Francis risked arriving a few minutes late for his appointment with his uncle, even though it was he who had requested the urgent meeting. Lady Alice had arrived at his door with her Spanish maid scarcely an hour ago with a most extraordinary tale. And while Tom was fully capable of guarding a bound man, he couldn’t do so indefinitely, especially in a place they did not control. That music master must have other pupils. He might also have an abundance of inquisitive friends and neighbors, for all they knew. Peter Hollowell had to be moved to a more secure location as quickly and as discreetly as possible.
But Francis didn’t want to sit waiting in the loggia for any longer than necessary. He didn’t want to speak to Robert until after the whole story had been unfolded to Lord Burghley; perhaps not even then. He had suspected his cousin of collusion in treasonous acts for more than a week. Genuinely suspected him! He had allowed himself to believe Robert capable of winking at murder and cynically setting Francis on the trail.
Thanks to Sir Francis Walsingham and some thorough soul-searching, he understood that his suspicion had been wholly crafted out of envy and resentment. Now he was bitterly ashamed of himself and not ready to face the unknowing victim of his ill-motivated sophistry.
In the event, he’d arrived precisely on time and had been ushered straight into his uncle’s well-appointed study. This was Francis’s favorite room, filled with books, maps, and curiosities from around the world. He didn’t envy it — he was innocent of that, at least — but he admired it and hoped one day to achieve such a room for himself.
Lord Burghley sat behind his desk, its polished surface hidden by scrolls and stacks of papers. His Lordship seemed to have aged a year in the four months since his wife’s death. He’d become an old man and showed an old man’s impatience with the usual courtesies. “You have urgent news for me, Nephew?”
“Yes, my lord.” Francis stood before the desk, clasping his hands before him like a student reciting a lesson. “I have identified the murderer of the pamphleteers. My clerk has him under guard in a house in the Savoy. He sent word to me via two reliable messengers who already knew the man’s identity and can be trusted to keep it secret. Thus there are only four persons who know the truth. Six, counting Your Lordship now, and the villain himself.”
“Why all the hugger-mugger? Who is this man?”
“Peter Hollowell, your son’s secretary.”
Lord Burghley frowned, drawing deep lines from his nose to the chin concealed by his long gray beard. “How can this be? Do you have proofs?”
“Beyond all doubt. We have the man himself, caught in the act of attempting a third murder. That victim is one of the four who know the secret. Furthermore, this identification pulls together everything I’ve learned about these murders.”
“This is a terrible thing, Francis. I know you wouldn’t tell me such a thing if you weren’t certain. But I find it very hard to believe.”
Francis nodded. He let a silence grow, giving his uncle time to adjust his understanding of Peter Hollowell. When he heard the soft sigh of resignation, he said quietly, “I also know who Martin Marprelate is.”
“Who?”
Francis hesitated. He should have rehearsed this part, devised some roundabout way to approach the pronunciation of the improbable name. He met his uncle’s dark eyes briefly, then looked away. “He is my Aunt Elizabeth. Your sister-in law, Lady Russell.”
Silence met that bald assertion. Francis risked another glance at his uncle’s face and saw something he had never before seen written across the familiar features: pure, unadulterated astonishment. His aged uncle gaped at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He huffed a hoarse breath, then pushed out a volley of short laughs that quickly rolled into rumbling laughter, tilting his face toward the painted plaster ceiling and shaking his rounded shoulders.
Francis watched in amazement, grinning in sympathy with the merry sound, but utterly confounded. Finally, his uncle drew in a long breath and let it out in a long sigh, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. He smiled warmly. “Thank you, Nephew. Since my beloved Mildred left me, I feared I might never laugh again.” He grinned, another seldom-seen expression. It took years off his face. “Oh, how she would love this! Elizabeth was always the unruly one — headstrong, unwilling to make any concessions to the exigencies of her sex. Your mother helped, I suppose, although I wouldn’t have thought either of them capable of some of Martin’s more scurrilous passages.”
“I’m fairly certain my mother knew. But I believe the more colorful sections were written by Lady Alice Trumpington.”
“The Earl of Orford’s daughter? The one who has been living with Elizabeth?”
“The same,” Francis said. “She’s the one who discovered Hollowell’s role in conveying Martin’s manuscripts to the printers.”
“She’s an unusual young woman, from what I understand.”
“That she is, my lord.”
Lord Burghley grunted, his face composed once again. Back to the business at hand. “This can never be known.”
“I agree.”
His Lordship tapped a finger on his desk. “I will have to tell Robert. It’s only fair. And he has a knack for this sort of thing. He’ll think of a way to stop Hollowell’s mouth.”
“There is only one sure way, my lord.” Francis would never forget those long fingers wrapped around his throat — never. “He cannot appear at a trial, not even in the Star Chamber. Any jury in England would vote to hang him.”
Lord Burghley made a sour face. “You’re right. I agree, though it pains me. But Lady Russell is beyond all punishment, other than a time in the Tower, during which she would only write more of those troublesome pamphlets. They’d inevitably be smuggled out, and she’d become a hero, a rallying cry for the radical nonconformists we’re trying to suppress.”
“I can’t begin to contemplate the queen’s response to this news,” Francis said.
“No!” Lord Burghley shuddered. “Her Majesty must never know.” He nodded at Francis with a grim smile. They’d persuaded each other to take a course neither liked nor would advocate in an ordinary case. But nothing about the Martin Marprelate controversy was ordinary. “I’ll invite myself to dinner with my sister-in-law and make the situation clear. Martin must cease to publish from this day and let himself fade quietly into history.”
“Very well, my lord. We can trust the others to remain silent. My clerk has proven himself more than once, and Lady Alice has a vested interest in burying Martin’s identity.”
“Good.” Lord Burghley smiled and selected a small scroll from the detritus on his desk. “Now I believe it is my turn to surprise you.”
Francis accepted the scroll and unrolled it. He read the few short paragraphs at a glance and let out a sharp, “Ha!” Then he caught himself and bowed his head, saying “Thank you, my lord. This is most welcome.”
The document granted Francis the reversion of the office of the Clerk of the Counsel in Star Chamber. That meant that when the present clerk retired or died, the post would go to Francis, without having to compete for it by bribing influential courtiers. The Star Chamber was the nation’s court of last appeal, in which exceptional cases — or cases involving exceptional persons — were heard by Privy Councilors along with judges from the other courts, presided over by the Lord Chancellor. The Clerk of the Counsel was vitally important. He managed all the routine business of the court and participated in many of its honors and obligations. Honors aside, the potential for lucrative fees and gifts was enormous. Francis’s future was assured.
He grinned, eyes dancing with pleasure at the reward, which must have been prepared before this visit and thus without knowing if Francis would succeed in stopping Martin’s minion, much less capturing him and identifying Martin to boot. In truth, Francis had expected nothing beyond the usual bland words of praise and vague promises. He’d given up all belief that his uncle would ever help him in any material way.
But this! This clerkship was beyond his wildest hopes. He thanked his uncle again — perhaps several times — and made his way out of the house and through the gardens, his sight obscured by visions of himself in the clerk’s traditional velvet robe, solemnly noting those present at some trial of national importance. His feet barely touched the ground.
To think, he’d been inches away from turning his back on his own uncle, wise and generous, to throw in his lot with the young Earl of Essex. A favorite, yes, but an untried youth. His time had not yet come.
No, the motto his father had chosen for the family coat of arms still spoke the truth. Mediocria firma — safety in moderation. The best course, the safest course, was to rely on family. They would come through, in the end.
It wasn’t until he was climbing the stairs to his chambers that Francis remembered that the present clerk was only something like thirty-five years old. Worse, he was the wiry, vigorous sort who enjoyed good health and a longer-than-normal span. He’d even boasted once, at some court affair, of following the queen’s model in taking only light meals and regular exercise. It might be forty years before he gave up the ghost and the office reverted to Francis. Until then, this “reward” was worth less than the parchment on which it was written.
* * *
Tom sat at the small desk in Bacon’s study chamber, making another painstaking copy of the twenty-five legal maxims. All the excitement of the past few weeks had died down. Nashe had gone back to his garret, vowing to write the definitive answer to Martin Marprelate. Tom had egged him on, saying, “You’ll tease the rascal out of hiding yet, my friend!”
He had not the slightest inclination of ever revealing the great secret. That blast would knock down everyone in a wide circle around Martins Junior and Senior, and he had close ties to both. He would never tell anyone, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the private knowledge.
He didn’t know everything anyway. Like, for example, whether Peter Hollowell still breathed. It had been a full week since two taciturn men had backed a cart up to the house in the Savoy and carried out a heavy, rolled-up carpet. Tom had examined the letter they’d showed him from seal to signature, then stood aside to let them do their job. He hadn’t asked where they were taking his prisoner. Mr. Bacon had assured him the matter was now out of their hands and they should leave it at that.
Tom understood. They could never let Peter Hollowell say anything to anyone, not even standing on the platform at Tyburn with the rope around his neck.
The door swung open and Bacon strode in, dropping a small leather sack onto Tom’s desk as he passed. It made a cheery clinking sound. “What’s this?” Tom untied the strings and peered inside, then upended the sack into his left hand, counting the coins with his right index finger. “God’s mercy, Mr. Bacon! This is nearly three pounds!”
“Too much?” Bacon took his usual chair with a wry look on his face.
Tom chuffed at that. “More than I expected. I expected nothing, to be honest, after a whole week’s gone by. Who’s it from?”
“My cousin.”
“Did you get one?”
“I did not.”
“Huh. Well, you can’t have any of mine.” Tom poured the coins back into the purse. “I’m saving up for my suit of special livery. Three pounds, plus one from Robert Greene, if I can collect it. Another hundred jobs like this one and I’ll be master of my own estate.”
Bacon raised his eyes to heaven. “May we never have another job like this one!” He picked up his quill, dipped it in the inkpot, and returned to writing his An Advertisement Touching the Controversies of the Church of England.
Tom had asked him why he bothered since Martin had been silenced forevermore. He answered, “Only five people now living know the truth about Martin Marprelate. Besides, the advice I offer here applies beyond the bounds of that single episode in our history.”
Tom couldn’t argue with that. Then the words “now living” echoed in his mind. That answered his question about Peter Hollowell. Good riddance! He’d played Tom for a fool, and he’d frightened Trumpet, which wasn’t easy and could never be forgiven.
Speaking of Her Ladyship . . . Tom picked an angel out of the purse. He could spare a portion of his new wealth to take her and Catalina to the theater. He had a few ideas about her wedding night he wanted to discuss. They could thrash out the details over supper at the Goose and Gall.
Trumpet loved the theater and always insisted on the best of everything: seats in the middle gallery, bags of roasted hazelnuts, mugs of best ale, and a thick cushion for her noble arse. He added those things up, along with two bottles of sack and supper for three. He fished out another coin and flicked it into the air. They had a few good times left before the day of doom. And with a little clever plotting, that day might not be so black after all.
THE END