The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘I do not require thanks, Mallory Bright, only loyalty,’ he said. ‘Only loyalty,’ he repeated, like a judge delivering a sentence.

  TEN

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  Friday the 13th of January, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Before we reached home, Papa extracted a promise from me. I was to allow him to tell Mamma of the arrangement with Sir Francis.

  ‘I’m not sure how she’ll react,’ he said.

  I wasn’t certain either.

  Comfort took Papa’s thick cloak and folded it over one arm while he plucked off his gloves. She handed him an old rag and he sat on a stool and wiped his boots while I discarded my pattens and exchanged my pumps for the slippers Comfort passed me. The entryway was dim; only two candles burned, casting a pleasant light. The kitchen door was ajar, emitting a golden glow and the soft murmur of voices and the clatter of pans. The tantalising smell of baking fish and spices drifted on the air. Hunger gnawed my insides. I’d barely broken my fast, I was so churned up over our visit to Sir Francis, but now my appetite had returned. Papa caught my look and nodded. He too was hungry.

  Comfort grinned. ‘Mistress Pernel has outdone herself this evening. In honour of our guest, there’ll be baked flounder and a lamprey pie.’

  ‘Guest?’ asked Papa. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’ He passed her the rag and stood up.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Comfort. ‘It be Master Caleb’s patron, Lord Nathaniel Warham. He called to see Master Caleb. The mistress said we were to invite him to supper.’ She could barely conceal her excitement.

  ‘Mistress Valentina?’ Papa could not have been more surprised had the cat walked in wielding a sword and demanding a duel. ‘Valentina invited him?’

  ‘Verily, sir. When Mistress Angela told her who’d arrived, she insisted he be brought to her parlour. Excuse me saying so, sir, but the man is so tall, he had to fold himself in half to fit beneath the beams. But he was so mannered and courtly. Mistress Angela said his visit cheered the mistress no end.’

  Stunned, Papa turned to me. ‘Well, well.’

  ‘She invited him to dine personally,’ added Comfort.

  Papa’s hands froze. My mouth formed a round O.

  ‘Did she now?’ he said finally.

  ‘Caleb said his new patron is a man of extraordinary charm, Papa,’ I said, as much to reassure myself as my father.

  ‘Indeed. He must be, or else he’s possessed of powers to rival Doctor Dee.’ He looked toward the stairs. I knew what he was thinking. If Mamma was in such good spirits she would admit a stranger, albeit a lord, into her rooms, now was a good time to tell her of my situation. ‘Where’s his lordship now?’

  ‘In the parlour. Master Caleb is entertaining him.’

  Papa glanced at the door. Duty dictated he should greet our guest. There was a muffled burst of laughter. For certes, Caleb was entertaining.

  Papa’s gaze returned to the darkening stairs.

  There was no help for it. As much as I wanted to retreat to my room and consider the implications of the day and what I’d agreed to do, I must put on a social countenance; I owed Papa that at the very least.

  ‘I will attend his lordship, Papa. You go to Mamma.’ I placed a hand upon his arm.

  ‘That is best,’ he said, patting my fingers. Like a soldier going to battle, he straightened the armour of his doublet before climbing the stairs. ‘I’ll return anon.’

  Comfort and I watched him ascend, the stairs creaking.

  ‘Comfort,’ he leaned over the railing on the first landing. ‘Bring some wine to your mistress’s rooms, would you? The one from Gascony. And some food.’

  ‘Mistress said she would join us downstairs,’ said Comfort.

  Papa tightened his grip on the balustrade. ‘I’m afraid she won’t be; not any longer.’ Could Comfort hear the heaviness in his tone? Was the information he carried really so burdensome?

  ‘Sir,’ said Comfort, looking askance at me.

  Waiting until he rapped on Mamma’s door, she whispered. ‘Bad news then?’

  I paused. ‘For Mamma, it may well be.’ Would I ever be forgiven for the pain I had caused? I prayed every night it would be so, but it seemed God was not on my side. Dwelling upon this subject only led to dark thoughts, and I’d a guest to consider. I would not greet him with a long face, not the man who had changed Caleb’s fortunes. I’d wanted to meet him and here was my chance.

  ‘Be my mirror, Comfort,’ I said as I tidied my gown. ‘Reflect back any shortcomings.’ I bent my knees slightly so Comfort could see my face. ‘I’ve a noble to greet.’

  Pushing a stray hair behind my ear and tugging at my coif, Comfort’s face softened as her eyes travelled my length, brushing snow from where it had caught on my skirts, and dusting my jacket.

  ‘There,’ she said, stepping back. ‘You’ll pass.’

  She went to open the parlour door. I grabbed her sleeve. ‘A moment.’ Worry caught me and stilled my progress. I placed a hand over my heart. It was as if someone had released a brace of pigeons inside my ribcage, unbalancing me. What was wrong? I’d never been so overcome meeting strangers before — not within the home. True, I avoided such encounters when I could, but when they occurred, I simply made myself as inconspicuous as possible. Why, even meeting Sir Francis had not caused such a reaction. This was another legacy of Raffe’s, my preference to hide — in rooms, beneath clothes.

  I inhaled deeply and exhaled, one hand pressed to my stomach. He must not be victorious in this. Mediocrita. Mediocrita. God help me.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Mistress Mallory.’ Comfort touched my shoulder. ‘When you choose, there’s none can hold a candle to you.’ Before I could stop her, Comfort opened the door and announced me, as if this were a grand house and I its lady. What none in the room saw was the huge shove she gave me.

  Tripping across the threshold, by the time the men seated by the hearth registered my entry, I’d regained my balance, though my cheeks were flooded with colour.

  ‘Mallory!’ exclaimed Caleb, leaping out of his chair. I caught a glimpse of the man opposite him before Caleb filled my vision, approaching me with arms outstretched and a huge smile that I couldn’t help but return, my anxiety receding slightly. The door clicked shut behind me. Dressed in some of his finest clothes, all velvet, beads, feathers and silk, Caleb was a picture.

  ‘Why, look who has deigned to bless us with her presence, my lord, like an actor on cue — just as your part was being discussed,’ he said, taking my hands in his and leaning forward to kiss my cheeks. As his beard brushed against my ear, he whispered, ‘Wipe that glower from your brow. You will tell me what’s placed it there later. For now, come and meet the Adonis in our midst.’

  Obediently I smoothed my forehead and turned to towards his lordship — Adonis by any other name.

  ‘Lord Nathaniel Warham,’ said Caleb. ‘May I introduce my dearest friend and daughter of the Bright household, Mistress Mallory.’ With a flourish, Caleb stepped aside.

  Like a great sail unfurling, Lord Nathaniel Warham rose languidly from his chair, downing the drink in his hand as he did so, giving me time to register his extraordinary height. Why, Comfort was right. He was simply enormous! Possessed of broad shoulders and limbs of unnatural length, he all but touched our high ceiling. While his height was astounding, so was his clothing. Whereas Caleb was attired in splendour, Lord Nathaniel appeared to have wandered in off the docks or the servant’s quarters on a country estate. His jacket, though of fine fabric, was old and threadbare. The lace cuffs of the cream-coloured shirt beneath were stained, as was his faded damask vest. His woollen hose were black and likely of good quality, but the boots into which they disappeared were scuffed and dirty. Why, the man didn’t even wear a ruff. His only adornments were the three sparkling rings on his fingers and a bent ostrich plume upon his battered bonnet. He wore a long rapier at his side; the pommel, loop guard and quillon were dented and
the sheath housing it scratched.

  If this wasn’t enough, his beard was unkempt and his tawny hair needed trimming.

  Standing before me, he gave a slight bow. His nose, Roman in design but flawed in execution, had clearly been broken. Beneath straight brows, a pair of golden eyes conducted their study boldly, without the stealth men usually adopt when examining a woman. As I took his measure, so he too took mine. Aware of the impropriety of our frank mutual regard, his eyes revealed nothing except depths of amber and honey. I looked away, selfconsciously. Never before had I been in the company of such a one. Was he really a lord? Was the guise of an ordinary fellow something he adopted when visiting those of lesser rank? The thought made me bristle. No-one I knew would enter another’s house in such a state, without at least a clean shirt and boots — not even the apprentices.

  I found his entire appearance offensive. Nonetheless, I must do my duty. Swallowing hard, I took a moment to compose myself before bidding him welcome, but before I could form the words he took my hand in his huge one, pulled me to him and, as was the accepted etiquette among many, kissed me soundly and lingeringly on the lips before releasing me with a low chuckle.

  He spoke in a voice summoned from deep within, like the contended growl of large beast.

  ‘Mistress Mallory. I’ve heard a great deal about you. Odd name for a woman, Mallory. What were your parents thinking, bestowing upon a lady the name of a knight who fancied himself a poet?’

  I could taste the sweetness of the wine he had been drinking. Did he not see my widow’s attire? Did he not understand that his greeting was improper? From the twinkle in his eye, the rogue more than understood. He took pleasure in defying conventions. Fury swelled in my chest. Mediocrita, mediocrita, I chanted to myself.

  Drawing myself up and resisting the urge to wipe my mouth, I forced a smile. ‘I imagine they never thought there’d come a time when a gentleman would pose such a question to its owner.’ His rudeness beggared belief.

  There was a pause before Lord Nathaniel tipped back his head and laughed — not any ordinary laugh either, but one that issued from the heart, loud and long. His eyes crinkled joyously and it was then I saw the twin scars running down the right-hand side of his face, across his cheek and jaw. Another scar cleaved his brow, touching the corner of his eye before disappearing beneath his bonnet. I tried to remain impassive, but fie upon him, his laugh was contagious.

  Caleb nervously released a rather high-pitched giggle and flitted between us, urging us to sit down.

  Lord Nathaniel ignored him and faced me. ‘Well met, Mistress Mallory. Well met.’ He wiped his eyes and without waiting for me to welcome him, returned to his seat, reaching to splash more wine in his goblet. The anticipated apology never came.

  He looked at Caleb, raising the ewer slightly.

  ‘Ah, I will,’ said Caleb, pushing his vessel towards his lordship. He caught my astonished look and gave a small shrug. ‘Mallory, please, sit.’ The plea in his voice was impossible to resist. So was the hand he thrust against my back, propelling me towards the spare seat at the small table.

  ‘I really should check upon Mamma,’ I said.

  ‘Your mother is a fine woman,’ said Lord Nathaniel, lifting his goblet towards the ceiling. ‘Italiana, si?’

  ‘Si, mio signore.’

  ‘Allora. Parle Italiano. Bene. Bene.’

  The man’s accent was flawless and he knew it. But rather than enhancing him, it became another flaw. How dare he speak my mother tongue so well.

  He watched as I gathered my skirts about me and Caleb poured the wine. ‘Northern blood if I’m not mistaken — the women are all beautiful there.’ He gestured towards me. ‘You look nothing like her. She is all fire and snow — you, you’re midnight and —’ He looked me up and down. Stiffening, my hands clutched the arms of the chair. The devil began to rise inside me. Who was he to be so free with his opinions upon a first meeting?

  ‘Nate —’ warned Caleb, sitting forward, trying to hide a grin. Why, he was enjoying this.

  ‘And bronze. Like a warrior princess of old.’

  Somewhat mollified, I began to relax and accepted the brimming cup Caleb passed me.

  ‘Or a Romany,’ added Lord Nathaniel, spoiling the effect.

  ‘Drink,’ mouthed Caleb, before I could say anything. I glared at him.

  This, this boor was the man Caleb had spoken of so glowingly? This dishevelled, scarred and frankly impolite swaggerer with no notion of how to behave in polite company? In the brief time I’d been in the parlour he’d dared to kiss me, insulted my name and now my appearance. Oh, he was possessed of virtues — those of a churlish, dog-hearted cur. He was not only disrespecting me, but Caleb, my home, my family. Were we so far beneath him we didn’t warrant any effort? Not even polite discourse?

  I took a sip of the Rhenish, but decided I’d no longer participate in this farce.

  ‘Caleb’s right,’ said Lord Nathaniel, observing me with the studied indifference of a lazy house cat. ‘Your timing is impeccable. I was about to propose a toast.’

  ‘Oh, to what?’ I asked, annoyed at the tremor anger lent my query. Two could play at this game; I turned slightly so my shoulder faced Lord Nathaniel and put the question to Caleb alone. I wasn’t above being discourteous myself, not when it might teach the noble clotpole a lesson.

  ‘To Caleb,’ said Lord Nathaniel, seemingly unaware of my snub. ‘I came here straight from the docks to tell him the good news. He’s been officially commissioned by none other than Her Majesty to write a play about Francis Drake and his magnificent accomplishment. It will have its first performance at Deptford in April, when the old sea-rogue is knighted.’

  Forgetting everything, I embraced Caleb. ‘Why, that’s simply wonderful. Congratulations.’ We struck goblets and Caleb jerked his chin in the direction of Lord Nathaniel. I pretended not to understand the signal and continued to address my conversation to him alone.

  ‘Does that mean your troupe will perform before Her Majesty as well?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Caleb’s eyes sparkled. ‘And many more of the gentry besides. Is it not grand? And all due to his lordship, to whom I owe more than gratitude.’ As our cups lifted in another toast, Caleb pushed mine towards his patron’s so all three vessels touched. Once more, I met Lord Nathaniel’s amber eyes and felt a wave of aggravation flood my body. I began to pray Papa would arrive and break up this intimate party, send me to Mamma’s side and free me from my social obligations. Filling the awkward silence, Caleb continued, ‘I thought Lord Leicester’s Men would earn the commission. I was not alone in that belief.’

  Lord Nathaniel pulled a face. ‘Perchance, once. But the Earl is currently out of favour.’ He stretched his legs, unaware or uncaring that his boots rested against my skirts. I tried to move them out of the way, but it was impossible without shifting my chair. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  ‘And will remain so while his current marriage lasts,’ added Caleb.

  ‘Unless an accident should befall this wife, I see no reason to predict an early end,’ shrugged Lord Nathaniel, and took a long drink. His foot moved back and forth, striking my shin. ‘My Lady Lettice is a woman of great beauty and wit.’

  As I attempted to move beyond the rhythmic touch of his boot, I pondered this exchange. It was no surprise the Earl’s of Leicester’s marital arrangements were still the subject of gossip, but I was a little shocked his lordship would so readily disparage one of his peers. He may simply have felt at ease in Caleb’s company, but I took it as another strike against his character.

  The Queen’s favourite for many years, Lord Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, had endured at court where so many other men failed. The mysterious death of his first wife, Amy Robsart, who conveniently broke her neck falling down stairs many years earlier just as rumours began circulating that the Queen would have married Lord Robert if only he were free, quenched Her Majesty’s desire for his company. Rumours of the Earl’s complicity in his w
ife’s death had dogged him ever since. Even so, he’d been loyal to the Queen — at least until just over two years ago when, without her knowledge, he’d married one of her own ladies, Lettice Knollys, who, it was said, resembled a young Elizabeth. Unable to forgive him, the Queen had banished the Earl from court. Only recently had he returned, without his wife, whose presence the Queen still refused to tolerate.

  ‘One man’s folly is another’s good fortune, is it not?’ laughed Lord Nathaniel. ‘Unlike the Earl, I’m a novelty whose gilt has not yet worn. I asked and she said aye.’ He chuckled. ‘It will not always be so easy. We’ll make the most of what’s sure to be a temporary setback for my Lord Robert. Her Majesty is wont to forgive him what she won’t in others — even a wife. So here’s to our company’s chance to shine.’ Raising his goblet, Lord Nathaniel smiled. ‘To Caleb Hollis and … what is the title you’ve bestowed on your forthcoming masterpiece?’

  ‘Drake’s Hind,’ said Caleb.

  I stared at him in horror. Drake’s Hind? Oh dear God. ‘You’re not calling your new play that, are you?’ I blurted. ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’ said Caleb, rising slightly to strike Lord Nathaniel’s goblet before bumping mine and falling back into his seat. ‘Drake’s voyage is a story of setbacks, loss, death, doubts, random plundering, a growing following, treachery from those you least expect and so much more. The man showed pluck and succeeded where most believed he’d fail. If nothing else, it will earn a laugh or two. What say you, my lord?’

  ‘I think, like all your scribblings, it might earn more than that. I’m inclined to agree with Mistress Mallory — you must rethink your title lest you risk offending those you seek to please, including Her Majesty. My credit at court will last a while yet — yours, I’m not so certain. Particularly after Circe’s Chains.’

  My misgivings on that score were well founded. Attracting the attention of the court did not always bode well, and certainly not for the likes of a writer who dared to criticise the Queen. Why, only last year Master John Stubbes, a local publisher, had lost his right hand for daring to express his views about the Queen’s proposed marriage to the Duke of Anjou in a pamphlet distributed throughout the city and beyond. News of how Sir Francis interceded on the writer’s behalf, to commute a certain death sentence to the loss of a hand, had reached even my ears. I recalled my dismay that mere words, not deeds, could attract such punishment and offered fresh prayers for my own salvation. I also sent up a swift one that Caleb might be spared such attention.