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Arbella Stuart.
We were to guide our pupils down the road
of strict obedience and loyalty.
We were to note who called, who crept to church.
The loyal man at work. Yet still, I played,
     
    dandled that toy, religion. Spun ideas
to jet above Ned’s buskins on the stage.
For it was God – at least, it seemed like God,
who kept me up at night, and scribbling
those thoughts humanity might understand.
Only, I wrote – and signed them – in my hand.

THE PACT OF FAUSTUS
    ‘So should I sign in blood?’ My joking words
fell silently on the official’s face.
I put my name to paper anyway.
And so I set the wheel of my disgrace
trundling towards me on some distant road.
     
    Knowledge. It sounds as gentle as a bell
at three a.m. from the neighbouring parish clock.
It sounds as safe as wood does to a tree.
It guides me dreamily, from book to book.
But certain volumes, authorised in Hell,
     
    are dangerous to know. Some knowledge lifts
and some intoxicates. Jesters and clowns,
pretending they know nothing, are the wise.
Some knowledge airs the mind; some knowledge drowns –
and yet, I couldn’t drink enough of it.
     
    I had such faith in me, such certainty
the licensed bloodhounds couldn’t do me harm;
dull thinkers not equipped to sniff me out,
who missed the jokes, too slow to see me palm
the words from hand to hand, or hand to mouth.
     
    But the universe has lessons, tailored tight
to fit the sin, and I was set to fall.
Proud of the name I signed away that day,
as former cobbler’s son who had it all
but shared with Lucifer the sin of pride.
     
    Bright Lucifer, once so beloved of God
but tumbled out of heaven, and his wits;
the universe correcting for its gifts.
True knowledge of humanity confirms
that this is Hell. Nor are we out of it.

THE TUTOR
    ‘You have been recommended. And your name
is Morley, I understand.’
                                                 ‘It is.’
                                                                 She’s still
    as a spider who has felt a fly alight.
The Countess of Shrewsbury knows the Queen as Bess,
a name they share. A cold, entitled look:
three husbands haven’t lasted her. The fourth
is not at home in London.
                                                 ‘Hear me then.
    My granddaughter deserves the best of minds
to guide her education. Rhetoric’
– she enunciates carefully, lest I mishear –
‘will not be taught to her. No woman should
be trained for disagreement. Literature
will do. The classical sort. Not Ovid, mind.
She’s just thirteen.’ She scours me with her eyes.
     
    ‘Come closer, Master Morley.’ Lifts a sleeve.
‘Now. Velvet? Surely a scholarly gentleman
cannot afford it.’
                                   ‘I have generous friends.’
    ‘Do you indeed? Tom Walsingham, no doubt.’
She casts for the reaction on my face;
I give her nothing. Still, a narrowed gaze.
‘Oh, I know all about it. Why you’re here.
The eyes and ears of the Queen range far and wide
across our troubled country. There are those
who fancy Arbella on a Catholic throne –
please don’t insult me with your feigned surprise –
and she must be protected. You’ll report
to Walsingham or Burghley. So be it.
Then the government shall pay you. I’ll provide
paper and books, and ten hot meals a week.
A room when we’re not in London.’
     
                                                                 Like a thief
    cutting the purse strings – certainly as quick –
but with deservedness.
                                           ‘Your ladyship,
    What if I can’t afford those