The Huntress by Susan Carroll Page A

countenance. His pointed black beard and sallow complexion had led the queen to dub him “the Moor.” Attired in simple dark clothing, he could have easily been mistaken for a clerk himself instead of what he was, Elizabeth’s principal secretary and a powerful member of her privy council.
    He handed the letter off to the page, commanding, “See that this is dispatched at once.”
    As the young man hurried off on his errand, Walsingham beckoned to Martin, indicating he should be seated. “Your pardon for the delay, Master Wolfe.”
    “I am entirely at your disposal, Mr. Secretary.” Martin sketched a bow, reflecting that that was far truer than he liked. “I would hardly expect to take precedence over some urgent matter of state.”
    “Matters of state,” Walsingham grimaced. “Yes, there is always an endless supply of those. I have been besieged of late by letters from justices throughout the country, complaining of riots owing to that infernal comet.”
    “The comet?” Martin arched one brow as he settled himself into a chair opposite the desk.
    “That fiery object that has been hovering in the sky this past month,” the secretary replied dryly. “I trust you have noticed it.”
    “It would be impossible not to, but I can find enough trouble right here on earth without concerning myself with a celestial disturbance a million miles away.”
    “Regrettably, you are one of the few with the sense to realize that. I vow that the rest of the country seems to have run a bit mad, panicked citizens paying out good coin to mountebanks for protective charms, preachers ranting on street corners about the end of days. Most recently, I had this letter from a justice of the peace regarding an agitator in Surrey who has been spreading untold alarm.”
    Walsingham picked up a sheet of parchment and read,

    “This wild-eyed vagrant hath stirred up much unrest in my district by preaching that the comet is a manifestation of the wrath of the Almighty, the fiery orb forged of the sins of mankind rising like a noxious gas into the heavens.”

    Martin laughed. “Good Lord. If that were the case, we’d be plagued by comets every day of every year.”
    “Precisely. Unfortunately, this madman has managed to stir up a great deal of hysteria. The justice planned to hang him. I, however, recommended the poor fool be confined to St. Bethlehem’s Hospital for the insane. That will just as effectively put an end to his agitation.”
    Locked up in Bedlam, likely never again to see the light of day. Martin repressed a shudder, thinking he would have by far preferred the rope.
    Walsingham tossed the letter from the justice atop a stack of other papers and rubbed his eyes. There were some who referred to the secretary as the man who never slept and Martin could almost believe it.
    There was something preternatural about this dark, gaunt man who tended to keep his own counsel in a court noted for its wit and gossip. Martin often reflected how Sir Francis must stand out in his somber clothing amongst the bright silks, jewels, and furs of the courtiers, like a raven amongst peacocks.
    Or perhaps, and far more likely, he simply faded into the background, a silent shadow, ever watchful. Watching and waiting—it was what Walsingham did best.
    Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands across the front of his dark robes and trained his penetrating gaze upon Martin.
    “The hour grows late, Master Wolfe, and I have many more matters that require my attention. So let us get down to business. What have you to report to me? Some good information at last, I trust.”
    “I have information. I don’t know how good you will find it,” Martin replied. “The man who has been frequenting the Plough Inn near the Temple bar and styling himself Captain Fortescue is an imposter, just as you suspected. He is really a priest by the name of John Ballard.”
    “Indeed.” Walsingham leaned forward eagerly. “You are sure of this?”
    “I attended a