The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  I thought I could only hate he who I once thought I loved — that love and hate were two sides of the same coin, the extremes of passion. To my sorrow, I learned hate was not the antithesis of love. No. That status belonged exclusively to indifference. Love and indifference were perfect bedmates, one giving birth to the other.

  All that hard-won knowledge lay in the future the day I met Raffe Shelton.

  Excited as I was to accompany my father to the Royal Exchange, I was displeased by Mamma’s insistence that I change into my best dress. Afraid Papa’s goodwill did not extend to my tarrying, I conceded defeat only when I thought Mamma was on the brink of withdrawing her approval for the outing.

  Angela assisted me out of my house dress and into my sapphire-blue kirtle and black-and-white bodice with silver pickadills sewn around the waist. Underneath, I wore a modest farthingale fashioned from whalebone, a gift from Mamma for my birthday just days earlier. Over the top, I wore another skirt gathered tightly underneath my bodice. It complemented my ensemble and revealed enough of the kirtle and leather boots to suggest both effort and some status. Once I saw my reflection in Mamma’s mirror, I no longer resented having to change.

  When Papa’s oldest apprentice, Benedict Thatcher, saw me, he blushed brightly and appeared unable to wrench his eyes away. I had not received that kind of admiration from men before (or, as Angela insisted, I had not been aware of it) — apart from Isaac Hattycliffe, who showed his appreciation by bestowing a sloppy kiss upon me last Christmas before he returned to the Inns of Court, or Caleb, who would oft say my physical charms would be lost on those who adhered to the fashions (Caleb was not only biased, his flattery didn’t count). Until I saw Benedict, a lad I’d all but grown up with, become awkward in my company, I had not realised the effect my appearance could have upon men, and I confess it made my heart skip.

  We left at nine of the clock, and I held Papa’s arm while Benedict walked ahead of us to ensure we avoided the worst of the mud and filth of the streets and crush of the crowds. The Royal Exchange had opened ten years or so earlier, and though I’d been once before with Master Fodrake, I was thrilled to be visiting this centre of trade and industry again. Filled to the brim with people of all descriptions, from glass sellers and armourers to apothecaries and milliners, from peers to paupers, folk bustled about the open and closed stalls while vendors shouted for attention. Pickpockets moved nimbly throughout, the occasional shout evidence of their progress. Beggars camped in doorways, faces upturned, their dirty hands cupped.

  We’d come to purchase gold Papa required for a lock he was fashioning for an Italian noble, and so we pushed our way through the merchants and their customers in the cloisters to head upstairs to the area known as ‘the Pawn’. When I caught sight of a bookseller, I begged Papa to allow me to browse among the tomes. Possessed of a fine library as well as a fine mind, Papa was not adverse to the idea — though Benedict was clearly appalled that we might lose ourselves in volumes of paper when there was precious metal to examine elsewhere. Soon Papa and I were opening slender leather-bound volumes, their pages printed and cut with great care, while Benedict sulked by the doorway. Searching for a copy of John Foxe’s Actes and Monuments of these Latter and Perilous Days, Touching Matters of the Church, also known as The Book of Martyrs, an illustrated volume which told terrible stories of Protestant suffering under Catholic rule, I lost myself in other tales and times first.

  The proprietor soon ended my indulgence; having found the book I sought, he wrapped and presented it to me. Papa was very pleased with my choice and told me I must read it to Mamma. He insisted I keep the coins I’d been given and paid for it himself. Thus, with angels still to spend, I left the shop intending to pay a great deal more attention to the contents of the stalls in the cloisters below when we departed.

  The goldsmith, Master Cruikshank, was delighted to see Papa. Once Papa explained what he required, they soon agreed on a price. As he first weighed the gold and then placed it in a pouch, another gentleman accompanied by a squire entered the premises. Forced to wait, the gentleman at first appeared annoyed. Papa was in the midst of explaining to Master Cruikshank the style of the escutcheon he’d designed and how the gold would decorate the filigree and keyholes. Benedict contributed to the conversation but, as I already knew the pattern, I studied the newcomer and his servant instead.

  A bill posted on a pole in the centre of the shop advertised a forthcoming performance by the Earl of Leicester’s Men at The Theatre. As I pretended to study it, I was afforded a good view. Of my height (which still accorded him some stature, as I was unusually tall for a woman), the gentleman had a fine head of flaxen hair combed back beneath his bonnet and cut to sit neatly above his white ruff. His beard sat close to his face and framed a wide mouth that grimaced as his squire bumped against a table and knocked a goblet over. Assuring him no harm was caused, Master Cruickshank righted it while continuing to chat to Papa, asking him questions about the lock and for what purpose it was designed. In his element and delighted with the price he’d been charged for the gold, Papa’s explanation was more detailed than usual.

  The subject of the conversation clearly aroused the curiosity of the gentleman, who wandered nearer to listen. I noted his fine mustard doublet, the slashes along the sleeves revealing the white of his shirt. His breeches were in the Venetian style, cut to below his knee. I was marvelling at the design of his shoes and wondering at the cost of the leather when I became aware that I too was the object of scrutiny.

  Meeting the gentleman’s eyes, I glanced away quickly, looking back towards his feet but studying a knot in the rushes as if it held the mystery of the universe. I became uncomfortable, knowing my performance was so weak it would shame Caleb.

  ‘Ellis,’ said the man to his squire. ‘See to that, would you.’ He pointed to the spot I was staring at. ‘I do fear it’s causing the lady some distress.’

  My head jerked up and I caught the faintly mocking look, but also another akin to that on Benedict’s face earlier. Was it admiration I detected? Or had my new dress also given me new conceits?

  ‘Oh, I beg you, sir,’ I gave a small curtsey. ‘Do not exert yourself on my account, ’tis naught.’

  ‘Naught?’ He folded his arms and stared at me boldly in a manner that made my heart beat faster and warmth flood my face and chest. ‘From the attention that,’ he pointed to the rushes, ‘receives and the consternation it clearly arouses, I’d have said anything but naught.’ He turned his leg slowly and deliberately moved it into my line of sight, placing it on display.

  This time, I countered his gaze with one of my own. God forgive my immodesty, but I turned my body and swayed my hips like a slattern. His eyes were twinkling now, his lips twitched. My face grew warm. Nonetheless, I raised my chin and observed his leg with a critical eye.

  ‘Nay, sir, I was right the first time. ’Tis but naught.’

  At my riposte, the gentleman burst into laughter. Slightly high-pitched, girlish even, it was at odds with his manly appearance. Papa turned and looked from me to the gentleman and back again, brows raised. The gentleman apologised for his outburst and sought to allay Papa’s concerns with an introduction.

  ‘I beg your forgiveness for my unseemly exhibition, my good man. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Sir Raffe Shelton.’ Sweeping off his hat, he executed a bow that included me. Remembering my manners, I dipped another, deeper curtsey. One more befitting his status.

  After that, Papa introduced me and Benedict and before I knew how it occurred, Sir Raffe was included in Master Cruickshank and Papa’s discussion. As he asked questions revealing a keen understanding of locks and keys, Papa and Benedict responded enthusiastically. Master Cruickshank spoke of Papa’s reputation and vast experience. Sir Raffe was impressed and did not hesitate to show it.

  Within minutes, the knight organised to come to the workshop and discuss a commission with Papa. As it happened, he was in need of secure locks for his mother’s chests; she was about to re
move to his manor house in the north for the summer. Words flew around me, congenial, eager. Edging my way closer to Sir Raffe, I was able to smell the scent of roses upon his doublet, see the flashing jewels of the rings on his hands, and identify the markings on the peacock feather in his cap. His squire, Ellis, stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed. A bruise marked the back of one hand and it appeared he had a cut on his lip. I began to imagine Sir Raffe as a great lord needing protection or, better still, offering it to those in need.

  As he listened to Papa his face was earnest. His body was designed for chivalry — hard and lean. Beside him, Benedict, whom I’d once thought handsome in an unconventional way, was clumsy and untidy. Even Papa appeared a lesser figure: suddenly his broken, blackened nails looked grubby; his hair was too long, his beard in need of trimming, his stomach distended. His clothes, which were of a fine cut, appeared ill-fitting and cheap. I became conscious of my own apparel. The velvet of my bodice felt patchy, the pickadills frayed. I resisted touching my hair, which fell from beneath my cap and down my back in a long black curtain, wishing for the umpteenth time it was the russet of Mamma’s and that my skin was white like my maid Nell’s. Through the shop windows I saw grand ladies pass in their dresses of ruby, gold and ebony, their creamy complexions glowing, their small pretty mouths pursed, their flaxen, chestnut and flame-coloured hair statements of beauty that my ebony locks and Moorish complexion could never be. I hid my scarred hands behind my back, lowered my strange eyes and chewed my lips till they almost bled.

  Appointments were made, farewells were bade, and all the time Sir Raffe never gave another glance in my direction. I know, because I could barely take my eyes from him. Yet, and I do not know how I was so certain, I felt as if he too was aware of me.

  Master Cruikshank warned us not to linger for fear of cutpurses and rogues, but to hasten home. Only minutes earlier I would have objected, as my plans were so cruelly curtailed, but I didn’t protest. I didn’t even complain when we were caught in a downpour and my best dress was ruined. When I sat before the fire in the parlour and Angela dried my hair and asked what I thought of the Exchange, my replies were vague, my mind back in the goldsmith’s shop listening to the dulcet tones of Sir Raffe Shelton, who’d shown me both a fine leg and a degree of attention I’d never experienced before.

  My head was turned, my heart aflutter.

  Sir Raffe began visiting the workshop day after day to ensure the locks he wanted were progressing. He would time his visits to match my hours in the shop, and would ask me numerous questions about locks and keys, affecting an interest in a subject that I knew so well. I was flattered. After two days, Raffe grabbed my hand and bowed over it, his fingers lingering upon mine. When he thought Papa wasn’t looking, he included a quick but warm kiss upon my wrist. When Mamma was busy serving another customer in the shop, Raffe offered me a poem to my night-dark hair, sea-storm eyes and ruby lips. His poems were clumsy and poorly structured — how could I think otherwise, when I’d listened to Caleb’s verses and been raised on the works of ancient masters? But where other men might have been offended by my laughter at their efforts, Raffe chuckled with me. Gesturing grandly, he would fish compliments from the ether, his cornflower-blue eyes sparkling, daring me to erupt with mirth, which I inevitably did. Mamma would usher him from my sight and admonish me not to encourage such a one.

  ‘He is dallying with your affections, Mallory. He’s not for the likes of you. He’s a northerner, landed gentry. You’re promised to Isaac and to Isaac Hattycliffe you will one day belong.’ Two days later, I was banished from the shop and exiled to the house.

  Sir Raffe still managed to get his poems and messages to me. I would dream of my knight (as I now called him) and, daringly, of a time when we might be together. Was it Raffe who placed that seditious thought in my head, or did I place it there myself? I know not, but, as the number of his notes (delivered by Nell, who his man had found among the servants at Cheapside markets) increased, so did their fervour, and the idea took root in fertile soil.

  Raffe was an alien in a familiar country; a jewel that shone so brightly it made all others dim — especially Isaac. The prospect of being Mistress Hattycliffe, the wife of a weaver’s son, a junior lawyer, suddenly seemed as dull as an unpolished key.

  When Raffe first proposed we elope, I denied my growing affection and refused. Unaccustomed as I was to the ways of men, his ardour frightened me. One Sunday we met after prayers while Nell kept watch, and the promises he whispered as he pressed me against the church wall I took to be the truth. How could it be otherwise, when the Lord watched over us and he said such things upon His holy soil?

  But there was something different about Raffe that morning, an edge of desperation in his words, a furtiveness in his attitude, that made me keep him at arm’s length and voice doubts I didn’t know I had. His kisses were hard that day, his manner forceful; his hands were not those of a gentleman. His eyes were too bright and I smelled wine upon his breath and sweat upon his clothes. I ran and sought the safety of my room, only to be called to Mamma’s chambers not long after. When I saw Nell’s tear-stained face, her flaming red cheek, and how she was unable to meet my eyes, I knew my assignations were discovered.

  Mamma had beaten me before — I was no angel. I was a headstrong chit, as Mamma often said. But this day, she struck me soundly and repeatedly and made me swear I would never see the scoundrel Shelton again. Papa added his punishment to hers, taking the strap to my hindquarters in the same way he did the apprentices. I was humiliated, confused, furious. Sent to my room for two days without food, I brooded while I licked my wounds.

  Perchance it was guilt at her betrayal that made Nell risk bringing me one last message from Raffe. She snuck into my room late on the second night of my confinement and found me curled on my bed, staring at the shadows the candle cast upon the arras. As she relayed Raffe’s final words, I saw both salvation and, God forgive me, revenge.

  ‘He begs you to meet him at the river, mistress. He gave me this for you.’ From her pocket she retrieved a small golden locket, which I slowly took, wide-eyed and reckless. Opening the clasp, inside was a curl of perfect yellow hair snipped from his own, a symbol of his love, his commitment to me. Tears welled and I held the locket close to my heart.

  ‘He says … ’ continued Nell, kneeling by the bed so her words could be delivered straight into my ears, ‘he says to tell you if you come, never again will you be parted from his side.’

  I sat up, ignoring the pain of my bruised legs and buttocks. My eyes shone as I clasped the locket around my neck. Staring at Nell, I took her cold red fingers in mine and squeezed them hard. ‘You must not tell anyone, no matter what threats or promises are made. Swear on your soul you will keep these words in your heart and share them with no other.’

  ‘I do swear, mistress,’ said Nell, and fled.

  And so I took leave of my home and my family and forswore my future as Mistress Hattycliffe, choosing instead Sir Raffe Shelton and the promise of becoming a lady of the realm …

  In all my reading, all the stories that filled my head, where was the one about the knight who was a knave?

  For all the wondrous vows Raffe had whispered in my ear, he neglected to mention the ones he’d made to his wife.

  I found out too late that my Raffe, my knight, was in possession of a wife. Sickly, she was expected to pass into the Lord’s arms any day, or so he said. Hence his mother had rushed to be by her side till she departed the corporeal world. Raffe had done his duty by his mother and married an older woman with lands and a generous dowry, though he’d felt no more affection for her than one might a milk-cow. He was determined that when she passed, he would marry a woman of his choosing. I was to be that woman. Unable to risk losing me to another, he had brought me north to his estates so we could enjoy each other while we awaited the inevitable. Instead of entering the manor as his lady wife, I was accommodated in a small cottage on his lands near a stream, given
two old harridans as my companions, and my understanding and patience were first implored, then demanded.

  Stunned by the circumstances in which I found myself, horrified to find not only a wife but an ailing one he could so readily cast aside, and wanting nothing more than to return home and throw myself upon my family’s mercy, I could not. As Raffe carefully and sorrowfully explained to me, my family would never take me back. In disobeying them so publicly, in choosing my own mate instead of the one they’d picked, I’d shamed them. They could no longer make a match for me, let alone a good one. The one attribute any respectable gentleman expected in a young wife was no longer mine to bestow for, believing Raffe was my husband in every regard, as proof of my love I’d surrendered my virtue.

  I needed Raffe just as, he said over and over, he needed me.

  Ashamed, humiliated and understanding all my hopes rested not only upon the death of his wife but on his continued affection, I also knew I was doomed. I was the worst of sinners. I was nothing but a shameful trull who was fortunate to have Raffe and a roof over my head. How God did not abandon me, I do not know. I prayed every night for His forgiveness.

  At first, I penned many a letter to my parents explaining my actions, begging their grace once I had a ring on my finger and the Shelton name. The letters were never sent. Once their ink was dry, they fed the fire as summer turned to autumn and the weather became greyer and colder. Alone most nights, I pitied my circumstances and even, at times, Raffe, whose ugly old wife clung to life and made his life (and mine) so miserable. Guilt would bubble up that I could be so cold, so callous, when another suffered, and I would pray fervently for her return to health, despite what that meant for me.