The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Muse?’

  ‘That’s what he calls you, isn’t it, Nate?’ she asked, unaware of her brother’s growing discomfort as he stood behind her. ‘He talks a great deal about you. And I remember, he said you have a most unusual name and that it suits you.’ She regarded me as if I were the subject of a portrait and she the commissioned artist. ‘It does.’

  Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable. ‘And I imagine you’re named from Dante?’

  ‘Aye, The Divine Comedy, though, I have to say, when I first read it, I failed to find much comical about it.’

  I nodded. ‘The humour can be difficult to discern, but it is peculiarly Italian and the nuances are often lost in translation.’

  ‘Caleb said you speak Italian.’

  ‘I was born there. I’m English really, but Italian was my first language. My mother tongue.’

  ‘Forgive my tardiness in not introducing you,’ said Lord Nathaniel, who’d been observing our exchange with growing bemusement. ‘Any effort to do so now is redundant. Nonetheless, Mistress Mallory Bright, may I introduce my sister, the Lady Beatrice Warham.’

  We both lowered our heads in acknowledgment and shared a smile.

  ‘Mistress Mallory is a gifted linguist, Beatrice,’ said Lord Nathaniel, ‘among her other talents.’ My head rose swiftly. There was no sarcasm in his tone or attempt to embarrass me. ‘Perchance one day she can help you improve your Italian.’

  ‘I would love that,’ said Beatrice. ‘Would you, Mistress Mallory? Would you help me? Non sono molto bravo a Italiano.’

  ‘Brava,’ I corrected before I could prevent myself.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. For a lady,’ Beatrice giggled, tilting her head back towards her brother. ‘I forget sometimes.’ The devotion in her eyes was matched only by that in his. My heart felt heavy. Really, she was the most enchanting young woman and it was hard to believe she was Lord Nathaniel’s sister … Except, when he looked at her like that … When he ceased the baiting and the mockery, why, he was a different man. Perchance the stories about him were true. Perchance Papa and Caleb saw much that I was blind to.

  What I would give to be regarded in such a way, to share such a bond. But the work I did, the life I’d chosen, denied me this.

  Beatrice rose and resumed her seat upon the bench. Lord Nathaniel sat beside her, resigned to the fact he would not be able to continue his questioning. I studied them, with Merlin now firmly ensconced on my lap.

  Slender as she was, you could see Beatrice would be tall. Her hair was the colour of sunshine and tumbled down her back in waves. Her eyes were large and slightly darker than her brother’s, hazel flecked with green, only hers lacked the tired cynicism his always displayed. Her skin was pale, her cheeks rosy. She slipped her hand into her brother’s huge one and flashed me a smile that lit her entire face. I found myself returning it.

  ‘Why, Mistress Mallory, when you smile like that I can see the beauty of which Caleb boasts,’ said Lord Nathaniel softly.

  My smile froze and fell. I stared at Lord Nathaniel in shock. Coming from this man’s mouth, such a compliment meant more than most.

  ‘Only when she smiles?’ said Beatrice, nudging her brother. ‘Why, I think Mistress Mallory to be one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen. Far lovelier than —’ Beatrice clamped her hand over her mouth. ‘Forgive me, Nate, Mistress Mallory, I forget myself too often of late, as Nurse reminds me. Oh, aye, I have a nurse, Mistress Mallory, even though I am far too old at fourteen for such an encumbrance.’ She giggled again. ‘Don’t mistake me, Nurse is most beloved. She calls herself that — an encumbrance. Both she and Nate want me to have a companion, and Nate says I may have a woman of my own choosing, lest I be shackled with a bore or a harridan — or worse, someone who is likely to train me in the use of womanly wiles. Isn’t that right, Nate?’ She tossed back her head and laughed. ‘It’s all right, I don’t want anyone like that either. Nate doesn’t want someone around who makes me or him,’ she bumped him with her shoulder, ‘miserable. He says there has been too much misery in our lives of late and that women suffer it more than most.’

  Lord Nathaniel said that?

  Her smile dissolved as her ready words conjured memories to which I wasn’t privy. Her sweet face became troubled, her bright eyes dimmed. Dear God, I wanted to leap to my feet and take her in my arms, comfort her in a way I’d no right to even imagine. Lord Nathaniel slipped an arm around her and pulled her closer.

  ‘What do you do here, Mistress Mallory?’ she asked, seemingly in an effort to push away the glum thoughts filling her mind. ‘At Whitehall? I begged Nate to bring me while he paid court to Her Majesty as I’d not been before. Is it not magnificent?’

  ‘Funny,’ said Lord Nathaniel, a grin forming as he sat forward on the bench, his sister forced to move with him. ‘I was just asking Mistress Mallory the exact same question.’

  Lifting Merlin off my lap and surrendering the ball, I stood, brushing the grass from my skirts. ‘It is indeed, Lady Beatrice. I’m here because I work for the Walsinghams.’

  ‘Oh,’ exclaimed Beatrice, her hands coming together. ‘You mean Mister Secretary? Frances’s father? I always think he looks like one of ravens from the Tower and just as likely to swoop. He terrifies me.’

  Instead of admonishing his sister, Lord Nathaniel threw back his head and laughed. ‘He terrifies me too, sister.’

  This time, I couldn’t stop myself, and joined in. Partly because the idea anything could terrify this giant of a man, a man who stood up to lustful sailors on a ship, who fought duels over women and won, was so preposterous.

  That was how Thomas came upon us, sharing a joke at his master’s expense — my master’s. On seeing him, my mirth died.

  ‘Thomas,’ I began as he came towards us.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing to Lord Nathaniel, who rose. ‘My lady.’ He swept his bonnet off and paid Beatrice a courtesy as well.

  ‘Thomas Phelippes. To what do we owe your presence here at Whitehall?’ asked Lord Nathaniel.

  ‘Why,’ said Thomas without missing a beat, ‘to Mistress Mallory, who I’ve come to escort home. Mallory?’ he said, gesturing for me to lead the way. ‘If you will forgive us, my lord, my lady, our boat awaits.’

  ‘Oh, by all means, don’t tarry on our behalf,’ said Lord Nathaniel affably. ‘In fact, why don’t we accompany you to the river.’

  Before either Thomas or I could protest, he took a position beside Thomas, allowing Beatrice to walk behind with me.

  Accompanying Beatrice was no hardship as she was as well spoken and well read as she was well mannered, for all the apologies she proffered regarding her unguarded tongue. I found her candour refreshing, her observations erudite, and if I hadn’t been so concerned about trying to overhear what was being said between Lord Nathaniel and Thomas, I would have thoroughly enjoyed her companionship.

  It wasn’t until we reached the dock and bade farewell that two things happened to discomfit me. The first was, instead of accepting a simple curtsey from me, Beatrice threw herself in my arms and planted a kiss on my cheek and whispered, ‘I wish you were my companion.’ As she stepped away she looked at me with such imploring eyes, my heart was almost pulled from my chest.

  ‘So do I,’ I responded without thinking, placing my fingers over my own lips in a gesture that matched hers. We smiled at each other from behind our hands.

  Observing the exchange, Thomas frowned and jumped into the boat, an arm outstretched to assist me. Taking my forearm to aid me over the side, Lord Nathaniel used the opportunity to murmur in my ear. ‘That’s twice you’ve evaded me. It won’t happen again. I will have my answer, mistress. You may have bewitched my sister, but I will know your true purpose.’

  Passing me to Thomas, Lord Nathaniel released me and stood on the wooden pier, his sister beside him. There they remained, smiles fixed, Beatrice waving until they were dark specks against the burnished skies and my ribs ached from the pummelling my heart gave them.


  Sir Francis believed he sent me into danger each time he bestowed a task. But Campion and all the Catholic plots bubbling away in England were naught. With Mister Secretary, only my body was at risk.

  With Lord Nathaniel Warham, and now his lovely sister, my heart was under dire threat — something I had promised would never happen again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ST KATHERINE COLEMAN AND BILLITER LANE, LONDON

  Late June, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Arriving at St Katherine Coleman the following day with a basket of clean and folded laundry over my arm, and with the admonishment I’d received from Mistress Bakewell for running away the day before still ringing in my ears, I found the vicarage in an uproar. An impromptu meeting was taking place in the kitchen. Servants and people I’d never seen were crowded into the space, all talking at once. The room was sweltering, the air sour and close. I manoeuvred my way inside and placed the basket on the floor in the far corner and stood in front of it. My entry was barely noticed.

  ‘Middle of the night, I tell you.’ A sturdy woman sat at the long kitchen bench, wringing her hands, her eyes swollen.

  There were calls for quiet and the vicar’s cook, Goody Clara, was asked to speak. ‘They burst in here,’ she pointed upstairs. ‘Broke the door down, they did, and without care for anyone or anything. They had swords and pistols. One held a thick block of wood that he kept striking into his palm. Dragged the master from his bed. His bed.’ She crossed herself; others followed suit, murmuring and shaking their heads.

  ‘Jim’s disappeared,’ said a short man with one eye.

  ‘So’s Robbie and Em,’ added another voice. ‘Took their belongings and fled before the cock crowed.’

  The servants nodded gravely to each other and there was more dark muttering and an odd rhythmic clicking. There were servants, yes, but also neighbours crammed onto the benches, parishioners as well as some other folk I couldn’t place. I paid close attention to their features, their clothes, anything that could identify who they were, their trade. There was the butcher from two doors down. An elderly man and his wife, cordwainers; she was clutching a small statue. Near the hearth two gentlewomen were weeping, and a burly-looking ostler from the nearby inn comforted the young one who I’d seen calming the courier’s horse yesterday. Maids from the inn were also there, holding each other tightly.

  ‘Mistress Roach was apoplectic,’ said Goody Clara, referring to the vicar’s housekeeper. ‘I had to give her a sleeping draught to calm her.’

  ‘Whatcha give her?’ asked a woman who was dwarfed by the huge man sitting beside her. I peered around the person standing next to me and saw the woman from across the road knitting as she spoke, her needles clacking, the strange sound explained.

  ‘The usual, women’s milk, juice of a lettuce, flax and such,’ said Goody Clara.

  Sage nods of approval followed.

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’ asked a young boy, his voice alternately high then deep. He tugged his cap, sniffed and looked around. ‘To the father?’

  ‘What’s gonna happen to us?’ asked a shrill voice. I couldn’t tell who’d asked, only that it was a woman and she was scared. They all were. I could smell it.

  Apart from the rhythmic tap of the wooden needles, there was silence. A child wailed, and was quickly shushed by its mother.

  I watched and waited.

  ‘Will he tell, do you think? Are we for the gallows?’

  ‘Shush your mouth George Cooper, you don’t know who be listening.’ A large older woman with a stained cap upon her grey curls and pouches under her eyes shook her fist at Master Cooper and glared fiercely at everyone in the room.

  ‘Don’t you go shushing George, Goodwife Mabel. He’s only saying what we all be thinking. We all be friends here as the good Lord knows.’ It was the young deacon, Harold Pinchwhite. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and she lowered her fist. His name described him this morning. Even in the poor light, his face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘We must have faith. In each other, God, and in Father Forwood. He would not betray us. Are we not his flock? Do we not have this —’ He reached into his pocket and, much to my horror, pulled out a copy of Ten Reasons and waved it around. Folk began to cross themselves, to murmur Pater Nosters. Afraid I would be discovered, I did the same, grateful to Mamma that the gestures and words were not foreign to me. ‘To remind us to hold fast,’ muttered Deacon Pinchwhite, his eyes screwed tight. ‘God will keep us in His tender care. Protect us from those who seek to destroy our faith, destroy us.’

  Opening his eyes, the deacon gazed out over the room. ‘I think we should offer a prayer for the vicar,’ he said, putting the pamphlet on the table and spreading it flat with his hands. There was reverence in his action and in the faces of those closest to him. I wanted to push through the people, shove the tract into the flame of the candle and watch it burn.

  ‘He needs all the prayers he can get where they’ve taken him,’ said Master Cooper.

  This time, there were cries from a few of the assembled.

  ‘Bess’s boy said Norton’s been summoned,’ added Goody Clara.

  ‘The rackmaster hisself,’ said the young boy breathlessly.

  ‘Aye. He makes Satan seem benevolent,’ called out a man next to me. He turned to include me and I nodded. ‘He’s stoppered up the passages and access to remorse, he has.’

  ‘I heard,’ added yet another, ‘he has no heart.’

  ‘None of ’em do. Why else would they pursue us so?’ said Goody Clara. ‘We mean no harm.’

  Voices all began at once, some angry, others very frightened. I pushed back against the wall as those around me surged forward. Good God, they were all Catholics. Each and every one of them. Plotters and traitors, and yet …

  As I inched towards the door, imprinting their faces upon my mind, their individual features, the colour of their hair, the cut of their clothes, I also saw people I knew — not directly, but of a kind. In their wide eyes, tangled fingers, the way they clung to each other in their despair, weren’t these frightened, foolish people the same as those who lived beside us in Harp Lane? Simple folk, who lost or brought children into the world. Who suffered illness and celebrated good fortune. Who sold their wares at Cheap-side and hailed us upon the river. Who shared walls with the houses in Billiter and Seething Lanes as well. Were they not Londoners before they were Catholics? Or did their faith make them something so strange, so different, they were no longer recognisable as English? As humans?

  I saw no traitors plotting to bring down a queen, only desperate people; people whose world was in disarray and who felt threatened. Who prayed to the same God, only differently. Did this make what they were doing illegal?

  It did. It made them criminal as well.

  We mean no harm.

  Perchance, but they caused it nonetheless. I had to report them. I had to tell what I saw. But could I not also write what I felt? That maybe, just maybe, these Catholics, unlike Campion or Persons or whoever else came to our shores from the Continent, did indeed mean no harm.

  I could. I would.

  Waiting until after the prayers were said, the rosary beads tucked away again, I left the basket and, after clasping so many hands I lost count and promising to offer prayers to various saints, I fled. The short walk back to the house in Billiter Lane took an age, each step heavy with doubts about what I knew I must do. Duty called. I would report this. I must. Sir Francis relied upon me, trusted me. Was not loyalty what he demanded? Did not justice have to be served? My country, my Queen, needed me to do this. Why then did I feel ambivalent?

  As the afternoon wore on, the clouds thickened and rain fell, lashing the windows and darkening the room so much I was forced to light three candles while I wrote my report. The air was humid and steamy and sweat streamed from my head and down my décolletage. Ignoring the way my hair and clothes clung to my skin, the reticence gnawing at my resolve, I continued,
describing each and every one of those present. Where I could give a name and a trade, I did. If I knew where they lived and worked, I provided street names and directions. I recalled the questions asked, the words that were said — everything was included, down to the deacon’s copy of Campion’s tract, the appearance of so many rosaries, and the prayers that were uttered.

  But I also noted their fear, their very understandable concern for each other, their sense of unity — not only because they were Catholics, but more importantly, because they were a part of a community that had been torn apart. I wrote of their lack of bellicosity as well. It was the least I could do. It was the most.

  I sealed the report, then sat, my head in my hands, staring at what I’d done.

  It was in this state that Thomas and Casey found me some time later.

  ‘Mallory? Are you well?’ asked Thomas.

  I looked up. Thomas took a seat opposite me and waited. Casey poured drinks and slid a cup in front of me. I took it gratefully and drank. Thomas said nothing. His forearm rested on the table, his clothes were wet, his hair flattened on his forehead, the feather on his bonnet sodden.

  ‘Do you ever doubt what it is we do?’ I asked finally.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Not even when you know the Catholics are just simple souls who could never do the Queen any harm? Who love the country as much as we do?’

  ‘If they did, they would not be Catholics,’ shrugged Thomas. When I didn’t respond, he sighed. ‘Hark now, Mallory. They’ve had years of toleration and understanding, years of the Queen’s goodwill, and what have they done? Naught but abuse that goodwill. Remember, they’re not loyal to us, to England. They’re loyal to that plague-poxed spider in Rome. Rome! They would welcome the Spanish King with open arms if it meant the old ways returned; they would take arms against you — you, who offer them sympathy and understanding — and put Scottish Mary on the throne. Oh, don’t deny it, I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice — you care. Don’t be such a fool.’