The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Among the vendors we passed were many married couples. Some laughed and shared conversation, others looked as trapped and unhappy as the beasts harnessed to their carts. We saw one woman attack a man with a broom, her voice shrill, his face flaming with embarrassment. Further on, a man struck his woman soundly across the face, causing her to fall upon the cobbles with a cry. I wanted to dash forward and help, but Thomas prevented me.

  Gripping my arm, he hissed, ‘Leave it, Mallory. No good comes of interfering in such matters.’

  When I glanced back, I saw the man kick the woman in the ribs. She curled into a ball, but no-one offered aid, no-one protested. Shouting curses, he stalked off, leaving her in the street, the object of both scorn and pity. Anger flared. I was once that woman. I wanted to turn around and tell her to get up and leave. But where would she go? What could she do other than endure? If he was her husband, he was within his rights to beat her and worse. As the good Lord knew, they didn’t even need to be wed for him to have mastery over her the way a sovereign did his people. All a man needed to own a woman was for her to surrender the only thing she had to barter — her honour.

  Wrenching myself free of Thomas, my hand paused over the locket nestled between my breasts. Little did I know when I met Raffe the price I’d pay for my surrender. Daughters of Eve, women were doubly punished — for their choices and for those of their men. What was it Beatrice told me her brother had said? Women suffer misery more than most. Aye, not even rank and wealth could prevent the desolation men could inflict.

  Peeved my thoughts were so bleak when they should be joyous — after all, wasn’t Campion in custody? — I tried to push them out of my mind. Gazing about, I recognised the streets. We weren’t too far from St Katherine Coleman.

  ‘Thomas,’ I began. ‘Would it be possible to return to Seething Lane via Father Forwood’s parish?’

  Thomas shot me a strange look. Casey stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can see the results of our watching and reporting first hand. I’ve heard there’s been raids. That Catholics have been rounded up.’

  ‘Ah.’ Thomas and Casey exchanged a look. Pulling down his cap, Casey swung around and kept walking. We fell in behind him. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Thomas after a while.

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded.

  ‘Because … because … you are but a frail woman and not equipped to deal with such outcomes.’

  I bridled. ‘Am I not a watcher? Wasn’t it my work that led to this discovery? What outcome don’t you wish me to see?’

  Thomas regarded me dolefully for a few steps, then sighed. ‘So be it.’

  With a toss of my head, I picked up my skirts and matched my pace to his. Casey walked ahead, hands folded across his thin chest, appearing to watch his feet, but I knew those quick eyes of his would miss nothing.

  As we turned off the main road and into the narrow lanes leading to St Katherine’s, lanes I’d walked with baskets of laundry, nodding greetings to the folk who lived there, a terrible sight awaited us. Not only was the street half-empty, but with every step, evidence of violence met my gaze. Doors were ripped off hinges, windows broken, the dark interiors of the houses left open to the elements. Almost every third house had been damaged in some way or left empty. Businesses were closed, their shutters drawn. While there were still children on the stoops of houses, they neither smiled nor waved. Forlorn, they stared out onto the road with hollow eyes. Distant crying could be heard. In the next street, the children fled at the sight of us. A few men gave defiant and morose stares, then turned and walked the other way, calling out warnings. Doors slammed. A baby wailed. Thin dogs barked, while pigs roamed among the detritus. A man with bandages across one side of his head and an arm in a sling limped past, refusing to lift his head. It was the ostler from the inn.

  ‘Thomas,’ I whispered. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Justice,’ he said.

  I stopped mid-step. ‘Justice? You call this justice? Why, the neighbourhood is ruined. The place is a shambles. The children …’

  ‘They’re Catholics; they are traitors. They get what they deserve.’

  The arguments I wanted to fling at him died. They were Catholics. I had heard and seen them with my own eyes. Had I not helped serve this justice? Dear God, this was a consequence of my actions … my report. But had I not emphasised these people were part of a community as well? They were English. They were like us, like me … This was not what I had anticipated at all. But what had I expected? I’d read reports of raids and arrests. They were but words on a page. This … this was real.

  Ahead was Fenchurch Street. Much to my relief, activity there appeared normal: carters on horses, barrowmen crying their wares and pushing their goods along the cobbles, women stepping from houses, purses at the ready, urchins rolling hoops. Ahead lay St Katherine Coleman.

  Slowing as we reached the back gates of the church, I saw a young girl loitering, her eyes upon us. Beckoning her closer, I pulled a coin out of my purse.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘What I’m hired to do. Eliciting information.’ I was angered by his indifference to what we’d seen; what I’d caused. It wasn’t only the Catholics who were paying a price, but all who lived here — godly, innocent souls as well. I had to make whatever sense of this I could.

  ‘May God give you good day,’ I said to the girl when she stopped before me. Her curls were the colour of roasted chestnuts, her skin sprinkled with freckles. Large green eyes regarded us solemnly. ‘What be your name?’

  ‘Beth,’ she said, titling her head and scratching it. ‘What be yours?’

  Ignoring her question, I showed her the coin. ‘May I ask you a question, Beth?’

  ‘Aye, mistress,’ she said. Her face and hands were clean though her skirts were filthy. ‘For that,’ she jerked her little chin towards the money, ‘you may ask me two.’

  Casey snickered.

  ‘What’s happened to the people who used to live in Grouse Lane?’

  ‘You don’t know ’bout the purges?’

  I shook my head with what I hoped was conviction. ‘Purges?’

  ‘Aye. That’s what my pa calls ’em. Says we been purged of Catholic scum. Thanks to Sir Francis and his men, this neighbourhood has been purified of sin.’

  ‘There were Catholics here, then?’

  The little girl put her hands on her hips, regarding me as if I were a moon-faced loon. ‘Everywhere, says Pa. But not any more. A while back, a bunch of big men came with clubs and swords and guns and took away almost half what lived here. Those who weren’t taken have run away. Pa says they’ll pay for their heresy in other ways.’

  ‘Your pa knows what he’s talking about,’ said Thomas.

  The girl eyed him suspiciously. ‘What did you say? Are you a papist?’

  ‘Me?’ laughed Thomas. ‘No. I’m on your pa’s side, you cheeky chit.’

  ‘Your pa be ignorant and a traitor to his own,’ piped a voice. Another young girl, slightly older than Beth, came running over. She was followed by more children. They formed a half-circle around her.

  ‘Don’t you call my pa a traitor! He’s no Catholic!’ Beth stamped her foot.

  ‘No, but he betrayed those he grew up with, those who helped him when your ma died, Beth Oldswain, who said masses for her soul, and using their own coin — have you forgotten what my gran did? And now she is in the prison and like to die.’

  ‘My pa betrayed no-one.’ Beth walked up to the taller girl and gave her a huge shove in the chest. There were cries of approval from some of the children.

  ‘If it weren’t your pa, then who was it?’ said the girl, shoving back. Beth staggered and fell on her bottom, crying out in pain.

  There were cheers. Before the older girl could launch herself at Beth, I caught her. ‘Stop it. There’s been enough fighting and sadness.’ The girl shook herself out of my arms and stared at me with resentment. ‘Surely now is the
time to support each other, not scrabble and bicker.’

  Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, the girl spat. ‘Yeah, well, tell that to the snitch’s girl.’ She pointed at Beth. ‘It’s her lot caused that.’ She nodded behind her. ‘You can choose what you see and what you don’t. We were fine till they blabbed. Lived beside each other for years.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ screeched Beth, still on the ground. Casey went to help her to her feet. ‘It weren’t my pa. It was the avenging angel, sent from heaven to punish papists.’

  There were murmurs of agreement from some of the children.

  ‘Avenging angel?’ I asked. ‘What’s this?’

  Beth lifted her skirt, which had been torn in her fall, twining it around her fist. ‘The angel what watches over us and whispers in the Queen’s ear, tells her who’s loyal and who ain’t.’ She took a step towards the girl, her neck craned towards her. ‘’Twas the angel, not my pa. The angel sees and hears and sends the men to punish Catholic sinners.’

  ‘That’s enough now.’ There was a clapping of hands and as one, the children spun around. Coming out the gates of the church was a young vicar. ‘You heard the lady, go home. Now.’ As he gave one of the boys a clip over the ear for good measure, the children seemed to think twice about disobeying and then ran down the street, pushing and shoving each other, the argument clearly just getting started. Only Beth remained.

  ‘Beth, you heard me,’ warned the vicar.

  ‘The lady owes me.’

  The vicar struck Beth across the face. She cried out sharply, her hand flying to her cheek. ‘Don’t you dare speak in such a manner to your betters.’

  Casey grabbed his wrist before he could hit her again.

  ‘Vicar, the child speaks true,’ I said quickly.

  I pressed the coin I’d tempted her with into her hand. ‘Thank you, Beth. May God be with you.’

  Biting the coin before it disappeared, Beth gave a semblance of a curtsey. ‘He is, mistress. We be loyal, me pa and me. Not like some.’ She stared in the direction of the other children.

  ‘That’s quite enough, Beth,’ warned the vicar. ‘Now, go before I take that money for the poor.’

  With a horrified look, she scurried away, disappearing between two houses.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the vicar asked. His eyes were wary though a smile was fixed to his face.

  Thomas began to answer, when I interrupted. ‘We were on our way home from watching Campion led to the Tower and Beth was telling us about the purges.’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ he said, looking a little relieved. ‘It’s been a terrible time for the parish. What with Father Forwood being exposed and half the congregation.’ He shook his head in a mixture of sorrow and amazement. ‘I’ve had my work cut out. Many were seeking indulgences, worried about their souls being stranded in purgatory. I refused, though they pleaded.’ He held up his hands, aware of how his words might be construed by strangers. ‘Of course, I don’t approve of such nonsense. Papist rubbish. I remind them, all they need is God’s word. He is on our side,’ he said, including us. ‘I mean, finding Campion and those other traitors proves He is, does it not?’ He beamed benevolently. I attempted a smile. Thomas appeared pained. Casey was busy tying his boots.

  ‘What’s this about an avenging angel?’ I asked.

  The vicar drew closer. ‘Ah, the children mentioned that, did they? Aye, well, rumour has it among the good folk that God has sent an avenging angel to destroy all Catholics. They say he works for Her Majesty, for Sir Francis.’ The vicar forced a chuckle. ‘That’s how they’re explaining Forwood’s arrest, Campion’s too, and that of people they’ve lived beside in harmony all their lives, since good King Henry’s reign and through so many changes to the faith. Everyone swears they’d nothing to do with these latest arrests, that they didn’t betray their neighbours. You heard Beth, her father is among those being blamed. Yet, after all this time, someone told. Since no-one has a sudden fortune to spend, despite Rose’s accusation against Master Oldswain, then the next best explanation is the angel. They say no-one can see him but he hears everything. Sees everything — right into your soul and whether or not it is Catholic or Protestant.’

  ‘I didn’t know souls could be distinguished,’ I said quietly.

  The vicar thought it a great joke and slapped his thigh as he laughed.

  ‘Well this angel can tell the difference. And it’s making Catholics tremble — and not just in this parish.’ He peered around the street. ‘After all, death follows in his wake …’

  We walked home in silence. I couldn’t help but liken the parish to my own home. After all, did we not live with different faiths under the one roof? If not in harmony, at least without turning on each other. There was Mamma with her Catholic ways, Papa and I who followed the new religion, while Angela was somewhere between. It wasn’t so hard to be tolerant, was it?

  Not until we were back in my room in Seething Lane did Thomas speak again.

  ‘You seem very reserved.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say.’

  Colour filled Thomas’s cheeks. ‘You desired to see the penalties your work served on the guilty.’

  ‘I did.’ Bile rose. ‘I have.’

  He lingered a moment. ‘Will you put rumours of the avenging angel in your report to Sir Francis?’ he asked.

  ‘Should I?’ I lifted off my bonnet and pulled off my gloves. I wanted desperately to wash my hands, my face, to cleanse myself of the streets, though there was not a mark upon me. ‘It’s but a nonsense devised by the frightened. We accept divine justice much more readily than that delivered by man.’

  ‘But it should still appear in your report, if for no other reason than that Sir Francis needs to know you’ve been given another identity.’

  I froze, my bonnet falling from my fingers. ‘Another identity? What are you talking about, Thomas?’

  Thomas regarded me in disbelief. ‘You’re not normally so obtuse, Mallory. To whom do you think they were referring? Who else walks among them and sees and hears everything? Is it not you?’

  ‘Me?’ I lowered myself into the chair. ‘I took it to mean all watchers.’

  ‘As you said yourself, are you not one of us?’ He rested his hands on the desk. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard such gossip. We’ve encountered mention of this “avenging angel” in letters we’ve intercepted; though Catholics try to dismiss it as Protestant propaganda, it has taken hold and shaken papists here in London to the core. It matters not how it is. What matters is it’s being said.’ He pushed himself away from the desk. ‘Wipe that frown from your face, Mallory. You should be pleased. Zounds, you should be proud. You’ve not only helped to bring Campion to justice, but single-handedly you unearthed a nest of traitors. And this is just the beginning. The battle for English souls has just begun and we’ve an avenging angel on our side.’

  I struggled to find words. I knew what we were doing was right. It had to be. But if that was the case, why did I feel so … wrong? Forcing a smile to my lips, I replied, ‘Of course I’ll include mention of it, Thomas. Do I not report all I see and hear?’

  ‘Like an avenging angel.’ With a beaming smile and a pat on my shoulder, he left.

  I pushed aside my misgivings and the wave of guilt rising inside me as I recalled broken windows, hacked-down doors and scared, grief-stricken children. I pulled out a piece of paper, found a quill and, like the good agent I was, began my report.

  THIRTY

  HARP LANE AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  July to October, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Just as the capture of Campion and his compatriots was being celebrated, and as debates raged over how best to extract information from the heretics, on the 25th of July the Queen sent Sir Francis to France. In his absence, I was forbidden to venture into London or Southwark. My work with the laundress was terminated and I was ordered to remain in my office. Thomas could make no sense of the command.r />
  ‘Are you an agent or no?’ he asked. ‘I tell you, Mallory, he treats you differently and not just because you’re a woman. He has great affection for you and seeks to assure himself of your well-being in his absence.’ His tone was disapproving.

  Though I’d seen no evidence to support this, the thought made me accept my orders with grace. Instead of donning disguises, unlocking doors, listening and watching, I remained indoors and laboured through piles of documents, deciphering, translating and recoding, my knowledge of Latin and French in particular being put to good use. The letters from Sir Francis’s extensive network all had one thing in common: in addition to reporting on those they were sent to watch, they constantly pleaded to be paid. His agents were bordering on penury and unless they received funds from Mister Secretary, they would be unable to continue. When I brought these requests to Thomas’s attention, he was dismissive.

  ‘Sir Francis will pay them when they prove their worth. He’s not the Treasury.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Queen pay these men?’

  Thomas gave a disdainful guffaw. ‘The Queen barely recompenses Sir Francis for all that he does, let alone provide extra for his network. Those men —’ he flicked his fingers towards the letters I held, ‘are paid out of Sir Francis’s personal resources, which, as you can imagine with the demands being placed upon him, are rapidly diminishing.’

  Seeing the expression on my face, Thomas continued. ‘You earn your wage, Mallory, unlike many.’

  Even so, apart from one purse months earlier, I too had not been paid. My dreams of accumulating even a modest sum were fading.

  When he was not busy elsewhere, Thomas kept me abreast of what was happening with the Jesuits, especially Father Campion: how he was moved from the Tower to York House at Westminster. Sir Francis’s brother-in-law and secretary, Master Robert, had been appointed one of the commissioners — interrogators by any other name — who would question him.

  The city was still captivated by Campion; though he was under arrest, every word he uttered was reported. Each day, criers would impart the news from St Paul’s Cross, and people gathered eagerly to hear the latest and share what they’d been told. Arguments would often break out, as some felt that while Campion’s arrest was fair, his subsequent treatment was not.