The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Me, my lord? I neither agree nor disagree, not with my betters.’ Shutting the door, Comfort approached and, before I could prevent her, refilled his lordship’s goblet.

  Comfort never shied from offering her opinion, solicited or not. Aware of the kind of woman she was, the type of servant she would be — loyal, honest and forthcoming — Lord Nathaniel leaned over and cocked his head towards an oblivious Comfort, his golden eyes glittering dangerously in the candlelight, his smile broadening, his meaning clear.

  ‘I rest my case,’ he said as she returned to the hearth. ‘The woman is as fine a player as any of your sex.’ He took a long drink. ‘She says what she believes men wish to hear and thus conceals her true nature.’

  A small flare of anger burned in my chest. ‘She is merely loyal.’

  ‘There is nothing mere about loyalty, mistress.’ Rising to his feet abruptly, Lord Nathaniel joined Comfort by the fire, and turned to face me. His head grazed the ceiling and the flames threw his broad figure into silhouette. Comfort moved aside quickly, taking up a position near the door, her gaze travelling from me to Lord Nathaniel and back again. I looked at her once then fixed my regard upon his lordship, praying my beating heart, my shaking hands, were not obvious. Nonchalance, I inhaled. Nonchalance, I exhaled.

  ‘Women may be forbidden from treading the boards as professional players,’ continued his lordship. ‘But they exit the womb masters of the profession. The entire globe is their stage.’ His arm swept the room, his wine splashing onto the rushes. ‘Their every utterance is a line delivered to a guileless audience who believes the part they play is the truth, the lines they utter are gospel. They don or discard marvellous costumes for whatever role is required, caring not whom they bewitch, whom they lure with their fictions. They pretend feelings they don’t possess, speak words that come not from the heart, but the head, and so shore up their performance and remain convincing in every regard. Until the curtain falls and their lies are exposed and the disappointed audience is either trapped or ordered to exit — ofttimes before the play has concluded.’

  He paused to take a long swallow of wine and I stared at him, blinking. Why, the man was more affected than I first thought.

  ‘All of you are as changeable as —’ He sought an apt comparison, and at that moment the wind chose to rattle the shutters. ‘The weather; nay, a weather vane, swinging one way then another,’ he finished, throwing back the last of his drink and pushing past his chair to refill his goblet again. Comfort went to aid him, but I shot out my hand to stay her.

  How to respond to such a speech? Not only to the offence it offered but also to the evident pain that lay behind every single word and shocked me with its rawness. I smoothed my skirts and waited till he’d seated himself again. What a strange conversation to be having. He fell back into the chair and looked dolefully into the goblet, then raised his chin and locked his eyes upon me. I was not certain what he saw as he blinked, sniffed and blinked again.

  Who had so poisoned him against womankind? What had made him so bitter as to read every action, every word of a woman as a mere performance that ruined trust? In my experience, it was not women who performed in such a way. On the contrary …

  Against my better judgement, I challenged him. ‘Could the same not be said of men, my lord? Do not men also play their part — whether king or pauper? A great lord such as yourself, or the night soil man pushing his barrow though the city? Why accuse one sex of pretending when both are equally capable if not culpable? And for their own ends.’

  Frowning, he leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Truly, if women play a part, so do men. But perchance you misread genuine discourse as false. Or have you considered those who do engage in such theatre may have a sound reason? Could it be an armour they wear, a means of protection against the whims of fortune or even their own folly?’

  Lord Nathaniel fell back into his chair, laughing so hard its front legs left the floor and I feared he would tip over. The chair quickly righted itself, flinging his lordship forward again. His laughter never stopped.

  ‘Mistress, mistress, you are grossly misguided in your appraisal. I’ve yet to meet a woman who means what she says, who is what she seems or has just cause to deceive — there is nothing safe in being false.’ Putting down his goblet, he searched for a kerchief, dashed it across his eyes and blew his nose lustily. ‘There’s no cause to justify it.’

  I’d had enough. Standing, I picked up my book. ‘Then, all I can say, my lord, is you’ve clearly met the wrong type of woman.’

  ‘Ah. And there you have it. Accused by your own mouth,’ said Lord Nathaniel, pointing at me and chuckling.

  ‘What do you mean, my lord?’

  ‘Are you not a woman? Have I not met you?’

  ‘Allow me to put an end to your evident disappointment.’ Filled with self-righteous anger, I forgot to curtsey or take leave of our guest. As I reached the door, I turned. ‘Comfort, see to his lordship’s needs. I have duties to attend to.’

  Without waiting for an answer, I swept from the room, his lordship’s laughter ringing in my ears.

  FIFTEEN

  SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  The 19th of March, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  ‘Your progress is most pleasing, Mallory.’ Sir Francis lifted the piece of paper before him. ‘Thus far, it seems there’s no skill you haven’t mastered. Thomas is generous in his praise and let me tell you, that’s very uncharacteristic of him.’

  My cheeks grew warm as Sir Francis placed the page back on top of the pile to his right and smoothed it with the side of his hand.

  We were sitting in his study, and I had been waiting as patiently as I could while he read the reports painstakingly written by Thomas, Master Robert and the other men who’d been summoned to teach me various techniques, most of whom I could not name and did not expect to see again. I enjoyed the pleasant flutter beneath my breasts Sir Francis’s praise elicited. Apart from Papa and, more recently, Thomas, no-one had given me a kind word or any encouragement for so long, and I wanted to savour it. Chiding myself for being so needy, I concentrated on Sir Francis instead.

  In the flickering candlelight, he looked tired. Parliament had been sitting since January, working out the new Statutes of Recusancy, the terms of which were already being discussed in the streets, inns and ale-houses and by London firesides. How these would change people’s behaviour remained to be seen. Though I knew they were introduced to deter would-be converts to popery and to counteract the Jesuits who came to our shores intent on stirring up religious fervour for the old faith and undermining the loyalty of the Queen’s subjects, part of me feared what these stricter laws would mean. I couldn’t help thinking of Mamma and her refusal to relinquish her Catholic ways. Though her religion was no longer sanctioned by the state, she would never do anything to hurt the Queen. She loved Queen Elizabeth and oft spoke of Her Majesty in glowing terms as a woman of whom all her subjects could be proud. In her mind, her loyalty to the Queen and her loyalty to God were quite separate — the one did not lessen the other, and she obeyed both in her own way. When I had listened to Thomas and Master Robert over the past few weeks, and became privy to some of the correspondence uncovered between the Scottish Queen Mary, imprisoned though she was within our borders, and her fervent supporters — many of them English nobles — it was evident that not all Catholics felt the same way. Yet I wondered whether these latest laws would bring unity or widen what Sir Francis believed was a growing schism, one that was reinforced by the Pope, Spain, France, the Jesuit colleges abroad and their allies — allies who lived among us. Those Sir Francis called ‘the enemy within’.

  Sir Francis rose to his feet, bringing me back to the present. ‘I think it’s time I tested your skills in the outside world. It’s time to put you to work.’

  A shaft of excitement followed by fear impaled me, forcing me to absolute stillness. After all the weeks of
memorising ciphers, the endless practising, the accounts of treachery undone by the smallest piece of information, all the keen observation and collation of facts, I would no longer be an onlooker but a participant. Certain that the thundering in my ears must be echoing about the room, I waited.

  Sir Francis took a key from around his neck, careful to keep it enclosed within his palm, and turned to the great black cabinet behind him. He bent and slid back a panel to reveal the keyhole. I saw him glance over his shoulder to see if I was watching, so I politely turned aside, despite my curiosity as to how the cabinet opened. I could not help it. Was I not a lock-pick at heart? Wasn’t this one of my father’s creations? In the silence of the room the click of the key turning once, twice, was distinct. Tumblers lifted with the barest of whispers, bolts slid back. There was a flick of a wrist near the side of the cabinet. So, it was a combination lock — three latches, two turned with keys, one with a knob. Clever. I’d no doubt the locks would have precautions built in as well, to deter would-be thieves. Papa favoured ink that stained fingers or powders that caused convulsions. Forsooth, if that was my cabinet, with such dangerous contents, I would ensure it had many safeguards.

  Drawers of different sizes and neatly arranged shelves were briefly revealed when the doors were finally opened. Sir Francis withdrew a seal from one of the drawers. I caught a glimpse of bound documents, the flash of a ring, more seals carved from wood and metal, and leather-bound pocket-books. One book stood out from the rest — also leather bound, it was sizeable, with leaves of paper protruding from the covers. I wondered what secrets it contained.

  Sir Francis looked at the small seal and grunted, then locked the doors of his cabinet. I made sure I was facing the fire by the time he turned his attention back to me.

  ‘Mallory. I want you to take this and show it to a man.’ He dropped the small metal seal into my upturned palm. Written upon it, in code, were two Latin words: De Mora.

  Seeing my frown, Sir Francis chuckled and pointed at his face. ‘The Queen refers to me as her Moor. She has nicknames for most of us on the Council, some less flattering than others. The point is, the man you’ll show this to understands whoever is in possession of it is to be trusted. In return, he’ll give you some documents that you’ll bring safely to me. Am I clear?’

  ‘Aye.’ I took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘To whom do I give it? Where? When?’

  ‘Patience,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Shortly, you will leave the house and walk to St Paul’s. Once there, you will buy some fruit from one of the many vendors, I care not which one, only that you fill the basket you’ll carry. When that’s done, you’ll head to the north door. By eleven of the clock, you’re to ensure you’re in the bookshop called the Talbot in Paternoster Row. The door will be locked, the owner absent, so you will have to gain admission yourself. Once inside, find the book entitled Descriptions of England by one William Harrison, and hold it in your hand. Only then will you be approached. A man will introduce himself as Master Rowland Russell. Show him that —’ he pointed at the seal, ‘and take what he gives you in return. Do not answer any questions or ask any. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, holding the seal between cold fingers as if it were made of fine glass and might shatter. ‘What about the vendors at St Paul’s? Do I speak to them?’

  ‘You may pass the time of day, act as you would when attending market. Disguise your voice; perchance do something with your attire so as not to attract attention — black draws the eye in this city of colour. Thomas tells me you excel at this.’

  I lowered my head in acknowledgment of the compliment, already piecing together an ensemble. A gentlewoman? A maid to one?

  ‘After you’ve received the documents, you will go to the Knight’s Arms, drink some ale, have something to eat. After that, I want you to walk to St Gabriel’s and give alms to the poor.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, he reached in and passed me a small purse.

  ‘Would I not be better coming straight back here?’

  Sir Francis shook his head. ‘I have to make sure you’re not followed. While it’s unlikely anyone will suspect a woman, I have to be certain those watching Master Rowland disregard you as a likely courier. Hopefully, by meandering through the streets, stopping for a drink and a meal and heading to church, you will allay any suspicion. Only after you have done this, and the men I have tracking you are certain you’re not followed, will you return.’

  ‘I’ll be observed as well.’

  ‘On this occasion. Not only to ensure the safety of the cargo you carry, but your own. How you act, how you play your part, will also be reported. This is a test, Mallory.’

  Bowing my head in acknowledgement, I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. My thoughts went back to the conversation I’d had with Lord Nathaniel only the evening before. I’d denied being the kind of woman who played a role, who pretended to be something I wasn’t. Yet here I was, about to do so boldly and with no small degree of elation. As one of Sir Francis’s agents, I not only had to protect myself, but his entire enterprise, by erecting a facade. This was what I was hired to do, it was not how I lived my life. Yet the more I considered it, wasn’t it something I did on a daily basis? Not for the reasons Lord Nathaniel claimed, to gull an innocent in order to achieve a selfish end, but in order to protect myself from further harm. It was why, months ago, I’d sworn to abide by Castiglione’s instructions for the perfect courtier. I pretended to a calm I did not always feel; nonchalance, though initially alien to me, was becoming easier to embrace. I was simply trying to achieve a braver version of it. I was trying to reclaim my old self.

  I was also protecting myself from … from what? The various passions that once undid me. Why then did Lord Nathaniel’s observations sting? Was he right? Was I playing others false by not being true?

  ‘Today you’ll be accompanied by Thomas’s servant, Casey. Folk are accustomed to seeing him about.’

  Relief washed over me that I was not being sent on my own.

  ‘Now,’ said Sir Francis, rising and pacing the room. ‘Repeat my instructions back to me.’

  Despite being desperate to know what information Master Rowland would be passing, I refrained from asking and instead began to repeat what I’d been told. I’d no right to know the content of the documents. I was but the means to an end — the conduit through which the water of information flowed. But that didn’t stop me being curious, or thinking about Lord Nathaniel’s admission that he was curious about me.

  Pushing Lord Nathaniel and his evident pain and bitterness towards womankind out of my head, I focused on my task. If I’d but one life to stake on curiosity, I’d wait until it was something worthy.

  Casey’s age was impossible to discern. At first glance, with his cap pulled low over his features, the skinny limbs protruding from his jacket and his middling height, he could have been a young apprentice or junior servant. But when he raised his face it revealed lines that ran from the corner of his nose to his mouth, a scar above his scant beard, and eyes that saw everything and conceded nothing. Never mind the calluses on his fingers and the ink stains beneath the nails — it was clear Casey was no boy but a seasoned man of the streets. Knowing he would be beside me for my first mission gave me additional confidence.

  We left Seething Lane and headed north, turning into Hart Street, then Tower Street, joining the market crowds wandering up to Cornhill Street before reaching Cheapside. I carried a basket over my arm, and though the day was rather warm, I’d chosen a green dress and a large bright shawl to wrap around my shoulders, pleased it tailed down my back and over my hips, hiding much of my sleeves and bodice. A bonnet completed my ensemble, and I hunched slightly to reduce my height and shorten my stride. I kept my head bowed and remained close to Casey, who matched his step to mine. We could be mistaken for a husband and wife, two servants of a good house, or even, if one didn’t look too closely, mother and son.

  The smell from the butchers’ stalls lining Cheapside was pungent. Blood, of
fal and all manner of refuse flowed from the tables where freshly slaughtered carcasses were hung on huge hooks to drain or flung upon blocks to be dismembered. The dull thuds of blades hewing through bone and gristle were percussive, interrupted by the loud conversation of the men, their calls to attract custom, the clink of coins and the banter of buyers. In the dark alleyways and ginnels, the plaintive bleats of animals could be heard, as if they knew what was in store. I maintained a stoic expression and forged ahead, as if it were my practice to pound these streets each day, seek out fare for my household and barter with a ruddy-faced and grime-covered butcher.

  I was glad when we reached the conduit and turned into Walbrook Street. Casey steered me into the smaller lanes, away from the press of bodies, carts and horsemen, taking us past St Pancreas. Vendors stood beside stalls or outside shops crying out their wares; women lifted ripe fruit from laden baskets, tempting passersby with cries of ‘oranges and lemons’, ‘apples for sale’; strings of onions dangled, plump radishes, grey oysters, drooping coneys and pigeons by the brace. Still others sold ribbons, lace, cloth, iron nails and candles.

  Groups of goodwives sat on their stoops plucking birds while they chattered, barely pausing to lean over and restrain a straying toddler or to box the ears of a naughty youth. Dogs barked, hens bobbed and clucked underfoot, pigs snuffled through the used rushes dumped in the ditches, oblivious to the boots tramping around them. Horsemen forced their way through the throngs, some using their crops to make the passage easier, curses following in their wake. Men gathered outside ale-houses, some sitting at makeshift tables playing cards or dice, a beaker at their elbow. Tobacco smoke mingled with firewood, all of it adding to the odours that hung over the area like a pall.

  Above, the tower of St Paul’s rose, a beacon as Casey darted down dank laneways, led us up cobbled streets, across an overgrown garden and over a broken piece of wall. Finally, not far from the Star Inn, we emerged onto Watling Street. Progress slowed as we joined the many entering St Paul’s through St Augustine’s Gate. The bells had rung ten of the clock a long time ago. I’d no idea how much time I’d left to buy fruit and reach the Talbot.