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Parma’s army gathered strength.
I crossed the Channel as a pious man
and quoted verse at those who challenged me,
defrauding death by blasphemous degree.
Yet in the honest service of a faith
and that faith’s defender; loyal to my Queen
by counterfeiting service to a God
I couldn’t quite believe in. If that God
despised my actions, he left me unharmed
to estimate men and horse, artillery.
     
    Flushing, the English garrison where I
reported news that they might use at home
was base to every spy and volunteer.
The inns were choked with soldiers on alert
exchanging rumours over watered beer;
with tables squeezed, it wasn’t possible
to eat alone, unless one was diseased.
But I was halfway through a history play,
preferred to eat alone than make small talk,
and the inn, at least, had candles. I was glad
scribbling in public frightens people off.
It kept me out of trouble.
                                                   ‘Can I sit?’
    The gentleman who joined me had a voice
as singular as Fortune.
                                             ‘Be my guest.’
    I hoped he couldn’t read things upside down.
‘Do you mind my asking what you’re working on?’
‘Do you mind my saying yes?’
                                                       He didn’t blink.
    ‘It can’t be secret if you’re writing here.’
‘It isn’t secret, but it’s personal.’
‘Looks like a play.’
                                       ‘Excuse me, have we met?’
    ‘Henry,’ he said, his hand entreating mine.
I took it. ‘Christopher Marley.’ Back to the page.
‘Marley the poet?’
                                   ‘So they say.’
                                                               ‘What luck!
    I finished reading, only recently,
your fine translation of Ovid’s Elegies.’
‘That manuscript has travelled well.’ I wondered
how the stranger came by it.
                                                       ‘Indeed. Like fire
    through August hayricks. You have quite a skill.
I write a little myself. Not fresh as you.
I’m more of a reader.’
                                           ‘Very interesting.’
    I admit my patience wore a little thin.
     
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting. Pay no heed.’
He sat and tapped his fingers on the edge
of the beery table. Like he dabbed the keys
of some invisible virginal to scales.
     
    ‘Curious how, on the very edge of war,
our thoughts are drawn to the wars of history.
I couldn’t help noticing it’s a battle scene.
Apologies.’ He’d been quiet a good two minutes.
Time to give up. ‘You’re fond of history?’
    ‘I’m fond of learning. Fond of the arts, and science,
debate. Though I avoid theology.
As wise men should. But knowledge interests me.’
     
    Clearly he was no soldier. Though in clothes
as practical as mine, there was an air
of velvet and silk about him, suddenly.
I wondered I hadn’t noticed it before.
     
    ‘When all this is over, if they don’t invade,
perhaps you’d like to use my library.
Come stay with me. I have two thousand books;
you might find one or two of use.’ He grinned.
‘Do you know Thomas Watson?’
                                                       ‘He’s a friend.’
    ‘A mutual friend. Delightful. Well, I’ll go
and leave you to your play. We’ll meet again.’
     
    I asked the tapster to supply his name.
‘That’s Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland.’

NORTHUMBERLAND’S SUBJECT
    At summer’s end, I crossed the Channel, thin
and ready to rest, and made his Petworth home
my own for several weeks. His own pet poet:
he asked me to