by Karen Brooks
In attempting to shield me from her wrath, Papa was actually providing Mamma with more ammunition.
‘She’s a locksmith’s daughter, that’s all, and cannot be accused of the charges you would lay at her feet.’
Mamma made a noise of disgust.
Unaware of the effect of his words, Papa would continue to defend and even praise me, and I loved him for it.
‘She is my Athena, my Hecate, and, like these goddesses, she’s but the key holder. She holds the keys to my heart, the city that is my forged mind.’ He would laugh at his joke. Mamma didn’t. ‘One day I will pass these keys to the man who deserves her. Not before, Valentina, so hold your peace.’
Mamma would throw up her hands and stride from the room. If she spied me hiding near the door, she never acknowledged it. I would wait until she ascended the stairs then enter the room and my father’s arms.
And so, as I grew older and spent more time with Papa, the arguments would circle. Despite my joy in Papa’s pride, I could not fault Mamma in her concerns. It didn’t take much to disqualify a woman from the marriage market. Stories of spinsters with hare lips, six toes, eyes that stared in different directions, hair that fell out when combed and monstrous growths upon their bodies abounded — any night I spent in the kitchen with the apprentices and servants I’d be regaled with tales of good fortune and woe. That all these deformities and many more besides became invisible depending on the size of the dowry, business or house a woman brought with her to a marriage bed was not lost on any of us. Alas, my dowry was merely adequate, Mamma said, and it was up to me to make up the deficit by making myself more desirable. My skills and even my education, according to Mamma, did naught in that regard.
Unspoken, but louder for that, was the fact that in a world where appearances counted for so much, I was already at a disadvantage. Physically I was most unfashionable. Uncommonly tall, slender as a willow stick but with olive-toned skin and jet-black hair, I was most often described as ungainly and teased as the spawn of a blackamoor or a Romany. I looked nothing like Mamma, who had the fiery hair of our Queen, her creamy complexion and the voluptuousness of a woodland nymph. I’d taken father’s height and build, but my hair, skin and eyes — which were a pale grey circled by dark rings (like a new planet gliding into our ken, Papa teased, while Caleb sighed at his poetry) — were my own.
‘Your nonna, she had such eyes,’ Mamma would say bitterly, as if I’d not inherited a familial characteristic but a malediction. ‘Your zio, your uncle, he too had the dark hair of Romans,’ she would spit before once again rinsing mine in lemon juice in a useless effort to lighten it. If Papa’s religion had allowed it, I knew she would have smeared my face with ceruse; anything to make my prospects more appealing.
It used to bother me that I didn’t look like my parents, in the way that family are the first mirrors upon which we see ourselves reflected. As time passed and their faces wizened and their hair became sprinkled with grey, I understood that any resemblance was fleeting. If God had blessed us with three score years or more, we all looked alike, as if we belonged to a much greater family — and we did, according to our parish priest, Reverend Bernard — the good Lord’s.
I don’t know exactly when I understood that Papa, who’d never anticipated passing on his craft to me, had come to rely upon the expertise I’d developed. Only that one day, as he summoned me to the workshop when Mamma was out on errands, and I unpicked the locks he’d placed upon a noblewoman’s cassone, testing their strength, it struck me that this was what had happened — despite Mamma’s efforts to prevent it, and Papa’s denials. Just as he envisaged what lay within the metal he melted and shaped, he’d seen what lay within me and forged accordingly. Papa had raised a daughter and created a lock-pick.
And, may God forgive my conceit, there was a time I was glad that he had.
My education and talent with locks did not, despite Mamma’s fears, prevent someone she deemed worthy seeking my hand. She’d been so proud the day Isaac and his father came to the house with their proposal. Bestowing a kiss upon my forehead, she’d dismissed Papa’s resistance to the match and my overt dismay with callous indifference.
What if Raffe had not appeared when he did, offering sympathy and an alternative? What if Mamma had heeded my importuning and Papa’s counsel that we wait and not force the betrothal to Isaac? Would things have been different?
Chiding myself for such thoughts, reminding myself the past could not be refashioned, I tiptoed over to open the workshop window. The tang of molten metal, the heady smells of leather, trapped smoke, male flesh and unwashed animals had made the room stuffy.
‘Mallory? Leave the window.’ Papa’s voice was gruff. ‘Come here.’
I approached his side cautiously. Poised upon their haunches, as if anticipating adventure, the dogs were vigilant, their eyes shining in the light of the forge.
‘Sir?’ I said softly. ‘Dickon said you have need of me.’ Oh, how my heart sang to say those words. The workshop had been forbidden since my return. I smoothed my hands over the black I wore at Mamma’s insistence. As long as I remained under their roof, it was to be in the colours of night; colours that supported the story she’d woven to explain my long absence. In this she would not be gainsaid.
I stood as close to Papa as I dared, certain he could hear the hammering of my heart. His arms rested on the table, either side of a forziere, a heavily decorated gilt-edged box. His hands were curled into fists, his eyes fixed upon the small chest.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ he replied absent-mindedly, and it was as if I was nine again, learning at my father’s knee, sharing the secrets of his craft, honing my skills.
Before I asked Papa where it had come from, I took a moment to study him. His thick pepper-and-salt hair was ruffled, his face pale, his dark eyes red-rimmed and his forehead creased with worry. Still wearing a leather apron, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow, exposing his sinewy forearms, the dusting of fine hair and the old scars. I’d barely seen him, let alone spent time with him, since he’d fetched me home. Though he’d deny it, and the admission pained me immeasurably, Papa had been avoiding me. I missed his company; I missed this, I thought, absorbing the workshop, the equipment, the smells.
Drumming his fingers on the table as he stared at the casket, Papa’s agitation was palpable. I glanced around again, but could see nothing out of the ordinary, though the hair on the back of my neck began to dance to a discordant internal tune.
‘Dickon said you have a guest — a gentleman —?’ I left the sentence unfinished. ‘Is there a problem? Is there any … news I should know?’
Stepping back from the table so suddenly I had to jump out of the way, Papa ignored my questions and gestured to the table.
‘Tell me, what do you make of it?’ He swung away towards the forge, lifting a poker to prod the burning coals. I was left to examine the small chest.
Sorrow welled. Whoever had been here, father wouldn’t tell me; worse, he could not bring himself to watch me work. No doubt recollections of happier times battled within him. With a small, sad sigh, I took off my gloves.
Pulling the candles closer, I unpinned my hat then tossed it to the side, and rolled up my sleeves. The bruises and scrapes that had once covered my arms — and so appalled Papa when he first found me, arousing in him tenderness commingled with rage that someone could do such damage to his flesh and blood — had all but faded. When I caught him checking, mayhap remembering, he lowered his gaze.
Large enough to be mistaken for a generous jewellery box, the casket had four panels and a painted lid ornamented with tiny iron gargoyles, one perched upon each corner. Jewel boxes were generally smaller but deeper, more feminine in their crafting; this was something else. Decorated with scenes from the Creation, the first panel showed Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden, the serpent, and the Tree of Knowledge. The second told the tale of Cain and Abel. As I peered more closely, I noted
that Eve was depicted with long red hair, white skin and an unusually high forehead.
Wiping my palms down the side of my kirtle, I was excited by what I was viewing, distracted by what this casket promised.
‘This image of Eve, she’s been designed to look like Her Majesty,’ I said. ‘Adam bears a close resemblance to the Spanish King, Philip.’ A tiny exclamation escaped. ‘And the serpent wears the face of none other than the Earl of Leicester.’ Father spun around as I examined the next panel. ‘And here,’ I pointed, ‘Cain is King Philip also — and Abel —’ My hand flew to cover my mouth. ‘Abel is Queen Elizabeth.’ I gaped at my father. ‘What game is this?’
My thoughts flew to Caleb’s play, to the risks he’d taken with the barely disguised politics he had enacted upon the stage; the criticism he’d dared to level towards our ruler and the religious tolerance he sought to espouse. Here were the same people playing Biblical characters. The message was clear. What was happening?
‘I would it were a game, Mallory. Continue.’ Papa’s eyes darted towards the gloom collected around the door of the shop.
My heart beat faster now. Heat suffused my cheeks. This was no ordinary object but one that spoke of something darker, more dangerous … something heretical. While this false forziere might have been regarded as a parody, an ironic retelling of Creation, it was also, when read a particular way, a call to arms — a Catholic call to arms. The scenes on the rear of the casket were similarly rendered — Elizabeth, Philip and other members of the Queen’s court, some of whom I didn’t recognise, replacing figures from the Old Testament.
Crouching until my eyes were level with the middle of the box, I studied the escutcheon and ran my fingers lightly over the surface. I tried to prise it away from the wood, but it remained sealed. Tracing the embossed metal, the chasing and central plate had a coat of arms engraved upon it. I searched for a hidden spring. Agitating the metal with my nail, I managed to slip a finger beneath a section of filigree. Pushing it gently, there was a slight noise and then a piece swung aside to reveal a keyhole. Raising a candle, I studied the cloverleaf shape.
‘Ah,’ sighed Papa. I almost leapt out of my skin. He was right behind me and I hadn’t heard him approach. ‘I’d forgotten the ease with which you could accomplish that.’ I raised a hand to touch his arm, to share a remembrance, but lowered it again. I didn’t want to alter the sudden intimacy this mysterious casket had created between us. For the first time since I’d come home, he looked me in the eye.
‘I need you to open this.’
My heart soared.
‘I will.’ It was a vow. But, at the back of my mind, a small voice chimed. Why does Papa need me to open what is within his compass? Ignoring my reservations, I turned my attention to the task.
‘Be careful,’ he said, his manner more like that of old. He strode to the other table and threw me an apron, which I caught deftly. Dragging his stool out, he offered it to me. ‘This is no ordinary container. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure the contents cannot be easily accessed, that they remain secret.’
Taking the stool, I sat and chose what I required from the selection of tools upon the bench.
The room had grown uncomfortably warm. I could feel a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades and another leave my temple and begin to course its way down the side of my face. I swiped it with my arm. Outside, thunder growled and the dogs gave their own muffled retort. Using two long metal picks — both bent in such a fashion that to an untrained eye they looked like cast-offs from the forge, one possessing a small hook at the end — I positioned myself so I could work the keyhole from below. Inserting first the hooked rod, I slid the other in past it. Satisfied they were in position, I began manoeuvring them, turning my head so my ear was close to the chest. The rods teased the opening — one at the top and one at the bottom. I looked as though I were driving a miniature cart as I held the picks like reins, rotating them slowly, my hands steady, my breathing deliberately measured.
Just as my fingers began to ache from lack of practice, there was a sharp click. The buried wards in the opening of the keyhole gave and simultaneously the lid came ajar.
‘I knew … ’ began Papa, then a figure detached itself from the shadows next to the door to the shop.
I let out a small cry and dropped the rods. The dogs leapt to their feet, baring their teeth and snarling. The rods rolled and clanged, emitting a tinny fanfare. The fire in the forge sparked, sending a cascade of orange into the workshop. The triumphant rain beat hard against the window as a man walked slowly into the light.
‘You were right, Gideon,’ said a deep, clipped voice.
With the exception of a modest white ruff, the stranger was dressed completely in black. Wiry, with raven hair, swarthy skin, a greying beard and moustache, his lean face was topped by an ebony skullcap. Heavily hooded eyes appraised me quickly.
‘You said you’d remain out of sight,’ said Papa, anger marching across his face. He pushed me behind him.
My eyes strayed from the man to the forziere and back to Papa. My insides were churning, my resolve to be calm melting away. Who was this dark man?
‘Mistress Mallory,’ said the stranger, stepping around Papa and taking my limp hand in his. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.’
I found my voice. ‘I’m afraid, good sir, you have the advantage.’ I dipped a curtsey and tried to extract my fingers.
The man’s lips curled and he glanced at Papa who, with a shake of his head that bespoke surrender, moved aside and mumbled, ‘Mister Secretary Walsingham, my daughter, Mallory. Mallory, this is Sir Francis, a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council and an old friend.’
The room swam, my vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of tangerine and indigo. Oh dear God. Papa’s visitor, his old friend, wasn’t just a noble. He was none other than the most dangerous man in all of England.
The man from whom no secret was safe.
THREE
HARP LANE, LONDON
The 18th of November, Anno Domini 1580
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Sir Francis Walsingham’s name was known far and wide, if only to strike fear in the hearts of those who heard it. Including mine. But it was not just his name; his sepulchral appearance and raven-like manner whispered threat as well. No wonder Dickon had been overcome.
We stood before the casket — me, Sir Francis and Papa — in an unlikely tableaux. Gradually the hammering in my chest subsided, the vice that gripped the back of my neck loosened. The dogs, sensing that the stranger in our midst posed no immediate menace, quietened. Their indifference allowed me to see him not so much as a figure of state authority come to cast judgement, but merely someone capable who’d sought professional assistance. Someone whom Papa named an ‘old friend’. Why, then, had we never heard his name in our home? Why did he not feature in the stories of my childhood? Studying him beneath my lashes, I confirmed my initial assessment: capable and unpredictable. The Lord knows, there’s a great deal to be feared from those qualities, depending how and for whom they’re deployed. But I sensed no peril from this man — not this night.
Aware of my hand still in his, I tried again to withdraw it, but he held fast. Turning it over, with astonishing liberty he examined my palm, running one long ink-stained finger to the calloused tip and then twisting it back and studying my nails. My hands were no longer those of a master craftsman’s privileged daughter, and had seen better days. I felt like a hind in a county market.
‘That was expertly done.’ He nodded at the casket and released my fingers. Facing the table once more, Sir Francis fastened his arms behind his back and bent to examine the small forziere closely.
‘May I?’ he asked, indicating his wish to open the lid. I nodded.
Straightening, he lifted it. His face fell. Beneath the elegant satin-lined top sat another one made of the same dark wood as the exterior, only this one lacked decoration, except for two holes in the centre.
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‘I see,’ he said, and went to place his fingers in them.
I grabbed his wrist. ‘Don’t.’
Papa groaned and placed his head in his hands. ‘Forgive her, Francis … ’
‘Why?’ Sir Francis directed his question to me.
‘If I’m correct —’ I released him slowly and swallowed, flashing an apologetic look at Papa. Without ceremony, I invited Sir Francis to stand aside. As God is my witness, working with locks again, unravelling their mysteries, instilled in me something of my former self, the confidence I once wore as comfortably as my leather apron. ‘These finger holes are a false key. They won’t open the casket. They’re simply placed there to make sure anyone who tries cannot open this or any other.’
Unperturbed by my bluntness, the Mister Secretary’s eyebrows rose. ‘Demonstrate.’
I quickly went to the forge, returning with two pieces of kindling, each roughly the width of a finger. Placing them in the holes, I bore down hard then tried to extract them. There was a loud crack. Slowly, I withdrew the wood. The pieces were half the length they’d been, the ends shattered.
Sir Francis took a step back. Papa buried a wry smile.
‘These kinds of safeguards are rare, but deadly,’ I said. ‘A spring makes the metal beneath snap like jaws. If these had been your fingers … ’ I held the pieces towards him.
‘Quite.’ To Sir Francis’s credit, he studied the wood judiciously. Only the slight widening of his pupils revealed his surprise. ‘How did you know?’
I glanced at Papa, who gave a small nod. ‘I’ve seen two others. The first some years back.’ I indicated the casket. ‘The lock’s design is Italian or Spanish. The other, well … ’ I hesitated.
‘I made it for a Genoese noble,’ said Papa. ‘It was just as effective.’
