Trumpet and Catalina dressed in their street clothes, eager for their Thursday afternoon out. They were ostensibly bound to visit Trumpet’s maternal aunt, Lady Chadwick, at her home in Bishopsgate, a destination approved by Lady Russell. And they meant to stop there, but only to change clothes again. Once disguised as young gentlemen, they meant to enjoy their liberty in a tavern near the theaters in Shoreditch.
At the moment, however, they looked the very portrait of a pious noblewoman with her equally pious maidservant, clothed in black from the long veils draped over their heads to the leather slippers protected from the dirty streets by thick wooden pattens. They pulled on their black gloves and Trumpet collected the latest Martin manuscript, snugly wrapped in canvas soaked in linseed oil. They would deliver it to the printer on their way.
Vautrollier’s print shop, now owned by Richard Field and his new wife, Vautrollier’s widow, stood just around the corner from Lady Russell’s house. The new couple continued to specialize in the works that had earned the shop its sober reputation: Protestant theology and high church music, a curious combination. Most of their books were printed on behalf of booksellers with shops in St. Paul’s yard. They kept only a few samples in the shallow front room of their Blackfriars establishment, the bulk of the house being given over to the print shop, the acrid smells of which permeated the house.
Trumpet rang the bell on the narrow counter. A tall apprentice poked his head through the rear door, held up a finger, and disappeared. He returned in a moment, tying a clean apron around his slender waist. “Good afternoon, my lady. Another package for me? Already?”
“We’ve been inspired.”
The apprentice, whose name was Wat Whyting, nodded uncertainly. He obviously hadn’t expected another manuscript so soon and had to figure out how to cope. He must need to send a message to someone, though Trumpet had never been able to intercept any such. There were always boys coming and going from the back of the shop, running messages between the busy printer and his customers. Carts stopped to load up barrels of new books or unload barrels of paper. Any one of them might be employed to take a note to the next conspirator in the chain.
Trumpet watched his long face with its new-sprung beard and sparse moustache. He must be about her age, nineteen or a little younger. She supposed Lady Russell had roped him into the task of delivering Martin’s works to the intermediary who delivered them to the hidden press. This young man might know the other party to the exchange.
She didn’t believe the pamphlets were printed here. Field’s print shop was too close to home and Lady Russell was far too canny a cat to be so obvious. Trumpet had wheedled and hinted, trying her best to find out where the manuscripts went after the apprentice took them, but had only learned that they were left in a secret place to be collected when no one was watching. Some place out of the rain, presumably. She wouldn’t trust this oiled cloth to withstand a summer storm. Also some place not too far away, since Whyting came to work at the usual time the day after a delivery. She and Catalina had kept watch twice to be certain.
Whyting offered her a sheepish smile. “You needn’t wait, my lady. The package is safe with me.”
“I believe you.” Trumpet met his brown eyes, laden with poorly concealed admiration. She batted her thick black lashes and treated him to her best cupid’s-bow smile. “Won’t you tell me where it goes from here? I want to count the days until I can hold a printed copy in my hands.” She placed her hands on her breast, emphasizing that feature.
“I understand, my lady, but I honestly can’t tell you.”
“You must know where you take it!”
His wide mouth turned down. “Lady Russell made me promise never to tell anyone, not even you, my lady. I beg you not to ask me again. I daren’t risk her displeasure.”
Trumpet’s eyes narrowed. “Do you not fear my displeasure?”
A swift quirk of his lips betrayed the true answer, forcing Trumpet once again to lament her short stature and lack of any other source of intimidation. No husband to charge in with a gang of retainers; no money to withdraw from the business; no credibility even to make the withholding of recommendations a viable threat.
She drew in a long breath through flaring nostrils, tilting up her pointed chin. “I can be very ill-tempered, you know. And I am known to hold grudges.”
Again, that quirk of amusement. “I have no doubt of that, my lady.”
“I will find out who receives these manuscripts and where they go to be printed.”
“I have no doubt of that either, my lady.” Whyting picked up the package and began to walk backward in very small steps. When he reached the wall, he added, “But not from me,” and slipped through the door.
Trumpet pounded both fists on the counter in frustration. As they walked back onto the street, she said to her maidservant, “We’ll have to find a way to follow him.”
Catalina nodded. “We may pay a boy to do it.” Her English had improved by leaps and bounds, but she still left out bits and pieces and retained the accent of her native Spanish.
“We can at least find out when he leaves each day. Then perhaps we can manage to deliver the next one on a day when my Lady Russell is bedridden or entertaining guests.”
They walked around the corner to enter Lady Russell’s stable, where two grooms waited with horses to convey them to Bishopsgate. Men helped them up, seating each woman sideways behind a groom. Trumpet hated riding this way, with her feet resting on a little shelf and one arm awkwardly gripping the sweaty groom’s waist. It made her feel like a sack of corn. She rode astride at home with long drawers under her skirts and her own hands on the reins.
The requirements of rank were often ridiculous. Lady Chadwick’s house lay less than a mile from Blackfriars, across some of the most densely populated wards in the city. She, Tom, and Ben had never bothered with horses when they went out to explore the city or run errands for Mr. Bacon. It was faster to walk, even now when she wore skirts, with the added benefit that you didn’t need a groom, who owed allegiance to another, to tend to the horse. But Lady Russell wouldn’t hear of it, and so Trumpet had to jolt and sway, helpless, if dignified, through the crowded streets.
They eventually gained the stable behind Trumpet’s aunt’s house and were helped to the ground. She sent the grooms straight back, telling them Lady Chadwick’s men would see them home. Which they wouldn’t since she wouldn’t ask them. She liked walking; it was simple and anonymous. She’d gotten used to coming and going on her own during her wonderful year pretending to be a young gentleman of Gray’s Inn.
Those had been glorious days! She’d spent nearly every waking minute in Tom’s company, forming a bond of friendship even her startling change of gender hadn’t broken. Now she rarely saw him apart from Sunday dinners under Lady Russell’s gimlet eye, and her adventures were limited to these precious Thursday afternoons.
Her aunt, Lady Chadwick, decided long ago to turn a blind eye to Trumpet’s play-acting, as she termed her niece’s taste for dressing like a boy. Her uncle, Lady Chadwick’s younger brother, was a barrister who had flexible notions of acceptable behavior himself and was more likely to assist his wayward niece than chastise her. He was the one who had given her Catalina Luna, the servant of her dreams.
They skipped up the stairs to the bedchamber reserved for Trumpet’s use, greeting the housekeeper with a wave of the hand. Lady Chadwick’s servants loved bribes and owed nothing to Lady Russell. Lady Chadwick was seldom home at this hour, spending the warm summer afternoons drinking and gossiping in a friend’s pleasure garden in Shoreditch.
Trumpet and Catalina helped each other out of their dull gowns and into suits of doublets and hose. Catalina liked short, round hose, well-puffed to hide her womanly hips. Trumpet preferred pleated galligaskins that reached almost to her knees. She would have liked brighter colors, like scarlet and canary, but duller shades attracted less attention.
Catalina darkened their chins with a charcoal pencil and pasted false moustaches to their upper lips. They itched more when not worn every day, but there was nothing like a moustache to fool the casual eye. Trumpet donned a tall hat with a short feather. Catalina preferred a squashy velvet cap with a small brim to shade her eyes.
They gave each other a quick inspection, making sure all laces were tied and no traces of girlishness lingered anywhere about their persons, and then simply walked out the front door onto Bishopsgate Street.
Free! Trumpet relished every minute spent walking with her stride unencumbered by skirts and her view unobstructed by veils. She’d trained herself to notice as much as possible without staring, which might attract notice. She marveled at how little ordinary people appreciated the freedom to simply walk down a street, fast or slow as the traffic allowed, even when the summer sun rotted peelings and horse dung faster than the sweepers could collect it.
They strolled under the arch at Bishopsgate, taking their time, surveying the customers in each tavern they passed, not ready to leave the sunny street until they reached their favorite Thursday afternoon haunt — the Black Bull, a coaching inn where plays were often performed. There they got mugs of ale at the counter and stood waiting for good seats at a table looking into the central courtyard.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the talk around them. Trumpet wanted to hear what people were saying about Martin and Mar-Martin, greedy for reviews of her work. There was plenty of chatter, but nothing caught her interest.
Then a pair of clowns bounced out into the yard, turning somersaults, heralded by a roll of drums and a tantara of horns being blown from the balcony. One was dressed in plain brown fustian and carried a whip; the other was dressed like an ape in shaggy black stuff with his face smudged black. People came out of rooms on all three floors of the inn, jostling for good spots along the railing to watch.
The ape and the whip-man began to chase each other around, spouting insults and pleading with the audience for aid. They got laughter and a splatter of nutshells. The whip-man paused in the center of the yard and shouted out a few verses from A Whip for an Ape, winning a smattering of applause. He seemed disappointed at the weak response. That was one of Mar-Martin’s early works and had been a great favorite for several weeks.
“The Mar-Martins need new material,” Trumpet murmured to Catalina. “People are cheering for the ape now as much as the gaoler.”
“The ape-man, he is more funny than the other.” Catalina was a severe critic of such entertainments, thanks to her years in the commedia dell’arte.
The chase began again, with the gaoler cracking his whip loudly and the ape shrieking and gabbling, frolicking and rolling around the yard. He was exceptionally agile, even for a professional clown. His antics made everyone laugh, including Trumpet. Even Catalina gave up a few grudging chuckles.
Then the ape leapt onto an overturned crate, placed one hand on his chest, and raised the other high, pointing up to the heavens. He proclaimed in stentorian tones, “I am Martin Junior! The bishops can neither catch me nor refute me! I expose their monstrous corruptions, their slandering, and their lying. Fire and faggot, shackles and blows — these are the tools of their holy profession!”
Trumpet, caught by surprise, spat out a mouthful of ale. She’d written those very words! She’d meant them to be mildly funny, but this — this was hilarious! No wonder men became so addicted to writing for the stage. She should try something more ambitious some fine day.
“Lady Alice?” a soft voice murmured, close to her ear.
Trumpet leapt up, drawing her knife. At the same moment, Catalina jumped to her feet and grabbed the interloper, shoving him facedown onto the table. Trumpet set the edge of her knife against the man’s cheek and demanded, “What do you want?”
“Nothing! It’s only me! Tom Nashe!”
She used her free hand to grab a hank of hair and jerk his face sideways so she could see it. He grinned at her, showing his crooked tooth and his pug nose. She expelled a breath and nodded at Catalina, who released him. Trumpet shot a glare at the men at the nearest table and growled, “A misunderstanding.” They shrugged, not caring, and turned back to the clowns.
Nashe righted himself and collected his hat. Then he picked up Trumpet’s overturned stool and set it in place for her with a bow. She sat down and grumbled, “Don’t bow, you idiot!” She saw words forming on his lips and added, “If you call me ‘my lady,’ I’ll cut off your ear.”
Nashe audibly choked back the words. He looked about and found another stool, which he placed between the two women, sitting with his hands in his lap and an air of not-quite-mocking submission. “What should I call you?”
Trumpet drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “You may call me Mr. Trumpet.” She tried that on in her mind and added a caveat. “Unless Tom is around, in which case, you may omit the Master.”
“Yes, Mr. Trumpet,” Nashe said, so meekly it forced a giggle from her throat, which had to be covered with a cough and very fake-sounding low-pitched laugh.
“I’m surprised Clarady isn’t here with you,” Nashe said, “assuming that’s the Tom you mean. Doesn’t he escort you when you go out, ah . . .”
“We don’t need an escort. We’re quite capable of handling ourselves in any situation.”
“I gladly attest to that fact.” Nashe acknowledged Catalina with a short nod. “Mr. Luna, you’re looking very well. Extremely well, if I may say so without causing offense.”
She grinned at him, her dark eyes flashing. She made a strikingly handsome gentleman with her silky black moustache and her naturally thick eyebrows.
Nashe turned back to Trumpet. “Casting no aspersions on your competence in any arena, I’m still surprised Tom isn’t here. I assume he enlisted your help in resolving my perilous predicament.”
“Tom can’t do anything without me.” Trumpet strove to maintain a neutral expression, though her ears felt as if they’d grown to twice their size. This must be the new commission he’d refused to tell her about. What a fool to think he could keep a secret from her! She’d have the whole story in no time.
She smiled benignly at her new informant and beckoned the wench to bring a jug of dragon’s milk, a doubly strong variety of ale. She shot a quick wink at Catalina as she passed her a cup, getting an acknowledging flick of the eyebrows in return. They’d pretend to sip while keeping Nashe’s cup full.
“We divide our efforts,” Trumpet said, “now that my movements are somewhat restricted.”
“Tom told me you were living with his guardian.”
She nodded. “I chose to accept a loss of freedom in exchange for invaluable training in the art of widowhood. My Lady Russell is a model well worth emulating.”
Nashe’s freckled face grew somber. “I heard about your loss, my — Mr. Trumpet. Please accept my condolences. I’m sure the Viscount What-d’ye-call-him was an honorable man.”
She waved that off. Viscount Surdeval had possessed that quality and more, but she’d barely known him. The main things she’d lost were her pride and her confidence, and those had been largely restored. “I suppose you read about it in the pamphlets.”
“I guessed it might be you underneath the hyperbole. ‘Hair as black as night and eyes as green as a tiger’s’ and so forth. The castle on the coast, in which the murderess learned her dark trade, gave it away for anyone familiar with that desolate stretch of Suffolk.”
Several pamphlets had appeared in the wake of Viscount Surdeval’s murder, most of them assigning the guilt to her, thinly disguising her identity as a French countess. None of them bothered to explain how the Frenchwoman found herself in Suffolk. Once the real murderer was identified, a fresh outpouring of ballads and illustrated reports had appeared, driving the first round into oblivion, but the stench had clung to her like the smell of dead fish on the hair of a wet dog.
“I suppose you’re watching the crowd here,” Nashe said in a low voice. “Keeping an eye out for anyone with an especially hostile interest in the whip-man.”
“You mean the ape.”
Nashe shrugged. “Either way, I suppose. Someone who applauds the ape and boos the whipper. A Martinist among us, spying out the opposition.”
So Tom was searching for Martinists. God’s death! Trumpet’s heart leapt into her throat. Had Lord Burghley charged Francis Bacon with identifying Martin Marprelate? This was news indeed. The archbishop and his churchmen had proved hopelessly inadequate to the task. But Bacon was a far more potent adversary. She had the utmost respect for his ability to see through all manner of obfuscations and deceits to arrive at the ultimate truth.
She took a swig of the strong ale, which burned on the way down, but calmed her beating heart. Even clever Mr. Bacon would never suspect his own aunt. And now she, Martin Junior, was forewarned. If only she could think of a way to alert Lady Russell to the danger without divulging her source.
But Nashe had said “my perilous problem.” What peril? What did he have to do with any of this?
She refilled his cup. “I must confess I haven’t learned anything useful yet. These people show more favor to the ape than the gaoler. But the gaoler has nothing new to say. Mar-Martin’s falling behind. He’s getting dull.”
“Now, now, Mr. Trumpet! Be kind.” Nashe’s hand wobbled a little as he lifted his full cup to his lips. He let out a little gasp after gulping the fiery liquid. “Genius takes time, you know. And we have to send every piece we write to the canon for approval before it goes to the printer.”
Trumpet turned her head to face him, studying his freckled features with new interest. She’d bet an angel Nashe was Pasquill Caviliero, the adventuring anti-Martinist. She should have guessed it at first reading. It had that mad Nashean flavor. “I knew Martin’s Mirror was yours! Your style is unmistakable.”
“Thank you.” Nashe’s face lit up but then sank along with the rest of his body. “Alas, in my quest to make a mark, I’ve marked myself. Now I hardly know where to turn. I don’t suppose your lady has a spare tuft of straw in her stable for me to sleep in?”
“Don’t you care for your current lodgings? I forget what Tom told me . . .”
“Under other circumstances, I’d be happy as a lark with Robert Greene, Master of the Mar-Martins, most worthy tutor in the practice of prolific pamphleteering. I sit at his feet — until he kicks me. But wherever I lay my head, another man turns up dead. If we don’t catch Martin’s minion soon, I’ll be forced to flee back to my father’s house in Norfolk, where I’ll find nothing to sustain me but cold pottage and stale homilies.”
Trumpet ignored the last part. She remembered that Nashe’s father was a vicar, but she doubted he was as poor as that, though what a witty wag like Nashe would find to do in rural Norfolk, she could not imagine. But she could see the whole plan of Tom’s commission laid out before her. “It’s grossly unjust, but you can hardly blame yourself.”
Nashe cast her a woeful glance as comical as the ape-clown’s dour grimaces. He drank a deep draught of his dragon’s milk and burped, covering his mouth with a muffled apology. “If only I knew what it is that I know.”
“How’s that?”
“What have I learned?” he asked the dregs of his drink. “A month of rambling, trying to pick up Martin’s trail, sleeping in haystacks, begging scraps of food and tidbits of gossip from stablemen and dairymaids. Somewhere, somehow, I must have crossed paths with one of Martin’s minions and come too close his hiding place.” He turned toward Trumpet, his eyes wide. “I must have just missed the man. I might have come this close to Martin himself!” He measured a scant inch with thumb and forefinger, his hand wobbling as he tried to hold it up for her to see.
“Or even closer,” Trumpet said, repressing a grin. Secrets, pah! “Why don’t you tell me all about it? I know the broad outlines, of course, but perhaps I’ll spot something you and Tom have missed.”
Nashe proceeded to tell her everything about the two poor pamphleteers who were strangled in his stead and the stories the writers had concocted to lay the guilt on the man they liked the least, a churl named Anthony Munday. Tom’s gut reportedly voted for Munday as the murdering minion. Trumpet respected Tom’s gut — to a point.
She felt confident that she’d gotten everything Nashe knew, which wouldn’t be all of it. Bacon always kept something back. And now she had a commission of her own. She’d have to stop Martin’s minion before Francis Bacon could unmask Martin herself.