The wherryman helped Francis step onto the wharf at the Custom House, solicitous of his gentleman passenger for an extra ha’penny. Francis didn’t need the helping hand. He was feeling like his usual self again, meaning slightly dyspeptic and pricked by the horns of a moral dilemma. He felt as if his soul had aged ten years last night, tossing and turning, fearing he had stimulated a conflict that could ultimately prove far more damaging to the body politic than Martin’s ill-advised antics. But his body was still only twenty-eight years old. He could climb out of a flat boat held steady without mishap.
Sir Francis Walsingham could free him from those horns of self-doubt if anyone could. He had been a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council for twenty years and more, serving also as her Secretary of State and leading spymaster. He had uncovered numerous assassination plots, including the one that led to the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots. He’d fled to the Continent during the Marian years, returning on Elizabeth’s accession to rise in her service with other equally committed Protestants. A close ally of Lord Burghley’s since those early days, Walsingham would nevertheless be able to consider Francis’s dangerous conjecture with an unbiased mind.
The large house on Seething Lane, not far from the Tower, had once included a handsome garden with vine-covered arbors, plots of herbs, and fruit trees trained against the walls. Francis remembered racing his brother Anthony around the mazed paths on summer afternoons long ago while the adults sat conversing inside the hall. Robert must have been there on some of those days, though he wouldn’t have raced with them. He didn’t like games that exposed the deformity of his crooked shoulder.
The garden had been reduced to the merest patch of green, kept to ease the aching eyes of clerks toiling inside the house. An enormous stable, larger than the one at Gray’s, now occupied the lion’s share of the property, with a partially covered yard where messengers could wait out of the weather. As he was admitted, Francis saw two men stride toward saddled horses and sling themselves up, guiding the steeds toward the postern gate. They would pick their way through the crowds on London Bridge and then canter south to Dover, or wherever they were being sent. To Paris, perhaps, or even farther.
Francis had spent three years in France in his youth, learning the civil law and perfecting his French. It had been a worthy experience, but not one he cared to repeat.
He found Walsingham in the front room on the first floor. Peering between a gap in the tall houses across the lane, he could see the white stones of the Tower looming watchfully over the Thames. A potent view, but one to which the Privy Councilor had turned his back. Walsingham sat in a high-backed armchair near the fireplace, where coals glowed red in spite of the season.
“Come in, Mr. Bacon,” Walsingham said with a wave of his hand that both beckoned him in and instructed his servant to close the door behind him.
“Thank you for seeing me, Sir Francis.” Francis bowed slightly, noticing how frail the older man looked with a coverlet tucked around his legs and black woolen coif covering his head. Deep lines drawing from nose to chin made his long face seem longer. “You should be at your house in Surrey. It would be quieter, with sweeter air.”
“The bustle in the yard is the same there, only less convenient for Her Majesty.” Walsingham smiled. He seemed resigned to his declining health. He would keep working until the last breath. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a thorny problem. A tangle of opposing ideas that I cannot find a way through.”
“That must be quite a tangle. Sit down and tell me about it.”
Francis drew up a padded stool, a little too close to the fire for his comfort but positioned so Walsingham wouldn’t be obliged to turn his head. “Do you know about my latest commission for my Lord Burghley?”
“Identifying the murderer stalking the anti-Martinists?” Walsingham smiled thinly. “I’ve heard. It won’t be easy.”
“It hasn’t been. The murders must be stopped, but I may not be able to do it. All I have so far are hints, conjectures, and suppositions.”
He told Walsingham everything he’d learned thus far, about the mistaken identities, the open secret of Nashe’s involvement in Mar-Martin’s works — even the matter of the beards, which Tom had related to him with great earnestness that morning. More pertinently, he’d also told him about the convergence of Thomas Nashe’s ramblings and rumors of a secret press at Sir Richard Knightley’s home in Fawsley.
Walsingham listened in silence, his gaze slightly averted. He raised his head at the sound of Knightley’s name. “That’s plausible. He would shield Martin’s pressmen if asked, I warrant. Has he been questioned?”
“Not yet, as far as I know. He does fit the general thinking about Martin, and Northamptonshire is the perfect distance from London, in my judgment. Far enough to avoid notice but near enough to stay abreast of the anti-Martin publications and catch news of pursuivants.”
“I don’t think we can make any assumptions about where Martin is. He could be across the lane for all we know.” Walsingham pointed his chin toward the windows. “If I were Martin Marprelate, I’d stay as far away from that illegal press as possible. Consider it, Mr. Bacon. A gentleman sits in his library every day” — he gestured toward his desk — “writing this and that. Letters to friends, a speech for a dinner or the next meeting of Parliament, notes about his readings dutifully entered into his commonplace book. If one day he shapes a fresh quill and writes an epistle or a hundred and ten theses, who’s to notice? Not his wife. Nor even his manservant. A gentleman’s papers are his own business. But a press, now — a press reeks of ink and potash. It’s noisy, squeaking and thumping, with men grunting and calling out to one another. Don’t forget those men need meals and clean linens. They won’t like hiding in a cellar month after month either. Sooner or later they’ll come out, go to the local tavern for a mug of ale and a change of fare, where someone will notice them. Someone like this Thomas Nashe, who sounds interesting.”
“He wouldn’t do for your purposes, I don’t think,” Francis said. “He has a prattling, agitated manner and an unattractive appearance. But I thank you for the correction. I won’t exclude London from my thoughts about Martin.”
“He isn’t on the Continent either,” Walsingham said. “That’s one good effect of Bancroft’s otherwise ill-advised strategy. Martin responded too quickly to Martin’s Mirror Mar’d to be overseas.” He grunted. “We’ll catch the printers sooner or later. The word is out, and people are watching. But I’m not certain we’ll ever know who Martin really is.”
“Thankfully, that’s not my job,” Francis said. “Although I keep being drawn toward that question because we have so little else to go on. There’s only one Martin, presumably, but there could be any number of accomplices fearful enough to kill to protect their secrets.”
“True. And they won’t be so distinctive. There are many more men with dark suits and short beards than there are members of Parliament.”
Francis winced. “Put like that, it seems impossible. We did make one attempt to draw the murderer out, or rather, my assistant, Thomas Clarady did.” He related the story of the misfired trap, emphasizing the reasoning behind it and minimizing the actual attack.
But Walsingham’s pale face grew paler. “Thank God you survived! You mustn’t put yourself in such danger.”
“I merely walked home from my favorite inn,” Francis said, smiling. “I wasn’t hurt at all. And I have fully recovered from the fright. It wasn’t a bad idea, given how unproductive everything we’ve tried has been. And it did give us another question to ask, at least: Who could have known about that trap?”
“Every writer in London, from what you tell me about Thomas Nashe.”
“In fairness, not quite all of them. My assistant believes Nashe kept the details within the narrow circle of our interest. But Clarady told my cousin all about it, in the presence of his secretary.” He recounted Tom’s short-lived doubts about Peter Hollowell.
Now a light danced in Walsingham’s black eyes. “Robert Cecil’s secretary? You have been struggling, Mr. Bacon.”
“My assistant is nothing if not thorough. If anything can be found among the writers’ haunts and lodgings, he’ll find it. But the secretary was a shrewder guess than he knew, I think.”
“How so?” Walsingham folded his fingers together in his lap.
Francis stroked his moustache. He’d come to the core of his dilemma. “I can’t help wondering why Martin Marprelate is so difficult to catch — his team of accomplices, if not the man himself. Surely the combined forces of the Church and the Privy Council could turn up one very active printing press!”
“Our forces are nowhere near as all-powerful as people imagine.”
“Even so. Even so. It makes me wonder if perhaps not all those forces are genuinely searching, or if they’re being diverted by someone who doesn’t want the press found.”
A single one of Walsingham’s dark eyebrows rose.
“Bear with me, Sir Francis, if you will.” Francis outlined his theory of the Cecils as Martin’s master, devising and directing the whole affair as a ruse to distract Archbishop Whitgift and lessen his influence on the Privy Council. He did not include any of the Earl of Essex’s far-reaching speculations about fomenting rebellion as an excuse to consolidate power. That whole branch of conjecture must be sawed off and burned.
Sir Francis was that rare sort of listener who gave his full attention to the speaker without inserting his opinions or visibly planning his rebuttal. But as Francis faltered to the close of his argument, which now sounded absurd in his own ears, a wry yet tolerant smile curved on the old man’s lips. The smile grew into a chuckle, abruptly halted by a cough. Walsingham clutched his lower belly with a wince, but a smile still played about his lips.
“Ah, Francis! What a fine Machiavelli you would make! I understand the wisdom of the queen, keeping you trammeled within the precincts of the law. You’re far too inventive for politics. It’s an intriguing notion, and I can understand how compelling it must be for you especially, but no, my dear, young friend. No. Your cousin is not Martin Marprelate, and neither is his father. Nor do I think either of them created Martin for any purpose.”
“In my heart, I knew that, I think, but once the idea took hold of my thoughts, I couldn’t shake it out. I had to hear someone with your authority do it for me. Although now I feel the veriest fool.”
“Not at all. It’s not beyond the realm of the possible for your cousin, not in my estimation of his character. He is a cunning fellow. But he is still wholly under the guidance of his father, who would never approve anything so disruptive. Lord Burghley is like the queen in that regard. They hate turmoil above all things.” Walsingham smiled at him fondly, though he seemed to be growing tired. He’d enjoyed his little laugh, but it had hurt him.
“I should leave you to rest,” Francis said, rising. “Thank you for untangling my knot.”
“My special gift.” Walsingham nodded at something in his own thoughts. Then he held up a finger to stay his guest a moment longer. “I’m not among those pursuing Martin, as you’ve noticed. I share his views, even if I deplore his methods. But if I wanted to find him, I’d look for someone on the fringes of power. Someone like Sir Richard Knightley, or more plausible still, a widow of some great person, virtual queen of her own estate with friends in high places and a passion for reform.”
Walsingham’s wise eyes held a glimmer of unspoken meaning that Francis easily interpreted: someone like his mother. He’d come full circle.
Worse, he had succumbed to one of the most fundamental intellectual errors: he had allowed his own prejudices to direct his search for truth. He had watched his cousin receive favors from his uncle and the queen for years while he was overlooked and pushed aside with sweet words and comforting promises. Bitterness had turned to envy, the most malignant of the affections. Unable to rise to his cousin’s level by his merits and hard work, Francis had sought to pull him down by weighting him with this foul conspiracy.
All he’d achieved was the tarnishing of his own soul — or he hoped that was the only ill effect of his descent into delusion. He’d have to think of a way to distract the Earl of Essex before he took any steps to confirm or contest his new interpretation of Robert Cecil’s motives. That shouldn’t be too hard. Essex was full of plans for new campaigns against Spain this year. Francis could come up with another excuse for a visit and turn the conversation in that direction.
How many days had he wasted in his fevered dreams of corruption and collusion? Too many, with the result that he’d done nothing to fulfill his commission. He must go back to the starting point and begin again.