particularity condensed to crude;
Touching the cell of ether with small right
Feels just on the consoling side of lewd.
Could have been interrupted, with their night?
How is it we can stay sure, doing wrong,
Why and when it will happen; for how long
Were they left then that charily cold light?
Moved to resist the electronic gong
I turned it over and again, my song,
Particularity condensed to crude;
Touching the cell of ether with small right
Feels just on the consoling side of lewd.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
Flora MacDonald to Dr. Johnson, 1773
Nay, Doctor, it was not for the prompting of the swords or for the jostling of the bayonets that I took it to mind to do it; nor for the men, whether auld or bare bairns, who lay cooling their veins on the heather. Neither was there in me or mine hope of petticoats or favours when we took the young man through.
You have paid me many compliments, Doctor, as to call me a woman of soft features, of gentle manners, of, God save you, an elegant presence; but such as these must wither be they not housed in a kind soul.
I was no heedless overblown girl-child when I met Prince Charles; I was a grown woman a cast above twenty and some among my kin had said that I would cost them no dower but was likely to spare them no feeding in my age. It was a strange e’en then, when they came chieftain, prince, and all from Dunvegan a-pleading to my skirts.
I looked over the young gentleman and I thought what some had said of him; that he was Italian and no blood of ours by birth, of the Romish persuasion, that he had left our friends and our cousins to suffer in a cold pass. I heard alike the beseeching of Kingsburgh, that the slight laddie was all we had of hope.
I thought of the gold promised on warrants, and the chill eyes of the country ministers, and as I held out my hand to Charlie’s kiss I thought then, yon boy will look more handsome in ain of my auld frocks than upon the gibbets of Butcher Cumberland.
You have paid me many compliments, Doctor, as to call me a woman of soft features, of gentle manners, of, God save you, an elegant presence; but such as these must wither be they not housed in a kind soul.
I was no heedless overblown girl-child when I met Prince Charles; I was a grown woman a cast above twenty and some among my kin had said that I would cost them no dower but was likely to spare them no feeding in my age. It was a strange e’en then, when they came chieftain, prince, and all from Dunvegan a-pleading to my skirts.
I looked over the young gentleman and I thought what some had said of him; that he was Italian and no blood of ours by birth, of the Romish persuasion, that he had left our friends and our cousins to suffer in a cold pass. I heard alike the beseeching of Kingsburgh, that the slight laddie was all we had of hope.
I thought of the gold promised on warrants, and the chill eyes of the country ministers, and as I held out my hand to Charlie’s kiss I thought then, yon boy will look more handsome in ain of my auld frocks than upon the gibbets of Butcher Cumberland.
Monday, 13 September 2010
'The Children of Lir'
It teetered there, snagged by its strap,
Jacob's rucksack, and in it, all we could remember,
Was on the rocks, weren't it now. Therein the golden
Defile of yellow pallades; oh, there where
They lived and they could last, the ragged staves
Each at the two others, striped bannering limbs -
All this, as I say, to the sea for a kiss;
It was time to get going,
I thought; disembark,
I walked down as comely a way as the stripcourse,
Island, to islet, in through the lagoon,
Thinking about pinkness was laid in that passing
Hard flowers and movingly fouled up pink stamps.
And I took it across both the head and my shoulder,
Knew the new felt lightness of the underwhelmed.
So I stepped to the boat, but back into the water.
Because such are times when instances can't matter
The rucksack, it can haver up that early part
But I must have dropped it; at worst in the wetness.
What alters, when I had forgotten it floats?
I had become busied
In cold anxious hands
If not malign vicious
If waiting then sure
A brocade of more or less memorable faces
To people the spaces
On Celticdom's floor.
Leaning to the one seeming most certain kind,
Perhaps as defined
Or expressible more
Smiling on yellow lanks, and sighs, I signed.
The sack lacking its rifice, the vow was no law
To the will of a child.
When they went aside all
As if asking her seal
Why not change my mind?
When the word is the mould of a thing so much smaller
Than I am, than they were, white where they could breathe
And she too engaged to the prince of the fishes
Well, talk about telling thin things from mere fingers.
Jacob's rucksack, and in it, all we could remember,
Was on the rocks, weren't it now. Therein the golden
Defile of yellow pallades; oh, there where
They lived and they could last, the ragged staves
Each at the two others, striped bannering limbs -
All this, as I say, to the sea for a kiss;
It was time to get going,
I thought; disembark,
I walked down as comely a way as the stripcourse,
Island, to islet, in through the lagoon,
Thinking about pinkness was laid in that passing
Hard flowers and movingly fouled up pink stamps.
And I took it across both the head and my shoulder,
Knew the new felt lightness of the underwhelmed.
So I stepped to the boat, but back into the water.
Because such are times when instances can't matter
The rucksack, it can haver up that early part
But I must have dropped it; at worst in the wetness.
What alters, when I had forgotten it floats?
I had become busied
In cold anxious hands
If not malign vicious
If waiting then sure
A brocade of more or less memorable faces
To people the spaces
On Celticdom's floor.
Leaning to the one seeming most certain kind,
Perhaps as defined
Or expressible more
Smiling on yellow lanks, and sighs, I signed.
The sack lacking its rifice, the vow was no law
To the will of a child.
When they went aside all
As if asking her seal
Why not change my mind?
When the word is the mould of a thing so much smaller
Than I am, than they were, white where they could breathe
And she too engaged to the prince of the fishes
Well, talk about telling thin things from mere fingers.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Captain Arcadia episode 2 part 1
Episode 2 – ‘Courting Controversy’
1576
Dublin Castle
Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, is on his deathbed…
(A tower room overlooking the sea. Essex lies not in a splendid four-poster bed, but upon a large straw pallet. He is covered by a rich, deep red samite drapery, so some luxury is maintained. Beside him waits an anxious manservant.)
ESSEX: Gilbert…
(The manservant cranes nearer.)
I want you to fetch the children…and a witness…you understand?...someone who can write, now, hurry…
(The manservant nods and tears off.)
(Brief cut to Penelope Devereux and Philip Sidney in another tower’s window seat. She is weeping. His hand is on her shoulder.)
(Cut to the manservant, Gilbert, stopping a middle-aged, stern, plainly dressed man in a castle corridor. A closer glance reveals him to be wearing several rich gold rings.)
MANSERVANT: Beggin’ yer pardon, yer honour, his Lordship desires yer presence. It is very close now…I believe he will have to make a decision about the young lady and Master Sidney…
WALSINGHAM: Will he now. Well, I’ll be along directly.
(Gilbert hurries off to fetch the young couple. Sir Francis Walsingham looks after him leaving, then leans against the wall, looking down at his hands, remembering something.)
VOICEOVER of LORD BURGHLEY: Walsingham. You will stop young Sidney marrying the Devereux girl. Whatever it takes.
VOICEOVER of WALSINGHAM: Understood, my lord…
(Back to the Earl’s bed-room. Sidney and Stella stand at the foot of the bed, a pace apart. Walsingham enters cautiously from a door at the right of the bed.)
ESSEX: Ah. Good. Walsingham. A…reliable clerk…
(Walsingham looks quietly sour.)
I have discussed this matter hitherto, Sidney, with the honoured Lord Deputy, your father…between us, well…
(Sidney seems to be mouthing something in anticipation.)
…there were some initial confusion about the dowry…
(Sidney is clenching his fists.)
…about remainder to my Earldom…
(Stella too looks frustrated.)
…your prospects, Master Sidney, and so on…you will understand if I proceeded with…
(Apparently unconsciously, Sidney slams down his foot. Essex sees the movement, frowns, brindles, then starts laughing hoarsely. The laugh breaks into coughing and both young people climb onto the pallet in consternation. Essex has not yet said enough to constitute consent…if he were to die now…
…Essex stretches out his hand and takes Sidney’s, joining it to Stella’s. Then he suddenly drops his grip and collapses back.)
STELLA: He cannot be…
WALSINGHAM: He is dead, most certainly. I know the expression well.
SIDNEY: Sir Francis…no word was spoken specifically, no statement was taken…but surely the intention was clear? You saw the action; he joined our hands; is that not enough?
(They watch his impassive face.)
WALSINGHAM: Oh…well…I should say…
…more than enough.
(The tension breaks and the lovers embrace. Walsingham regards them with a detached smile.)
Master Sidney, Lady Penelope, I shall be delighted to be the first to transmit news of your betrothal to the court.
1576
Dublin Castle
Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex, is on his deathbed…
(A tower room overlooking the sea. Essex lies not in a splendid four-poster bed, but upon a large straw pallet. He is covered by a rich, deep red samite drapery, so some luxury is maintained. Beside him waits an anxious manservant.)
ESSEX: Gilbert…
(The manservant cranes nearer.)
I want you to fetch the children…and a witness…you understand?...someone who can write, now, hurry…
(The manservant nods and tears off.)
(Brief cut to Penelope Devereux and Philip Sidney in another tower’s window seat. She is weeping. His hand is on her shoulder.)
(Cut to the manservant, Gilbert, stopping a middle-aged, stern, plainly dressed man in a castle corridor. A closer glance reveals him to be wearing several rich gold rings.)
MANSERVANT: Beggin’ yer pardon, yer honour, his Lordship desires yer presence. It is very close now…I believe he will have to make a decision about the young lady and Master Sidney…
WALSINGHAM: Will he now. Well, I’ll be along directly.
(Gilbert hurries off to fetch the young couple. Sir Francis Walsingham looks after him leaving, then leans against the wall, looking down at his hands, remembering something.)
VOICEOVER of LORD BURGHLEY: Walsingham. You will stop young Sidney marrying the Devereux girl. Whatever it takes.
VOICEOVER of WALSINGHAM: Understood, my lord…
(Back to the Earl’s bed-room. Sidney and Stella stand at the foot of the bed, a pace apart. Walsingham enters cautiously from a door at the right of the bed.)
ESSEX: Ah. Good. Walsingham. A…reliable clerk…
(Walsingham looks quietly sour.)
I have discussed this matter hitherto, Sidney, with the honoured Lord Deputy, your father…between us, well…
(Sidney seems to be mouthing something in anticipation.)
…there were some initial confusion about the dowry…
(Sidney is clenching his fists.)
…about remainder to my Earldom…
(Stella too looks frustrated.)
…your prospects, Master Sidney, and so on…you will understand if I proceeded with…
(Apparently unconsciously, Sidney slams down his foot. Essex sees the movement, frowns, brindles, then starts laughing hoarsely. The laugh breaks into coughing and both young people climb onto the pallet in consternation. Essex has not yet said enough to constitute consent…if he were to die now…
…Essex stretches out his hand and takes Sidney’s, joining it to Stella’s. Then he suddenly drops his grip and collapses back.)
STELLA: He cannot be…
WALSINGHAM: He is dead, most certainly. I know the expression well.
SIDNEY: Sir Francis…no word was spoken specifically, no statement was taken…but surely the intention was clear? You saw the action; he joined our hands; is that not enough?
(They watch his impassive face.)
WALSINGHAM: Oh…well…I should say…
…more than enough.
(The tension breaks and the lovers embrace. Walsingham regards them with a detached smile.)
Master Sidney, Lady Penelope, I shall be delighted to be the first to transmit news of your betrothal to the court.
Monday, 16 August 2010
for ease of reading: all episode 1 of 'Captain Arcadia'
CAPTAIN ARCADIA
Episode 1 – ‘Gap Year’
Mainz, 1572
(A shot of the cathedral. A bell tolling. A view of the city progressing from grand to seedy. A Low Tavern. Laughter and oaths in German. A red robe splashed with mud. Shot up to the shrewd face of a Roman Catholic prelate, in middle age. He is counting some gold coins as he crosses the threshold. A man in brown shouts.)
DRINKER: Lash up your purses, lads! Herr Kardinal is here…
CARDINAL: (smiling charmingly) I’m not playing tonight Hermann. I have a duty to attend to.
DRINKER: Duty? And this duty’s name…is it Gertrude?
(Shot of a repelled looking bar wench taking a step back, uproarious laughter.)
CARDINAL: Not tonight. Tell me, is the Englishman still here?
DRINKER: Herr Norton? Not likely, your Eminence. You were foolish to be so generous about that account!
SECOND DRINKER: The heretic bastard will be in Cologne by now.
CARDINAL: Cologne? I think that unlikely. Hey, Herr Albrecht, give my boys a drink. Cologne? No, I’m a spiritual gentleman, Liutpold, and my judgement is that by now…
(A hitherto silent man in a green tunic slams a knife in the table.)
MURDEROUS GOON: He’ll be in Hell, Herr Kardinal!
(Shot of a very, very exhausted man, at a roadside, pausing for breath. A flung stone smacks him in the back of the neck and he falls. Three men in green tunics surround him, pinning him to the ground. One pulls a knife.)
KILLER 1: Mistah Norton. No one defaults on Herr Kardinal, do you understand?
KILLER 2: Not without inconvenience, ja?
(Sound of hooves. The three functionaries cluster together suspiciously.)
KILLER 2: Looks like a real gentleman.
(The third killer, with the knife, laughs. We cut to the approaching rider, a young man on a white horse. Should be absolutely archetypal)
SIDNEY: Afternoon, sirs. My mount is tiring; are any of you carrying water?
(Caught in the midst of dubiety, the killers are silent and awkward.)
Come on. My German may be imperfect, but…
(The second killer pulls a pistol and shoots the white horse dead. Sidney sees the action, alights in time, elegantly, smashes the third killer out cold, takes the knife, and stabs the second killer dead through the back of the neck to the gorge. The first man runs for it. The horse aside, the killers have failed to kill anyone.)
NORTON: (gasping) Master Philip!
SIDNEY: What have we here? Lord Jesus, aren’t you the footman mother had dismissed from Penshurst for gambling? What the devil are you doing here?
NORTON: Still gambling, Master Philip.
Rotterdam, some months later
(A bustling and mercantile thoroughfare, through which an old man in a long, black, fur-lined gown and a faintly disdainful looking, fashionably dressed young nobleman are winding their way.)
ERASMUS: Is my fair city less than to your liking, Mr Greville?
GREVILLE: The clouds upon my thoughts are glum enough already without being augmented by the…stench of moneychangers.
ERASMUS: You are a young man of uncompromising disposition, I see. What is that worries you so? The grave state of decrepitude in which modern learning self-evidently finds herself?
GREVILLE: My troubles are of a personal nature, Erasmus.
ERASMUS: Aha! A love affair.
GREVILLE: No, no. If you must know, it’s about my friend Philip Sidney…
ERASMUS: Ah yes, I remember him, a most accomplished and promising young gentleman. A scholar of Oxford, Christ Church, I believe? Is his mother not one of the Count of Leicester’s sisters?
GREVILLE: The point is, for months he’s been missing, no sign of him anywhere, and I received disturbing word from…well, from an unreliable source, but…
(Loud commotion and shouts of “Thief, thief!” A nearby stall is in utter commotion. A pale young man dressed in black, wearing a flashy opal ring, is trying to extricate himself from a particularly angry knot of people with a red faced burgher at its centre.)
MARLOWE: I hold a commission from, from, the con- con- sistory court at Rh-Rh-Rheims, I am a, a theological scholar, a scholar and a…
BURGHER: A red-handed thief! That’s my best opal, you degenerate, on order to the Duchess of Brabant, went missing four days back…
GREVILLE: What an extraordinary chance. That’s him, Erasmus, the man who said he might have bad news about Philip.
ERASMUS: Allow me to sort out this unfortunate situation. My good man, (he lays a restraining hand on the angry burgher’s shoulder) you have perhaps heard of my repute. I am Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam…
(The burgher punches Erasmus in the face and the sage falls over. Marlowe has gripped hold of Greville.)
MARLOWE: Ey, the old man’ll be just fine. Scram now, and we’ll talk about your friend. I know a nice safe ‘stablishment. Come on.
(They bolt away down an alley.)
(The camera follows them bolting down many side streets. At some point they rush past a shabbily dressed man in a wide-brimmed hat. He raises his head to look at them; it is Norton. He watches them pass, then sets off back the way he had come. Cut to an Unsavoury Boarding House, Marlowe and Greville entering.)
MARLOWE: (to landlady) Good day, Frau Geritzoon. I’ve brought a friend.
LANDLADY: He looks a better class than your usual run of dodgy Jesuits and thievin’ rentboys, Kit.
MARLOWE: I’m sure he appreciates the compliment, Frau Geritzoon. Now if I were you I’d get right down to the jewellers on Wilhelmstrasse.
LANDLADY: What you nattering about? I don’t need bawbies at my age.
MARLOWE: Mm, well, I think you’ll find yer man Desiderius in a bit of a fix.
LANDLADY: What? Dezzy’s got ‘imself in trouble again? Well, Kit Marlowe, I’m moving but if I find you’re at the bottom of this one… (She bustles out.)
GREVILLE: (astonished) ‘Dezzy’? Frau Geritzoon? That woman...Erasmus…
MARLOWE: Has been secretly married for decades, yeah. Now, Master Greville, just where were we?
GREVILLE: You’re the one who should be answering questions, you depraved little fop. You leant over to me back in the tavern, muttered “Sidney” and put your thumbs down. Are you saying it’s all up with Philip, and what is your information, exactly?
MARLOWE: (off hand) Jus’ this.
(He moves to a corner of the room with a battered travelling chest in it and kicks the unlocked trunk open, Greville craning after him.)
Don’ stand there lordling, light a taper.
GREVILLE: Show some damned respect.
MARLOWE: Do as I say.
(GREVILLE, white and sweaty with anger and trepidation, does indeed light a taper as Marlowe picks up a large object from the box. It comes under the light – a mud-splattered, once elegant saddle, with a coat of arms on it.)
GREVILLE: Christ save me! The Penshurst arms, Sidney’s blazon!
MARLOWE: Picked off the corpse of a horse fortnight back. Acquired it for a pound. Wouldn’t mind some remuner…
GREVILLE: Like hell it was a pound, you slimy bastard.
(He is very angry and pins Marlowe in a grip against the wall, letting the taper go fall. We see an unknown boot come down on it.)
OFFSTAGE HUSKILY FEMALE VOICE: Steady, boys. You could start a fire like that.
(Flash to the newcomer. Dressed in young man’s garments with a wide-brimmed riding hat exactly like the one Norton was wearing earlier is a tall, light haired young woman with dark dark eyes and the evident lineaments of incredibly fabulous breasts. Penelope Deveureux – Stella – has arrived.)
(We cut to a ship leaving the docks of Rotterdam, and the camera follows a candle-light at one window in the bridge. Within this cabin, small but comfortably appointed, Norton, dressed only in a long dirty white shirt, slumps on a stool. Sidney stands looking out to sea, his back to his servant.)
NORTON: I still can’t believe she let me be took advantage of like that.
(Sidney smiles mirthlessly but offers no comment.)
NORTON: I mean, master Philip, I’ve seen my fair share, I can handle myself, you know I can, I mean to say, how old must this little leddy have been?
(Sidney turns, holding a silver bracelet towards the lone candle.)
SIDNEY: It is a strange kind of lady robber who steals only rags but leaves valuable trinkets in her wake, Norton.
NORTON: Oh, she dropped it whilst she was changing, accident that was, sure as winking. I know these women, master Philip, in debt, need to get away, so they do anything to get into men’s clothes. She’s be livid she dropped the bauble while she were at it. A harlot’s trick.
(Sidney draws a dagger and places it at Norton’s throat, while with his other hand he dangles the bracelet before the servant’s face.)
SIDNEY: That girl was not a harlot, fool. Don’t you know this ensign?
NORTON: Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it’s been long enough since I were in England, and even when my stay were regular like, I didn’t spent it in overmuch study o’ books o’ heraldry.
(Sidney switches the dagger around and raps Norton with the hilt.)
SIDNEY: Essex, idiot, Essex! This woman was wearing a silver bracelet enscribed with the arms of Devereux.
NORTON: So she were the Earl of Essex’s fancy-girl, then?
SIDNEY: Once again, Norton, I am reminded that you serve me because of chance rather than merit. This is obviously a piece of baptismal jewellery, a christening-ring. (He sighs.) Describe her again.
NORTON: Didn’t see much of her, she came at me from behind and when she left she was kind of covered up in the best o’ my wardrobe. (Pause) But yeah, she seemed kinda pretty good-looking, far as a man could see, lots of yellow hair, nice duckies…
(Sidney places the blade at Norton’s throat again.)
SIDNEY: Eyes?
NORTON: (squawking out in panic) Black!
(pause)
Or as close to it as a man could…
(Sidney ignores Norton’s trailing sentence, looks out over the sea and bawls a name.)
SIDNEY: STEEEELLLLLLLLLLLAAAAA!
(Back in Frau Geritzoon’s lodging house. Stella is now in a white dress of simple but costly material, drinking warm sack from a wooden tumbler at a table, and weaving a needle through a piece of yarn; Greville and Marlowe sit at its other ends, eying her suspiciously.)
GREVILLE: What cause should we have, I ask again, to believe a word of your story, mistress? Certainly your English is decent, but the same can hardly be said of your habit…or...by your own account…your conduct.
MARLOWE: An Earl’s daughter of England dressing up tranny-like after robbing a manservant? Have things got that more exciting at home since I left Cambridge?
STELLA: I care nothing for your account, sirrah. I address myself solely to Master Greville. Now, Fulke dear, is this not growing ridiculous?
GREVILLE: (spluttering) What…
STELLA: We have seen each other as bare children, in the gardens of Hampton-Court. Am I then so changed?
GREVILLE: If what you say is true…immeasurably, yes. This is scandalous behaviour, madam. Quite outrage…
MARLOWE: Lemme see the letter again. (He snatches for a bit of parchment over which all three have apparently been pooring.)
‘My well-beloved W., Tell Burghley I died outside Mainz.’
Well, forgive me for spelling out the obvious, but your friend Sidney does not want to be found. Faking and broadcasting one’s own death is, well, an extreme measure…
GREVILLE: (rising) Marlowe, if you do not fall silent and remember your station there will be nothing faked about your death. (He draws his dagger.)
MARLOWE: Time for me to start flashing things about too, right? (He leaps up and produces not a weapon but a tightly furled slip of paper, which he hands coldly.)
GREVILLE: A letter of service and warrantage from Sir Francis Walsingham…
MARLOWE: Yeah, yeah, I’m a spy, an informer, an eye of the bloody government, okay. Don’t judge me Master Greville; they offer very reasonable travel expenses and the Cambridge degree is complementary…anyway. Something tells me your bloke wants the likes of me to think he’s dead. Until Penny here turned up, that little ploy had succeeded…
(Stella leaps up and pricks Marlowe in the neck with her needle. He collapses.)
STELLA: If Philip wants to travel unobserved by the Queen’s council, I intend to help him to do so.
GREVILLE: Did you kill him?
STELLA: I hadn’t the heart; just a sleeping-philtre. Tie him up tight and we’ll take him with us.
GREVILLE: Where are we going, my lady?
STELLA: After Philip, of course.
Venice, the Doge’s Palace.
(Through the state windows we see the figure of the Cardinal from earlier, gazing beadily out over the canal. Behind him are several Venetian counsellors in black robes, and a couple of men gorgeously dressed in fashionable costumes of the English court.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: Eduardo, lord Windsor. Sir Ricardo Shelley. You are aware why you have been summoned, no?
SHELLEY: Of course there is the matter of the outstanding sum, Signor Contarini; and we promise…
CARDINAL: You promise! You promise! You English do nothing but promise. (He laughs, then returns to surveying the window.)
SECOND COUNSELLOR: My…lord…Windsor…sir…all we ask is a reasonable attitude. You know what to do when your…shall I say, your friend, arrives?
WINDSOR: All is in readiness, Signor Foscaro.
FIRST COUNSELLOR: Are you sure Master Sidney trusts you?
WINDSOR: Absolutely. We were at Oxford together.
SECOND COUNSELLOR: Well then, my lord Cardinale, we need not worry. (Turning to a third counsellor) Angelo! Tell the people at your palace to make a bed…prepared, for the young English gentleman…
(Cut to Sidney and Norton, in a gondola, progressing down the Grand Canal.)
NORTON: The greatest city in the world!
SIDNEY: I think not. The most beautiful, maybe.
NORTON: Where are we going, Master Philip? What are we doing.
SIDNEY: Waiting.
(A gun sounds.)
SIDNEY: (to the gondolier) Now take us to the Arsenale.
(Cut to Windsor and Shelley, surrounded by suspicious looking Venetian guards, waiting near the arsenal.)
SHELLEY: Is that him?
WINDSOR: I think so. He’s looking pretty shabby.
SHELLEY: Let’s go.
(We see the four men, Norton hanging back, converging, now on foot, towards the centre of a bridge.)
SIDNEY: Edward! It’s been some time.
WINDSOR: Welcome to Venice, Philip.
SHELLEY: Master Sidney. I am glad to meet you. I trust here you will find the calm you seek.
(A traghetto, a flat-bottomed boat that ferries passengers horizontally across canals, is followed, letting off three masked figures, two men dressed as harlequins, and a blonde, heavily powdered, masked woman…familiar looking…)
GREVILLE: How long must we keep this stupid game in play?
MARLOWE: Ah, Fulke, dontcha appreciate my hand with the costumes?
STELLA: Quiet, Marlowe. Remember the deal – if you cross us, you get the canal.
GREVILLE: Look! It’s them!
(We pan out. The three pursuers are less than a hundred yards behind their oblivious quarry.)
With…
STELLA: Is something troubling you, Master Greville?
GREVILLE: You could say that. Lord Windsor and Sir Richard Shelley! Philip is consorting with the most notorious Catholic exiles in the English nobility! What can he be up to?
MARLOWE: Just you stay quiet, lording, and we might yet find out.
(Cut to the dining room of Palazzo Foscari. A Counsellor, Angelo Foscaro, the English exiles and Sidney are sitting at ease upon several divans.)
COUNSELLOR: Well, you boys must have a lot to talk about from England; I shall bid you good evening. (He stands, smiling, and withdraws.)
WINDSOR: At last. I thought the old bore would never shut up about his panettone. So, Philip, when did you last receive word from your father?
SIDNEY: Over…three months ago. Nor was it news of the kind to bring me any happiness.
SHELLEY: Really, Master Sidney? But we hear that the country is quiet at last, with no small thanks to your father’s policy.
SIDNEY: It is not his policy that causes trouble; the Desmonds have been peaceful, the wild Irish are calm…but…
SHELLEY: The English lords in the pale?
(A silence falls.)
They still will not pay their taxes to the Lord Deputy, your father?
SIDNEY: They refuse him a penny, Sir Richard, and he cannot long pay his soldiers out of his own pocket. We Sidneys have never relied overmuch on riches.
WINDSOR: And never been too rich either, eh? I know the feeling. If you knew the tune of my obligations… (He starts laughing in a slightly forced manner.)
SHELLEY: Cut to the chase, my lord Windsor; lay our proposition before Master Sidney.
WINDSOR: Philip…
…how would you like to see your father wear a golden crown?
(Pause. Close up on Sidney’s face.)
SIDNEY: Go on…
(Cut to the corridor at the Palazzo Foscari’s entrance. Two servants are in reach of the door when it is rapped on heavily.)
SERVANT 1: Alright, alright! Relax! Who are you making such a racket?
MARLOWE: (offstage) Harlequins, harlequins for Councillor Foscaro! We claim the right of the Carnivale! If your master is a nobleman and not a miser, you will let us in…
SERVANT 1: Very well, calm down. (To his fellow servant) Fetch Giustiniano and the other guards, in case there’s any larceny. We don’t want funny business in front of the English visitors.
SERVANT 2: Understood. (He exits.)
(Servant 1 opens the door and is immediately knocked unconscious by a blackjack. Brief cut to Marlowe’s triumphant, grinning Harlequin painted face.)
(Back to the English gentlemen in the dining-room.)
SIDNEY: So, if I understand you – you want me to advance your expenses, and then…
SHELLEY: Then the Sidneys will be Kings of Ireland.
WINDSOR: The money will be invested in a galley of expert adventurers, lying at anchor now in Venice. We will carry soldiers and munitions, and communicate with the honoured Deputy, your father, immediately upon landing. The wild Irish are ready to muster, and the mean-spirited English lords shall pay…
SIDNEY: With death?
WINDSOR: I don’t see why not.
SHELLEY: Most certainly.
SIDNEY: (narrowing his eyes, looking at them sidelong) Who will be first to the scaffold…my friends?
(The other two start laughing.)
SHELLEY: Well, that’s easy.
WINDSOR: The principal rogue must go down, of course.
SHELLEY: That heretic scoundrel…
WINDSOR AND SHELLEY: The Earl of Essex!
(Sidney nods with apparent lack of concern. There is a wild female shriek behind the curtains, which startles all three men, and a crash as a woman sags to the floor. First to recover his presence of mind in the confusion, Sidney draws his sword and seizes the back of Shelley’s neck, holding the blade to his throat.)
SIDNEY: Sir Richard Shelley, you are an honourless, spendthrift, forsworn, degenerate traitor, and I will see you dead before I allow you to defame Penelope’s father!
(Windsor snarls and draws, aiming for Sidney’s undefended side. There is another stirring in the curtains and Greville, still attired as a Harlequin, puts a dagger through Windsor’s leg.)
GREVILLE: Not so fast, my lord.
(Windsor collapses. The recumbent female form, the powdered and masked Penelope, rises up from her faint, lifting her vizard…)
STELLA: Master Sidney. You are a far better man than I took you for. I truly thought you would let them arrange my father’s murder.
SIDNEY: (coldly) Then, Lady Penelope, you understand…nothing…of me.
(In his intense concentration upon her he has neglected to keep a secure hold on Shelley, who draws a dagger with a free hand and spins it towards Sidney’s back. Marlowe now emerges, making use of his slight, short frame to whack a fist into Shelley’s groin. Shelley falls back groaning atrociously.)
MARLOWE: Old Deptford trick. Were you wanting to see the Carnival, Master Sidney, or shall we be going, this time?
SIDNEY: I don’t know you from Satan, little man. What are you, some kind of poet?
MARLOWE: Takes one to know one.
(Cut to the central dungeon in the Doge’s Prison. Norton is chained to a stone chair. Watching him are two ranks of robed, hatted Counsellors, led by their Doge, Alvise Mocenigo. Among the Counsellors are Shelley and, leaning on a crutch and bandaged, Windsor.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: This man was detained after Master Sidney’s flight with these…harlequins. Under…examination…
(Close view of Norton, who is sweating and weeping, looking weak, drawn.)
…he revealed his name as Norton.
(Among the Counsellors a flash of red in the darkness leads us to the Cardinal, who raises an eyebrow.)
SHELLEY: That is young Sidney’s manservant.
WINDSOR: Yes. A fellow of no account. You might as well let him go free, if you cannot catch the others.
SECOND COUNSELLOR: I think not, my lord Windsor. Signor cardinale, explain the situation.
(The Cardinal stands.)
CARDINAL: I understand Venice intends to maintain its good relations with the Holy See?
(There is some murmuring, but an emphatic nod from the Doge.)
CARDINAL: Then give me the servant. He is in my debt by the value of two thousand ducats.
(Brief discussion among the Counsellors.)
DOGE: Of course. Here in Venice, we take debts very seriously.
(Close up on Shelley and Windsor. They look at each other uncomfortably. Hands are laid on their shoulders.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: (shouting) The twenty thousand ducats! Where are they?
WINDSOR: Signor Contarini…
SHELLEY: They are, invested in…
DOGE: They are invested in my prisons, and I shall send you there to collect their dividends.
(Laughter as the English Catholics are chained and led off, and Norton, still fettered, marched off with the Cardinal and his guards.)
End of episode
Episode 1 – ‘Gap Year’
Mainz, 1572
(A shot of the cathedral. A bell tolling. A view of the city progressing from grand to seedy. A Low Tavern. Laughter and oaths in German. A red robe splashed with mud. Shot up to the shrewd face of a Roman Catholic prelate, in middle age. He is counting some gold coins as he crosses the threshold. A man in brown shouts.)
DRINKER: Lash up your purses, lads! Herr Kardinal is here…
CARDINAL: (smiling charmingly) I’m not playing tonight Hermann. I have a duty to attend to.
DRINKER: Duty? And this duty’s name…is it Gertrude?
(Shot of a repelled looking bar wench taking a step back, uproarious laughter.)
CARDINAL: Not tonight. Tell me, is the Englishman still here?
DRINKER: Herr Norton? Not likely, your Eminence. You were foolish to be so generous about that account!
SECOND DRINKER: The heretic bastard will be in Cologne by now.
CARDINAL: Cologne? I think that unlikely. Hey, Herr Albrecht, give my boys a drink. Cologne? No, I’m a spiritual gentleman, Liutpold, and my judgement is that by now…
(A hitherto silent man in a green tunic slams a knife in the table.)
MURDEROUS GOON: He’ll be in Hell, Herr Kardinal!
(Shot of a very, very exhausted man, at a roadside, pausing for breath. A flung stone smacks him in the back of the neck and he falls. Three men in green tunics surround him, pinning him to the ground. One pulls a knife.)
KILLER 1: Mistah Norton. No one defaults on Herr Kardinal, do you understand?
KILLER 2: Not without inconvenience, ja?
(Sound of hooves. The three functionaries cluster together suspiciously.)
KILLER 2: Looks like a real gentleman.
(The third killer, with the knife, laughs. We cut to the approaching rider, a young man on a white horse. Should be absolutely archetypal)
SIDNEY: Afternoon, sirs. My mount is tiring; are any of you carrying water?
(Caught in the midst of dubiety, the killers are silent and awkward.)
Come on. My German may be imperfect, but…
(The second killer pulls a pistol and shoots the white horse dead. Sidney sees the action, alights in time, elegantly, smashes the third killer out cold, takes the knife, and stabs the second killer dead through the back of the neck to the gorge. The first man runs for it. The horse aside, the killers have failed to kill anyone.)
NORTON: (gasping) Master Philip!
SIDNEY: What have we here? Lord Jesus, aren’t you the footman mother had dismissed from Penshurst for gambling? What the devil are you doing here?
NORTON: Still gambling, Master Philip.
Rotterdam, some months later
(A bustling and mercantile thoroughfare, through which an old man in a long, black, fur-lined gown and a faintly disdainful looking, fashionably dressed young nobleman are winding their way.)
ERASMUS: Is my fair city less than to your liking, Mr Greville?
GREVILLE: The clouds upon my thoughts are glum enough already without being augmented by the…stench of moneychangers.
ERASMUS: You are a young man of uncompromising disposition, I see. What is that worries you so? The grave state of decrepitude in which modern learning self-evidently finds herself?
GREVILLE: My troubles are of a personal nature, Erasmus.
ERASMUS: Aha! A love affair.
GREVILLE: No, no. If you must know, it’s about my friend Philip Sidney…
ERASMUS: Ah yes, I remember him, a most accomplished and promising young gentleman. A scholar of Oxford, Christ Church, I believe? Is his mother not one of the Count of Leicester’s sisters?
GREVILLE: The point is, for months he’s been missing, no sign of him anywhere, and I received disturbing word from…well, from an unreliable source, but…
(Loud commotion and shouts of “Thief, thief!” A nearby stall is in utter commotion. A pale young man dressed in black, wearing a flashy opal ring, is trying to extricate himself from a particularly angry knot of people with a red faced burgher at its centre.)
MARLOWE: I hold a commission from, from, the con- con- sistory court at Rh-Rh-Rheims, I am a, a theological scholar, a scholar and a…
BURGHER: A red-handed thief! That’s my best opal, you degenerate, on order to the Duchess of Brabant, went missing four days back…
GREVILLE: What an extraordinary chance. That’s him, Erasmus, the man who said he might have bad news about Philip.
ERASMUS: Allow me to sort out this unfortunate situation. My good man, (he lays a restraining hand on the angry burgher’s shoulder) you have perhaps heard of my repute. I am Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam…
(The burgher punches Erasmus in the face and the sage falls over. Marlowe has gripped hold of Greville.)
MARLOWE: Ey, the old man’ll be just fine. Scram now, and we’ll talk about your friend. I know a nice safe ‘stablishment. Come on.
(They bolt away down an alley.)
(The camera follows them bolting down many side streets. At some point they rush past a shabbily dressed man in a wide-brimmed hat. He raises his head to look at them; it is Norton. He watches them pass, then sets off back the way he had come. Cut to an Unsavoury Boarding House, Marlowe and Greville entering.)
MARLOWE: (to landlady) Good day, Frau Geritzoon. I’ve brought a friend.
LANDLADY: He looks a better class than your usual run of dodgy Jesuits and thievin’ rentboys, Kit.
MARLOWE: I’m sure he appreciates the compliment, Frau Geritzoon. Now if I were you I’d get right down to the jewellers on Wilhelmstrasse.
LANDLADY: What you nattering about? I don’t need bawbies at my age.
MARLOWE: Mm, well, I think you’ll find yer man Desiderius in a bit of a fix.
LANDLADY: What? Dezzy’s got ‘imself in trouble again? Well, Kit Marlowe, I’m moving but if I find you’re at the bottom of this one… (She bustles out.)
GREVILLE: (astonished) ‘Dezzy’? Frau Geritzoon? That woman...Erasmus…
MARLOWE: Has been secretly married for decades, yeah. Now, Master Greville, just where were we?
GREVILLE: You’re the one who should be answering questions, you depraved little fop. You leant over to me back in the tavern, muttered “Sidney” and put your thumbs down. Are you saying it’s all up with Philip, and what is your information, exactly?
MARLOWE: (off hand) Jus’ this.
(He moves to a corner of the room with a battered travelling chest in it and kicks the unlocked trunk open, Greville craning after him.)
Don’ stand there lordling, light a taper.
GREVILLE: Show some damned respect.
MARLOWE: Do as I say.
(GREVILLE, white and sweaty with anger and trepidation, does indeed light a taper as Marlowe picks up a large object from the box. It comes under the light – a mud-splattered, once elegant saddle, with a coat of arms on it.)
GREVILLE: Christ save me! The Penshurst arms, Sidney’s blazon!
MARLOWE: Picked off the corpse of a horse fortnight back. Acquired it for a pound. Wouldn’t mind some remuner…
GREVILLE: Like hell it was a pound, you slimy bastard.
(He is very angry and pins Marlowe in a grip against the wall, letting the taper go fall. We see an unknown boot come down on it.)
OFFSTAGE HUSKILY FEMALE VOICE: Steady, boys. You could start a fire like that.
(Flash to the newcomer. Dressed in young man’s garments with a wide-brimmed riding hat exactly like the one Norton was wearing earlier is a tall, light haired young woman with dark dark eyes and the evident lineaments of incredibly fabulous breasts. Penelope Deveureux – Stella – has arrived.)
(We cut to a ship leaving the docks of Rotterdam, and the camera follows a candle-light at one window in the bridge. Within this cabin, small but comfortably appointed, Norton, dressed only in a long dirty white shirt, slumps on a stool. Sidney stands looking out to sea, his back to his servant.)
NORTON: I still can’t believe she let me be took advantage of like that.
(Sidney smiles mirthlessly but offers no comment.)
NORTON: I mean, master Philip, I’ve seen my fair share, I can handle myself, you know I can, I mean to say, how old must this little leddy have been?
(Sidney turns, holding a silver bracelet towards the lone candle.)
SIDNEY: It is a strange kind of lady robber who steals only rags but leaves valuable trinkets in her wake, Norton.
NORTON: Oh, she dropped it whilst she was changing, accident that was, sure as winking. I know these women, master Philip, in debt, need to get away, so they do anything to get into men’s clothes. She’s be livid she dropped the bauble while she were at it. A harlot’s trick.
(Sidney draws a dagger and places it at Norton’s throat, while with his other hand he dangles the bracelet before the servant’s face.)
SIDNEY: That girl was not a harlot, fool. Don’t you know this ensign?
NORTON: Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it’s been long enough since I were in England, and even when my stay were regular like, I didn’t spent it in overmuch study o’ books o’ heraldry.
(Sidney switches the dagger around and raps Norton with the hilt.)
SIDNEY: Essex, idiot, Essex! This woman was wearing a silver bracelet enscribed with the arms of Devereux.
NORTON: So she were the Earl of Essex’s fancy-girl, then?
SIDNEY: Once again, Norton, I am reminded that you serve me because of chance rather than merit. This is obviously a piece of baptismal jewellery, a christening-ring. (He sighs.) Describe her again.
NORTON: Didn’t see much of her, she came at me from behind and when she left she was kind of covered up in the best o’ my wardrobe. (Pause) But yeah, she seemed kinda pretty good-looking, far as a man could see, lots of yellow hair, nice duckies…
(Sidney places the blade at Norton’s throat again.)
SIDNEY: Eyes?
NORTON: (squawking out in panic) Black!
(pause)
Or as close to it as a man could…
(Sidney ignores Norton’s trailing sentence, looks out over the sea and bawls a name.)
SIDNEY: STEEEELLLLLLLLLLLAAAAA!
(Back in Frau Geritzoon’s lodging house. Stella is now in a white dress of simple but costly material, drinking warm sack from a wooden tumbler at a table, and weaving a needle through a piece of yarn; Greville and Marlowe sit at its other ends, eying her suspiciously.)
GREVILLE: What cause should we have, I ask again, to believe a word of your story, mistress? Certainly your English is decent, but the same can hardly be said of your habit…or...by your own account…your conduct.
MARLOWE: An Earl’s daughter of England dressing up tranny-like after robbing a manservant? Have things got that more exciting at home since I left Cambridge?
STELLA: I care nothing for your account, sirrah. I address myself solely to Master Greville. Now, Fulke dear, is this not growing ridiculous?
GREVILLE: (spluttering) What…
STELLA: We have seen each other as bare children, in the gardens of Hampton-Court. Am I then so changed?
GREVILLE: If what you say is true…immeasurably, yes. This is scandalous behaviour, madam. Quite outrage…
MARLOWE: Lemme see the letter again. (He snatches for a bit of parchment over which all three have apparently been pooring.)
‘My well-beloved W., Tell Burghley I died outside Mainz.’
Well, forgive me for spelling out the obvious, but your friend Sidney does not want to be found. Faking and broadcasting one’s own death is, well, an extreme measure…
GREVILLE: (rising) Marlowe, if you do not fall silent and remember your station there will be nothing faked about your death. (He draws his dagger.)
MARLOWE: Time for me to start flashing things about too, right? (He leaps up and produces not a weapon but a tightly furled slip of paper, which he hands coldly.)
GREVILLE: A letter of service and warrantage from Sir Francis Walsingham…
MARLOWE: Yeah, yeah, I’m a spy, an informer, an eye of the bloody government, okay. Don’t judge me Master Greville; they offer very reasonable travel expenses and the Cambridge degree is complementary…anyway. Something tells me your bloke wants the likes of me to think he’s dead. Until Penny here turned up, that little ploy had succeeded…
(Stella leaps up and pricks Marlowe in the neck with her needle. He collapses.)
STELLA: If Philip wants to travel unobserved by the Queen’s council, I intend to help him to do so.
GREVILLE: Did you kill him?
STELLA: I hadn’t the heart; just a sleeping-philtre. Tie him up tight and we’ll take him with us.
GREVILLE: Where are we going, my lady?
STELLA: After Philip, of course.
Venice, the Doge’s Palace.
(Through the state windows we see the figure of the Cardinal from earlier, gazing beadily out over the canal. Behind him are several Venetian counsellors in black robes, and a couple of men gorgeously dressed in fashionable costumes of the English court.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: Eduardo, lord Windsor. Sir Ricardo Shelley. You are aware why you have been summoned, no?
SHELLEY: Of course there is the matter of the outstanding sum, Signor Contarini; and we promise…
CARDINAL: You promise! You promise! You English do nothing but promise. (He laughs, then returns to surveying the window.)
SECOND COUNSELLOR: My…lord…Windsor…sir…all we ask is a reasonable attitude. You know what to do when your…shall I say, your friend, arrives?
WINDSOR: All is in readiness, Signor Foscaro.
FIRST COUNSELLOR: Are you sure Master Sidney trusts you?
WINDSOR: Absolutely. We were at Oxford together.
SECOND COUNSELLOR: Well then, my lord Cardinale, we need not worry. (Turning to a third counsellor) Angelo! Tell the people at your palace to make a bed…prepared, for the young English gentleman…
(Cut to Sidney and Norton, in a gondola, progressing down the Grand Canal.)
NORTON: The greatest city in the world!
SIDNEY: I think not. The most beautiful, maybe.
NORTON: Where are we going, Master Philip? What are we doing.
SIDNEY: Waiting.
(A gun sounds.)
SIDNEY: (to the gondolier) Now take us to the Arsenale.
(Cut to Windsor and Shelley, surrounded by suspicious looking Venetian guards, waiting near the arsenal.)
SHELLEY: Is that him?
WINDSOR: I think so. He’s looking pretty shabby.
SHELLEY: Let’s go.
(We see the four men, Norton hanging back, converging, now on foot, towards the centre of a bridge.)
SIDNEY: Edward! It’s been some time.
WINDSOR: Welcome to Venice, Philip.
SHELLEY: Master Sidney. I am glad to meet you. I trust here you will find the calm you seek.
(A traghetto, a flat-bottomed boat that ferries passengers horizontally across canals, is followed, letting off three masked figures, two men dressed as harlequins, and a blonde, heavily powdered, masked woman…familiar looking…)
GREVILLE: How long must we keep this stupid game in play?
MARLOWE: Ah, Fulke, dontcha appreciate my hand with the costumes?
STELLA: Quiet, Marlowe. Remember the deal – if you cross us, you get the canal.
GREVILLE: Look! It’s them!
(We pan out. The three pursuers are less than a hundred yards behind their oblivious quarry.)
With…
STELLA: Is something troubling you, Master Greville?
GREVILLE: You could say that. Lord Windsor and Sir Richard Shelley! Philip is consorting with the most notorious Catholic exiles in the English nobility! What can he be up to?
MARLOWE: Just you stay quiet, lording, and we might yet find out.
(Cut to the dining room of Palazzo Foscari. A Counsellor, Angelo Foscaro, the English exiles and Sidney are sitting at ease upon several divans.)
COUNSELLOR: Well, you boys must have a lot to talk about from England; I shall bid you good evening. (He stands, smiling, and withdraws.)
WINDSOR: At last. I thought the old bore would never shut up about his panettone. So, Philip, when did you last receive word from your father?
SIDNEY: Over…three months ago. Nor was it news of the kind to bring me any happiness.
SHELLEY: Really, Master Sidney? But we hear that the country is quiet at last, with no small thanks to your father’s policy.
SIDNEY: It is not his policy that causes trouble; the Desmonds have been peaceful, the wild Irish are calm…but…
SHELLEY: The English lords in the pale?
(A silence falls.)
They still will not pay their taxes to the Lord Deputy, your father?
SIDNEY: They refuse him a penny, Sir Richard, and he cannot long pay his soldiers out of his own pocket. We Sidneys have never relied overmuch on riches.
WINDSOR: And never been too rich either, eh? I know the feeling. If you knew the tune of my obligations… (He starts laughing in a slightly forced manner.)
SHELLEY: Cut to the chase, my lord Windsor; lay our proposition before Master Sidney.
WINDSOR: Philip…
…how would you like to see your father wear a golden crown?
(Pause. Close up on Sidney’s face.)
SIDNEY: Go on…
(Cut to the corridor at the Palazzo Foscari’s entrance. Two servants are in reach of the door when it is rapped on heavily.)
SERVANT 1: Alright, alright! Relax! Who are you making such a racket?
MARLOWE: (offstage) Harlequins, harlequins for Councillor Foscaro! We claim the right of the Carnivale! If your master is a nobleman and not a miser, you will let us in…
SERVANT 1: Very well, calm down. (To his fellow servant) Fetch Giustiniano and the other guards, in case there’s any larceny. We don’t want funny business in front of the English visitors.
SERVANT 2: Understood. (He exits.)
(Servant 1 opens the door and is immediately knocked unconscious by a blackjack. Brief cut to Marlowe’s triumphant, grinning Harlequin painted face.)
(Back to the English gentlemen in the dining-room.)
SIDNEY: So, if I understand you – you want me to advance your expenses, and then…
SHELLEY: Then the Sidneys will be Kings of Ireland.
WINDSOR: The money will be invested in a galley of expert adventurers, lying at anchor now in Venice. We will carry soldiers and munitions, and communicate with the honoured Deputy, your father, immediately upon landing. The wild Irish are ready to muster, and the mean-spirited English lords shall pay…
SIDNEY: With death?
WINDSOR: I don’t see why not.
SHELLEY: Most certainly.
SIDNEY: (narrowing his eyes, looking at them sidelong) Who will be first to the scaffold…my friends?
(The other two start laughing.)
SHELLEY: Well, that’s easy.
WINDSOR: The principal rogue must go down, of course.
SHELLEY: That heretic scoundrel…
WINDSOR AND SHELLEY: The Earl of Essex!
(Sidney nods with apparent lack of concern. There is a wild female shriek behind the curtains, which startles all three men, and a crash as a woman sags to the floor. First to recover his presence of mind in the confusion, Sidney draws his sword and seizes the back of Shelley’s neck, holding the blade to his throat.)
SIDNEY: Sir Richard Shelley, you are an honourless, spendthrift, forsworn, degenerate traitor, and I will see you dead before I allow you to defame Penelope’s father!
(Windsor snarls and draws, aiming for Sidney’s undefended side. There is another stirring in the curtains and Greville, still attired as a Harlequin, puts a dagger through Windsor’s leg.)
GREVILLE: Not so fast, my lord.
(Windsor collapses. The recumbent female form, the powdered and masked Penelope, rises up from her faint, lifting her vizard…)
STELLA: Master Sidney. You are a far better man than I took you for. I truly thought you would let them arrange my father’s murder.
SIDNEY: (coldly) Then, Lady Penelope, you understand…nothing…of me.
(In his intense concentration upon her he has neglected to keep a secure hold on Shelley, who draws a dagger with a free hand and spins it towards Sidney’s back. Marlowe now emerges, making use of his slight, short frame to whack a fist into Shelley’s groin. Shelley falls back groaning atrociously.)
MARLOWE: Old Deptford trick. Were you wanting to see the Carnival, Master Sidney, or shall we be going, this time?
SIDNEY: I don’t know you from Satan, little man. What are you, some kind of poet?
MARLOWE: Takes one to know one.
(Cut to the central dungeon in the Doge’s Prison. Norton is chained to a stone chair. Watching him are two ranks of robed, hatted Counsellors, led by their Doge, Alvise Mocenigo. Among the Counsellors are Shelley and, leaning on a crutch and bandaged, Windsor.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: This man was detained after Master Sidney’s flight with these…harlequins. Under…examination…
(Close view of Norton, who is sweating and weeping, looking weak, drawn.)
…he revealed his name as Norton.
(Among the Counsellors a flash of red in the darkness leads us to the Cardinal, who raises an eyebrow.)
SHELLEY: That is young Sidney’s manservant.
WINDSOR: Yes. A fellow of no account. You might as well let him go free, if you cannot catch the others.
SECOND COUNSELLOR: I think not, my lord Windsor. Signor cardinale, explain the situation.
(The Cardinal stands.)
CARDINAL: I understand Venice intends to maintain its good relations with the Holy See?
(There is some murmuring, but an emphatic nod from the Doge.)
CARDINAL: Then give me the servant. He is in my debt by the value of two thousand ducats.
(Brief discussion among the Counsellors.)
DOGE: Of course. Here in Venice, we take debts very seriously.
(Close up on Shelley and Windsor. They look at each other uncomfortably. Hands are laid on their shoulders.)
FIRST COUNSELLOR: (shouting) The twenty thousand ducats! Where are they?
WINDSOR: Signor Contarini…
SHELLEY: They are, invested in…
DOGE: They are invested in my prisons, and I shall send you there to collect their dividends.
(Laughter as the English Catholics are chained and led off, and Norton, still fettered, marched off with the Cardinal and his guards.)
End of episode
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