Francis Bacon put down his fork and pushed his plate away, smiling as if replete, although the supper laid out by Canon Bancroft had been meager, if of excellent quality. He couldn’t complain. It wasn’t wise to eat a large meal in the evening, as his mother reminded him on a weekly basis.
He accepted another glass of the French claret, which was too tart for his tastes, although he knew it had been chosen to honor him. The meal had succeeded in establishing a comfortable accord between him and his host. They’d spoken little while eating, another sensible habit. They smiled now at one another over their cups in mutual recognition that the time had come for serious conversation.
“Have you made any progress?” Bancroft asked.
“A little,” Francis said. It wasn’t entirely an untruth. “My assistant has made inroads among the denizens of the ward where the murders took place. He’s quite expert at turning up witnesses where others have failed.”
“Good. The villain must be stopped. I predicted that Martin’s accomplices would turn to violence eventually. Privately, of course. No need to stir things up.”
“No, indeed,” Francis said. He refrained from noting that “things” could hardly be more thoroughly stirred up, thanks to the canon’s rash decision to unleash a team of satirists into the controversy.
“Are you receiving the support you need from Mr. Cecil’s office?”
Francis shrugged. “No more than one would expect.”
Bancroft grunted a bitter laugh.
Francis said, “I don’t know much about the pursuit of Martin’s co-conspirators, but as an impartial observer, I must say the Privy Council seems to have done little to support the effort.”
Another bitter grunt. “They’ve all but obstructed us. If it weren’t for the queen, we’d get no help whatsoever.”
“There are many members of the Council who sympathize with Martin’s philosophy, if not specifically with his tactics.”
Bancroft nodded, his dark eyes glittering. “It has been a constant battle since John Whitgift was made archbishop. You’ll remember the opposition he faced from Lord Burghley over his Articles of Religion a few years ago.”
“I do,” Francis said. Who could forget? Whitgift had demanded that every clergyman in England swear to uphold his three articles, blatantly designed to be offensive to nonconformists. He expected them to swear not to use anything other than the Book of Common Prayer in their services, an unnecessarily severe limitation that served no useful purpose. Many otherwise law-abiding ministers had refused and been forced thereby into open opposition, when before they had presented only a mild deviation from established practice. Lord Burghley had objected, standing up for common practice and tolerance.
Francis added, “Lord Burghley had allies on the Council during that conflict, as I recall.”
“Too many. And more of that breed in Parliament. If it weren’t for the stalwart support of Her Majesty, England’s church would be in a state of chaos even as we speak.” Bancroft’s monkey-like features twisted fearfully, as if he could smell the torches of rioters at the gate.
“A disaster that must be prevented at all costs,” Francis said. But not by fomenting greater hostilities. “You still have a majority on the Council, do you not? The archbishop, Lord Chancellor Hatton . . .”
Bancroft shook his head. “Too narrow a margin and likely to tilt the other way in the near future, if I read the changes in the wind aright.”
“You refer to the possibility of Robert Cecil being appointed to the Privy Council.”
“Possibility! A certainty, in my view. He attends every meeting, did you know that?”
“I’ve heard.” Envy increased the acidic aftertaste of the wine in Francis’s throat.
“He could, of course, be counted upon to echo his father’s voice in response to every question. And Cecil isn’t the only one.”
“How so?” Francis frowned. Lord Burghley had another son, who had never shown any interest in politics.
“The Earl of Essex,” Bancroft said, as if the name were too obvious to mention. “The queen’s favorite. And, need I add, one of Lord Burghley’s wards.”
“He’s only twenty-four,” Francis said. “Surely he’s far too young?”
“Pah! Youth is no obstacle. Your cousin is only twenty-six. Sweep aside the old generation, all the men who remember what life was like in England before our righteous queen ascended to the throne. These young blades care less than that” — he snapped his fingers — “for religious unity or the stability of a proper hierarchy of prelates.”
Francis counted himself among the “young blades,” but he cared greatly for stability. Enforcing rigid conformity by oaths and threats, however, was not the method he recommended for achieving that goal. But his opinions weren’t relevant here. “Regardless of their private beliefs, my Lord Burghley and Mr. Cecil are wise enough to see the harm that Martin Marprelate is doing to the body politic. Enough is enough. I should think they’d be as eager as anyone to see him caught and the whole controversy laid to rest.”
“You and I may think that. We see the harm all too clearly.” Bancroft shook his head. “Alas, we are in the minority, struggling with such poor tools as we can muster for ourselves. You can’t have failed to notice that the three best-staffed intelligence services have chosen not to supply a single man to assist us in tracking Martin’s press. Not one!”
Francis had not noticed that, although he ought to have. The three services in question must be those of Sir Francis Walsingham, the Earl of Essex, and Lord Burghley, now in the hands of Robert Cecil. “Didn’t Anthony Munday come to you from Sir Francis Walsingham?”
“Bah! He’s next to useless. The only offender he has apprehended is that idiot Giles Wigginton. No trick there. That profane noisemaker thrusts himself into every controversy. I think he’s happier in gaol than out.”
“Sir Francis must have considered him capable, or he wouldn’t have recommended him. Or did he come to you from Lord Burghley’s service?”
Bancroft wrinkled his small nose. “Perhaps he did. I don’t remember.” He took a long drink from his silver cup, then shook a thin finger at Francis. “It wouldn’t surprise me. What better way to hinder our pursuit than to send us an incompetent pursuivant?”
* * *
Francis turned that question over in his mind while he stood on the Lambeth wharf, waiting for a ferry. The river was crowded with small craft this evening, their shaded lanterns bobbing above and below, reflected in the darkening waters. They would soon be outshone by the half moon rising over the broken spire of St. Paul’s. Music in many strains and voices, plucked from lutes or bleated through reeds, echoed across the water, blending pleasantly into a musical mist. Half of London must be afloat, taking advantage of the cooler breezes on a summer night.
He had no desire to join them. Damp air filled his chest with catarrhs. But he wasn’t quite ready for bed, with so many questions to ponder. He decided to stop at the Antelope for a slice of Mrs. Sprye’s incomparable almond tart and a cup of something sweet to chase away the lingering taste of the canon’s astringent claret.
His favorite small table in the nook behind the hearth was available. He sat with his back to the room, as usual, although it was nearly empty with the courts in recess. Mrs. Sprye knew him well enough not to take offense at his unsociability. She would understand that he wanted to think.
He gazed absently out the window onto the high street, where lengthening shadows threw the doorways under overhanging jetties into total darkness. As he savored a mouthful of the lightly sweetened tart, he chided himself for not noticing the absence of effort on the part of Sir Francis Walsingham in the hunt for Martin Marprelate. The Secretary of State had been in the vanguard in the search for English Catholics who might be colluding with Spain or Rome. But then, Sir Francis had been one of the Marian exiles, like so many of the older generation of Protestants. He’d spent those years among the Calvinists in Switzerland. His sympathies lay with Martin and his adherents.
Sir Francis had also been increasingly unwell in recent years. Perhaps he simply hadn’t the strength to pursue an overreaching Protestant whom he would regard as merely improvident.
Even so, he had years of experience on the Privy Council and enjoyed the confidence of the queen. He would have insights into the Marprelate controversy and the futile attempts to resolve it. He had always been kind to Francis, in honor of Sir Nicholas Bacon and respect for Lady Anne. The men and women of that generation understood each other in ways the rising generation never could, thanks to the shared extremity of danger during the Marian years.
Francis didn’t need an elaborate excuse to visit so good a friend. He would send a letter in the morning begging a few minutes of counsel on a confidential matter. Simplicity itself.
The Earl of Essex, now; that was more delicate. No one would reasonably expect the young nobleman to know anything pertinent to the Marprelate problem. In fact, he’d been suspected of being Martin, briefly, jokingly, after an incident in court. Her Majesty had just declared in no uncertain terms that possession of one of Martin’s tracts would be made a punishable offense. The earl had promptly incriminated himself by pulling a copy of the Epitome out of his pocket. He had apologized prettily, winning an exasperated swat from the queen, but his point had been made. Martin’s pamphlets were everywhere.
The earl would not know anything about Martin per se, but he had been building up his stable of intelligencers, positioning himself to rival Lord Burghley. He might know something about the pursuit or the interrogations last autumn that Francis hadn’t heard. Furthermore, he would be flattered to be consulted, and any excuse to flatter the young nobleman should be acted upon.
Francis swallowed the last bite of his tart, pleased to have satisfied both his physical and intellectual lacks. Now he had letters to write and questions to ask. He need speculate no further until he’d gathered those expert opinions.
Another glance out the window told him he had better hurry on home. Evening had almost transformed into night, the little remaining light more likely to confuse his path.
He rose, tipped his hat to Mrs. Sprye, and went out to hurry across the empty street. He took the shortcut through Fulwood’s Rents, grateful for his father’s prescience in building his house on the corner closest to Holborn. When he’d built it many years ago, there had been cows grazing almost all the way down to where he now walked.
As he neared the end of the almost pitch-black passageway, he saw a young man climb out of Tom’s window, clearly outlined in the open field behind his house. The figure stood there for a moment and then climbed back in.
What now? He knew Tom employed that means of egress from time to time, but this figure was too small.
Not — surely not Lady Alice! Even if she’d dressed in man’s clothing, she and Tom were treading on very thin ice. They’d bring disaster down upon them all. This dangerous foolery must be nipped in the bud at once.
Francis quickened his pace, then a sudden rush of motion startled him. Before he could say, “Who’s there?” a sinewy arm crooked around his neck and tightened. He thrashed and flung himself about, loosening the grip enough to shout, “Help! Help!”
His assailant threw him hard against the wall, pressing him back with his body. Two strong hands wormed under his ruff, wrapping around his bare throat, pressing inward, choking him, strangling . . .
“Mr. Bacon?” Tom’s voice sounded from somewhere. Francis nearly fainted in relief. “Is that you?” Tom shouted. “Hoi! You there! Stop that!”
“Bacon?” The strangler’s hot hands released their grasp, but then one clutched his ruff to drag his ear toward panting breath and a growling murmur. “Take this as a warning, Frank. Don’t stick your neck out where it might get wrung.” The villain threw him to the ground and ran thundering down the alley.