by Karen Brooks
As if reading my mind, Casey leaned close.
‘We best make haste, mistress, lest we miss the hour.’
Increasing my stride, I began to use my shoulders and voice to clear my passage. I paused only to buy some fine-looking Seville oranges, though not before making sure I complained about the price. Thus supplied, I set off for the north gate.
Just outside, along Paternoster Row, was the bookshop called the Talbot. I crossed the street just as the bells began to toll eleven of the clock. I kept calm, maintained my pace and drew out my picks, relying on Casey to cover my activity. Swiftly I had the door unlocked. The clanging of the church bells was so loud, the one above the door could scarce be heard.
Casey and I slipped inside. I shut the door and drank in the familiar space. This was a shop I knew well. With Master Fodrake by my side, I had spent many a coin here.
Dust, cobwebs, leather, parchment and ink pooled to create the special fragrance of a room that housed books. I inhaled its magical scent and felt my troubles lessen. Lanterns burned brightly upon the front desk and on two tables. More hung upon hooks on the walls. There was not one unguarded flame, which was just as well: there were not only books but numerous maps, scrolls, stacks of documents and quills of all shapes and sizes scattered upon every surface. As expected, there was no sign of the owner, though it was quite possible he was buried among the debris together with his family and any assistants he might have had. The thought made me smile. Loosening my shawl, I searched the titles positioned upon two tables near the counter running along the back wall. A doorway that led to the rear was open but remained dark. Whoever I was to meet remained out of sight, watching and waiting. Casey, unperturbed, took up a position near the door and folded his arms. I ran my finger along the spines of the books, quickly scanning the titles. Then I realised I was leaving a trail in the dust. I needed to cover my tracks, not announce them.
Descriptions of England was not there. I moved towards the two shelves against the opposite wall. It was only as I began to peer among the tomes that I noticed the quiet. The bells had ceased to ring and I still didn’t have the title in my hand. Was I about to fail in this simplest of tasks? To put paid to my watching career before it had even begun? Just as I was about to ask Casey to help, I sighted it, leaning against one of Tacitus’s volumes on Caesar. I snatched it up, dust showering me as I opened it and checked the title matched the spine.
‘Always a good thing to do,’ said a voice at my shoulder. ‘Check before you buy.’
I jumped, but had the presence of mind to give a light laugh. ‘Oh aye,’ I said in my best northern burr. ‘Would not do to seek Homer and come home with Virgil, me pa always said.’
‘Your pa sounds like a very thorough man; though I be wondering at his wisdom, sending a young chit out to do a man’s job — Descriptions of England is a weighty read that may confuse the female mind and cause all sort of conniptions.’
Bristling, I bit my tongue. I didn’t have to wait too long to find out who he was.
‘I be Master Rowland at your service,’ he said slowly, doffing his bonnet and looking me up and down.
With all the gravity I could muster, I extracted the seal from my pocket and held it out to him.
Master Rowland took it between thumb and forefinger, twisted it around and ran a fingertip over the words. ‘I see,’ he said, and dropped it back into my palm. ‘Wait here.’
I didn’t dare move, though I glanced over at Casey, who was busy studying a map on the wall.
Master Rowland returned. ‘I’m not comfortable with this. But I know my instructions. You unlocked the door and you carry his sign.’ He passed me a sheaf of papers tied with leather binding. ‘Take this to your … pa. He’ll know what to do and where to find me, and he’ll want to find me after he reads such gripping material.’
I placed the papers under the fruit. As I did so, I understood why I’d been told to purchase it. Sir Francis knew what he was asking me to retrieve was bulky and would need to be hidden.
‘What be your name, mistress?’ asked Master Rowland.
I met his eyes. They were shiny in the light of the lanterns.
‘I too know my instructions, sir,’ I said and, as he chuckled darkly, dropped a small curtsey. Without a backward glance, I left the shop, Casey following. I didn’t lock the door behind me.
We retraced our steps, making sure we did everything Sir Francis said, from having luncheon at the tavern to stopping at the church and presenting the vicar with some alms. We sauntered back to Seething Lane and, if we were followed by friend or foe, I was unmindful, though my senses were alert to a familiar face, or even a strange one, recurring. Prepared to write a detailed report of everything I saw, only once did I think the old man with the missing tooth was the same one I’d seen near All Hallows. It was possible, just as it was possible there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his presence begging for coin upon the steps of St George’s. Nothing untoward happened; our journey home, much to my ease but also some little regret, was uneventful.
We slipped through the gates at the rear of Seething Lane and into the house, using the door reserved for Sir Francis’s many employees. Casey disappeared before I reached my room. I’d been told to wait and once he knew I’d returned, Sir Francis would find me.
When I entered, however, he was already there. The fire had been stoked, and candles and a lamp were lit.
‘Mallory,’ he said, coming forward. He held out his hand. Mistaking his intention, I almost put my own in it until I understood he wanted the documents. Reaching into the basket, I handed them over.
I removed the shawl and unpinned the bonnet, placing them on the small desk, careful not to disturb the inkwell or quills that sat there, watching as Sir Francis untied the binding and began reading. His smile broadened as he skimmed over the contents, moving from one page to the next swiftly.
‘By God, we have them now. All of them.’
I wanted desperately to ask who, but remained silent and slipped into my chair. Finally, Sir Francis finished. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again.
‘Do you know what you’ve brought?’ His dark grey eyes sparkled. ‘What Master Rowland has uncovered?’
I didn’t dare speak lest this confessional mood be broken. I simply shook my head.
‘Contained in these pages are the names of the leading English Catholic families who have pledged allegiance to the Roman hell-goat and his devil spawn spat from the loins of Douai and Reims. Including the names of those who have given succour to the Jesuit traitors Edmund Campion and Robert Persons.’
My hand flew to my mouth.
‘You understand the significance of this. For months we’ve scoured the city and countryside searching for them, trying to put a stop to their secret midnight masses, their preaching and conversions, only to have them escape every time we came close. The priest-holes are empty or can’t be found; the papist detritus has vanished, only the putrid odour of their stinking incense lingers. Families deny ever having seen them even though we know they were in their homes. Links to the throne, blood-ties to powerful families, protect them from punishment and give their lying words the appearance of truth. But no longer.’ He slapped the pages. ‘Master Rowland has proven his worth yet again.’
Sinking onto the stool, Sir Francis leaned an elbow against the desk and stared at the hearth. The heat of the flames reddened his face, as if he too were burning. His eyes were mirrors, the shadows beneath them bruised crescents. He gave a dry laugh that turned into a wheezing cough. As he tried to suppress it, it began to rack his whole body. He covered his mouth with his arm, his eyes began to water and his nose to run. Concerned, I rose and poured him a glass of ale. Stale and warm, it was nonetheless wet and he took it gratefully, as he did the kerchief I took from my bosom.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ The coughing fit slowly subsided. He wiped his eyes and nose. I waited a moment, then took the beaker back.
‘Can I f
etch you anything else?’ I asked.
‘My thanks. I’ll be fine. It’s simply the knowledge that I finally have what I’ve waited so long for. It ignites my humours. I’ll ask your uncle to attend me later.’
Sir Francis blew his nose, screwed the kerchief into a ball and seemed to consider his next words. He stared at me long and hard. I said nothing. Eventually, he spoke.
‘The man you met today, his real name, at least as far as I know, is Charles Sledd. Rowland is one of his aliases. He’s been invaluable to me — first on the Continent, and now here, in the city. It was Sledd who first alerted us to a grand plot between Spain, France and the Pope to assassinate the Queen. It is Sledd who, above all others, has kept track of the Jesuits swarming the country with treason in their hearts and murder in their cankerous souls.’
Sledd. Charles Sledd. My work had been compared with his. My ears were pricked.
‘Ever since we learned Campion and Persons were on English soil, I’ve had all my men focussed on their discovery. I doubled the number, but with no success. The connections Sledd and another agent called Malyverny Caitlyn had in Marshalsea Prison, as well as those Sledd had made while attending the Jesuit college at Reims, enabled him to record the names of all the English families loyal to the architect of this papist enterprise, Doctor William Allen. A pustule on Satan’s backside.’ He coughed into his fist. I didn’t dare interrupt. Allen’s zeal was only matched by Sir Francis’s.
The thought shocked me. But whereas Allen sought to destroy what our sovereign and her Council and nobles had built, Sir Francis sought to protect it.
I wanted to understand. What I was hearing was both terrifying and thrilling. To think that we could live in this city, share meals with family and friends, walk the streets among our neighbours and attend church on a Sunday, never knowing who among those we knew, loved and trusted might harbour priests, might have murderous and heretical thoughts. There were those we called countrymen who would hand our sovereign and the nation she nurtured over to Catholic forces; hand the people over to those who would stop at nothing to convert us. Convert or destroy. It made me feel ill. I was filled with a burning desire to hunt them down, hurt them and, above all, stop them.
Sir Francis stared at me, a strange look on his face. Colour infused my cheeks, breaking out across my neck and décolletage.
‘It’s all right, Mallory. It’s right to feel indignation. These people, these papist scum, deserve nothing but loathing. They are like tiny insects infecting a host, entering at our most vulnerable points and eating away at our resolve, weakening the very foundations that uphold who and what we are. I want you to feel as I do, as my men do. I want you to be part of the retribution we’ll enact upon all Catholic traitors — upon Allen’s mission and those who would put the Scottish serpent in our bosom, Mary, on the throne. This is why finding Campion and Persons is so important. They boast of their presence, trumpet to all and sundry the hearts and minds they have won. They make us appear weak. As God is my witness, we will find them and, when we do, we’ll shout from the turrets of the Tower itself, on London Bridge and at every gate in the city when we bring them down. Their bodies will be but carrion for the crows to peck at, pieces of meat for the rack and the executioner’s axe. Their souls will be sent to eternal damnation.’
I tried not to look away. For all that the thought of the Catholic traitors enraged me, the idea of treating their bodies in the same way the butchers of Cheapside did their animals was hard to stomach. An image of the rotting heads upon London Bridge swam before my vision. I swallowed, my throat thick.
Shaking the papers still clutched in his hand, Sir Francis gave a thin smile. A shudder ran through me and I hoped never to see that expression upon his face when he regarded me.
‘And now Sledd has given us the means to find these priests. According to our Master Sledd, Campion has been travelling through Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire and Lancashire. There’s word he intends to deliver another of his ungodly railings to a printing press in Oxfordshire. It’s there we’ll catch him, Mallory. Catch him and destroy him.’
‘What of Persons?’
‘Sledd believes he’s still here in London. So do I. The time has come to make a noise, a great deal of it. Time to dislodge the rat from his nest.’
Sir Francis rose. ‘You’ve done the country a great service today, Mallory. You’ve passed my first test. Go home and think on what you did and what you learned. Tell no-one. In the days to come, I’ll have another test for you. One that may require more. Are you ready for that?’
Standing, I placed my palms flat on the desk. ‘I’m ready. I’ve much more to give, Sir Francis. Much more.’
His hand shot out and, for a fleeting moment, I thought he might touch my face, but his arm dropped to his side. ‘I know you have. It runs in your blood.’
‘Papa —’
‘Is strong and loyal, just like his daughter.’ His gaze lingered and I detected a note of sadness, of longing even. I began to feel a prickle of discomfort travel down my spine. For something to do, I picked up the shawl and began to fold it. I would change out of my dress and give my disguise back to Thomas on the morrow. I failed to notice Sir Francis open the door until the cold draught of the hall swept my legs.
‘I bid you goodnight, Mallory,’ he said and left me alone with my thoughts and the small flutter of victory that, in a moment of sheer vanity, I felt I’d earned.
PART THREE
Little Cockered Bitch
And touching our Societie, be it known to you that we have made a league — all the Jesuits in the world, whose succession and multitude must overreach all the practices of England — cheerfully to carry the cross you shall lay upon us, and never to despair your recovery, while we have a man left to enjoy your Tyburn, or to be racked with your torments, or consumed with your prisons. The expense is reckoned, the enterprise is begun; it is of God, it cannot be withstood. So the Faith was planted: so it must be restored.
— Father Edmund Campion, ‘Brag’, 1581
… Whereby she will be able to entertain graciously every kind of man with agreeable and comely conversation suited to the time and place and to the station of the person with whom she speaks, joining to serene and modest manners, and to that comeliness that ought to inform all her actions, a quick vivacity of spirit whereby she will show herself a stranger to all boorishness; but with such a kind manner as to cause her to be thought no less chaste, prudent and gentle than she is agreeable, witty, and discreet: thus she must observe a certain mean (difficult to achieve and, as it were, composed of contraries) and must strictly observe certain limits and not exceed them.
— Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier:
The Third Book, Part Five, 1528
SIXTEEN
SEETHING LANE AND HARP LANE LONDON
Late March, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I
In all the weeks I’d been working for Sir Francis, I’d yet to meet his daughter. While she remained in Surrey, I confess she’d lost a degree of significance to me, even though she was the entire rationale around which my employ in Seething Lane was built. So I was surprised when, in the final days of March, I was summoned to Sir Francis’s study and informed I would soon be meeting his wife and daughter.
Taken aback, I hid my astonishment. ‘When will I have the pleasure, sir?’
‘Why,’ said Sir Francis, not even raising his head from the ledger before him, ‘tomorrow. Come to the house at the usual time, await me in your room and I will fetch you to my good wife Ursula, and daughter Frances.’
There was something different about Sir Francis. His words were almost dismissive, angry even. It wasn’t until I saw the slight tremor in his hands that I understood.
‘Forgive me, sir, but are you unwell?’
‘Unwell?’ Sir Francis lifted his chin and sat back in his chair. ‘Why would you think that?’
Uncomfortable at the severi
ty of his gaze, the tone he adopted, I dissembled. ‘I … I heard you sometimes have a stomach upset and I thought you seemed pale … ’
‘Oh. I see. I am well. Now, if there is nothing else …?’
I hesitated. There was something else. ‘May I ask why I’m to meet your daughter and lady wife, sir? I mean, am I to commence the duties for which my family thinks I’m employed? Become your daughter’s companion?’ The thought of surrendering my little room, giving up the degree of freedom Seething Lane and the errands I was dispatched upon allowed me, made my heart sink to my boots. Until this moment I hadn’t understood how much I savoured my days here.
Sir Francis sighed and rested his hands upon the pages in front of him. He gazed at me, his head tilted slightly. ‘Would that be so bad?’
Colouring slightly, I tried to smile. ‘No sir, I’m sure it would be very pleasant.’
Sir Francis gave a wry laugh. ‘The reason you’re to meet my daughter and wife is because next week you’re to accompany us to Deptford for the knighting of Francis Drake.’
‘I am?’
‘Aye. There’s something I need carried to Deptford and something I need fetched and you’re the perfect person to do it. No-one will suspect the woman accompanying my daughter, no-one.’ I opened my mouth to ask another question, but was prevented by his next words. ‘Now is not the time to discuss it. You will be properly briefed before we depart. Is there anything else?’
I swallowed the hundreds of questions wanting to fly from my mouth, stoppered my exhilaration and, with forced composure, simply shook my head and dropped a curtsey.
With a grunt, he made a dismissive gesture towards the door to hasten my leave-taking. ‘Be sure to wear something … ’ he lifted his head, swept me with his eyes, ‘something impressive on the morrow. Mayhap it’s time to consider casting aside the raven’s colours.’
