Francis Bacon entered the shop of his favorite bookseller on Paternoster Row and stood for a moment, adjusting to the dim light, savoring the intoxicating perfumes of ink and paper. Oliver Brocksby, printer and proprietor, looked up from the counter at the back where he stood leafing through an elephant folio. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bacon! What do you lack today?”
“Everything,” Francis said, walking back through the narrow aisles of stacked books. “And nothing.” They both chuckled at the philosophical witticism.
Brocksby gave him a friendly smile. His thinning brown hair moved a little farther back from his forehead every year, but his wiry frame kept its spring and the strength to port even stacks of big Genevan Bibles from barrel to shelf.
“I need an assortment of pamphlets,” Francis said, explaining the types of authors he had in mind. “And I have a question or two about Martin Marprelate.”
“I don’t know who he is,” Brocksby hastened to say.
“I never imagined you did. But you must have ideas about what sort of man he is.”
“Only the usual. He’s educated; that much is obvious. He’s clever at disputation as well. Note how well he parries these recent counterstrikes. Quick-thinking and light on his feet, rhetorically speaking. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn he was a barrister, to be honest with you.”
“Nor should I,” Francis said. “Or a member of Parliament. That seems to be the common view.” He drummed his fingers lightly on the counter, trying to read the title of Brocksby’s new book from the corner of his eye.
Brocksby helpfully turned it toward him. The Voyage and Travaile of M. Caesar Frederick, Merchant of Venice, into the East India, translated by T.H. “Fascinating,” Francis said, stroking the leather cover. “Is this new?”
“Last year, but still popular, I hope. People do love these travel accounts.”
“Mmm.” People like Francis, though his bill in this shop had already risen to the delicate level. Their eyes met briefly, and Brocksby shifted the book to a shelf beneath the counter.
Never mind. That wasn’t what he’d come for. “I wonder about Martin’s printer,” Francis said. “He must be a member of the Stationers’ Company, mustn’t he?”
“One would assume so, though he could be retired. Or he might be on the Continent. Or merely a journeyman, although the quality of the books suggest a master craftsman to me.”
“I think so too,” Francis said. “Where do you suppose Martin would find such a man? He couldn’t very well walk into a workshop and ask if anyone would like to spend a year dodging the authorities to produce copies of illegal tracts.”
“Mercy, no!” Brocksby pulled a grayish handkerchief out of his sleeve and mopped his narrow forehead at the mere thought. “I’ve thought about that too. Wondering if it could be anyone I know — which I very much doubt. Educated gentlemen and printers only meet in a few places, when you think about it. Martin could have recruited his printer at church.”
“At church. Of course.” A few pieces fell into place somewhere in the back of Francis’s mind, like imaginary pieces of lead type. Not a readable message — not yet — but tantalizingly close. “They would know from long attendance where each other stood in such matters. Moreover, it’s one of the few places where men of different stations do meet and get to know one another enough to establish trust.”
“They would have chosen that church for its preacher,” Brocksby said. “You wouldn’t meet Martin in my church, for example. St. Bride’s conforms with established practice without qualm or quibble.”
“That’s an important consideration. It would tend to rule out Inns of Court members too. Each inn has its own chapel, attended solely by members. Although —” Francis’s thoughts were racing ahead of his speech. “Many men, especially the married ones, have their own houses in town and would normally attend the church in that parish.”
“Your hotter churches are mostly in the city. You won’t find radical nonconformity being preached from a pulpit in Westminster.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Francis laughed. But what delicious irony, if Martin had met his co-conspirators at a church down the street from Whitehall Palace. “How many men would Martin’s printer need? A typesetter, I suppose. Although you sometimes set type, don’t you?”
“Only for very special editions. Or in a pinch. I like to keep my hand in.” And his teeth, judging by their grayness. Typesetters tended to tuck pieces into their mouths while they were working.
“Could two men produce Martin’s works?”
Brocksby shook his head. “I very much doubt it. They’re well made, for pamphlets. I’ll bet he’s got a second man helping to operate the press and hang the pages to dry. And you don’t want your typesetter proofreading his own pages if you can help it.”
“That makes sense.” Francis stroked his moustache with his forefinger, searching for another question and not finding one. He’d have to consider that hint about recruiting at church. His aunt, Lady Russell, could probably give him a list of the most radical churches in London, if she were inclined to assist him, which he rather doubted. She might not shelter Martin in her own home, but she wouldn’t help to apprehend him either.
Brocksby placed his hands flat on the countertop. “Do you have specific authors in mind, or are you just wanting Puritan-leaning tracts in general?”
“Let me try an assortment. If you have anything written by members of Parliament, that’s where I’d like to start.”
“What will you be looking for, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t know,” Francis admitted. “A sense of style. Martin is witty, unlike every Presbyterian or Calvinist I’ve ever read.”
Brocksby nodded. “If you don’t mind my making a suggestion, take a close look at the type as well. If you’ve got a pair of spectacles, try those. Martin’s printers won’t find it easy to replace a damaged piece, so you might find a crack in the W’s or a missing bit from the down stroke of an S.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion. Thank you!” Francis kept a pair of spectacles in his writing box for studying illustrations. He loved using them. They made him feel that he could peer into the very heart of the book itself. This promised to be a most enjoyable couple of days, even if he didn’t find any answers.
* * *
By Saturday afternoon, Francis had exhausted his stock of pamphlets, his eyes, and Tom’s patience. He’d sent him out on Friday afternoon to knock on doors in Gray’s Inn asking to borrow commonplace books with notes from speeches made by the Puritan party in Parliament, especially from the seventies, when the battles over the Book of Common Prayer had raged the loudest. Francis had stayed up until the wee hours, so entranced by this extraordinary glimpse into those debates that he often forgot why he had embarked on the study in the first place.
Otherwise, the effort had not been successful, other than in the negative sense. He could rule out Sir Richard Knightley as the author of Martin’s witty tracts; also John Penry, another name often bandied about in that context. He’d never read such stultifying speeches in his life. A detailed transcript of a speech Job Throckmorton gave in favor of the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, tickled Francis’s rhetorical instincts, but it lacked the peppery sauce of Martin’s prose. Close, but not quite.
He had set Thomas Nashe, who was no fool in spite of his manner, to studying the minutiae of the printed pages, comparing Martin’s works to every printed book, pamphlet, or broadside in the house. The satirist had been able to identify several quirks unique to Martin’s texts, but could not find similar flaws anywhere else. Those characters must have been damaged in transit, after Martin’s gang of printers had been assembled.
Those errata would testify against those men once they were caught, but wouldn’t help locate them.
Francis clambered off his high bed and went to the stand by the mirror where Pinnock had left a basin, a jug, and a spray of herbs. He frisked a sprig of rosemary in a splash of water and dabbed it about his cheeks and temples to revive his wits. Then he wrapped a shawl around his shoulders and went into his study chamber to slump in his big chair and stare at the spines of books laid in tidy stacks on the shelves. Something tugged at his memory, something connected to something in Martin Junior’s Theses, which he’d just finished reading again. Something, therefore, specifically Presbyterian.
He didn’t collect such works, although his mother and his aunt owned them all. Francis held the sprig of rosemary under his nose, inhaling the inspirative scent. The book he wanted undoubtedly reposed in his mother’s library at Gorhambury. No good to him now. Or . . .
His gaze shifted to the ebony chest where he kept personal letters worth reading again, mostly words of advice from his uncle and aunts about pursuing or ceasing to pursue some post or honor. He read more than books and pamphlets, didn’t he? He must read four letters a day on an average day, most of them written by his well-educated, Reformation-minded relations.
He hopped up and got the chest, setting it on his desk and opening the carved lid, releasing the scent of the lavender his mother used to ward off plague. He began unfolding letters, reading just enough to remember their contents, then folding them back up, setting the visited ones aside. Halfway down, he found the one he sought: a letter from his Aunt Elizabeth written several years ago, when Gray’s had been searching for a new chaplain.
She’d been outraged by some remarks made by one of the benchers that Francis had passed along as a conversational tidbit over Sunday dinner. She must have fumed about it all night because the next morning brought this tart missive, including, word for word, Martin Junior’s thesis number seventy-five: “That by the doctrine of the Church of England it is popery to translate the word presbyteros into priests, and so to call the ministers of the gospel, priests.” This word means ‘elder,’ Nephew. Cleave closely to the original source and language in any translation, lest you stray down false paths laid by lesser interpreters.”
Nothing irritated the Cooke sisters more than a mangled Bible translation.
He dug through the chest, searching out all his aunt’s letters, including three with poems she’d written commemorating events in her life. She was an accomplished poet; he’d forgotten that. Reading them all together like this revealed the distinctive qualities of her style — the very elements of Martin’s prose that had been tickling his memory all this time. Aunt Elizabeth had Martin’s erudition, rich vocabulary, and passionate conviction, but more — she shared his inimitable energy of expression and a capacity for vivid characterization.
He jumped up to retrieve his copies of Martin’s pamphlets, sitting back down to shift between those and the letters. Yes, yes! It was so clear once the key had turned to unlock the fundamental secret. His aunt had surpassed herself in her guise as Martin Marprelate, achieving a sprightly, challenging, gleeful tone not to be found in her letters. But then, Martin wrote for a larger audience.
He had it. He heaved a great sigh and leaned back in his chair, holding the letter limply in his hand while the pieces fell into place in his mind, like metal letters snicking into a typesetter’s composition stick. Only now the message was complete. Martin Marprelate’s true name was Lady Elizabeth Russell, formerly Elizabeth Cooke, self-styled Dowager Countess of Bedford.
At last, he understood how Martin had been able to evade the combined efforts of the Church and the Privy Council. He was in fact a she! Not a member of Parliament, though Lady Russell would make a formidable one. Archbishop Whitgift had come the closest with his veiled accusation of Francis’s mother. He’d aimed in the right direction, but struck at the wrong sister.
Francis laughed out loud, alone in his chambers, but his exhilaration swiftly faded. He had solved the greatest mystery of the day all by himself. But who could he tell? He pictured himself visiting his aunt in her house in Blackfriars, scolding her soundly, forbidding her ever to write anything other than a personal letter again. Her imaginary laughter burned his ears. He had as much authority over his aunt as he did over his mother, and his authority over his mother was exactly nil.