Free Tamburlaine Must Die by Louise Welsh Page A

myself.
But Raleigh's star had risen and fallen so many times, I wasn't sure
that to be the agent of his demise would secure my life. Yet rumours
that I was out to dispose of him would certainly be a death penalty.
Men do not live as long and as close to the sun as Raleigh has
without being ruthless enough to dispatch rivals, however much he
might like their verse. After all, poetry can be pressed between the
pages of other works while the poet's head grins on a spike or lolls
in a ditch.

    I
wasn't reckless in my preparations. I'd disguised myself as best I
could, tying my hair back and dressing in working men's clothes. It
was not the first time I had worn this guise and I liked myself well
enough in the simple cloth breeches and waistcoat. But it seemed, as
I'd watched my reflection shave by candlelight, that I was no longer
the handsome dramatist who had beguiled Walsingham a few short days
ago. There were lines where there had been none before. And it struck
me that if this adventure saw my death, I would not die a young man.

    Mortlake,
there's a dread about that name. The village has no pond, but I fancy
there must have been one once. Some stagnant tarn so wreathed in mist
and bloated with bodies that the villagers filled it in, though they
could not banish its name. I'd muffled my horse's shoes with sacking,
but the dull thud of his hooves sounded loud against the deathly
quiet of the hamlet. No lights shone from windows, no dogs barked at
my approach. All were abed, tucked safe and warm between the sheets,
and it was eerie to be the only man moving in that deserted place. I
guided my horse along the main street, turned towards the church and
saw, frozen on the opposite side of the road, a dark-robed figure
standing tall and slender in the moonlight.

    Despite
the losses he had suffered since we'd last met, his sixty years sat
easy on Dr Dee. The old magus opened his garden gate, making no
comment on my disguise, and invited me through with an abstracted air
I knew belied the sharpness of his wit. The geography of Dee's home
is hard to fathom. Under the doctor's hand his mother's simple
dwelling has sprouted long winding corridors which wrap around and
through themselves, budding new rooms, branching into halls,
encrusting the old house in a labyrinth where somewhere hides his
library, laboratories and secret oratories. The house was wreathed in
smells as complex as its map. I thought I could detect sulphur and
dung in the mix and decided to analyse no more. Dee's sure step led
on and I followed, wishing I had a trail of pebbles or ball of string
to aid my return. He spoke a little as we walked, glancing back over
his shoulder to cast reassuring smiles laced with pity. His Celtic
lilt gave a freshness to his speech. But they were inconsequential
words, designed to put me at my ease and I replied in dull fashion.
Soon he fell silent and the only sound was the fall of our footsteps
and the soft sweeping of Dee's robe. Eventually, when we were
somewhere near the centre of the house, he led me into a small
octagonal room lined with books and bade me sit. He busied himself at
a stove and I wondered what kind of necromancy he was engaged on.
When he joined me at the table he passed me an herbal `Then we are at
odds. If I don't hand Raleigh over, I die.'

    Dee
smiled sadly.

    `If
you try, even if you succeed, you'll die. Raleigh will make certain
of it.'

    `So
I die either way??

    'All
I can say is Raleigh will not countenance any attack from you. Sign
papers against him, and you sign your own death warrant. Undertake to
leave him alone and should you die, he'll grant you immortality.'

    I
looked around the room taking in Dee's jars and books, the potions
and strange instruments that aid him in his famous art. I laughed.

    `Old
man, I do not wish to be immortal as a speck of dust or wisp of
smoke, nor do I wish to become one of your angels.' I smiled. `I
doubt the gown would fit.'

    Dee
shook his head