by Karen Brooks
‘Still,’ said Lord Nathaniel, ‘is it not the role of entertainment to offer a challenge to those in authority, to prick the conscience? The Queen enjoys such frolics immensely, and gives preferment to courtiers who support them.’
‘Your patronage of our troupe was timely; the good fortune you have brought me is beyond reckoning.’ Caleb grinned.
‘’Twas only what you deserved, my friend,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘I was fortunate that when I returned from the voyage with Drake, Leicester or one of the other companies hadn’t yet seduced you.’
I studied Lord Nathaniel from the corner of my eye. For all his uncouth behaviour, he seemed genuine in liking and supporting Caleb — and watching his back as well. The scars upon his face showed that he was not only a drinker, but also a fighter. I would not have been surprised if they were the consequence of his talent to offer offence. He treated others with such … what was it? Not contempt exactly, but a carelessness that bordered on disrespect. Few among the gentry would tolerate such treatment, even from one of their own. How he managed to remain in one piece at sea for three years was indeed a mystery.
Lord Nathaniel tossed back his drink and helped himself to yet another, topping up Caleb’s goblet as if he were the host, but failing to offer me any. Not that I would have accepted. I’d no desire to share anything with this man, let alone the companionship of a drink.
Caleb took a hefty swallow, dabbed at his mouth with a kerchief and, picking up the jug, added to my goblet. I could not help myself and bestowed a warm smile upon him before addressing Lord Nathaniel. ‘Perchance you’re right, my lord. In that regard, it’s the playwright’s duty to please and offend —’
Caleb broke in. ‘One just hopes to do more of the former and less of the latter. If we worried about such matters, not a word would be written, not a player would dare take the stage. Drake will enjoy the title’s jest at his expense and that of his detractors, I assure you. Marry, the play will have to receive the blessing of the Master of Revels before it’s performed.’
Lord Nathaniel nodded. ‘I don’t need your reassurance or that of Sir Edmund Tilney, my friend. I know your words will amuse and bemuse. Here’s to Caleb whom God has blessed.’ He stretched over the table and smacked Caleb’s goblet hard with his own, slopping some of the contents over the table and my skirts.
‘Zounds,’ said Caleb, putting down his drink and making a poor attempt to mop up the spill. Lord Nathaniel laughed. Laughed.
‘Sorry, Mallory.’ Caleb gazed dolefully at the darkening patch upon my skirts.
‘Do not worry yourself on my account, Caleb,’ I said, making a halfhearted effort to dab at the wine before giving up. I glared in his lordship’s direction, waiting for an apology.
‘Black hides a multitude of sins,’ said Caleb.
‘Verily,’ I snapped, my anger not directed towards him but his drunken patron.
‘If that’s so, mistress, what are you hiding beneath those raven hues?’ drawled Lord Nathaniel, heaving himself upright in his chair.
I froze and looked into the golden eyes fixed upon me, stripping away the barricades I’d erected and staring into my soul. A lump formed in my throat, checking the retort I wanted to give. My hands began to shake. Unbidden, tears dammed my eyes. Before I could gather my wits, the door opened and Papa entered.
Relief flooded me and, as he was introduced and conversation began to flow, I was able to regain my equilibrium. Almost immediately, Lord Nathaniel underwent an abrupt change. Before Papa, his manner was most courteous and solicitous, especially when he learned Mamma would not be joining us for supper. Why, no wonder this man patronised an acting troupe, for he’d missed his calling when he went to sea — it wasn’t the deck of a ship he should be treading, but the boards.
I begged pardon to go to my rooms and change. I also wanted to see Mamma — well, want was maybe too strong a word. It was the right thing to do and, sweet Jesu, I needed to escape the present company.
The men rose and bowed and I curtsied. As he escorted me to the door, Papa pulled me aside.
‘Your mother is not … well, Mallory. She’s asked to be left alone.’
My heart quickened. ‘What’s wrong, Papa? Was Lord Nathaniel’s visit too much?’ I was quite prepared to accord this man all manner of sins, including my mother’s illness.
‘Not his lordship —’ He couldn’t meet my eyes.
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Nay, Mallory,’ sighed Papa. ‘You don’t.’
Not wanting to contradict Papa, I held my peace. But I could imagine all too well what was going on. My arrangement with Sir Francis didn’t remove me from the house as Mamma desired, it merely shouted to the world I was not fit for marriage, only lowly employment. Mamma could not bear what this latest arrangement would do to her reputation.
The anger Lord Nathaniel’s behaviour stoked began to burn anew. I felt besieged.
‘Don’t be long,’ whispered Papa. ‘A woman’s presence will sweeten the company tonight.’ He indicated the men.
Caleb and Lord Nathaniel were thick in conversation.
‘I will join you shortly then,’ and be as sweet as belladonna. I bestowed a kiss upon Papa and closed the door behind me.
Slowly I mounted the stairs. What a day this had proved. First Sir Francis, then Lord Nathaniel, and now Mamma.
Excitement, disgust, anger and despair battled within me. How I wished I had a mother like those in the tales I loved or like my nonna had been to Mamma and her younger sister before she died; a mother to whom I could turn and confess my rage towards Caleb’s patron and laugh at the obvious shortcomings of such a tall man. Or to whom I could confide my agreement with Sir Francis, knowing the secret would be forever safe. To whom I could confess all that had happened while I was with Raffe … Did such mothers exist or were they, like love, the stuff upon which foolish dreams were made?
As I passed Mamma’s door, I hesitated and pressed my ear to the wood. I stilled my breathing, forced myself to be calm. At first I heard nothing except Angela’s tread as she moved around the room. Then another sound reached my ears. Mistaking it for a cat’s wail at first, I waited, leaned more heavily against the door, and listened. When I knew for certain what I was hearing, I withdrew in shock.
Backing away from the door, I fled up the last steps and into my gelid room. Angela had always said no good came from eavesdropping. She was right.
I never knew a mother’s sobs could be so heart wrenching, so painful to hear. Unlike her acerbic words and cool behaviour, her cries exposed the depth of her loathing, how desperately she wished to have me gone. I stood by the window, breathing deeply, ignoring the cold that seeped into my bones as evening crept across the yard below. To my left lay Castiglione’s tome — my bible. I rested a hand upon the cover, as if drawing strength from the contents.
Little did I know when I swore my oath what a toll the nonchalance of mediocrita would take. I would not always possess the strength to disguise my emotions, not when they were tossed by tumultuous seas such as Mamma, or struck by unexpected storms like Lord Nathaniel and Sir Francis — never mind the constant guilt that attended me. There was no shame in remaining in port until it was safe to venture out again.
Consequently, I didn’t return to the parlour that evening. Nor did anyone come to find out why.
ELEVEN
HARP LANE AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON
Sunday the 15th of January, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Two days later, I woke early and snuggled beneath the covers, watching the bands of light peeping through the shutters grow brighter as they travelled across the bed towards my face. When the morning bells began to toll I could delay no longer. It was time to face the day.
Still I hesitated, luxuriating in the illusion this was an ordinary Sunday, a Sunday like those before Raffe entered my life. I allowed myself to imagine what might have been. Would I be married to a weak-chinned lawyer, lying ab
ed while he snored? Or swaddling a baby before heading to church? Or would some other swain who pleased Mamma and Papa have swept me off my feet? Or would I be plain old Mallory, innocent of the machinations and lies of men, working by my father’s side, losing my head in books, testing locks and yearning for romance and adventure?
With a sigh of disgust that yet again my thoughts had led me along this weed-strewn path, I tossed back the blankets and swung my feet to the cold floor. Today was today and nothing I wished or thought would change that. And I was still plain old Mallory — Mallory Blight, if the neighbours were to be believed.
Shivering by the hearth, I patiently blew upon the embers, prodding them with the iron until they flamed, and then threw some kindling on top. I washed and dressed in a kind of daze, not wanting to think too far ahead lest the tiny mice inside my stomach nibbled my insides away and I collapsed in upon myself. The thought made me grin. Why, I’d been spending too much time with Caleb, my fancies were preposterous.
Thinking of Caleb led me to consider his patron. Since that first encounter with Lord Nathaniel, he’d occupied far too many of my waking hours. He was like no-one I’d ever met before. His manner confounded me. Indifferent not only to his title and the rank it accorded him, he possessed no social graces, had treated me with little more than contempt, and yet when he chose, he could exude a certain rakish charm that Caleb, Papa and — from what Comfort said — Mamma had responded to. When he wasn’t being insulting, Lord Nathaniel conversed with me in the same manner he did with Caleb. I could not help but be gratified by that, especially after being raised by Papa and relishing dialogues with Master Fodrake and Caleb. Too often men modified their words and the subjects they spoke of when a woman was present. We were judged weak-minded, less able to grasp problems or use our wits. Raffe understood women to serve one purpose only. Sir Francis saw my sex as a benefit to him; so did Papa. While it would be easy to assume Lord Nathaniel had much in common with Raffe and considered women to be chattels, the fact he saw fit to debate the suitability of the title of Caleb’s play in my presence — and to discuss the Earl of Leicester — suggested his attitude might be more complex. Or was I being overly generous?
When Caleb had found me in the parlour yesterday, he’d made any number of excuses for his patron’s behaviour (he’d been at sea for years and was accustomed to the company of certain types of men; he wasn’t used to women; he’d consumed a great deal of ale and wine) and assured me that over supper his comportment had been exemplary.
‘One does not lose manners the way one might a glove or a shoe,’ I chided as his excuses continued. He was desperate that I should see the qualities he so admired in Lord Nathaniel. ‘Nor is respect a pump to be turned on and off at will. One either possesses it or one does not. I fear your Lord Nathaniel is in the latter camp.’
‘Oh, but he does, Mallory. He does,’ argued Caleb, launching into another defence. ‘Forget his attire, he came straight from the docks. I beg you give the man another chance.’
I did not, could not care. As Caleb continued, I made up my mind that the less I saw of Lord Nathaniel Warham, the better. Regardless of what Caleb said, the man put me on edge. Not in the way Raffe did, where I felt I walked on a slippery precipice with broken glass on one side and a raging river on the other. Nay, Lord Nathaniel was not a danger except that he brought out the worst in me and aroused the passions I sought to tame. I wanted to strike the smug look off his handsome face; like a mother teaching a small child, I wanted to insist upon courtesy. If the gentry didn’t display manners, then who would? Did we not learn from our betters? That’s what Mamma, Papa and Master Fodrake had oft told me. All I learned from Lord Nathaniel was that a title and a bulging purse did not prevent a person from being a vexatious churl.
While I was at it, I would discourage Caleb from speaking about him as well. Just as I had excised Raffe from my past, I would remove all references to Lord Nathaniel Warham from my present. And I would not give that kiss he bestowed another thought.
What I was reluctant to admit, and what contributed to the affront, was that Caleb never asked why I hadn’t reappeared for supper that night. Nor did he ask about my visit to Sir Francis. His head was filled with Lord Nathaniel and his new commission. I understood, but that didn’t stop the little burn of hurt. It was as if Lord Nathaniel had supplanted me in my friend’s heart.
I tiptoed down the stairs, slowing as I passed Mamma’s rooms. I still hadn’t laid eyes upon her since returning from Sir Francis’s. When I asked Angela how Mamma fared, she held me tight and said not to worry. Mamma’s malady was one she oft suffered and it would, God willing, ease with time.
I broke my fast in the kitchen, eating my manchet and cheese in silence while Mistress Pernel plucked a chicken, Comfort heated water and the apprentices wandered in one by one, bleary eyed, all dressed in their Sunday best, murmuring ‘good morrows’ and ‘well mets’. It wasn’t until I was in the entry hall, donning my thickest coat and gloves — the rare sunshine had done little to deter the chill in the air — that Papa joined me. Flashing what he thought was a smile, although it barely pulled his lips, he too had dressed for the outdoors. Angela, Comfort, Gracious, Master Gib and the apprentices also gathered. We’d attend church together before Papa and I would continue on to Seething Lane whereupon, once he saw me safely into Sir Francis’s care, he would be the one to leave me.
Sir Francis was expecting me. When I arrived I was taken swiftly to his office, where a fire blazed and cups of warm spiced wine awaited. I sipped mine gratefully as he began to outline what he expected of me over the next few weeks. I wouldn’t be meeting Frances today, or any day soon. She and her mother had departed for Barn Elms, their house in Surrey. For now, it was incumbent upon me to keep up the charade, to ensure my family believed I was indeed Frances Walsingham’s companion and spent my days by her side. In order to answer any questions that might arise, Sir Francis made me recite what our activities would have been had his daughter and I indeed been together: reading, sewing, playing the clavichord, a tour of the house, dinner.
‘This can be the pattern of your days for now. Just remember, Frances is quiet, studious. She is gifted musically and speaks French and Spanish passably well. Take from that what you must and weave a story.’ He glanced out the window. ‘Add that you enjoyed some mulled wine in the sunshine,’ he said, nodding towards the yard, enclosed by a high fence and its outbuildings and long row of stables. A table and bench sat near a small garden. ‘Keep it simple. Embellish only when necessary. Though, knowing your father, I doubt you’ll be questioned. He trusts me to look after your best interests.’
Verily, that was so. ‘What about Mamma or the servants? What if they should ask?’
‘Then, you will assuage their curiosity with a suitable story.’
I nodded. The servants, like the apprentices, were more inclined to avoid me than seek explanations of my whereabouts and duties. Angela and Comfort might inquire so I would ensure I’d something prepared that would satisfy them.
‘If I’m not to keep your daughter company today, what is it I’m to do?’
‘Come,’ he said, and led me back into the outer room.
The last time I’d been here, numerous men were hard at work, their activities wreathed in tallow smoke like the fog that sat over the river throughout winter; it had been empty when I arrived today. Now a solitary man occupied one of the desks, two flickering candles at his elbows. It was Master Thomas Phelippes, his small eyes behind thick glasses, his yellow hair dry and untidy. Soberly attired like his master, he looked up only when Sir Francis paused beside him. Closing his book, he climbed to his feet and touched his cap.
‘Sir, mistress,’ he said.
‘Master Thomas,’ I said, and dipped a curtsey.
He looked about as pleased to see me as Mamma. Pulling a stool over to the desk, Sir Francis bade me sit and began to outline what I would be doing at Seething Lane. Whatever I’d thought my role would entail, nothing prep
ared me for what I heard.
‘Mallory, it’s important as few people as possible know your real purpose. For that reason, I’m putting Thomas in charge of your instruction. For today, and every other Sunday, you will work here. My men rarely come to the house on the Lord’s day. For the remainder of the week, you will be given your own room in another part of the house. Unless I summon you, there’s no reason for you to enter here; as far as possible, I do not want you to be seen. You will come to the rear door at the specified time, and Laurence, Thomas or Robert will admit you. You are to report straight to the room you’ve been allocated and await Thomas, who will outline your lessons and duties. If and when it’s required, others will be asked to instruct you as well. What you’ll find is that each of my men has his own special skill. I want you to be familiar with all of them, as much as you are able, that is.’
‘Such as?’
‘Thomas here is a master of code. He can both write and decipher the most complex of them.’
A wave of excitement washed over me. ‘I’m to learn this at once?’
Master Thomas made a small scoffing noise. He was as surprised as I was — or was ‘appalled’ a more appropriate description? Sir Francis gave me an indulgent smile.
‘Only what you can comprehend.’
‘Do you know what code is?’ asked Thomas, shoving a book towards me. His indignation at being asked to teach me, and his doubt that I could absorb anything, were apparent.
I opened the book’s worn leather cover and chose not to be offended by his manner.
