The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  As we left London Bridge behind, the crowded, noisy riverside with its cramped streets and fog of forges and ovens slowly transformed into the serene and splendid gardens of the palatial houses of Baynard’s Castle, Whitefriars and the Strand. The grandest building of them all, the Savoy, was being rebuilt after years of neglect, and scaffolding clung to its exterior.

  Whitehall Palace drew near. Vast in scale, it was more like a small city than a monarch’s palace. Thomas saw my expression and put his hand over mine.

  ‘It can be overwhelming. We’ll meet Sir Francis on this side of the bowling green. There’s a house owned by one of the nobles we use for such purposes. We will get you home late, but hopefully not so late it causes your parents concern.’

  What sort of daughter was I becoming? I hadn’t given Papa or Mamma a thought. Slightly disappointed I wouldn’t get to see more of the Queen’s primary residence, I was relieved Thomas couldn’t read my mind; that he didn’t know how neglectful I was or how much I’d become Sir Francis’s creature — one who could put duty ahead of family with nary a care. It was something no obedient, dutiful daughter would consider.

  As we disembarked from the wherry, Thomas ordered the men to wait, tossing them some groats to silence their grumbling. He took my arm and escorted me across the grounds, nodding to the pikeman who watched us pass. A jumble of buildings of different sizes, Whitehall was nothing like I imagined. As we walked, Thomas provided a commentary, pointing out the King’s Gate, the Queen’s Privy Gardens and the apartments Her Majesty used when in residence. A large church could be seen in the distance, and the offices of the Chancery; further away again was the old royal chapel of St Stephen, where the House of Commons met. I tried to take it all in, wishing I could sit and gaze upon the women and men wandering past. Some looked at us with frank curiosity, others were completely aloof, but almost all were dressed in clothing the like of which I’d rarely seen: velvets, luscious damasks, silks, pearls, sparkling jewels, feathers — all drowning in a cloud of perfume as we passed by. There were enormous stiffened ruffs and peascod doublets that resembled bloated fish about to burst. Bent men and aged women walked with vigour, chattering and whispering, flapping fans and waving kerchiefs. The clash of swords and the faint strains of music could be heard in the distance. The drum of hooves made the grounds shudder. Thomas gestured towards an area to our right.

  ‘Practising jousts for the Queen, no doubt,’ he said with a sniff. Like his master, he didn’t approve of too much frivolity.

  He paused outside a rather large house. A guard with a halberd stood to attention and, when he saw us, he opened the door and stepped aside. Thomas indicated I should go ahead of him, and before I could get my bearings I was being led along a dark corridor. Thomas rapped sharply on a door and entered. Inside sat Sir Francis. He rose to greet us. Clearly we were expected.

  ‘Mallory, it’s been some time. You’re looking well. Perchance discontent suits you?’ His tone was gentle, but the message was clear: my frustration at being a laundress’s assistant had reached his ears.

  Blushing furiously, I turned my attention to my basket. I prayed the news I was about to impart would compensate for my childish response to the role I’d been assigned, believing it was unworthy of me. Shame-faced, and feeling more than a little betrayed by Thomas, to whom I’d confided my feelings, I sank quietly onto a stool, the report in my hand.

  ‘This is it?’ asked Sir Francis, taking it from me.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Speak to it, then,’ he said and, walking around to the other side of the desk, he sat down. Thomas stood beside me.

  Without missing a single detail, I reported the scene I’d witnessed. Uninterrupted, my tale only took a few minutes. Sir Francis leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at a spot on the table.

  ‘The papist scoundrel is more clever than we gave him credit for. We believed there were only four hundred copies; that the outbreak of seditious material was containable.’ He slammed a fist on the desk, the action propelling him to his feet. I almost shot off my stool.

  ‘Damn the priest. God damn his rotten soul to hell.’

  The loathing in Sir Francis’s words astounded me. He was usually much more circumspect.

  I took a deep breath and released it slowly, passing my report to Thomas who, unsealing it, held the pages over a candle so the writing became visible.

  ‘And you are certain the courier had more pamphlets?’

  ‘As certain as I can be, sir. He had a bulging satchel, and the vicar said he was to organise a meeting among sympathisers. I assumed that meant other Catholics.’

  ‘Correctly, I would guess.’ Sir Francis strode to the window and stared out at the small garden. Only then did I see a black puppy frolicking and a young girl, whose face seemed familiar, tossing a ball for it to chase. Where had I seen her before? Sir Francis spun on his heels and came back to the desk. ‘You’ve discovered something not even my finest recruits have uncovered, Mallory — a means of locating the nest of traitors here in London, most likely those responsible for hiding Campion’s superior, Robert Persons as well.’

  My discomfort began to abate and a tiny spark of warmth flared in me.

  ‘We recently intercepted a letter Persons wrote to the rector of the English College in Rome that revealed he’s aware Charles Sledd is searching for him and he knows about the raids we’ve been conducting. As a result, he’s gone to ground and all our efforts have failed — including searches of the houses of those whose names and addresses you provided over the weeks. We’ve uncovered nothing to connect the households to Persons or Campion. But now, now we’re a step ahead. Persons won’t know we’ve gained knowledge of another papist meeting about to occur in London — one based on this pamphlet and its distribution.’ Rubbing his chin, Sir Francis walked slowly to his chair and sank into it, lost in thought. Thomas and I exchanged a look.

  ‘Right,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. Thomas, alert our men to this latest information. Circulate a description of this courier; let’s see if we can find out who else Master Hamon visits, and who else has these pamphlets in their possession.’

  ‘Do I give orders for their arrest?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Not yet. I want them identified and observed. Closely. I want Hamon watched as well. We know from whence he came — you did well to describe the fox on his livery, Mallory. It’s the Tresham crest. Known recusants who swear they mean no harm.’ He scoffed. ‘I want Hamon to leave London and return to his masters believing he’s delivered his message safely. I will have him followed and Sir Thomas Tresham watched very, very closely.’

  The scratch of Thomas’s quill as he made notes filled the silence.

  ‘It may be,’ continued Sir Francis, ‘that Campion, the wretched caitiff, will go to the Treshams, and when he does …’ He closed his hand in a tight fist. ‘We will crush him.’ He gazed at his fist, as if the priest was already in his grasp. ‘In the meantime, I want this so-called vicar, what was his name?’

  ‘Forwood. Mark Forwood,’ I supplied.

  Sir Francis nodded. ‘I want him arrested and taken in for questioning.’ Pulling out a piece of paper from a drawer on the other side of the table, he dipped a quill and began to write. ‘Give him to Norton,’ he directed Thomas as he wrote. ‘Tell him to hold back nothing. I want names, I want places. By God,’ he said, as he signed the bottom and tossed sand across the ink, shaking it off and folding the letter, ‘I want Campion and I will have him. We are close, so close I can smell him.’

  Tilting the candle with one hand, he dropped some wax on the fold. Rifling in the drawer once more, he pulled out a seal and pressed it into the warm wax.

  Satisfied it was dry, he passed it to Thomas. ‘Give this to Norton and tell him to show it to the lieutenant of the Tower. He has my full authority to do what needs to be done.’

  Thomas pushed the paper into his doublet.

  Unable to wait any longer, I lea
ned forward. ‘And me, Sir Francis, what do you wish me to do?’

  ‘I need you to be a laundress’s assistant a little longer.’

  ‘Then that is what I will be,’ I said, any reluctance gone.

  Sir Francis gave a flicker of a smile. ‘Tomorrow I want you to return to the vicar’s residence and learn what you can from the staff. After that, there will be many places I will need to send you. You have provided us with a key, Mallory. Now, I want us to find the lock so we may open this chest of Catholic worms.’ He stared at me. ‘Who better to help us find the right lock than a locksmith’s daughter?’

  Who better indeed. I couldn’t help it — my chest swelled and my eyes gleamed. I drank in the look Sir Francis bestowed, one not unlike that I used to see on Papa’s face long ago … A cloud briefly dimmed the sun of my accomplishment.

  ‘Do you see now why I set you to the work that I did?’ asked Sir Francis, taking me by surprise.

  I lowered my eyes. ‘I do now. Forgive me, sir.’

  Behind me, Thomas gave a little grunt.

  ‘Not all the work I set my agents is exciting. In fact, most of it is tedious and dull. It requires patience, patience and the ability to know when something important is heard or seen. You have experienced the tedium but now you also understand it can reap rewards.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Very well. I want a full report from you every day — as detailed as this.’ He slapped my report with the tips of his fingers. ‘Until Campion is caught, none of us will be safe. He seeks to rouse insurrection of the most terrible and bloody kind. We are all that stands between England, the Queen and anarchy. We will not rest until he is caught and an example made of him. Am I clear?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Thomas and I replied in unison.

  Smiling, Sir Francis nodded. ‘Farewell, and with my blessing.’ He gestured to the door. ‘Mallory, if you could wait outside? I would like a word in private with Thomas before he departs.’

  Curtseying, I bade Sir Francis a good evening and left, my heart singing, my soul stirred to battle. It was all I could do not to run to the river and demand the boatman row me back so I might don my disguise and become the laundress’s assistant again immediately. I would keep eyes and ears peeled and woe betide any Catholic sympathisers or plotters. Samantha Short will see you, expose you and ensure you’re punished for your wicked sedition.

  So caught up was I in the imagined wrath I would bring upon all betrayers, I wandered into the hall and out a different door and found myself in the garden. While it must have been the one I had seen from Sir Francis’s room, this was a different part of it. The sun may have been waning, but it was still balmy. There was a fountain gurgling, beds of colourful flowers humming with bees, and paving meandering away from the buildings. Seated upon a bench beneath a tree, the dog at her feet, was the young girl I’d seen from the window. Stroking the dog’s ears, she was singing while it listened, its head cocked. It was such a lovely scene, I paused and drank in its simplicity, trying to recall a time when I was like that, ignorant of the ills of the world, dreaming of nothing more than finding someone to love.

  Sorrow welled. Not wanting to disturb the girl and still trying to place her, I backed away, intending to head indoors As I turned around, I slammed straight into a body and was only prevented from falling by a pair of burly arms.

  ‘Why, Mistress Mallory, what on God’s good earth brings you here?’ I looked up and into the dancing eyes of none other than Lord Nathaniel Warham.

  TWENTY-SIX

  WHITEHALL

  Late June, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  ‘My lord, you startled me.’ I was unable to move, I was held so closely and tightly.

  Lord Nathaniel didn’t speak, just gazed as if he’d never encountered my species before. Outfitted much like the other gentlemen I’d seen perambulating about the grounds, he looked every bit the courtier and seemed so grand, so obviously a part of the palace, I was caught off guard. A lady’s tinkling laugh could be heard, followed by the cheers of some men. It broke whatever spell had bound us.

  ‘I would perform the usual courtesy,’ I said, finding my voice again, ‘but since you seem determined to prevent me —’ I stared pointedly at his hands upon my arms, ‘I’m unable.’

  He released me so swiftly I staggered, and he bowed. I took the opportunity to place some distance between us, glancing over my shoulder towards the garden where the young girl still sat with the pup, oblivious to us. My mind was awhirl as I curtseyed, thinking how to explain my presence. What could I say? I was given no time.

  ‘Sir Francis is not known for bringing family to court,’ he drawled, having recovered from his astonishment at seeing me. ‘Pray, how do I find you here? Has Mister Secretary gone against the grain of his own sowing? Is young Frances about?’ He looked around as if the girl in question might magic herself into our presence. ‘If so, I know someone who’d be very pleased to see her again.’ He nodded in the direction of the bench. Ah, that’s where I’d seen the young girl before: Deptford. This was Lord Nathaniel’s sister, Beatrice.

  ‘You find me well, sir,’ I said. ‘I can see for myself you’re in fine health. Now, I must make haste. May God give you good day.’ I went to pass him.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he said, blocking my way. ‘Ever since I asked you many a month ago why it is you tarry in London when your charge is at Surrey and you evaded answering, I’ve been most perplexed. I find you a puzzle I must solve, Mistress Mallory. You’re a curiosity that teases my mind and I like it not. Now I find you here, at Whitehall, when I also happen to know Mister Secretary is attending, by all accounts, very important business and in this very house.’ His arm encompassed the building. ‘So, I ask again, Mistress Mallory, what exactly is it you do for Walsingham?’

  ‘I … I … find your questioning impertinent sir, and really none of your business.’

  ‘I find your questioning impertinent sir, and really none of your business,’ repeated Lord Nathaniel. As far as mockery went, it was perfect. If I hadn’t been so stunned, I would have laughed at how well he mimicked my voice.

  ‘Which is it then?’ insisted Lord Nathaniel. ‘Impertinent, or none of my business?’

  Rage tinged with anxiety that the truth would be uncovered tied my words in knots. They exploded from me. ‘How dare you, sir. Who do you think you are to interrogate me, to prevent my passage and, lest we forget —’ I lowered my voice, my finger drawn back to jab him in the chest, ‘disrespect my person!’ I withdrew my digit quickly lest he repeat what he had done the last time he held it.

  ‘Oh, trust me on that score, mistress, there was nothing disrespectful about that.’ He ran his thumb along his lower lip and moved closer. ‘On the contrary, I respect you greatly.’

  Papa’s words flew into my mind. I know who I’d want to call friend, and it isn’t a braggart sea captain. Oh, how could this man be so full of contradictions. Why would he see fit to rescue a slave but torment me? What had I done to deserve such unasked-for attention? Did I not assiduously avoid his company? Aye. Most unsuccessfully.

  I took another step back. Looking over my shoulder, I saw where my escape lay and spun on my heels. ‘Ah,’ I called out merrily as I crossed the garden, giving a small skip and wave. ‘You must be the Lady Beatrice.’ I almost tripped over my skirt in my haste. The dog broke away from its mistress and ran towards me, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Longhaired, with floppy ears, it was an adorable little thing.

  Beatrice slowly stood and brushed off her fine skirts. She regarded me curiously and dropped a hasty curtsey. ‘Aye, I be Beatrice. But I’m afraid you have the advantage, mistress I know not who — oh, Nate!’ she cried as her brother strode forward, her face lighting up. ‘I was wondering where you were — you were an age. Merlin and I were growing bored.’

  ‘My humblest, Beatrice, I was detained longer than expected.’ Lord Nathaniel kissed his sister’s cheeks. Diverted for a moment, the d
og greeted Lord Nathaniel, who patted it, before it turned its attentions to me.

  Delighted, I dropped to my knees and Merlin leapt into my outstretched arms, wriggling joyously. ‘Merlin. What a fine name. I’ll bet you’re a wizard with that ball.’ I fondled his ears, reaching for the ball at Beatrice’s feet. Aware of two sets of eyes upon me, I continued, my attention fixed on the pup, who began to mouth the ball in my hand. ‘I have two dogs just like this, only they’re called Arthur and Galahad.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Beatrice, breaking away from her brother and kneeling beside me, rubbing her dog’s coat. ‘You must love Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur as much as I do to name your dogs so! Nate likes the tales of the knights and the grail too, though he’ll scarce admit it. Fancy that, Nate,’ she laughed. ‘Someone else who adores Malory!’

  There was an awkward silence, broken only when Merlin jumped and tried to lick my face. Chuckling, I held him at arm’s length as his tongue scooped the air. ‘My Papa is especially fond of the work as well. In fact, I’m named after him.’

  ‘After Malory?’ asked Beatrice wide-eyed. ‘Your name cannot be Thomas … Is it Malory?’ When I nodded, she stared. ‘But, that’s a man’s surname —’ She put her fingers to her lips. ‘Forgive me, mistress.’

  Casting a look up at her brother, I smiled. ‘There’s nothing to forgive; it’s been pointed out to me before.’ Lord Nathaniel had the grace to look away. ‘You’re quite right. It’s a man’s surname, only mine is spelt differently. It has two ls.’

  ‘Mallory … I like it,’ said Beatrice, and propped on her heels. ‘I know who you are. You’re Caleb’s muse.’